Somebody to Love (10 page)

CHAPTER NINE

T
WO
YEARS
AGO
, the thought of sleeping with Thing One had never crossed Parker’s mind.

Really.

Since the day she’d met him, Thing One had
bugged
her. Intellectually, she knew that it wasn’t his fault that Harry had sent him to the hospital the day Nicky was born. Just doing what the boss said, following orders, covering for Harry’s complete and utter lack of interest. Whatever the case, roughly five hours after she’d given birth, a stranger had been standing in her hospital room. Not her father.

She knew that Harry had viewed her decision to A) have Nicky and B) not marry Ethan as a personal slap in the face, but Parker had honestly thought that once he saw his first—possibly only—grandchild, he’d thaw. He’d never viewed her books as much of an accomplishment—well, she couldn’t fault him on that. But a baby, come on. Surely he’d be thrilled to meet his grandchild.

But no. He’d sent a stranger. The fact that the lawyer had thought to buy a stuffed animal only reinforced the fact that Harry had sent nothing but legal documents. No flowers—apparently one didn’t reward one’s wayward daughter for having a bastard child—and nothing for her beautiful, perfect, miraculous baby other than Nicky’s cut of the family trust. Thing One’s presence announced—shouted—the fact that her child wasn’t important enough for Harry to leave work…Harry, who once stopped a meeting with the head of Goldman Sachs because his nine-year-old daughter had come to his office to tell him she won the school spelling bee.

And then Thing One had kept
on
showing up, sent by Harry or accompanying Harry, and while Parker knew that it was at her father’s behest, it still drove her crazy. Obviously, Harry couldn’t bear to be around her, even with Nicky there. Thing One was at Nicky’s baptism, his first birthday, his second birthday. If Harry summoned the rest of the family to a party, which he did once a year—the better to rub their noses in his superior wealth—Thing One would be there, too.

That first day in the hospital, she’d almost felt sorry for him—he was so awkward and uncomfortable. But then he tried to cover for Harry, lying about how her father was so sorry he couldn’t come—as if Harry had ever apologized for anything. It made it worse, knowing that a stranger knew how low she was on her father’s list of priorities. And then, Thing One turned rather glib, a Harry Junior, almost, and that line,
Parker, always lovely to see you,
was so sarcastic. She knew she was nothing but another duty given to him by Harry.

Before long, Harry was calling Thing One “son” and inviting him to those pretentious wine-tasting dinners with his cronies or taking him out on Granddad’s wooden sailboat. Mostly, though, Parker was more irritated with herself than with Harry. He hadn’t sought out her company for years; why would he now? Her father had missed her graduation from Miss Porter’s, though he did make it to her graduation from Harvard and spent the time schmoozing senators and Kennedys. He never came to her book signings. Even when she signed at Barnes & Noble in New York City and there was a line out the door, he didn’t show up.

On the occasions that Harry did interact with her son, Parker had to admit, he wasn’t bad. He’d ask Nicky questions about what he wanted to be when he grew up—standard awkward adult fare—as compared with Gianni Mirabelli, who’d get down on his arthritic knees and pretend to be a horse or teach her son how to make the perfect meatball. But once, Parker came upon Harry and Nicky in the study, coloring, and a warm, hopeful feeling had rushed through her so fast, though what exactly she hoped for wasn’t clear.

A month later, she invited her father to come to Nicky’s graduation from swimming class; her boy had won the Eel Award for fastest swimmer. Wonder of wonders, Harry’s assistant called back to say yes, Mr. Welles would come, and Parker really thought maybe a new era was about to start, now that Nicky was old enough to warrant her father’s interest.

Harry didn’t show. But there was Thing One, expensive suit, calfskin briefcase, as if Nicky wouldn’t notice the difference.

Sleeping with Thing One? Please. It never even crossed her mind.

Until her cousin Esme’s wedding.

