Somebody to Love (6 page)

A cluster of lilac trees was in full bloom. “Good sign, right?” Parker asked, her voice a bit unfamiliar. The HRs agreed that yes, it was indeed a positive indicator.

There was a wooden stairway down to a small dock, but it was nearly full dark now, and Parker was not about to break her neck figuring out whether or not the stairs were sound.

“Bite the bullet,” she said aloud. “Time to go inside and view your inheritance.”

The key Thing One had supplied fit fine. Had he known this was her house? Had Harry? Think they might’ve given her a hint at what lay ahead?

Parker turned the lock, which slid open after some wiggling. The door was warped, however, and stuck fast, so she shoved harder, using her shoulder. Once, twice, three times, and bam, it opened.

Pitch-dark inside. She groped on the wall for a light switch and got lucky. Someone had turned on the electricity—or it had never been turned off—and a harsh yellow light momentarily blinded her.

Permanently blinded might’ve been better.

Parker closed her mouth, then opened it to swear, then realized that she didn’t know a word bad enough.

Aunt Julia had been a hoarder.

Faded boxes and stacks of crumbling newspapers lined the hallway so there was only a tiny path leading into the house. The smell was so thick and dry Parker choked. There was so much crap everywhere, it was hard to take in—pots, pans, candlesticks, yellowing plastic containers, paper plates, old fabric, swollen paperbacks, a set of encyclopedia, plastic dolls. Cripes! And this was just the hallway! Parker lifted her gaze to the cracked plaster walls visible above the hoard to the cracked plaster ceiling. God. The place was a wreck. She tried to take a calming breath, choked and pulled up her shirt to cover her mouth—or muffle her scream, she thought darkly.
It’s only stuff,
Spike said.
Check it out a little. See what you got.

Good advice, good advice. To her left was a bathroom, the door open. Pepto-Bismol-pink tub spilling over with…stuff. But there was a sink visible, and a toilet, thank the Lord. First things first.

You’re not really going to pee in there, are you?
asked the female Holy Rollers.
When was that last cleaned?

“Where else should I go?” Parker answered. “Outside?”

A girl had to do what a girl had to do, especially after two coffees on the way up. Still, the horror of the situation was not lost on her. An eyeless doll lay in the bathtub, just in case the place wasn’t creepy enough. The toilet flushed, but when Parker turned on the faucet to wash her hands, nothing came out. Fine. She had Purell in the car.

Across from the loo was a bedroom, she guessed—too much junk to open the door all the way. Praying no bats were currently living inside, Parker poked her head in. There may have been a bed, but it was hard to tell with all the boxes. Clothes, some still on their hangers, lay abandoned and forgotten. Shoes, hats, a box full of ceramic kittens, bags of yarn, books, macramé plant holders.

A second bedroom held more of the same.

She sidled down the hall, trying not to touch anything, toward what proved to be one big room, the kitchen on one side, what had once been a living room on the other. Another single lightbulb hung from a wire in here—still worked, showing piles of plastic bins filled with old clothing, more newspapers, sewing bric-a-brac. There was a fishing pole on the counter, couch cushions in front of the refrigerator, which looked to be from 1950, rounded and hulking. The oven was green, its door hanging open as if in a scream—Parker could totally relate. More boarded windows that probably overlooked the sea.

Sometimes it’s darkest before dawn!
the Holy Rollers chirped, patting her shoulder, and Parker envisioned herself backing over them with the Volvo. Platitudes were not going to help. A fire—a big one—might.

How was she going to have Nicky come up here? How was she going to sell this place? Until this moment, Parker hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on a real house. This was all she had to her name, other than the $11,202.57?

Oh, crap, she was hyperventilating. And who knew what she was breathing in?

“It’s okay,” she said aloud. “We can do this. It’s bad, yes, sure, but that’s okay. This will be really fun. We can do this.”

She could. She was a strong person. Right? She could lift heavy things, and she’d cleaned bathrooms and stuff before. Not that she really had to—there was always the housekeeper or cleaning service—but she’d done it. Zillions of people cleaned out garages and stuff, and she would, too. It would be deeply satisfying. Yes. Maybe she’d write a book about that, sure.
Learning Life Skills Really, Really Fast.

Good. There. She was calmer now.

