Somebody to Love
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.
James cleared his throat. “Sign here, and then initial here… .” Her hair smelled so good, all clean and flowery. Don’t go there, idiot, his conscience advised. Right, right, he agreed. Her skin was perfect. Beautiful hands.
She signed with brisk efficiency and didn’t look at him when she gave the papers back.
“Lucy was wondering if she could come by,” Ethan said.
“Absolutely,” Parker answered. “I already told her that.”
“You’re not too tired?”
“Are you kidding? I feel like a superhero.” She grinned up at the baby’s father.
“You are a superhero,” he answered, smiling back.
A nurse came in. “How’s it going, Mom?” she barked.
“Great,” Parker answered.
“Good! I need to check those stitches, then I’ll leave you in peace.”
The dad went over to the chair, murmuring to the burrito.
James, idiotically, didn’t move. He was having trouble thinking. Those eyes were so…the whole face, so…
“Thing One? I’d rather not have you see my episiotomy,” Parker said. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
Shit. “Right, no. Sorry. Congratulations, you two,” he said and, with that, got out of there. Went home and did a Google search, saw her books. Ordered a bunch. Sent them to Mare. Got a pleasant thank-you note from her about a month later. Thank you for the rabbit you gave Nicky. It was very thoughtful. Best, Parker Welles.
Harry didn’t visit his grandson until the baby was three months old. He asked James to come with him, stayed at Grayhurst for forty-five minutes, then informed Parker that he and James had a business dinner. “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?” James had murmured in the great front hall as they put on their coats. Harry had held the baby for approximately thirty seconds.
“My daughter’s a little intense,” Harry had said tightly. “Baby’s a good-looking boy, though, don’t you think?”
“Oh, definitely,” James answered. Thus ended the conversation, and while James was curious, he knew better than to bite the hand that fed not just him, but Mary Elizabeth, as well.
From that point on, Harry began sending James to family events. Even when Harry did show up, he’d call James and ask him to come, as well. No matter how much James tried to subtly protest, to hint that family was family, Harry was insistent, and so James ended up at quite a few Nicky-related events—christening, birthdays—always on the edges, always uncomfortable.
Parker would greet him and say goodbye. That was about it. She was civil, though she continued to call him Thing One, and after a while, James adopted a somewhat wry attitude at those dreaded family gatherings. He worked for Harry, the end. But he’d watch Parker, see that she made her kid’s birthday cake herself, clearly adored him, made sure he thanked James for whatever gift he’d brought. She treated Ethan’s family warmly, even though she never did marry the guy. And she worked for a living, writing those books, giving all that money away. Not your typical trust-fund baby.
And then there was that one time—
“Watch it, idiot,” he said as a driver with Massachusetts plates blazed by at an easy ninety miles an hour. “And you, idiot,” he added to himself, “should really think about something else. You’re here to help Harry’s daughter flip a house. No more.”
CHAPTER SIX
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a family of chipmunks who found a lovely, clean place to live for the winter. They climbed inside and got all snugly and fell asleep. Then, alas, someone started their home, which was actually the engine of a car, and they were pulverized in their sleep. But they went to animal heaven, so it wasn’t a total wash.
The Holy Rollers sighed with deep satisfaction. “Save it,” Parker muttered, putting aside the red notebook she always carried in case inspiration struck. Chipmunk puree would probably not sell, no matter how much her publisher wanted a new series. As for herself, she would not be recommending an overnight in a car anytime soon. Not comfy, no, sir. She’d woken at the horrible crack of morning and had been, quite honestly, avoiding going inside the house again. But it was now 7:14 a.m. Couldn’t pretend she was working on a story, couldn’t avoid the day ahead of her.
She checked her phone; too early in California for Nicky to call her, of course—it was still practically the middle of the night there. Thing One hadn’t bothered calling her back, she noted with irritation. Of course, he’d probably found another job by now, since Harry was in jail.
The thought that Harry was actually in prison gave her pause. She’d called him twice so far; both times, the conversation had lasted less than three minutes. Harry was as busy in prison as he’d been on Wall Street, it seemed. No time for that pesky daughter of his. He had, she admitted, asked after Nicky. At least there was that.
At that very minute, her phone chimed, startling her so badly that she dropped it. Harrington, L., the screen said. “Hello?”
“Yeah, hi,” said a horrible voice. “Is this Pahkah?” For a second, Parker thought it was the guy from last night—Malone—but of course, he wouldn’t have her number.
“Excuse me?” Parker said, running a hand over the back of her head. Her hair was matted.
“Ah you Pahkah?”
“Oh! Um, yes. I’m Parker.” Man. That was some accent.
“This is Lavinnyer Harintin.”
