The Weekenders (2 page)

“Maggy! Don't let him…”

But it was too late. Banks finished his toilette and came scampering toward his mistress, his plump little body wriggling with happiness and relief.

Now Maggy looked up. “Huh?”

Riley picked up the pair of overstuffed totes and nudged her daughter out of the path of a looming white Mercedes SUV. “Sweetie, pay attention! While you were busy Snapchatting with your girlfriends just now, you nearly got run down. And Banks managed to drop a deuce on those rosebushes over there.” Riley rummaged around among the groceries in the tote bag until she found a roll of paper towels. She tore off a sheet and handed it to her twelve-year-old daughter.

Maggy recoiled. “Gross. No way.”

Riley took her daughter's hand, deftly removed the phone, and replaced it with a paper towel. “Way. He's your dog. Your responsibility. Your poop. Now go clean it up before somebody rats us out and we get issued a littering citation.”

Maggy rolled her eyes but handed the dog's leash to her mother before stomping off in the direction of the landscaped island.

Riley was struck by how much her daughter had grown over the past year. Micro short shorts showed off Maggy's long, tanned legs, and the tank top that left bare a two-inch strip of her abdomen also revealed a modestly developing bustline. She'd let her taffy-colored hair grow out over the spring, and although she wore it now in carelessly fashioned pigtails, Maggy was already starting to raid Riley's bathroom for her expensive salon shampoo, conditioner, and styling products.

No more sweet-smelling baby shampoo for Maggy. No more baby anything, for that matter, Riley thought ruefully. In October, Maggy would officially be a teenager.

Despite the heat, a shiver ran down Riley's spine. Banks pressed his muzzle between Riley's sweaty calves. She absentmindedly scratched the dog's ears and glanced down at her daughter's phone.

It was the latest model iPhone, of course, ensconced in a neon purple case with a florid monogram on the back, and the screen was littered with a dizzying array of unfamiliar app icons. Riley's own phone was at least two years old. She'd told Wendell it was ridiculous to buy such an expensive cell for a kid who'd already managed to lose two phones in one year, but Wendell, being Wendell, had overruled Riley's objections.

“I want her to have a good phone. What if her blood sugar gets low? Or she needs to get in contact with me?”

Maggy's diagnosis earlier in the year with juvenile onset type 1 diabetes had thrown them both for a loop.

Riley remembered that particular “discussion” with crystal clarity. She'd stared back at Wendell, startled by what she was suddenly seeing.

Her husband had changed in the past two years. His thick black hair was streaked with silver. He'd started wearing it longer, letting it brush his shirt collar. He'd stopped wearing the business suits she'd always enjoyed picking out for him, instead buying his own skinny designer jeans and Armani designer shirts. His blue eyes, made brighter by new contact lenses, narrowed.

“What if
I
need to get in contact with you?” Riley asked.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Wendell demanded. “Are you going to start in on this again? I call you every night. I talk to Maggy every morning. I'm working, Riley. I'm trying to save Belle Isle. Trying to make a living for my family. For
us.
You think I want to work all these crazy hours? Think I don't miss spending time with my kid?”

Snippets of those tense conversations over the past year played in an endless loop in Riley's mind.

Maggy was back. “Hey! No snooping.” She snatched the phone out of Riley's hand.

“I wasn't snooping,” Riley said. “Who were you Snapchatting with?”

“Nobody.”

Riley raised one eyebrow.

“Okay,” she relented. “I was texting Daddy, letting him know we're here at the ferry dock.”

“Did he text you back?”

“Not yet,” Maggy admitted. “But the ferry doesn't leave for another twenty minutes. He'll be here.”

Riley squeezed her daughter's narrow shoulder. “I wouldn't get your hopes up. You know how busy he's been. He'll probably have to catch the morning boat.”

“He's coming tonight,” Maggy insisted. “He promised. For the full moon party.”

“I just don't want you to be disappointed if he doesn't make it.…”

But Maggy wasn't listening. “Parrish!”

The leggy redhead in a white tank top and black capri pants darted across the parking lot toward them, teetering dangerously atop stylish, red, alligator-skin, three-inch, cork-soled, platform sandals.

