Somebody to Love
Page 2
A gap that would now be uninterrupted for three weeks.
When Ethan broached the vacation idea back in March, it had seemed like a fabulous idea…Parker, on her own, free to do whatever she wanted—sleep past 5:00 a.m., for example, as Nicky was like a rooster about mornings. Find that elusive new idea for a book series. Just because Parker had been born with a trust fund didn’t mean she wanted to build a life around shopping for handbags.
But as the spring progressed, she did nothing. What if something happened with Ethan’s restaurant, and the trip had to be canceled? What if a new book series came to her, and she was on fire to write it, the way she’d heard other authors describe? She should probably stay home, in case something came up.
It didn’t. And now with ten days to go, the time alone seemed to loom like a mine shaft. She didn’t even have the Holy Rollers to keep her busy, and the fact that this even caused a twinge was deeply disturbing.
“I was hiding! No one found me! I beat you all.” Nicky charged into the kitchen with Elephant, his favorite stuffed animal.
“Nicky, you can’t hide without telling us, remember?” Parker said. “It’s not a game that way.”
“But I always win,” her son pointed out.
“He has a point,” Lucy said.
Parker grinned and knelt down. “Kiss me, mister. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Bye, Mom! Bye, Lucy!” He bolted out of the kitchen.
“That’s my cue. See you, girls. Have fun tonight.” Ethan kissed Parker on the cheek, then went out to the foyer with Lucy, where Parker presumed he would kiss her goodbye a little more intensely.
For a second, she wondered if Lucy was here out of…well…sympathy. Once, she, Ethan and Lucy had been three single friends. Now, instead of three, it was two and one.
So? Get a boyfriend, Golly advised. Since the release of the final book, it seemed to Parker that the Holy Rollers were aging in her imagination. They were depicted in the books as being about eight, but here Golly was already trying on mascara.
“Right. A boyfriend,” Parker answered. “I need that like a stick in the eye.”
She headed down to her father’s beloved wine cellar, complete with a stone tasting room—fireplace and all. Thousands and thousands of bottles, including the bottle of Château Lafite supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. Or not. Harry was quite a liar.
She hadn’t seen her father for a while now; the last time was when he’d held a wine-tasting dinner down here with a few sycophants from Wall Street, his omnipresent personal attorney and one of the Kennedy clan, who was up for reelection. Her orders were to bring Nicky down to be introduced, then bring him back upstairs. And stay upstairs with him. Not that she’d have stayed even if asked. Which she wasn’t.
Well. Here was that nice 1994 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Harry had bragged about. Eight grand a bottle, far less than the 1996 vintage. Surely Harry wouldn’t mind if his only child and her best friend drank that, right? He had a whole case, after all. She wouldn’t tell Lucy how much it cost. Lucy was a little scared of Harry. Most people were.
Parker went back upstairs, uncorked the wine and let it breathe a little. Got out some goat cheese and grapes, some of those crumbly crackers. It was so great that Lucy had decided to hang out. Maybe too great. You’ve got to fill these empty hours somehow, Spike said.
“Hush,” Parker said. “You’re dead to me. Go. Fly off to heaven.” She poured two glasses of the wine and set the cheese plate on a tray.
“Who are you talking to?” Lucy asked, coming back to the kitchen.
“Spike.”
“Oh, dear. Well, listen. The books were very, um…entertaining. And they did a lot of good for a lot of kids. To the Holy Rollers.” Lucy clinked her glass against Parker’s.
“May they rest in peace,” Parker said, taking a healthy sip of wine.
Six years ago, Parker had been sitting in the office of a Harvard classmate, hearing for the fifty-seventh time that Mickey the Fire Engine, the children’s story she’d written, wasn’t good enough.
“I’m sorry, Parker,” George had said. “It’s a little familiar.”
Familiar? Mickey was wonderful! And really, what the heck? She had a double degree from Harvard in literature and ethics. Half of her graduating class seemed to be writing romance novels; Parker had fifty-six rejections to her name. Make that fifty-seven. Mickey was full of sincerity and good messages—having a purpose, commitment, courage, second chances. With all the schlock that was out there, it was hard not to feel bitter.
“Got anything else?” George asked, already glancing at his watch.