Lavinnyer…aha! The caller was her distant cousin! Lavinia Harrington.
“Hi!” Parker said. “Right! How are you?”
“Word has it you’re here in town,” Lavinia said.
“I am. I got in last night.”
“Where’d you sleep?”
“Um…in the car.”
Lavinia laughed, a dark, horrible sound that ended in a hacking cough. “Is that right? Quite a shit-nest you gawt there, isn’t it?”
Parker tried to smile. “That’s a pretty accurate description.”
There was a sucking sound…Lavinia had to be smoking, and with a voice like that, had been smoking three packs of Camel cigarettes a day since the age of four months. “Welp,” she said, exhaling, “you wanna meet sometime this week? Seems like we should lay eyes on each other.”
“That’d be great,” Parker said. Honestly, she had no idea where to start with this house, and Lavinia could probably give her some names and places.
“Wanna come to the diner for breakfast tomorrow?” Lavinia suggested.
“Sure,” Parker said. A real breakfast with eggs and bacon. Beat the two Nutri-Grain bars she’d had an hour ago.
“Know where it is? Joe’s?”
“I passed it yesterday.”
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
Parker got out of the car carefully; if she’d been stiff yesterday, she was practically crippled today.
Eyeballing the house in front of her, Parker decided it looked even worse than last night, if possible. It had a water view, yes. The cove spread out before her, Douglas Point to the north, the harbor to the south. So that was a plus, the view. The house…eesh.
Well, nothing to do but face the music. She got her toiletries bag from her suitcase and, pushing through the long grass, went inside. Her bird friend from last night seemed to be gone, thank God. She left the door open just in case.
Clearly she’d need to rent a Dumpster and buy some seriously sturdy trash bags. Almost everything in here would need to be thrown away. She winced, picturing trash stuffed in her beloved Volvo. But cleaning the house out would show her what she had to work with, at least. Maybe it could be a jewel. She really needed it to be a jewel.
She went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Right. No water. Sighing, she brushed her teeth dry and combed her hair, trying not to touch anything in the bathroom. This would be first on her list of things to scour.
She turned to leave, figuring she’d put on a clean shirt in the car, rather than inside, when she felt something at her ankle…a tickle.
She looked down. Nothing there. Just an itch, she decided, from being in this house of crap.
Nope, there it was again, right under her ankle bone. A mosquito? She shook her foot. Nothing.
Then, horribly, the tickle moved. Moved up.
“What the hell?” she hissed, shaking the leg of her jeans. If that was a cockroach, she’d die.
The tickle moved up again. Faster this time, toward her knee.
“Shit!” Parker said, flapping her pants. “Get out!”
The tickle was now past her knee…and it had a lump. It was a lumpy, warm tickle.
“Nooo!” Parker shrieked, jumping up and down. The lumpy tickle zipped around to the back of her leg, then across her ass and around to the other side, and with that, Parker ripped open her pants and there it was, a mouse in her pants. Its eyes were huge and terrified and Parker heard a scream rip through the air—her scream—and the tiny rodent—rodent!—leaped, practically flying through the air, and landed in the pile in the tub.
Parker ripped off the jeans, dimly hearing herself shrieking, and ran out of the house, through the grass and right up onto the hood of her car. “Bugger! Bugger! Jeesh!” she yelped. Her jeans were clutched in her hand. What if there were more in there? What if a whole family of rodents was in her jeans right now? Once there was a family of mice who loved to snuggle up against the warm flesh of an unwitting human. She whipped the pants against the car, cracking them against the hood again and again and again, shrieking at the remembered feeling of tiny claws. On her leg. Her skin. On her ass!
“Hey, Parker” came a voice. She kept cracking. “Parker?”
She looked up, her breath stuttering in and out of her chest.
Thing One. Thing One was here.
“Hi,” he said, as if she wasn’t murdering her jeans against the hood. “How’s it going?”
“There was a mouse in my pants.”
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Lucky mouse.”
Her breath caught. Wrong thing to say. Wrong. “It’s pretty traumatic to have a rodent in your pants, Thing One,” she snapped. “Unless you like that sort of thing.”
“Oh, hey, sorry, princess,” he said, approaching her car. “Didn’t mean to make light of your tragedy.”
“There was a mouse in my pants,” she blurted. “It’s bad enough, okay? I mean, do you see that house? That’s mine! I own it! And I was doing fine, I wasn’t panicking or anything, even when that fricking bird flew into my hair last night but a mouse— I…I can’t have Nicky here! That place is infested!”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Settle down. You are aware that you’re not wearing pants, right?” Another quirked eyebrow. “Not that I’m complaining.”
