Authors: Kristan Higgins
Just then, the bells rang out in alarm as the door was jerked open, and there he was, Dan Jacobs, her customer du jour. “That’s her,” he said, his face florid.
“Is there a problem?” Parker said. Holy crap, was that a cop with him? It was.
Dan pointed. “She’s the one. The one who sold me the drugs.”
“What?” she yelped, getting an answering yelp from Beauty. “I did not!”
“Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent,” the cop began.
“What? Why? What did I do?”
The Harry-clone jammed his fists on his hips. “You sold me a marijuana plant! For my mother, no less!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I
DIDN
’
T
KNOW
it was marijuana!” Parker protested for the fifth time as the cop led her inside the police station.
“You probably don’t want to say anything till your lawyer gets here,” the cop said. His nameplate said Bottoms.
“Are you related to Billy Bottoms?” Parker asked, her voice a little tremulous. Because hell, she was handcuffed! And she was being
processed!
Holy halos, they were pressing her fingers into ink! For fingerprinting!
“He’s my father,” the cop replied. “I’m Young Billy.”
She took the wipe he offered and cleaned her hands. “He’s nice. Your dad.”
Please let that show that I’m a good person!
“Ayuh. Hold this number and look up.”
“Why? Are you taking a mug shot? I don’t need—” The bulb flashed. Her mug shot had been taken. The cop put the cuffs back on—
This is horrifying!
the female Holy Rollers whimpered.
What’s happened to you?
—and led her across the room to the curious stare of the secretary, a middle-aged woman who was talking on the phone.
“Listen, Billy—”
“I go by Young Billy, actually.”
“Oh, okay. Well, um, Young Billy, I’m a mother. I would never sell drugs, I swear.”
“Welp, you sold a marijuana plant, sweetheart. I’d say that’s selling drugs, mother or not. It’s a little hard to believe you don’t know what pot looks like. Haven’t you ever seen a Bob Marley T-shirt?”
“I thought it was bonsai or something!”
“Ayuh. Well. Come on down here, watch your head.” He led her down a set of medieval-looking stone steps into a dank cellar, lit by a flickering fluorescent light. “In you go. You sit tight. No need to worry.”
No need to worry? She was in
jail.
The clanking of a cell door…not a sound she was likely to forget.
Little Pup whimpered as the cage slammed closed behind him. Note to self: must not poop on the Evil King’s yard.
Speaking of little pups… “Young Billy?” she called.
His head appeared around the door. “What is it, sweetheart?”
At least he was nice. “My dog’s still at the flower shop.”
Billy frowned. “Anyone you could call to come get her?”
Parker thought for a second. “Maggie Beaumont, maybe? She runs the diner.”
“I know who she is,” he said. “Sure, I’ll swing by, ask her.”
“Do you have to tell her? About this? Is it public record?”
“It’s probably all over town by now.”
Great. “When can I make my phone call? I get a phone call, right?”
“Ayuh. We have to process the contents of your purse, then we’ll be right in.” He disappeared again.
She was alone. In a cell. In a basement. Like the place Hannibal Lecter was kept.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
The flat monotone voice echoed off the stone walls, and Parker jumped, squeaking, hands fluttering. Oh, God. She
wasn’t
alone! That was much worse! Someone was in the cell with her—no, no, the cell next to her. Parker looked over, her heart convulsing in her chest. A man. A criminal, staring at her through the bars.
She looked away, and fast.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
She should
not
be here. She didn’t know it was pot! Oh, and speaking of pot, Lavinia was
growing
it! Where was
she,
huh? Being shtupped by a hirsute man with hidden talents and not available to clear up this misunderstanding! Because if anyone should be in jail, it should be Lavinia.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
Why was he chanting that? Like a spell or something. A whimper escaped her throat. She looked around the cell, which was, well, rather spacious, actually, bigger than her bedroom in the cottage. A bunk bed with steel mattresses was on the far side of the cell. A steel toilet with no seat. A steel sink.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
Oh, God. Her son’s mother was in
jail.