“Yeah, I do,” Parker said. “How’s this? A band of child angels are sent to earth to teach kids about God. Right? They haven’t earned their wings, though, so they roller-skate everywhere—they’re the Holy Rollers. Do you love it? All they eat is angel food cake, and they live in a tree fort called Eden, and whenever a regular kid is up against a tough moral decision, in come the Holy Rollers and the preaching begins.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s The Crippled Lamb meets The Little Rascals meets The Exorcist.” She sighed and stood up. “Well, thanks for your time, George. Good to see you.”
“Hang on,” he said.
The next week, she’d had an offer and a contract, and she and Suze, her old roomie from Miss Porter’s School, had come to Grayhurst to celebrate, eat whatever Harry’s chef felt like cooking them, swim in the indoor pool and laugh at life’s ironies. The second night, they’d gone to Lenny’s, the local bar, and there was Ethan Mirabelli, who’d flirted with them equally, despite Suze being g*y and built like a professional wrestler. When Ethan had asked for Parker’s phone number, Suze had given her a heavy elbow to the ribs, her way of indicating approval. And the rest, as they say, was history.
Parker and Lucy took their goodies into the front room and were laughing over Lucy’s in-laws’ propensity for dropping by during certain intimate moments. “It’s like they know,” Lucy said. “Honestly, some days I think they have the apartment bugged.”
“They might,” Parker agreed. Her phone rang, and Parker glanced at the screen “Oh, speaking of difficult parents, it’s my mother. I bet she has a husband for me.”
“Goody! Put her on speaker so I can hear, too!” Lucy clapped like a little kid.
Parker clicked on. “Hi, Mom.”
“Darling, I have someone for you!” Althea Harrington Welles Etc. Etc. sang out.
Parker pulled a face for Lucy. “Hooray! Don’t even worry about us meeting—just start planning the wedding.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, haven’t you heard? Anyway, his name is…oh, well, I don’t remember. But his last name is Gorman, as in Senator Gorman from Virginia? His father. Those charges were dropped, by the way. Isn’t it exciting, sweetheart? I’m thinking The Caucus Room for your engagement announcement party, the National Cathedral for your wedding, reception at the senator’s home on the Chesapeake. It’s stunning. I looked it up on Google Earth.”
“Just tell me when to show up in the big white dress.”
“Can I be matron of honor?” Lucy whispered.
“Definitely. Mom, Lucy’s here.”
“Lucy?”
“My best friend?”
“I’m aware, dear. Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mrs.—um…Althea,” Lucy said.
“Lucy, maybe you can make her take this seriously. She’s so obsessed with that child, she hasn’t noticed she’s getting old! Honestly, my only daughter, never married.”
“It’s awful,” Lucy concurred, grinning. “I tried to fix her up with my mute assistant at the bakery, but she said no to him, too.”
“I’d rather date Jorge than a senator’s kid,” Parker said. “His tattoos are amazing. That one of the crucifixion? So lifelike.”
“Fine. Make fun of me, girls. Oh, did you see my Facebook? I’m auditioning for Real Housewives out here. Maury thinks it’s a great idea.”
Parker mimicked a scream, then said, “That’s great, Mom. So you think you might come visit next month?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maury has this thing. How’s Nicky?”
“He misses you,” Parker said, playing the guilt card.
“Well, you kiss that beautiful boy for me, all right? And seriously, sweetheart, think about the Gorman heir. I hate to think of you in that hideous old house, all alone except for your toddler.”
“He’s five and a half, Mom.”
“Oh. Well, when does one stop being a toddler? Anyway, it’s not my point. My point is— Oops! Maury’s ringing in. Kisses to my grandson! Nice to hear your voice, Lisa. Bye, Parker! Talk soon!”
“Bye, Mom.” Parker sighed. “More wine, Lisa?”
Lucy laughed. “I like your mom.”
“I’d like to see her more, that’s for sure,” Parker grumbled.
Just as they’d finished their first glass of wine and were debating on whether to Google the Old Spice man or Ryan Gosling, they heard the crunch of tires on the long gravel driveway. “Think Nicky forgot something?” Lucy asked, going to the window and pushing back the silk drapes. “Eesh! It’s your father. And his entourage.”