She looked down at him, her throat working. She could murder him and throw his body in the water. Or she could put on her pants. She took a shaky breath. “I’m not…eager to put them back on. In case the mouse had cousins.”
“Well, here. Let me check.” Thing One took the jeans from her and turned them inside out, then shook them vigorously. Checked the pockets, too. “Nothing.”
“I saw it. It was there. It ran all the way up this leg, then across my butt, then God knows where it was headed.” His mouth twitched. Did he think this was funny? This was not funny! “It’s not funny, Thing One.”
“Well. It’s gone now.” He looked down. She suspected he was smiling. Idiot.
“It’s in the tub,” she said, giving the jeans a last shake before pulling them on. “You can go find it. Maybe it’ll crawl up your pants and we can compare notes.”
“How was your trip up?” he asked, and really, what kind of a question was that when they were sitting in front of a hovel?
“It was lovely, Thing One. This house, however, is a sty.”
He looked at the house for a long moment, then back at her. “Well. Good thing I’m here, then.”
Right. It suddenly dawned on her that he was here. A familiar face, at least. Something moved in Parker’s chest. She looked away, but no, there was the mouse-infested house. The harbor. Better. Nice view.
“All right. Let’s see what we’re up against.”
Thing One went into the house, and Parker heard a few clunks and thunks. She sat on the hood of the Volvo, her panic fading gradually into the occasional shudder. A rodent running up her leg…there was a sensation a person wouldn’t forget, right up there with an episiotomy.
Her father’s attorney emerged a minute later. Now that she wasn’t screaming, she noticed he looked…different. It took a minute to figure out why.
He wasn’t wearing a suit. First time ever she’d seen him out of— Well, this was the first time ever she’d seen him in jeans and a T-shirt, that was for sure.
Parker looked away and cleared her throat. “So what are you doing here, Thing One?”
He sat on the hood next to her. “Since I’m devoting the next few weeks to overhauling this dump, Parker, you think you could call me by my real name?”
“I seem to have forgotten it.” There. She was getting her old vibe back. Good.
He smiled slowly, his dark eyes crinkling. Dangerous, those eyes. “Again?”
“Is it John? Jason?”
“It’s James. James Francis Xavier Cahill.”
Goose bumps broke out along her arms. It was chilly. Or something. “So what are you doing here, James?”
“Your father asked me to come up.”
Right. James was an obedient pet; she’d give him that. She didn’t say anything for a minute, just pulled her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay.”
She’d bet her left arm James got more than three minutes on the phone with her father. She sighed. “So. This place. Did you know how bad it was?”
He shook his head. “I called my uncle this morning to ask about a security code, and he told me it was kind of a dump. I didn’t think it’d be this bad, but I can help you out.”
She really needed the Army Corps of Engineers, from the look of it. “So law school trained you to overhaul a house, Thing One? I know you’re good at emptying trust funds, but carpentry?” There. Hopefully that would erase the edge he’d gained from having seen her hysterical and in her panties.
He gave her a look of his own. “Nothing I did was illegal, Parker. Your father had the right to do what he wanted with those trust funds, because you gave him that right. You signed papers letting him have full authority over every penny. And even if I’d wanted to say something—which I did—attorney-client privilege prevented me.”
“Wow. You’re a great guy. Maybe my dad will give you a sticker.”
He ignored that. “At any rate, my father was a builder. I worked on a construction crew summers when I was in college. Do you really want to kick me out because you don’t like me?”
She felt her jaw locking. She’d be an idiot to send him away.
He took her silence as protest. “Look. Aside from hauling all this crap to the dump, you’ll need to reshingle the entire exterior. The roof needs to be replaced, the gutter’s hanging off the front, the chimney is crumbling. I’m guessing there’s dry rot under the linoleum in the kitchen, the cupboards are pulling away from the walls, and the stairs down to the dock are a death trap. The back door frame is warped. You probably need some significant rewiring, not to mention a new paint job inside.” He paused. “I happen to find myself free this summer.”
“Where would you stay?” she asked.
“Here.”
“Here? Where here? In the Harbor Suite?”
“Actually, we can get a lot of this stuff cleared out pretty fast. I already have a Dumpster being delivered today.”
He did? “How’d you do that?” she asked.
“My uncle lined one up.”
This summer was supposed to be about doing things on her own, a fresh start. The plan had been to take sheets off aging but lovely furniture and paint the sunroom. The plan was to meet George Clooney before his boat went down in a hundred-foot wave, have a fling, then welcome Nicky for a few weeks of blueberry picking and sailing.
It was not to have her father’s minion living with her.
But she hadn’t realized what she was up against. “Well, you can’t stay here. What about your uncle’s place?”
“He lives in a one-bedroom apartment over the bar. I can get more work done if I’m here.”