Somebody to Love (5 page)

But when she was ten, her parents divorced, and summer was never the same. Harry became a stranger, and Althea married Clay, the first of Parker’s stepfathers, less than a year afterward. Per court order, she’d visit Rhode Island for a week or two in the summer, sometimes foisted off on her aunts, then spending a torturous few days alone with Harry, who’d work most of the time. Then it would be off to whatever summer program was the in thing that year—a summer at sea, another at the Sorbonne, one in Scotland with other daughters of rich people. And don’t get her wrong. She’d had some great times, seen some beautiful places.

But those summers here, at Grayhurst, before she realized what kind of man her father was, before her mother had become a serial trophy wife…those summers had been the best. Her fifth birthday party had been here, and there’d been a white pony. When she was nine or so, she’d had a sleepover, and the gardener had rigged up a screen in front of the indoor pool, and Parker and five friends had bobbed around on inner tubes and watched
Jaws.

And this was where she’d brought Nicky home after he was born. She’d rocked him in her grandmother’s Morelock chair and looked out at the sea. How could she not love the place where she learned how to be a mother?

Now Nicky’s beautiful room would be someone else’s. The dining room where they’d once tied a rope and played Tarzan, the topiary in the back where they’d had so many lunches, the back parlor where she and Lucy had spent many a girls’ night, laughing until they cried…all someone else’s.

Well. Self-pity wasn’t going to get her car packed up. The moving truck was coming to take her clothes and most of the stuff to storage—Nicky’s bunk bed, the big white sofa she had in her office, the collection of Holy Rollers books in their many translations. The photo albums and framed pictures of Nicky’s artwork.

All her life, Parker knew, she’d had the cushion of not just a trust fund, but the security of being a Welles of the Rhode Island Welleses. John Kennedy had once sailed his boat here and stayed for dinner, as he and her grandmother were childhood friends. E. B. White had played tennis on Grayhurst’s courts with her grandfather.

Now, for the first time, Parker was truly on her own.

It was oddly thrilling.

She’d use what she needed to spiff up the house in Maine and turn a cushy profit—what, maybe a couple hundred grand? Not bad for a woman who was broke.

And you know what else? Maybe Lucy was right. Lady Land had been long ignored. Maybe a little summer romance would be a good thing. Heck yeah! She had twenty-three days on her own. Might as well live a little.

But now, she’d go downstairs, uncork a bottle of her father’s cheapest. She’d take it out onto the back terrace and enjoy Grayhurst’s view for the last time. And maybe, since no one else was around, she’d have a good cry. And skate down the halls one more time.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
FTER
EIGHT
HOURS
in the car, Parker finally saw what she was looking for: a white sign surrounded by pansies and the words
Welcome to Gideon’s Cove, Population 1,411.
“Finally,” she muttered, slowing the car. Maine was flipping enormous, and one didn’t really understand
how
enormous until one had to drive the entire length of the thing. But she was here at last. Hopefully, in a few moments, she’d be opening the door of her inheritance, pouring a glass of wine and running a hot bath.
You deserve it!
cheeped the female Holy Rollers, who were much more in tune with this kind of thing than the boys.

“You said it, sisters,” Parker muttered. She’d been talking to them the entire drive. Just one more reason to be grateful she was here.

The downtown of Gideon’s Cove consisted of a tiny library, two churches, a town hall and about four storefronts. A bar with a neon Bud sign in the window. There was a cheerful little diner; it seemed to be the only restaurant in town. Parker grimaced. It was cute, but not exactly a tourist mecca—no T-shirt stores, no ice-cream shop, no fried-clam shack. How robust could the real-estate market be in a town with 1,400 people?

The road ended at the harbor parking lot. Parker pulled into a space and looked out at the view. Okay, yes, it was beautiful here. The cove was edged with a ragged line of gray rock and pine trees, the water a deep cobalt accented by choppy waves. A small fleet of lobster boats—six or eight of them—bobbed in the darkening blue of the evening. Beyond the cove was the Atlantic, and clouds tinged with pink and lavender rested on the horizon.

Gorgeous. And somewhere close by was her house.

The Harringtons had been wealthy, too—not like the Welles family, but sedately comfortable. Althea had gone to Bryn Mawr and grew up in Westchester; Aunt Julia had been from the Boston side of the family, and had lived in a musty but respectable town house. Parker had only visited a few times, so her memory was dim. A house on the coast of Maine…surely it had potential.

Unfortunately, her GPS didn’t acknowledge the existence of Shoreline Drive. Wouldn’t hurt to find someone to ask.

Parker got out of the car, her lower back creaking a little, stretched and inhaled deeply. Then gagged. Bugger! What was that
smell?
Sure, Gideon’s Cove was a fishing village, but there was fish…and then there was
this
. Briny, fishy and rotten, thick enough to practically taste. It must have had something to do with the corrugated-metal building past the harbormaster’s building.