The Mirabellis would die! This actually might bring on the heart attack Gianni kept threatening to have. And what if this affected her custody of Nicky? What if he had to live with Ethan all the time?
No, no. That couldn’t happen. It was an accident. She didn’t know it was pot!
Nevertheless, Parker had been processed. Processed! What if this got on the news? What if Nicky saw it?
Daughter of Convicted Wall Street Baron Harry Welles Arrested on Drug Charges.
The Coven would be thrilled.
Former Children’s Author Turns to Marijuana.
Save the Children would give all the money back. Oh, God!
If Harvard could see her now. She, who’d never even had a speeding ticket, who’d never done drugs, never so much as inhaled—and at Harvard, please, there should’ve been a special award for that—was in jail.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
And another thing. The man in the next cell was bat-shit crazy, that was clear. Hopefully harmlessly crazy. Then again, he was in
jail.
Parker swallowed, glancing over again at her…companion. His gray hair was matted, and he looked very, very dirty. Dirtier even than Nicky after a day of making meatballs and sauce with Gianni and Marie. He was still staring at her as if she was a Thanksgiving turkey and he was coming off a hunger strike.
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’ Hello. You’re very pretty.”
Oh, dear Jesus. “I love that poem,” she said, her voice cracking. Yes, yes, make friends! In case he was thinking about shivving her. Was that the right term? “‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ right?”
Thank you, Miss Porter’s!
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
Young Billy was back with her cell phone. “One call,” he said.
Her hands were shaking, she noticed. There.
Thing One.
She hit his number, very, very grateful that she’d saved it.
“You’ve reached James Cahill. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
No! No no no no no.
“James, it’s Parker. Um, I’m in jail. In Gideon’s Cove? Next to the town hall? I, um, seem to have sold a marijuana plant by accident. Could you come here as fast as you can? Thank you so much. Please hurry, James. I really need you to get here. Fast.” She glanced at Young Billy. “Okay. I guess that’s it. Drive safely. But fast, okay? Bye.” She clicked off. “My attorney.”
Young Billy took the phone back. “All righty, then, we’ll bring him right in when he gets here. In the meantime, you sit tight. Want a magazine?”
“Okay,” Parker whispered.
“We got
Hemmings Motor News
or
InStyle.
”
“
InStyle,
please,” she said, feeling her lips quiver. The cop handed her a magazine, soft with age. “Young Billy, is that guy…sane?” She nodded toward the Tennyson fan.
“Who, Crazy Dave?” Billy asked. Guess that answered
that
question. “Well, he’s a little off. Hears voices. But he’s harmless. We keep him here once in a while, make sure he eats some dinner. Right, Dave?”
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.’”
Young Billy laughed. “You bet, buddy.” With that, he left Parker and Crazy Dave alone.
Parker looked at the clock across the hall from her cell. She’d been in here fourteen minutes. Childbirth had flown by compared with this.
She thought of Harry, who was in an actual prison, not just a holding cell where the police officer was as nice as pie. Did he have a roommate? Those kinds of details didn’t come up. She’d asked how it was, and his answer was abrupt. “It’s prison, Parker. How do you think?”
What that meant, she didn’t know. Gangs? Homemade tattoos? Probably not, as it was one of those white-collar, minimum-security places. But still. Prison was prison.
Where was James? Why had she insisted that he take today off, of all days? Why hadn’t he answered his cell phone? God, what if he hadn’t taken it? What if it was sitting in his room or on a windowsill? Holy halos, what if he’d gone to Rhode Island for something? It could be hours before he got here! It could be tomorrow!
Parker noted that she was hyperventilating. “Settle down, settle down,” she whispered, trying to get her breathing under control.
Dude, chill,
said Spike.
It’s jail. You’re just killin’ your number.
Great. Now he talked like a gang member.
“Excuse me,” said a voice. Parker looked up. Crazy Dave had pressed his face against the bars that separated their cells. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his filthy nails were way too long. Like a werewolf’s.
