He puts my bag in the trunk and opens the rear door for me before settling behind the wheel. I’m a little weirded out by the treatment, since I am, after all, a paid servant now, but I follow his lead.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Mick.”

“I’m Olivia,” I say, giving what I hope is a you-can-relax-around-me smile. Maybe this guy will fill in some of the gaps as to who the Langdons are and what exactly is expected of me.

“I know,” he says, his eyes smiling just a bit. At least he’s not a total stiff.

“So are you . . . ?” The Langdons’ personal driver? A one-time hire in an effort to impress me?

He continues to look at me in the mirror, raising his eyebrows when I don’t finish my question.

“Are you from Maine?” I ask, chickening out.

“Born and raised,” he says after a pause as he checks his mirror and pulls into traffic.

“Portland?” I say. It’s the only city in Maine I know. Besides Bar Harbor, of which I know nothing about other than it’s where I’ll be spending the next three months. Longer if I pass the Langdons’ test and get offered an extension. Although by that point, I hope to have figured out what the hell to do with my life. I hope by then I’ll feel less damaged.

“Skowhegan,” Mick replies.

I nod as though I know where the heck that is. Mick seems to be a man of few words, but at least he’s answering my questions.

“Always been a chauffeur?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that I don’t offend him.

The corners of his mouth turn up in a kind way. “Is that what you call us in New York?”

I smile sheepishly. “Well, I always call Richard Richard. But when referring to someone else’s driver, I guess we call them, well . . . a driver?”

“That’s what I call me too,” he says with a wink.

The knot I’ve had in my stomach since boarding the plane at JFK eases slightly. My first encounter with a Maine resident is going well, and if he suspects I’m a total sham at this whole caregiving thing, he’s hiding it well.

“How long is it to Bar Harbor?” I ask, even though I already know. I did my homework. Well, some of it. The more crucial details still elude me.

“About three hours. Longer on a summer weekend, but on a Tuesday at the tail end of the season, we shouldn’t hit any traffic.”

“Season?”

“Summer season,” he says, glancing up. “Maine’s known for being a summer tourist destination.”

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting that of course I know what the season is. It’s practically synonymous with the word Hamptons. What does surprise me is that Maine has one.

Ease up on the snob routine, Olivia.

“So, you make the airport trip often?” I ask, still fishing for information about the Langdons.

For a second he says nothing and I think I’ve officially crossed the line to prying, but he finally responds. “Not so much. Mr. Langdon doesn’t come up as often as he used to, and Mr. Paul . . . he doesn’t leave the house much.”

Paul.

My charge. Or patient. Or whatever he is.

I’m dying to ask more questions, but there’s something in Mick’s tone . . . Tension? Sadness? There’s something, but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot by misidentifying it.

Instead, I sit back against the cushy leather seats and try to get acquainted with the Maine scenery. I know from my online research that Bar Harbor is near the water, but right now I can’t see anything but trees. For someone who doesn’t often see a tree outside of Central Park, there’s something oddly calming about all of the green.

Well, it’s calming until I allow myself to actually think about what awaits me. Because I have no freaking clue.

It’s weird, but I haven’t put much thought into what I’ll be doing now that I’m here. It’s not like there was a job description. Hell, I didn’t even apply. And if I had, I’m pretty sure a college coed without so much as CPR certification (although I have that now) wouldn’t have been selected as an ideal caregiver for a wounded vet.

Obviously, when Harry Langdon got my name through the friend of a friend of my parents, he wasn’t looking for any kind of trained professional.

So why me?

Of course, it’s a little late to be having these thoughts. I’ve known about this for three months, but in my mind I’ve pretty much been glossing over the reality, the same as I do whenever someone asks what it is I do as a home care specialist: an extra hand for those who need it.

So basically it’s the dictionary definition of vague. But people totally eat it up, and it’s not exactly a lie. Harry Langdon’s email said there was no nursing experience required, just companionship, basic cooking skills, and willingness to relocate to Bar Harbor.

I nailed the lack of nursing experience. I don’t think handing out ice cream bars at St. Jude’s counts. But, surprisingly, I do like to cook. I mean, I’m not destined for my own cooking show or anything, but Mom always insisted on giving our chef the weekends off if they weren’t hosting a party, which means she showed me the basics. Grilled cheese. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Spaghetti.

As for that willingness to relocate? Please. I’d pay them to take me away. My only complaint is that the job isn’t in LA or Seattle or somewhere in a different time zone from everything I’m trying to leave behind. Although, judging from the number of “watch for deer” signs I’ve seen so far, I’m definitely a long way from home.