A few more breaths, and the smell wasn’t quite so repulsive. The wind was stiff and salty, so at least there was that. And though it was a beautiful evening, no one seemed to be around. Seagulls hovered on the breeze, and waves slapped against the white hulls of the boats. The wind shushed through the pines. Farther away, Parker heard some music, a baby crying. Mostly, though, it was quiet.

Aha. There was someone—a man motoring in from one of the lobster boats. He pulled up to the dock, jumped neatly out and tied off the boat, then came up the ramp toward her. Perfect. A local who could give her directions. “Hi,” Parker called, waving in case he missed her.

He stopped in front of her, then nodded.

Oh, Mommy! The word
fling
jumped rather forcefully to mind. She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Perfect. Lucy had urged her to have a fling, and the gods of Fling had sent this guy. How was that for convenience? Black hair. Light blue eyes. Laugh lines. Welcome to Gideon’s Cove indeed.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked at her. Perhaps he was mute.

“Hi there,” she said again, sticking out her hand. “I’m Parker. I’m visiting for a few weeks.”

He nodded again and shook her hand briefly, his hand strong and calloused. “Malone.”

Dead sexy, just the one name. “Nice to meet you.”

He didn’t answer. Which was fine—he didn’t have to speak. He could simply stand there, looking hot. Okay, but yes, it was going on a little long. So. How to proceed? Truth was, Parker was a little—very—out of practice on the boy-girl front. Too bad Fling Material didn’t say,
Hey there, blondie, welcome to town. Let me buy you a drink and show you around! Maybe we could have a fling, because I find you very attractive.

Yeah, no. He didn’t seem to be the talking type. But he hadn’t left, either. “So,” she said. “Right. Well, I’m looking for my aunt’s house. Julia Harrington. She lived on Shoreline Drive.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Do you happen to know where that is?”

“Ayuh.” He said nothing more for a second, then, realizing perhaps more was required, cleared his throat. “About a mile out of town, that side of the cove.” Malone pointed. “Take a left out of the lot, then a quick right, and there you are.”

His voice was rough, and he dropped his
R
s even more than they did in Rhode Island. It worked. “Thanks,” Parker said, her voice perhaps a little breathy.
Go ahead, ask him out,
Spike advised.
He’s a guy. He’ll say yes.

Her ears were itchy. “Well, um, I’m sure I’ll see you around. Small town and all.”
That was not asking him out.
“And thank you, Malone was it? Malone.”
Still not asking him out.
“So…I’ll see you around?” Jeesh. So out of practice.

But no, no, looky here. He was smiling a little. Heck yeah! Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this after all.

“Good night,” he said.

Nope. She did suck. She would’ve said good-night, but he was already walking away.

That was terrible,
the Holy Rollers said in disappointment. They were right. She was very bad at asking men out. This hadn’t always been the case, but it was sure true now, wasn’t it? Tall, Dark and Silent had simply appeared, all tousled and manly with those rough and calloused hands that, come on, probably knew their way around the female anatomy, because really. How many gay lobstermen were there?

“All right, settle down,” she told herself, getting back into her car. Talking aloud, the writer’s affliction. “Let’s get home before we start jumping the locals.”

Home. That had a nice sound to it, yes indeed.

Julia’s house was at 97 Shoreline Drive, and Parker drove slowly, checking the numbers on mailboxes and doors. The road wasn’t much wider than a driveway. There were a few very nice houses—two Victorians, a Greek Revival—but they grew smaller and more sparse as the road curved with the rocky shoreline, leaving behind the snug little town surprisingly fast. The last house was 66 Shoreline Drive; otherwise, there was nothing, other than a decrepit little shed that appeared to be about to fall into the ocean.

Hang on a sec. The road led to a small peninsula that jutted out into the cove, and Parker glimpsed a clearing in the pine trees. Heart rate kicking up a few levels, she wound down the road, then slowed to a stop. This had to be it; it was the end of Shoreline Drive. An iron gate barred the driveway, flanked by stone posts and a small, tasteful sign—Welcome to the Pines at Douglas Point. Number 66 was a ways back; this had to be 97.

Heck yeah!

She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Lucy had joked about the Bush compound, but Parker wasn’t sure the Bushes could afford this place. The house was
gorgeous.
Smaller, much smaller, than Grayhurst, but absolutely stunning. The driveway led up through the pines to what had to be a fifteen- or twenty-room stone house. Slate-shingled roof. Iron lampposts. Though the light was fading from the sky, Parker could see mullioned windows galore, huge beds of white and red impatiens, hydrangeas, mountain laurel and ivy…the place was like a park! Good Lord, in ten minutes, she could be inside, wine and bath a reality!