Suddenly, there was a fluttering of wings, and Parker screamed and ducked. A bird! In the house! A mourning dove, a glorified pigeon. “Get out!” she yelled, causing the bird to panic. It flew back and forth, hitting the walls, thudding sickeningly. “Stop!” she yelled. Bugger, it was coming at her! Parker covered her head and twisted and turned down the little path, bumped into a dressmaker’s dummy, the bird fluttering right over her head, that horrible, panicked trilling…gah! It hit her in the head, its feathers hideous, its little talons…

Then Parker was outside. Hunched over, she dashed to her car, got in and slammed the door, panting wildly. “Bugger!” she yelled.

Little Pigeon loved the lady’s hair. It was so cozy there! With a smile, he dug his little claws into her scalp and hunkered down.

She was still shuddering. Good thing she’d just gone to the bathroom, or she would’ve wet herself.

As her breathing calmed and the shaking of her limbs quieted, Parker made a mental list. Her eyes burned with tears, but that was stupid. Crying wasn’t going to help. Tomorrow, she’d see about…well, hell. Getting a Dumpster, to start. And some giant rubber gloves, and maybe a hazmat suit.

Tonight, however…tonight, she’d be sleeping in the car. She had her comforter packed in the back, along with a few bags of groceries and her suitcase. She’d eat some Wheat Thins and sleep here.

She cracked the windows. It had turned chilly—of course, they were what, fifty miles from Canada? But the air felt clean and pure, and Parker sucked in great lungfuls, that faint tang of fish nothing compared to the closed-up stuffiness of the house.

And the stars were brilliant, blazing overhead in a clarity Parker had never seen before. The waves sloshed against the shore, and across the cove, the lights of the town glowed and winked as if welcoming her.

She’d make this work. She had twenty-three days to make this work.

But, even though she tried hard to keep such thoughts at bay, she couldn’t help remembering that a month ago, she’d stayed in a suite at the Peninsula Hotel in New York City with her son. Her publisher had taken them to dinner to Nobu to celebrate the release of the last Holy Rollers book, and after that, she and Nicky had gone up to the Top of the Rock, just the two of them, so he could see the view.

Tonight, she was sleeping in her car.

It was almost funny.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HOUGH
HE
VISITED
the great state of Maine at least six times a year, crossing the Kittery Bridge never failed to make James feel as if someone had hammered a nail in his eye. Ever since he was twelve years old, Maine had been a place to escape from, not Vacationland, as the license plates proclaimed.

Dresner, his hometown, was not on the agenda. Rarely was, even though—or because—his parents still lived there. The town had grown up around a paper mill that had long moved operations to some third-world country, but the bitter tang of chemicals still hung over Cahill family events.

Last night, James had stayed at his sister’s, set his phone to go off at five-thirty, since Gideon’s Cove was another two hours away. Whether or not Parker wanted his help—and she didn’t—she was getting it.

Gideon’s Cove had been a cute town back then. There’d been a diner, he remembered, and a pretty girl about his own age who waited tables…he’d hung around, hoping she’d notice him, but she’d had a boyfriend, it turned out. Still, he’d managed to lose his virginity with a very, ah, generous woman about a decade older than he was. Chantal.
Very
nice woman. Just the thought of her had James grinning. Yep. All guys should get started out that way.

Speaking of women he’d slept with, it occurred to James that he hadn’t called Leah. Not that they had an actual relationship…a hookup now and then, but still.

James pulled over on the side of the road and took out his phone.
One missed call—Parker Welles,
the screen said. Cell-phone service was spotty up here, so no surprise there. The surprise was that she called him at all. He listened to the message, frowning. He didn’t know anything about a security system or code. When he’d called his uncle to tell him about his plans, James asked him if he knew the Harrington place. “Ayuh,” Dewey had said. “Needs a little work. I’ll make sure the electric’s on.” Nothing about a security system.

Well. He’d be there in an hour. He could figure it out then. Besides, making Parker wait had its own appeal. And he did owe Leah a call.

“Hey, Leah, it’s James.”

“Hi there, stranger! How are you
doing?
” she said, her cheerleader-style exuberance making him hold the phone a little farther away from his ear. She was cute, but best in small doses, which explained why they only saw each other about once a month.

“How are you?” he said.

“I’m awesome! What’s
up?
You wanna get together this weekend?”

“Well, actually, I’m in Maine right now, and I’ll be here for a while. Six or eight weeks. Figured I’d let you know.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” she finally said.

It was impressive, how much could be packed into a two-letter word. They must teach it at woman school. “Yeah. So, just wanted to say bye and have a nice summer and all.” James pressed his thumb against his eye socket, bracing for the relationship talk.

“What about…you know? Us?”

