Somebody to Love
“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.