“Thank you, Aunt Julia!” Parker breathed. She couldn’t
wait
to see what it looked like. Was it furnished? She had an air mattress, just in case, but given how well kept the outside was, she’d bet it was full of solid old furniture. Maybe there was a caretaker; it sure looked that way. Weird that she owned the place and had never been sent a bill or anything. Then again, maybe her accountant had taken care of it. Still, she should’ve known if someone was on the payroll.

Whatever. She wasn’t complaining. You know what? She’d have a party before she sold it. Nicky could wear his little tux, and she’d wear that ice-blue Vera Wang, and they’d send out invitations—
Parker Harrington Welles and Nicholas Giacomo Mirabelli warmly request the honor of your company for the weekend at the Pines at Douglas Point, Gideon’s Cove, Maine.

“Okay, okay, let’s get inside,” Parker muttered. There was a code box; she flipped it open. State-of-the-art. Getting back into the car, she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the envelope Thing One had given her the day he told her she was broke. There was the deed, there was his business card, there was a key…but no code. Dang it! She pulled out her phone and found
Thing One
on her contacts list. It went right to voice mail. The one time she actually needed something from him, and he was unavailable.

“Hi, Thing One, it’s Parker. I’m here in Gideon’s Cove, and I have the key, but I don’t have a code for the gate. Would you please call me as soon as you get this? Thanks.”

Her irritation with her father’s minion faded as she looked back at the house. It was
so
pretty, and far less imposing than Grayhurst. Good Lord, she could get at
least
half a mil for this place, probably much more, and hey, maybe she could even hang on to it and rent it out—

“Problem?” came a voice, and Parker jumped and whirled around. It was Fling Material—um, Malone—sitting in a somewhat battered pickup truck, and ten minutes apart hadn’t diminished his appeal. Unless he was stalking her, which, though a flattering thought, was somewhat terrifying.

“Oh, hi again.” She held her phone up to her ear. “Just talking to my lawyer,” she lied, in case he was a serial killer. “But I found it fine, thanks. See you around. Have a good night.”

“You’re at the wrong place.”

Parker blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Julia Harrington’s is back there.” Malone nodded behind him.

“Where back there?” Parker asked.

“That little place you just passed.”

Parker looked back down the road. There was nothing except the shed. She glanced at Malone. He nodded.

No. That couldn’t possibly… Oh, no. Uh-uh. Her stomach twisted abruptly.

That wasn’t a house. It was a shack. A falling-into-the-ocean
hut.

“That?” she squeaked.

“Ayuh.”

No. No, no.
That
house had boards over the windows. It was…crooked somehow. It couldn’t have been more than five feet from tumbling down to the rocky beach below. Square-footage wise, it wasn’t really a house at all! It was the size of her bedroom back home.

Odd little noises were coming from her throat. She swallowed and turned to the lobster guy. “You sure?”

“Julia Harrington’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure, then.”

Bugger! Bugger and damn. Parker took a deep breath, then another.

“You need anything?” Malone asked.

“Um…a different house?” He didn’t respond. “No, I’m…fine. It’s okay. Thanks for checking, though.”

He nodded and put his truck in gear.

“Wait! Malone, is there a hotel in town?”

He shook his head. “Used to be a bed-and-breakfast, but it burned over the winter.”

Well, tie her to an anchor and throw her in an ocean full of hungry sharks.

“Good night, then,” Malone said, then was gone, his taillights disappearing around the corner. Good news was, he hadn’t murdered her. Bad news was…oh, crap! This beautiful house wasn’t hers, and that…that…
tenement
appeared to be.

Parker got back in the car and sat for a minute.
It’s a fixer-upper!
chirped the Holy Rollers. “Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “You’re imaginary. You won’t be picking up a hammer and helping, will you?” She threw the car in Reverse and backed out the driveway. “I really wanted you!” she called back to the Pines. Yes. She wanted a house with a name. Call her shallow, but bugger, she did
not
want to live in a shack, even for a few weeks.

Ninety-seven Shoreline Drive was on the ocean side of the road; the hill was steep as it rose from the harbor, and it was clear why there weren’t many other houses around—most of them had probably fallen victim to storms over the years.

The shack sat on cement pilings, a two-foot gap between the earth and the house. No basement, clearly. She walked around the house slowly, the grass up to her knees. Were there mice in there? Probably. She shuddered. She hated mice. Her father liked to dangle them over Apollo’s cage before dropping them to their doom.

Upon further inspection, she saw that the shack was, or had once been, an actual house, like something Nicky would draw–a square box with a triangle on top. The gray shingles had warped, pulling away from the side of the house like eyelashes, and great shards of paint peeled from the once-white trim. The roof was patchy and battered, complete with crumbling chimney, but at least there was some form of heating, she guessed. All the windows were boarded, and the aluminum screen door was off its hinges, leaning against a rusting front door. Clearly people had tried to break in over the years—there were dents all around the door handle, and the small windowpane was broken.