Maggy flung herself into Parrish's outstretched arms. “You dyed your hair! I love, love, love it!”

“Thank Gawd somebody does,” Parrish drawled. “Your uncle Ed detests it. He says I look like a hoochie mama.”

She grinned at her best friend over the top of the child's head. “What's your verdict?”

Riley lifted a lock of hair and considered. “It's different.”

“Always the diplomat,” Parrish said, laughing. “Tell the truth. You hate it, too.”

They started to make their way back toward the ferry dock, arm in arm, with Maggy and Banks bringing up the rear.

“No, really. It's cute. You just took me by surprise, that's all,” Riley said. “This is definitely not a hoochie-mama shade. I think it suits you. What made you decide to go red?”

“No special reason. I was bored with being blond.”

“You're the only woman I know who could get tired of being a blond bombshell.”

“More like a cherry bomb than a bombshell,” Parrish corrected. “Hey. I spotted you chatting with Belle Isle Barbie when I pulled into the lot. What did your new best friend want?”

Riley didn't want her daughter to overhear the two of them dishing up a serving of snark on Andrea Payne.

“Mags, it's too hot out here on the asphalt for Mr. Banks. Why don't you take him over to the shade of the loading area and pour some cool water into his bowl? It's in that tote with the blue handles.”

“Okay.”

Parrish watched the girl and her dog lope toward the dock. “My Lord. She's grown another inch just since I saw her at Grayton on Easter. And did she just now sprout boobs, or is that my imagination?”

“She's growing like a weed and already wearing an A-cup bra, although she'd kill me if she knew I'd told you that. She's so self-conscious about her body right now. I think she's going to take after Wendell's side of the family.”

“Let's hope she's not a hundred-percent Griggs,” Parrish said, rolling her eyes. “How's that going, by the way? Is Wendell coming, or do you think he'll be a total no-show?”

“He promised both me and his daughter that he'd be on the ferry with us this afternoon. But so far, no sign of him. He hasn't returned any of our calls or texts or e-mails. Not even Maggy's, which isn't like him.”

“He'd never break a promise to Maggy,” Parrish agreed. “But to his wife? Different story. Right?”

Riley wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “All too true.”

“Typical passive-aggressive bullshit. He doesn't want to be the one to break his kid's heart.”

 

2

“Shitheel,” Parrish said. She shook her head. “I know. You don't have to remind me. It's all my fault, right?”

Riley shrugged. “If you hadn't made me go to that stupid barbecue…”

It was the summer of '97. Riley was working as a reporter for the local CBS affiliate in Raleigh, living in a tiny, bug-infested garage apartment in Cameron Park, while Parrish had gotten a job clerking at a local law firm.

After a messy breakup with her senior-year boyfriend and a series of laughable one-night stands and blind dates, Riley had sworn off men—at least for the summer. But Parrish had insisted on dragging Riley to a law-firm party at the managing partner's country house.

At first, Riley had flatly refused to go. “No way,” she'd told Parrish. “No offense, but your work friends are either boring, stuck-up, or ancient. I'd rather stay home and give myself a facial.”

“This party is different,” Parrish said. “It's a pig-picking, and it's at Boomer Grayson's farm. He's having a bluegrass band play, and besides, it definitely won't be all lawyers. Boomer's son, Bryan, played shortstop at Wake Forest and he even played a season in the minor leagues for the Boston Red Sox farm team until he hurt his throwing arm. He's moved back home and is in his third year of med school at Duke. So there'll be plenty of hunky baseball players and hot doctor types. You gotta come!”

“Why do you need me?” Riley had asked, her suspicions aroused by Parrish's insistence. “Why not save all the hunky medics and jocks for yourself?”

“Okay, well, I might have a little crush on Bryan. But I don't want to go to the farm for the weekend by myself, because that would look too obvious.”

“So I'm your wingwoman?” asked Riley.

“You got it.”

“I'll go. But you're driving, and if you take off with this guy to go play doctor and leave me alone with a bunch of boring lawyers, I'll never speak to you again.”