Ah, mooseshit. Was there an
us?
Because he’d seen Leah, a very pretty redhead who liked to play pool and flirt, maybe six or seven times since they’d met at a wedding on New Year’s Eve, and if there was an
us,
it was pretty anemic. There was him, and there was her, and the two of them intersected at a bar once in a while, which generally led to more intersecting in bed, which had always seemed like enough.

Until this moment.

“Well, I have to be in Maine this summer,” James repeated.

“For Harry?”

“Yep. So I figured I’d call, tell you I wouldn’t be around. And after the summer, I really don’t know where I’ll be jobwise.” There. Mission accomplished.

“You want some company up there? I love Maine!”

Mission not accomplished. James sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, I’ll be busy, Leah. And it’s far. Way up the coast. But it’s been fun hanging out. Good luck with everything.” He winced. He didn’t mean to sound like a dick. They just taught it in guy school.

There was a lengthy pause, then a sigh. “Fine.” Another pause. “Where are you staying?”

“A town called Gideon’s Cove. Harry’s daughter has some property up there.”

“Harry’s in jail, right?”

“Yeah. But his daughter needs a little help. Real-estate stuff.” James never liked talking about what he did, just in case what he
didn’t
do came out.
Well, I sit in my office a lot. Shot thirty-nine Nerf baskets in a row one day. I was really stoked.

Another pause. “Well, try to have fun,” she said, her voice a little brighter. “And thanks for calling, James! That was so thoughtful.”

Atta girl. Leah was sweet. Not tremendously bright, but good-natured and fun. It’d been really easy, hanging out with her. And easy was good so far as he was concerned. “You take care, Leah.”

“You, too, James. Give me a call when you’re back, if you feel like it.”

“You bet. Take care,” he repeated.

There. His condo was sublet for the summer. Leah had been informed. Stella, his secretary, had told James not to worry; she’d been about to quit anyway and become a jujitsu instructor. The guys he played basketball with on Saturday mornings had taken him out for a beer as a farewell. No point in telling Mary Elizabeth about work…she pretty much only cared if he brought her a present.

His parents could wait.

So. On to Gideon’s Cove to see Parker. Maybe she’d be glad to see him.

Right. And the ice-skating in hell was fabulous this time of year. But she was Harry’s daughter, and James owed him more than he could say.

Six years ago, James had been stuck on the tarmac in L.A., where he’d interviewed for a job—one of 204 prospects, apparently. He’d been out of law school for a year and had yet to get a job offer, and panic was setting in. His father was sixty-two and business was slow; his brothers were just getting by. The law was supposed to have been a sure bet for James, a guaranteed decent salary, and making money had always been the goal.

At any rate, James had been upgraded to first class—the girl at the desk had liked his “smies,” whatever those were. James was enjoying the extra four inches of legroom when a man sat in the seat next to him, growling about the inconvenience of having to fly commercial. Harry Welles, legend of Wall Street, in the flesh.

A guy who probably had a whopping-size legal department.

James introduced himself, made wry comments about the joys of air travel, spent his last hundred bucks on a bottle of champagne—which Harry had declared cheap swill—got the guy to laugh and a few hours later found himself with a job offer. Not a corporate position, though. Harry’s longtime personal attorney had announced his retirement; would James like the job? On retainer for personal and family business, no other clients in case Harry needed him. It would be mostly real-estate dealings, as Harry owned a couple dozen corporate buildings, maybe some trust and estate planning. When Harry had named a salary, it was all James could do not to hump his leg. For that salary, he would’ve done anything. He needed money, a lot of it, and fast.

So James had become a glorified clerk, turning his attention to getting through loopholes so Harry could build a bigger boathouse, changing the terms of the lease on a commercial building. He set up a trust fund for Harry’s unborn grandchild. Paid off Harry’s occasional mistress. And became, it seemed, Harry’s closest friend.

It was odd; Harry had colleagues and clients and employees, he had connections, but he didn’t seem to have friends. And though James knew Harry had a daughter, he never talked about her. But from that first day on the airplane onward, Harry seemed to anoint James as the chosen one. He’d summon James to the city, take him out for dinner, tell tales of his early career. Took him to ball games. Slapped him on the back and told him he was doing a great job, even though the work was mindless and dull. One night, when Harry’d had too much to drink and James was seeing him back to his huge apartment in the city, Harry had said, “If I had a son, I hope he woulda been like you, kid.”

Strange, given that Harry had only known him a few months. And stranger still that for all the time he’d spent with Harry, he’d never heard him talk about Parker. James knew she existed, of course. But she was never discussed.