Harry had two older sisters, Louise and Vivian. They, in turn, had three daughters, Esme, Juliet and Regan. When Parker was young, the four cousins would play together during the summers at Grayhurst, unaware of the tension between the adults.

But then her parents divorced, and Althea took Parker to Colorado, only to send her back East for boarding school in Connecticut. During term breaks, Parker would sometimes stay with one of her aunts, who lived on the same street in giant homes that weren’t big enough for them, and listen to them complain about her father.

Harry was a legend on Wall Street. The Welles fortune, founded first on shipping, then on mills, had dwindled significantly in the 1960s as manufacturing went overseas. By the time Harry was a teenager, there was a little money, but they were hardly the Kennedys or the Hiltons. Enough for membership in the country club and college for Harry and his sisters, a very modest trust fund to get each one started as adults.

Then Harry decided to swing for the bleachers. He took his trust fund, asked his sisters if they wanted in—they declined; Harry was just out of Wharton and what did he know? Harry sold his car, schmoozed every client his father had, hit up every friend for a loan and stepped up to bat. He took every cent he’d managed to get his hands on and bought up stock from a little company that dealt with a technology no one had ever heard of.

Turned out Apple Computer did okay. Harry was featured on the cover of
Forbes
magazine, a baseball bat over one shoulder, a cocky grin on his handsome face and the headline Play Big or Go Home. Welles Financial, founded by Parker’s great-grandfather, went from a stodgy, trustworthy investment firm to an enormous force on Wall Street, and Harry became filthy rich.

His sisters had their modest inheritances; beyond that, if they wanted more—and they did—they had to come to Harry and present their request, be it jobs for their husbands or the money for an addition to keep up with the Joneses. Harry might or might not grant said request; his sisters hadn’t trusted him back in the beginning, and he made them pay, and they hated him for it. Didn’t stop them from asking, though.

And so Parker was an outsider, too, by association. Her cousins became an impenetrable clique, her aunts joined forces to disapprove of her, and Parker found herself thinking of them as the Coven. When she had to come to stay, Juliet, Regan and Esme made sure she was left out of the conversation, took potshots at Althea and her marriages, mocked Parker’s hair, clothes, shoes. Her aunts weren’t much better. Once, she overheard them discussing Althea’s latest divorce from Parker’s second stepfather, who was a lovely man; Parker had been devastated when he’d left. “Who’d want Althea
and
a sulky teenager?” Louise asked, laughing.

“Sulky’s the least of her problems,” Vivian said. “Juliet thinks she might be doing drugs.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Louise answered. “She’ll probably end up overdosing in a nightclub bathroom somewhere.” There was a pause and the clink of ice as Louise took a sip of her Long Island iced tea.

Parker became even more of a freak by getting pregnant out of wedlock—and staying pregnant—and choosing to be a single mom. The books put her over the edge.

Family gatherings…eesh. Parker once described them to Ethan as
Flowers in the Attic
meets
Jaws.
Generally, she avoided them like a robust case of Ebola, but once a year or so, she had to make an appearance, and Esme’s wedding was one such affair.

Parker was a bridesmaid, pretty much because Harry was paying for the wedding, an obscene affair at the Rosecliff mansion in Newport. Esme and Aunt Vivian had wheedled and whined to Harry for weeks before he finally played Santa and said of
course
he’d pay for his niece’s wedding. Apparently, Esme had been yearning to get married at Rosecliff since her conception, and she’d gleefully spent Harry’s money hand over fist: flowers and hairstylists, a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, yada yada yada.

None of that made Parker welcome. She’d spent the rehearsal dinner largely being ignored and pretending not to mind. She hadn’t been invited to help Esme get ready the morning of the wedding, either. Nicky was with Ethan, so Parker had gone to Rosecliff alone. She figured she’d do her bridesmaid duties, endure the reception, then leave as soon as she could.

“Thanks, Chuck,” she said to the driver of the car service her father kept on retainer. “I’ll be maybe three hours, okay? I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”

“You bet, Miss Welles,” he said.

