Weston is nowhere to be found in the hallway when I come out of Dad’s room. My chest feels like it’s torn in half from balancing the pressure of maintaining a calm, collected front for my dad, even as the anxiety bubbled over in my gut. I know Darla wasn’t lying to me about what happened earlier—his meltdown in the common room, lashing out at the mild-mannered Mr. Howard, who usually plays checkers with him—and I could see in his face that he was still agitated. If it hadn’t been for that driver who had a cell phone plastered to her ear that brisk spring day when my dad was driving to the supermarket six months ago, this entire thing could have been avoided.

Though not completely, and I know that. Ever since Mom died two years ago, old age has swept over him in a way I could never have predicted. He’s only in his mid-sixties, but he seems much older.

My heart aches, and I raise a hand to my chest, as if pressing at my sternum can make any of it stop.

I don’t know where Weston went, but my guess is the lobby. If there’s any mercy at all left on the planet, he’s gone back to Midtown—or wherever it is he lives—and left me to face Darla on my own.

She’s not waiting in the lobby. She’s far too busy to hang around waiting for me to get through visiting my dad, but I know where she’ll be. How many extra shifts will I need to work at the Rose to pay for all this? Hiring a private aide is probably out of the question, no matter what I tell her…at least, not until seven months from now, when my dad turns 65 and will finally be eligible for Medicare.

God, I wish I didn’t have to think about things like having to pay for my dad’s nursing home care.

The thought sends a hot wave of embarrassment sweeping over my cheeks. My dad did everything for me growing up. A memory comes to me of paddling a canoe near the shore of a pristine lake upstate at one of the camps he worked extra shifts at the electric plant to send me to. How dare I complain about taking a few extra shifts for him now.

I press my lips together, as if I would have ever said the words out loud in the first place, and cross the lobby to the hallway leading to the administrative offices.

Darla is sitting behind her desk, clicking at something on her desktop, when I knock gently on the door.

“How’s he doing?” There’s genuine concern in her dark eyes, and I know it’s at least partially calculated—if he’s not doing well, she’ll end up devoting extra staff to him tonight. And while this is one of the nicest places I could find, they’re still stretched to the limit when it comes to expert staff. Like everywhere else I considered. 

“Resting. He seems calm for now.”

A smile breaks across her face. “That’s great, Juliet. Do you know when you’ll be by next to visit?”

I blink at her. My next visit? “Um….” I run through my work schedule in my mind, cross-referencing it with my class schedule, the fact that I’m missing at least one class this afternoon if I can’t get back to Anderson in time. “My next free day is two Wednesdays from now.”

Darla smiles benevolently at me. “I’ll be sure to let him know.” Then she turns back to the computer screen.

“Darla?”

She looks back at me, and I scan her face for another clue. Her cheeks are a little pink, and maybe there’s a twinkle in her brown eyes, but I don’t know what that would have to do with—

“I’m sure you have a lot to do, honey. Is the traffic bad at this time of the afternoon?”

Honey?

“What’s going on? You seemed pretty determined to sit down and talk to me when I got here, and I know what that’s about.” I move toward the two chairs in front of her desk and take a seat in the one closest to me. “Let’s have the conversation, Darla.”

She raises her eyebrows. “We’re all set, Juliet. There’s nothing else to talk about, unless you have concerns about your father’s care.”

“Look. I know it’s going to be a long shot, convincing you to bring on a dedicated aide, but I think we both know that it would be—”

“It’s all taken care of.”

I am baffled. My mind turns and twists her words, but I’m not getting it. “Since when? It’s been a struggle for the past few months, and I know it’s my responsibility. I need a little help working things out for—”

Darla turns her body away from the computer and looks at me from across the expanse of her desk. “Mr. Grant has fully funded your father’s care, along with providing an allowance for a personal aide.”

“He did what?” A flash of anger detonates in my chest. While I was up visiting my dad, he was down here with Darla, meddling in my business? I never asked him for help. I never asked him for anything. All I did was accept a ride, and now—

Darla holds up her hands. “I didn’t reveal any personal information. He asked me for the bottom line on your dad’s account, then added enough to it to cover a private aide.” She puts her hands down on the desk and cocks her head to the side. “He didn’t discuss this with you? I assumed because you came in together—”

The way we came in together? I wrack my brain for anything I might have been doing to give Darla the impression that Weston Grant is now involved in my life, but I’m so angry that the past hour is nothing but a blur. “That was a bad assumption on your part.”

She lifts a shoulder and drops it. “Either way, everything has been covered by Mr. Grant—he’s paid more than enough to get through to March, when your father will be eligible for Medicare. We can reevaluate the payment arrangement then.”

My mouth is hanging open like I’m trying to catch flies. I need to smile at Darla and leave as graciously as possible. But my heart is in my throat, pulsing hotly, and instead I snap my lips together. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be in touch to find out how he’s doing later on in the evening.”

“I’ll talk to you then.” Her smile has a strange quality to it, like she knows something else that I don’t. “Have a nice afternoon, Juliet.”

I’m already out the door, bag clutched close to my side, and heading for the exit. If Weston Grant knows what’s good for him, he won’t be anywhere near Overbrook anymore.

Apparently, he doesn’t know what’s good for him, because when I get outside, not only is the heat blasting me like I’m clay waiting to be turned into a pot, but he’s standing on the curb with his hands in his pockets, his jacket off, the white sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, but I shove that magnetic attraction right out of my thoughts. The door to the Town Car is open next to him, like he’s expecting me to climb on in and have him take over everything else in my life.

In six swift steps, I’m face to face with Weston Grant, my fury raining down like a thunderstorm tearing through the city. Our noses are inches apart. The rage boils up, and then explodes like lava exploding out of a volcano.

“Who the hell do you think you are? And what the hell were you thinking?”