“Oh, bugger and damn. Do we have time to hide?”
“I think I’m allowed to hide,” Lucy said. “You probably have to say hi.”
“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Parker ordered.
A flare of nervousness—her trademark reaction to Daddy Dearest—flashed through her stomach. Almost automatically, she smoothed her hair and glanced down at her attire. Since she’d been at Nicky’s school as Parker Welles, Author, rather than Nicky’s Mom, she’d dressed up a little…beige silk shirt, ivory pencil skirt, the fantabulous leopard-print shoes. Good. A little armor.
She joined Lucy at the window and looked out. The driver of the limo opened the back door, and Harry Welles emerged into the sunlight, followed closely by Thing One and Thing Two, his minions.
Technically, Grayhurst was Harry Welles’s home, though he lived in a sleek and sterile duplex on Manhattan’s East Side. He only came to Rhode Island to impress clients or when he couldn’t avoid a family event. He was the third generation to run Welles Financial, once a conservative financial-services firm, which Harry transformed into the kind of Wall Street playah that was often picketed by students and teachers’ unions. He never traveled alone—flunkies like Thing One and Thing Two were part of Harry’s makeup.
The three men came up the walkway and into the house, Thing One and Thing Two trailing at a respectful distance behind him, like castrati guards in a harem.
Her father scanned her, unsmiling.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, keeping her tone pleasant. “How are you?”
“Parker. I’m glad you’re here.” Her father glanced at her friend. “Lucy.”
“Hello, Mr. Welles. Nice to see you again.”
Harry took a deep, disapproving breath—well, it seemed disapproving. “I have something to discuss with you, Parker. Is Nicky here?”
“He’s with his father this weekend. But I can run over and get him.” There was that pesky, hopeful note in her voice. If you don’t like me, at least like my kid, Dad.
“No, that’s just as well. We need to discuss a few family matters.” He looked pointedly at Lucy, who smiled sweetly and, bless her heart, didn’t move a muscle. Harry’s eyes shifted back to Parker. “How’s Apollo?”
“Still alive.”
“Good.” Pleasantries finished, he strode down the hallway. “Join me in the study, please,” he added without looking back.
When Ethan broached the vacation idea back in March, it had seemed like a fabulous idea…Parker, on her own, free to do whatever she wanted—sleep past 5:00 a.m., for example, as Nicky was like a rooster about mornings. Find that elusive new idea for a book series. Just because Parker had been born with a trust fund didn’t mean she wanted to build a life around shopping for handbags.
But as the spring progressed, she did nothing. What if something happened with Ethan’s restaurant, and the trip had to be canceled? What if a new book series came to her, and she was on fire to write it, the way she’d heard other authors describe? She should probably stay home, in case something came up.
It didn’t. And now with ten days to go, the time alone seemed to loom like a mine shaft. She didn’t even have the Holy Rollers to keep her busy, and the fact that this even caused a twinge was deeply disturbing.
“I was hiding! No one found me! I beat you all.” Nicky charged into the kitchen with Elephant, his favorite stuffed animal.
“Nicky, you can’t hide without telling us, remember?” Parker said. “It’s not a game that way.”
“But I always win,” her son pointed out.
“He has a point,” Lucy said.
Parker grinned and knelt down. “Kiss me, mister. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Bye, Mom! Bye, Lucy!” He bolted out of the kitchen.
“That’s my cue. See you, girls. Have fun tonight.” Ethan kissed Parker on the cheek, then went out to the foyer with Lucy, where Parker presumed he would kiss her goodbye a little more intensely.
For a second, she wondered if Lucy was here out of…well…sympathy. Once, she, Ethan and Lucy had been three single friends. Now, instead of three, it was two and one.
So? Get a boyfriend, Golly advised. Since the release of the final book, it seemed to Parker that the Holy Rollers were aging in her imagination. They were depicted in the books as being about eight, but here Golly was already trying on mascara.
“Right. A boyfriend,” Parker answered. “I need that like a stick in the eye.”
She headed down to her father’s beloved wine cellar, complete with a stone tasting room—fireplace and all. Thousands and thousands of bottles, including the bottle of Château Lafite supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. Or not. Harry was quite a liar.