“Yes?” she managed.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been a little bound up lately.”
“Oh. Okay. Um, sorry to hear it.”
“But that seems to be resolving now. I’ll be needing the facilities.”
Without turning her head, she glanced at his steel toilet, which was, alas, in full view. “Oh.”
“But I don’t wish to use that one. Can I use yours?”
“No! Nope. Um, that’s your cell, and this is mine, and I don’t have a key or anything.”
“That’s fine.” His voice was pleasant. Not as if he were about to shank her.
Then Crazy Dave pulled down his pants and squatted, and Parker leaped back to the far wall of the cell, grabbed her copy of
InStyle
and buried her face in great dresses from the 2007 Emmys.
“You really are quite pretty,” Crazy Dave said between grunts.
Where the hell was James?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’
LL
SEE
YOU
SOON
,”
James said into Mary Elizabeth’s hair. “Love you.”
“I love you, too. Why don’t you live here?” she asked, smiling up at him. “We could be together all the time.”
She always asked, and it always sliced him right open, that question. “Well, I have to work,” he said, tucking some of her curly hair behind her ears.
“Work here.” Her blue eyes were as innocent as the sky. “You should work here, James.”
“I wish I could. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Bring me a present.”
“Don’t I always?”
“A big present. I want a present, James.”
“You got it.”
He kissed her cheek and walked to his truck.
Parker had been right. It was good to take a day off. First he’d gone to see Harry, a helluva drive, more than four hours across the state of Maine, just over the New Hampshire line. His boss had been nicely surprised. He looked fairly awful, though, gray-faced and a little slack. The wages of sobriety, at least at first. They’d talked for an hour or so, shooting the breeze, talking about the Red Sox and their excellent fielding, sure to collapse when hopes were high, as usual. Harry had some funny stories about some of his fellow inmates, most of whom, like him, were in for white-collar crimes or too many petty misdemeanors. There’d been a Ping-Pong tournament. Movie night.
Harry didn’t ask about Parker, not directly. About Nicky’s trip, and the progress on the house, yes. But nothing more. As ever, James had the impression that while Harry loved him like a son, the subject of Parker was off-limits.
Then, on the way home, James stopped by to see Mary Elizabeth, which was always a painfully happy occasion. As ever, she was overjoyed to see him. Luckily, she’d had no other visitors today, because God knew, that made things awkward.
As he left Mary Elizabeth’s, James checked his phone. No service, that was right. They were in East Boonies, Maine, after all. Still, it was a beautiful place. And only forty minutes from his parents’. But that was a stop he wouldn’t make, though he supposed eventually he’d have to.
Once back on the interstate, James’s phone chirped.
One missed call…Parker.
Well. That was kind of nice. Maybe she wanted him to pick something up for dinner, as it was now after six. Unlikely, but maybe. They’d been in this war of supreme pleasantness since the night he’d dared to mention St. Ethan.
He pulled over and listened to her message. Listened to it again. And a third time.
Well, holy crap. He’d better put the pedal to the metal. Unfortunately, he was still an hour and a half away.
James couldn’t help laughing as he pulled back on the highway. Parker Harrington Welles, in a holding cell. He couldn’t wait to see it.
* * *
W
HEN
HE
WALKED
INTO
the Gideon’s Cove Police Department, it was eight o’clock. James had been on the phone most of his drive, first with Dewey, then with Lavinia, who was out of town herself, then with Maggie Beaumont, who knew everything. James had called the local judge, set up an arraignment, took care of Parker’s bail and left a message for the prosecutor’s office.
“James Cahill,” he said to the sergeant on duty. “Attorney for Parker Welles.”
As Officer Dewitt led him down the stone stairs to the holding cell, James could hear Parker…crying? His heart lurched. But no, not crying. Singing? And my God, that smell!
“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,’” someone—a man—chanted.
“‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’” Parker answered back.
“‘Forward, the light brigade,’” the man shouted triumphantly.