And then, on the eighth day of the sixth month as Harry’s attorney, when James had sunk eighteen Nerf baskets in a row and was in a heated mental debate between roast beef or turkey avocado, his cell phone rang. It was Harry. “James, my daughter had her baby. Can you swing by the hospital with the paperwork?”

“Hey, congratulations, Harry! Boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hang on. Mona! Did my daughter tell you the baby’s name?” There was a pause. “Don’t know. Can you get over there?”

“Sure! Absolutely.”

“Great. Tell my daughter I’ll get up there when I’ve got some free time. And I’ll see you here in the city next week. Knicks game, don’t forget.” With that, Harry hung up.

James stared at the phone. Granted, his own parents weren’t perfect, but they wouldn’t miss out on seeing a new grandchild. Parker was Harry’s only child, and this was her first baby, as James knew from the trust-fund paperwork.

Ten million dollars at birth, another ten at age thirty.

So much money, it felt fake to a kid from a blue-collar mill town in Maine.

And so James, then twenty-five years old, had taken the papers to the hospital for Parker’s signature. Uncomfortable about Harry’s apparent lack of interest, he stopped at a toy store and bought a stuffed animal, a large gray rabbit with floppy ears. That’s what people did for babies, after all. He was an uncle, and even though he wasn’t close to his brothers’ kids, he knew enough to send a toy on birthdays and Christmas.

He got to the hospital, found the maternity floor, went down the hall to room 433, and there was Parker Harrington Welles. She was all alone, holding what looked like a large burrito with a blue cap, and her face was so soft with wonder that James literally stopped in his tracks. Kinda fell in love right then and there.

Then she looked up, and there was no kinda about it.

“Hi,” she said quietly, a question in her eyes. Right, because he was a stranger, and she’d just given birth.

“Uh…hi.” His mouth was suddenly dry. “Um…I’m James. James Cahill. I’m your father’s attorney?”
And you sound like the village idiot.

She blinked, and her face went completely blank. She looked back down at her baby, who made a little squeak. “So you’re the new Thing One.”

“Excuse me?”

“You replaced Sol?”

“Yeah. Yes. I replaced Sol. Uh, I have some papers. For you to sign. For the baby’s trust fund.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Congratulations, by the way. Um…cute baby.” Not that he could see anything from the doorway, but that was what you said to women who’d just popped a kid.

She adjusted the baby’s cap, then looked at James. “I take it my father’s not coming.”

Ouch.
“Well, he—he wanted to, but he’s stuck in the city.”

Her face didn’t change, but for one second, something flashed across her eyes. Her
beautiful
eyes. Crap, he was like a twelve-year-old with his first crush. But man, her eyes were beautiful. Blue or green, he couldn’t tell from here. Didn’t matter. She was gorgeous. Long, straight blond hair, perfect mouth. Even in a johnny coat, she was frickin’ glorious.

Then a guy brushed past him, going instantly to Parker’s side, and reached down to touch the bottom half of the burrito. “How’s he doing?” he asked, and Parker smiled up at him. The father of the baby, clearly.

“Still sleeping,” Parker said. “Your parents were great, by the way.”

“You won’t be saying that when they show up four times a day,” he answered.

“Well, I think they’re sweet.”

“And they think you walk on water. Thanks for the middle name. That was really…” The guy’s voice choked up, and it was only then that he seemed to notice James, standing there like a lump.

Parker nodded at him. “My father’s attorney.”

James stepped forward and offered his hand, which the guy shook. “James Cahill. Congratulations.”

“Hi. Ethan Mirabelli. New dad.” He grinned broadly, clearly delighted with his title.

“Mr. Welles sends his best and says he’ll be up as soon as he can. He’s, um, very sorry he couldn’t make it.” James swallowed. Lying for the boss. Yikes.

“Really. He said that?” Parker asked coolly.

“Yes.”

She wasn’t fooled. Gave him a knowing look, then touched her baby’s cheek.

James suddenly remembered the bag in his hand. “Oh, here. For the…little one.” He passed it over to the dad, who pulled the rabbit from it and smiled. “It’s bigger than he is,” he said. “Hey, Nicky, look. It’s a bunny.” The baby slept on, unimpressed.

“What can I do for you, Thing One?” Parker asked.

“Right.” He approached the throne—there was definitely a regal sense about her—and held out the papers. She passed the baby to the guy, Ethan, who immediately kissed the tiny head.