She hadn’t seen her father for a while now; the last time was when he’d held a wine-tasting dinner down here with a few sycophants from Wall Street, his omnipresent personal attorney and one of the Kennedy clan, who was up for reelection. Her orders were to bring Nicky down to be introduced, then bring him back upstairs. And stay upstairs with him. Not that she’d have stayed even if asked. Which she wasn’t.
Well. Here was that nice 1994 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Harry had bragged about. Eight grand a bottle, far less than the 1996 vintage. Surely Harry wouldn’t mind if his only child and her best friend drank that, right? He had a whole case, after all. She wouldn’t tell Lucy how much it cost. Lucy was a little scared of Harry. Most people were.
Parker went back upstairs, uncorked the wine and let it breathe a little. Got out some goat cheese and grapes, some of those crumbly crackers. It was so great that Lucy had decided to hang out. Maybe too great. You’ve got to fill these empty hours somehow, Spike said.
“Hush,” Parker said. “You’re dead to me. Go. Fly off to heaven.” She poured two glasses of the wine and set the cheese plate on a tray.
“Who are you talking to?” Lucy asked, coming back to the kitchen.
“Spike.”
“Oh, dear. Well, listen. The books were very, um…entertaining. And they did a lot of good for a lot of kids. To the Holy Rollers.” Lucy clinked her glass against Parker’s.
“May they rest in peace,” Parker said, taking a healthy sip of wine.
Six years ago, Parker had been sitting in the office of a Harvard classmate, hearing for the fifty-seventh time that Mickey the Fire Engine, the children’s story she’d written, wasn’t good enough.
“I’m sorry, Parker,” George had said. “It’s a little familiar.”
Familiar? Mickey was wonderful! And really, what the heck? She had a double degree from Harvard in literature and ethics. Half of her graduating class seemed to be writing romance novels; Parker had fifty-six rejections to her name. Make that fifty-seven. Mickey was full of sincerity and good messages—having a purpose, commitment, courage, second chances. With all the schlock that was out there, it was hard not to feel bitter.
“Got anything else?” George asked, already glancing at his watch.
“Yeah, I do,” Parker said. “How’s this? A band of child angels are sent to earth to teach kids about God. Right? They haven’t earned their wings, though, so they roller-skate everywhere—they’re the Holy Rollers. Do you love it? All they eat is angel food cake, and they live in a tree fort called Eden, and whenever a regular kid is up against a tough moral decision, in come the Holy Rollers and the preaching begins.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s The Crippled Lamb meets The Little Rascals meets The Exorcist.” She sighed and stood up. “Well, thanks for your time, George. Good to see you.”
“Hang on,” he said.
The next week, she’d had an offer and a contract, and she and Suze, her old roomie from Miss Porter’s School, had come to Grayhurst to celebrate, eat whatever Harry’s chef felt like cooking them, swim in the indoor pool and laugh at life’s ironies. The second night, they’d gone to Lenny’s, the local bar, and there was Ethan Mirabelli, who’d flirted with them equally, despite Suze being g*y and built like a professional wrestler. When Ethan had asked for Parker’s phone number, Suze had given her a heavy elbow to the ribs, her way of indicating approval. And the rest, as they say, was history.
Parker and Lucy took their goodies into the front room and were laughing over Lucy’s in-laws’ propensity for dropping by during certain intimate moments. “It’s like they know,” Lucy said. “Honestly, some days I think they have the apartment bugged.”
“They might,” Parker agreed. Her phone rang, and Parker glanced at the screen “Oh, speaking of difficult parents, it’s my mother. I bet she has a husband for me.”
“Goody! Put her on speaker so I can hear, too!” Lucy clapped like a little kid.
Parker clicked on. “Hi, Mom.”
“Darling, I have someone for you!” Althea Harrington Welles Etc. Etc. sang out.
Parker pulled a face for Lucy. “Hooray! Don’t even worry about us meeting—just start planning the wedding.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, haven’t you heard? Anyway, his name is…oh, well, I don’t remember. But his last name is Gorman, as in Senator Gorman from Virginia? His father. Those charges were dropped, by the way. Isn’t it exciting, sweetheart? I’m thinking The Caucus Room for your engagement announcement party, the National Cathedral for your wedding, reception at the senator’s home on the Chesapeake. It’s stunning. I looked it up on Google Earth.”