She was lying on the steel bunk, an old magazine with a picture of Cameron Diaz covering her face. “‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’” she said, definitely a panicky edge to her voice.
“Your attorney’s here,” Officer Dewitt said, unlocking the door.
Parker jerked upright, hitting her head on the top bunk. “James!” She hurtled across the cell, and before he knew it, she was in his arms, hugging him hard, and though she smelled a little dank from her time in the basement, it was sure better than that other smell, and
man,
he hadn’t felt anything this good in years, her hair silky against his cheek, her body pressed against his.
“Parker. Always lovely to see you,” he murmured, hugging her back.
“James, oh, James, thank God you’re here,” she blurted into his shoulder. “That man over there, he pooped on the floor, and holy halos, there was so much of it! He hasn’t stopped chanting that horrible poem for hours, and if I don’t stop reciting ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ I’m going to kill myself.”
“I’m afraid you have to stay overnight,” James said.
She pulled back, eyes wide with horror.
“Just kidding,” he said, grinning. “You’re free to go.”
Those beautiful eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrible man.”
“Hey. I’m not the drug dealer here.”
“My cousin is growing pot in her greenhouse,” Parker said. “That’s another thing. Pot, James.”
“More on that later,” he said, taking her hand and leading her up the stone stairs. “Let’s get you home. Thanks, Officer.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, sitting at his desk and picking up a newspaper.
“Yes, thanks for nothing,” Parker echoed. “What happened to Young Billy? He would’ve come down here and cleaned up that mess, I bet. I only called for you a thousand or so times.”
“You know how many drunks we get bellowing for us all the time?” the cop said, turning a page of the newspaper. “A lot.”
“I’m not a drunk! I should never have been in here. I thought it was a fern!”
“Right.”
“It looked like a fern.” The officer rolled his eyes. Parker turned to James. “It looked like a fern, James. Or a miniature Japanese maple tree. It was actually quite pretty. And since I’m not a drug dealer and in fact made it all the way to the ripe old age of thirty-five without ever having smoked marijuana or even a cigarette, I can tell you, I had no idea what it was!”
“And yet a ninety-nine-year-old lady in the nursing home ID’d it immediately,” the cop said.
“So maybe she’s a pot smoker! I’m not!” Parker snapped.
“Okay, settle down, honey,” James said.
At the term of endearment, she glanced at him sharply. Then she took a deep breath and flicked the cop’s newspaper. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Officer,” she said. “Have a wonderful day.”
“You’re that rich chick, aren’t you?” he said, finally looking up. “The one whose father is in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Runs in the family, I see.”
She straightened into princess posture and tilted her head slightly. “And inbreeding must run in yours.”
“Okay, Parker, let’s go,” James said. “Don’t get into more trouble.” He took her hand more firmly this time and led her out into the cool, clear night.
“We need to get Beauty,” Parker said. “She’s at Maggie’s—at least I think she is. Young Billy Bottoms—”
“I already picked her up. She’s in the truck.”
James held the door for Parker, and at the sight of her dog, she seemed to melt a little. “Hi, honey,” she murmured, burying her face in the dog’s neck. Same as she’d done to him.
“So. Jail,” he said. “I guess you can cross that off your bucket list.”
“Yes. That and amputating a toe, just for fun.”
He glanced at her as he backed out and headed past the diner. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
“That hug was nice,” he said mildly.
She didn’t answer for a minute, though her cheeks flushed slightly. “Did you have to…arraign me or whatever? Put up bail?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
He sighed. Emphatically.
“Any word from Lavinia?” she asked, looking out the window.
“I talked to her. Says she wants to grow medical marijuana, fully intended to get a license one of these days. Doesn’t seem really concerned about prosecution. She said she slept with the D.A. back in the seventies.”
“Beautiful. So what happens next?”
James glanced at her profile. “There’ll be a hearing. You’ll tell the judge that you didn’t intend to sell an illegal substance. Maybe a fine, some community service. I wouldn’t worry about it. Lavinia will have to give her plants to a licensed marijuana grower.” He was already going through a mental Rolodex to see if he had any friends from law school practicing in Maine who might be able to do him a favor.
