It’s true. Kali and I have been getting along great. I’ve headed out to Frenchy’s a few times in the past week, partially because I needed a drink, but mostly because it was something to do while Paul the jackass stays locked away in his den like the freaking Unabomber or something. I even went over to Kali’s house last night. We ate frozen enchiladas, drank too much wine, and watched some really terrible television.

But I need to find something else to do with my time other than drink, mope, and try to slog through presidential biographies. I need a hobby, or a task, or . . .

“You could set the dining room table,” Lindy says, her voice muffled since her head’s buried in the fridge.

I stand up. “There’s a dining room?”

“Of course this house has a dining room.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like it’s that obvious. Have you ever used it?”

“Of course not,” she says in that same matter-of-fact tone.

I can’t help the second eye roll. “So I’d be setting the table today, because . . . ?”

Lindy reemerges from the refrigerator, her arms full of what looks like a roast, some fancy-looking cheese, some milk, a box of butter, and some herbs. She uses her butt to shut the fridge door.

The pieces slowly click together even though my brain rejects what I’m seeing: the greater-than-normal amount of food, the use of the dining room, the fact that Lindy’s doing a weird smiling/humming thing that’s totally unlike her.

“Is someone coming over?” I ask.

“Yup,” she says, giving a smug smile as she deposits her ingredients on the counter, and begins wiping away the mess from my lame attempt at making bread.

“Who?” I demand.

She shrugs. “Mr. Paul didn’t say.”

“‘Mr. Paul didn’t say,’” I mimic, exasperated. “Did you even ask him?”

“Not my business. I just need to know the number of people and any food restrictions.”

“It is too your business!” I say. “I’m guessing this is the first time this has happened, um, ever?”

“No,” she says simply. “He used to have friends over all the time when this was their summer home and this was just a seasonal job for me. You know. Before.”

“That’s sort of my point. What was normal for him before isn’t exactly run of the mill nowadays. Don’t you think this is weird? All of a sudden he’s all social?”

“There have been lots of changes in Mr. Paul lately,” she says, not looking at me. “As long as he keeps moving in the right direction, I’m not going to question it.”

She’s right, of course. It is a good sign that he’s having friends over.

It’s also suspicious as all hell. Something is going on.

“All right, I’ll set the table,” I mutter, realizing that Lindy has said all that she’s going to on the matter. “Should I assume I’m on my own for dinner tonight? I don’t want you to have to cook two meals.”

“You’ll be eating this,” she says, patting the huge hunk of beef.

“You mean, like leftovers?”

“No, I mean you’ll be sitting at the table along with Mr. Paul and his guest. He said there’d be three total. Including you.”

What the . . .

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m not joining him for dinner. That’s beyond inappropriate.”

“It’s not inappropriate if he requested it. Which he did. Specifically.”

I’m pretty much sweating now. Something weird is definitely going on. “He thinks I’ll be eating dinner with him and his mysterious dinner guest in the dining room I’ve never even set foot in?”

“Yup.”

I cross my arms. “Not going to happen.”

Lindy shrugs. “Fine. You go tell him that, then. But in the meantime, get out of my kitchen so I can work. I set out linens on the table, and after you get that set up, how about you do something about your hair other than the wet ponytail you’ve been sporting for the past two weeks?”

“Oh yes, by all means, let’s get gussied up for Mr. Paul and his enormous wagon of issues.”

She begins mincing garlic. “Okay, fine. I’m sure his friend will love that NYU sweatshirt you’ve worn for three days in a row with the hole in the sleeve.”

I grunt, tapping my fingernails against the counter now, my curiosity all but consuming me.

“Olivia,” Lindy says mildly.

“Yah?”

“I have an hour to cook my first real meal in years, plus I need to get something for Mick and myself, and your brooding is making me crazy.”

“I can help!”

“Out. Help me by setting the table.”

“Fine,” I mutter, relenting only because I’m desperate to do something to feel like I’m earning my paychecks—which, after that disastrous conversation with Paul about me being a daddy’s girl, are now all deposited in my very own savings account.

It pains me to say it, but Paul was right about that. I hadn’t done crap with my paychecks until two weeks ago. I’m guilty of the very thing I’d accused Paul of: living off my dad. We were pathetic, privileged monsters, and I, for one, am determined to change, even if he isn’t.

When this is over—whatever this is—I’ll get another job. And then another after that. There’ll be no more using my father’s credit cards, no more treating this as a little charity break from real life. This is my real life. And I’m determined to own every aspect of it. Even if that means wearing a lot more of my ugly NYU sweatshirt now that my clothing budget is about to become nonexistent.