Despite Riley's threats, Parrish had totally snuck off with the jock-doc almost the moment they'd arrived at the pig-picking.

But the band was great and, left to her own devices, Riley found herself drawn into a circle of partygoers clustered around the fire, tapping her toes to “Little Liza Jane.”

He'd materialized by her side, seemingly from nowhere. Tall, preppy looking, singing along to all the verses. He was sunburnt, which made his blue eyes look bluer, sipping on a red Solo cup of what he swore was moonshine.

“I say we name our first kid Little Liza Jane. That okay with you?”

She'd turned to this brash stranger and frowned. “What if it's a boy?”

He had an easy answer, of course. “Liza James?”

His breath on her cheek was warm and boozy.

“Do I know you?” she'd asked, amused.

“Not yet. My name's Wendell Griggs, but I already know yours,” he confided, leaning in. “You're Riley Nolan.”

“And how do you know me?” Riley asked.

“I see you every night on channel nine,” he replied. “You're the girl who did all the stories about that puppy mill over in Kinston, right?”

“Well, I'm not on every night. More like once or twice a week. But, yeah, I did the puppy mill stories.”

“I actually went over to the Humane Society and tried to adopt one of those beagle puppies, but the shelter wouldn't approve me because I live in a condo without a yard.”

“Those little guys were soooo cute. I just wanted to scoop one up and run away with him,” Riley confided. “But, let me tell you, beagle puppies are
loud
! And my landlady doesn't allow pets. Anyway, I'm gone all day, so I guess it doesn't make sense for me to have a dog right now. But someday…”

“I know, right? We always had black Labs growing up. I can't wait to get a real house with a yard so I can get another Lab.”

A little while later, after some more pleasant chatter—and a lot more moonshine—Wendell had a sheepish look on his face. “We have something else besides puppies in common,” he admitted. “I actually work for your dad.”

“No! You work for Belle Isle Enterprises? How come we've never met?”

“I just started working as a leasing agent for the new retail shopping village a couple of weeks ago. I'm mostly working in the Wilmington office right now.”

Wendell had been so easy to talk to in the beginning, so charming. So much fun. He'd been interested in everything. They'd stayed talking by the bonfire that night until finally Parrish had emerged from the shadows, hand in hand with Bryan Grayson, her hair mussed and her clothes askew, sometime around 3 a.m.

Early Saturday morning, Riley had gotten called back to the station to fill in for an ailing reporter, but somehow, Wendell had finagled her phone number from Parrish, who'd stayed over for the rest of the weekend.

He'd called that Monday, and she hadn't bothered to call back. Then he called again the next day, and the day after that, had a huge bouquet of sunflowers delivered to her at the station, with a note that read,
You Are the Sunshine of My Life.

Tamika, the noon anchor, had read the note over Riley's shoulder and given her nod of approval. “A dude who sends something besides roses? And quotes Stevie Wonder? That's a dude worth keeping.”

It didn't take long for Wendell's charm—and persistence—to erode Riley's resolve to take a hiatus from dating.

But it had been her father who'd swayed her opinion on the matter.

Although her parents always spent the summers on Belle Isle, her father had made a special trip to Raleigh on a weekday, called her ahead of time, and invited her to lunch at the Carolina Country Club, an unusual move for him.

“I understand Wendell Griggs has been trying to wangle a date with you,” her father had said, sipping on his usual pre-lunch scotch and water. “He claims you've shut him down every time.”

“He told you that?” Riley blushed.

“He casually mentioned that you'd met at a party, and that he was very taken with you,” W.R. said. “I guess he was just trying to figure out why you won't go out with him.”

“Casually. Right,” Riley said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Okay, I'll tell you what I told him. I'm not dating anybody right now. I'm concentrating on my career.”

“Your career,” W.R. scoffed, putting the phrase in finger quotes. “Covering the Miss Carolina tobacco pageant and cow-milking contests.”

“I'm the newbie at the station right now. They always give rookies the crap assignments,” Riley said. “But that story I did on the puppy mills got picked up by
The News and Observer
and by the wire service. And I'm working on a piece about the county foster-care system.”