“Just tell me when to show up in the big white dress.”
“Can I be matron of honor?” Lucy whispered.
“Definitely. Mom, Lucy’s here.”
“Lucy?”
“My best friend?”
“I’m aware, dear. Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mrs.—um…Althea,” Lucy said.
“Lucy, maybe you can make her take this seriously. She’s so obsessed with that child, she hasn’t noticed she’s getting old! Honestly, my only daughter, never married.”
“It’s awful,” Lucy concurred, grinning. “I tried to fix her up with my mute assistant at the bakery, but she said no to him, too.”
“I’d rather date Jorge than a senator’s kid,” Parker said. “His tattoos are amazing. That one of the crucifixion? So lifelike.”
“Fine. Make fun of me, girls. Oh, did you see my Facebook? I’m auditioning for Real Housewives out here. Maury thinks it’s a great idea.”
Parker mimicked a scream, then said, “That’s great, Mom. So you think you might come visit next month?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maury has this thing. How’s Nicky?”
“He misses you,” Parker said, playing the guilt card.
“Well, you kiss that beautiful boy for me, all right? And seriously, sweetheart, think about the Gorman heir. I hate to think of you in that hideous old house, all alone except for your toddler.”
“He’s five and a half, Mom.”
“Oh. Well, when does one stop being a toddler? Anyway, it’s not my point. My point is— Oops! Maury’s ringing in. Kisses to my grandson! Nice to hear your voice, Lisa. Bye, Parker! Talk soon!”
“Bye, Mom.” Parker sighed. “More wine, Lisa?”
Lucy laughed. “I like your mom.”
“I’d like to see her more, that’s for sure,” Parker grumbled.
Just as they’d finished their first glass of wine and were debating on whether to Google the Old Spice man or Ryan Gosling, they heard the crunch of tires on the long gravel driveway. “Think Nicky forgot something?” Lucy asked, going to the window and pushing back the silk drapes. “Eesh! It’s your father. And his entourage.”
“Oh, bugger and damn. Do we have time to hide?”
“I think I’m allowed to hide,” Lucy said. “You probably have to say hi.”
“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Parker ordered.
A flare of nervousness—her trademark reaction to Daddy Dearest—flashed through her stomach. Almost automatically, she smoothed her hair and glanced down at her attire. Since she’d been at Nicky’s school as Parker Welles, Author, rather than Nicky’s Mom, she’d dressed up a little…beige silk shirt, ivory pencil skirt, the fantabulous leopard-print shoes. Good. A little armor.
She joined Lucy at the window and looked out. The driver of the limo opened the back door, and Harry Welles emerged into the sunlight, followed closely by Thing One and Thing Two, his minions.
Technically, Grayhurst was Harry Welles’s home, though he lived in a sleek and sterile duplex on Manhattan’s East Side. He only came to Rhode Island to impress clients or when he couldn’t avoid a family event. He was the third generation to run Welles Financial, once a conservative financial-services firm, which Harry transformed into the kind of Wall Street playah that was often picketed by students and teachers’ unions. He never traveled alone—flunkies like Thing One and Thing Two were part of Harry’s makeup.
The three men came up the walkway and into the house, Thing One and Thing Two trailing at a respectful distance behind him, like castrati guards in a harem.
Her father scanned her, unsmiling.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, keeping her tone pleasant. “How are you?”
“Parker. I’m glad you’re here.” Her father glanced at her friend. “Lucy.”
“Hello, Mr. Welles. Nice to see you again.”
Harry took a deep, disapproving breath—well, it seemed disapproving. “I have something to discuss with you, Parker. Is Nicky here?”
“He’s with his father this weekend. But I can run over and get him.” There was that pesky, hopeful note in her voice. If you don’t like me, at least like my kid, Dad.
“No, that’s just as well. We need to discuss a few family matters.” He looked pointedly at Lucy, who smiled sweetly and, bless her heart, didn’t move a muscle. Harry’s eyes shifted back to Parker. “How’s Apollo?”
“Still alive.”
“Good.” Pleasantries finished, he strode down the hallway. “Join me in the study, please,” he added without looking back.
