The Ruthless Gentleman(5)

I rolled my eyes. Of course they had. “You’ve gotta try to stay healthy, Daddy.” I loved to cook for them when I was at home. Things like going grocery shopping, making soup, even watching sports with my family became special, something I craved when I was at sea, so far away from home.

“I’m as strong as an ox,” he replied.

I grinned as I imagined him standing straight, puffing out his chest. “I just want you to stay that way.”

“Stop your fussing. The Walker men are just fine. Tell me about what’s going on there with you. How many rich, spoiled asses have you wiped today?”

I laughed. “All the guests left yesterday.”

“Nice, so you doing a little sightseeing or sunbathing today before heading home?”

“Something like that. Did the physical therapist come yesterday?” Michael had someone come to the house three times a week to work with him.

“She sure did. He’s building up his muscles in his legs nicely—the weights help.” My dad sighed.

“What is it?”

“Oh, she’s nice and everything. It’s just she’s always talking about how more sessions would help and if Michael wants to make progress then . . .”

Michael mumbled something in the background, probably telling us to quit fussing.

“More therapy sessions? Like how many more?”

“I don’t know, honey. She was talking about having six months of six days a week. But I told her there was no way we could afford that. The insurance won’t pay.”

Michael wanted to walk again. My dad and I wanted that for him, and I’d gone into battle with the health insurer on more than one occasion about physical therapy. It was why he still had three weekly sessions even now, so long after the accident. I knew they’d never agree to six sessions a week.

“She thinks it will make a difference?” I asked.

My father didn’t respond and the scrape of a chair and my father’s slight groan as he stood echoed down the phone, indicating that he was moving rooms so Michael couldn’t hear him.

“She said that if Michael had six sessions a week, after six months she’d be able to tell us whether it was realistic to believe Michael would walk again, and if it was possible, we’d be able to see the progress in that time.”

My brother’s accident seven years ago had changed things completely for my family. My mother had abandoned us shortly after, unable to cope with a life that revolved around her newly disabled son, and soon after the bills had started to pile up.

I’d been planning to start UCLA that fall, but suddenly my family had needed me, and I’d needed to earn money, fast.

A friend of a friend had spent a summer in Miami as a yachtie and came back after her first season with a Louis Vuitton bag. It seemed like a quick and easy way to earn a lot of money that didn’t require skills or experience. I’d been partly right. It was quick. But life on superyachts, catering to the rich and occasionally famous, was far from easy. I missed my dad. And my brother. But I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t stuck in a wheelchair, my whole future snatched from me.

Michael just wanted to walk again. And if I took the charter Captain Moss was offering, I might be able to give him that. Or at least find out whether it was possible.

“Six months of an additional three sessions a week?”

“Yeah, it’s completely impossible. I told her.”

I did the sums in my head. At a rough guess it was north of ten thousand dollars.

My stomach dropped.

“I was about to head to the airport, but Captain Moss has offered me a last-minute charter,” I said, then explained about being personally recruited.

“That’s an incredible compliment,” my dad responded. “Not that I would expect anything else from my amazing daughter.”

“I don’t know what to do. I was really looking forward to seeing you and Michael.”

“We were looking forward to seeing you too, honey. Come home. We complain about it, but we miss your fussing.”

I knew my dad was grateful for the financial help I provided, but I also knew it was hard for his ego to swallow. So we both liked to pretend that my job was more glamorous than it was.

“It’s a lot of money, Dad. It would pretty much cover the additional therapy.” I’d call the therapist to see if we could get a discounted rate, but I might be able to cover it. “But it would mean I didn’t get to see you for another five months.”

“If you don’t want to do it then you should say no. I want you to live your own life, honey. You don’t need to worry about Michael and me.” Dad said it as if worry was a tap I could just turn off. I was damned if I did or damned if I didn’t. More money meant better care for my brother but going home meant respite for my dad and a month of normalcy for me. It was lose, lose.

“I think I should take it,” I said. That would be the sensible decision. The one I could live with. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’d had the opportunity to help my brother walk again and not taken it. No matter how tired I was. No matter how much I wanted to sleep in my own bed, have drinks with my girlfriends and cook for my family.

“I think you should do what will make you happy.”

I stared up at the bunk above me. I’d be happy in Sacramento, but providing for my brother was the most important thing to me. Although earning the money this charter would provide wasn’t exactly happiness, it came close.