“Sure you don’t want to be my date?” she said, tipping him a twenty.

“Very. No offense.”

She laughed. “I hear you, pal. See you later.” Heart sinking a little, she got out of the car. “I am a wonderful mother,” she said as she approached the mansion. “I am a very successful author.”
Preach it, sister!
the Holy Rollers chorused. “And no one can make you feel inferior if you’ve had enough to drink. Or something.”

Without your consent!
the angels corrected in their tiny, scolding voices.

Inside was the Coven—Esme, the bride, and Juliet and Regan as co–maids of honor—huddled together in a preceremony clump. Her aunts made disapproving noises about Parker’s timing, though she’d arrived ten minutes before they’d told her to.

“You look exhausted,” Aunt Vivian said, frowning. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Parker said. “Esme, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks. Um…so do you?” the bride said, staring at Parker as if she had a third arm.

Parker smiled determinedly, took her bouquet and walked down the aisle, her eyes searching for her father. One thing they had in common—they hated family events. She didn’t see him, but then again, there were four hundred wedding guests.

In the receiving line, Juliet took her shots. “Parker, did you bring your husband? Wait, are you married? I always forget.” As if they hadn’t seen each other the night before.

“Nope. Not married.”

“And how old is your son again? It is a boy, right?”

“Nicky’s three.”

“Are you seeing anyone these days? It must be hard, because who wants a single mom?”

Finally, the reception began in earnest. Parker glanced around for a safe haven, hoping to see a friendly face somewhere. One of her uncles—Louise’s husband—had always been nice, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d hugged her a little too long, his hand a little too low on her back.

Still no Harry. He wouldn’t miss a family wedding—or the chance to remind people who paid for it—and last she knew, he was coming. For a second, she indulged in the fantasy that she and her father were close. That they’d sit together today, that he’d dance with her and tell her she was the prettiest girl in the room. He’d come to Grayhurst after the wedding and play Candy Land with Nicky, read him books until her son fell asleep. Then she and her dad would watch something manly on TV, because Harry loved war movies.
Saving Private Ryan
. She’d make popcorn.

Right.

She should’ve brought a date. Ethan would’ve come, and Lucy would’ve loved to have babysat. She could’ve hired an escort, like in that movie she’d fallen asleep on a few weeks ago. But needing armor and actually admitting you needed armor were different things.

A drink, however, was definitely in order.

“Hello,” she said to the bartender, smiling. “I would like a very strong martini with three olives and a smidge of brine.”

“Belvedere okay?” he asked.

“How about Stoli Elit? Got any of that?” she said. It was her father’s favorite.

“You have good taste,” he said.

“Got that right, buddy,” she answered, grinning. She gave him a fifty as a tip, knowing half her relatives would fail to tip him at all. Rich people. Sucky tippers.

The martini went down as it should, icy cold and so smooth she barely noticed.

“Parker! What are you doing, just standing there?” It was dear Cousin Regan, dragging her fiancé behind her.

“I’m taking it all in,” Parker said.

“You haven’t met Rob, my fiancé, have you?” Regan asked.

“We met last night,” Parker said, nodding at him, the poor guy. “Hello again.”

“So, like,
our
wedding?” Regan said. “I’m thinking Manhattan? Like…the Pierre? Right, Rob?”

Parker nodded, feigning interest. This would be Regan’s third engagement, and if it followed suit, it should be over in, oh, about an hour. Regan enjoyed upstaging other people’s weddings.

“And how are your little books doing?” her cousin asked, nudging Rob with her elbow.

“They’re doing great. The last one came out at number five on the
Times
list,” Parker said.

“Rob, Parker writes those strange little books about the angels,” Regan said in mock explanation. “They’re very…um…precious?”

“So glad you like them,” Parker said. “Excuse me for one second.” No point in hanging around Regan, who’d recently posted a vicious review of
The Holy Rollers and the Blind Little Bunny
on Amazon. She’d forgotten to use a screen name, however. Or maybe she hadn’t.