They were home within minutes. Parker jumped out of the truck, Beauty on her heels. The dog had been friendly enough when James had picked her up at Maggie’s house, where she’d been rolling around on the floor with Maggie’s much bigger yellow Lab, but now that Parker was back, he was once again persona non grata.
“I’ll make you something to eat,” James offered.
“That’s okay. I have to call Nicky,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him all day.”
“You gonna tell him what happened?”
She gave him an odd look. “No, James. He’s five.”
“Right.” Stupid question.
“But first, a shower. I thought Crazy Dave was going to throw poop at me, like the gorillas do at the zoo.” She shuddered, gave him a grin and disappeared into the bathroom. A second later, the door popped open, and for one ridiculous, wonderful instant, he thought she was about to invite him in.
“Thank you, James. For the bail and whatever else you had to do. And for getting Beauty.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Another smile, and she closed the door, leaving him standing there.
A half hour later, Parker was down on the dock, though it was now fully dark, laughing on the phone as she told Mr. and Mrs. Paragon about her day in the clink, no doubt.
Her hair was about the only thing he could see now. It had brightened in the sunlight; she’d been working outside, hacking the long grass, digging up the scrubby bushes that overhung the stairs to the water. She hadn’t complained once since getting the news, hadn’t blinked at the backbreaking work. She really hadn’t even complained too much about spending six hours in a cell.
Harry would be proud of her, James thought. Or he should be.
Why Harry could barely tolerate his only child was a mystery. James had seen that unique look of hers leveled at Harry so many times—that jaded, knowing look, the same one she’d given James himself so often, though less lately. But sometimes, when she was looking at Harry, James was almost sure he’d seen something else. A flash of hope. Regret. Sorrow.
Then again, he knew jack about relationships and people and certainly nothing about fathers and daughters. But if he ever did have a daughter—unlikely, but still—a look like that would kill him.
Her laughter rang out against the shushing of the waves against the rocky shore.
Damn Ethan Mirabelli. Parker would smile at James, thank him—oh, yes, she was wicked polite—but she would never let him in her inner circle. He couldn’t blame her, not really. He wasn’t good with kids. His father liked to tell him he didn’t take life seriously enough, disgusted that he hadn’t done more—more what, he wasn’t sure. More penance, probably. He’d done well enough in college and law school, but it wasn’t as if he was brilliant. Once, a professor had written a comment on one of James’s papers: “Well written but lacking substance.” Kind of struck a chord. Then James took a boring desk job for the money, and now he was unemployed.
James finished his beer and went to the stove. Took some bread, cut a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece in each slice, added some olive oil to the pan, then the bread. Cracked an egg. Toad in the hole. Comfort food for the woman who’d been in prison, whether she wanted his comfort or not.
As he approached the dock, he could hear her talking. A story, actually. He paused before stepping onto the creaky wooden dock, not wanting her to know he was there.
“Mickey never forgot what it was like to be left out,” she was saying. “From that day on, he shared all the calls with Wensley, and in time, Wensley became a great fire truck, too, same as Mickey, and the two were great friends. Mickey was a legend, and all the children of New York knew his story, and whenever he went racing through the city, little kids and their parents, grown-ups going to work, rich people and poor people, police officers and tourists…all would stop and watch as the bravest fire truck there ever was went out to do the job he loved so well. The end.” She paused. “You still awake, sweetheart? Nicky? I love you, honey.”
There was a pause. “Hey, Ethan. Guess he was pretty worn-out. Okay. You guys have a great day tomorrow. No, I won’t. I’m a model citizen from now on.” She laughed. “Good night, buddy. Give Lucy a smooch from me.”
She clicked off and stroked Beauty’s cheek; the dog was lying with her head on Parker’s lap, and gave a little wag. James stepped onto the dock, and Parker looked up.
“Hey.”