Somebody to Love

The thought dawned that maybe Lila was stealing something. They’d fired two people this year for stealing. Parker’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted was to lose Lila.

She made a deal with herself. If Lila was stealing, she’d tell her to put it back and she wouldn’t tell on her or anything.

As Parker got to the wing that held the family bedrooms, she heard a noise. A…grunt or something. As if someone was sick.

There it was again.

“Daddy?” Parker whispered. She knew her father was rich and important. Would someone try to kidnap him? Had they already knocked Lila out? This would explain why there were no root-beer floats. Why Parker had been left out on the beach for longer than ten minutes. Both parents were very strict about her being left alone by the water.

She tiptoed down the hallway. Past her own room, which had just been redecorated and was, in her father’s words, “the prettiest room for the prettiest girl,” awash in shades of pale green with light pink trim.

Another sound. She wasn’t about to stop for dry clothes. Not when her father might be hurt or tied up. She’d be brave and save him. She’d need a weapon or something, though. Like a knife. Or a gun. Her father kept guns in his study. One of them used to belong to Teddy Roosevelt. Should she get it?

Parker’s mouth was sticky and dry, terror nailing her to the floor. Something bad was happening in that room. She knew it. She didn’t want to see it, though. But her father was in that room, and if she went downstairs for the gun, she might miss the chance to save him.

Don’t be so chicken, she told herself. She’d been a chicken yesterday on the high dive. This time, no. She’d be brave. And smart. She’d peek and then if there were bad guys, she’d run really fast and quietly and call the police and then she’d get TR’s gun, and she’d hold the bad guys off until the police came, and her father would be amazed at her courage, and it totally would make up for her not jumping off the high platform.

Her parents’ bedroom was at the end of the hall. There was that grunt again. Oh, God. Her heart thudding, nerves stretched so tight it seemed as if she was floating, Parker opened her parents’ bedroom door.

At first, she thought they were strangers. Naked strangers, wrestling, that was her first thought. But no, they were having sex. Gross! In her parents’ bedroom!

Then in a flash that also seemed to last a full minute, she realized that one of the people was her father, moving on top of someone. They were both making those moaning hurt noises.

“Oh, my God, Mr. Welles, don’t stop,” said the other person.

It was Lila.

“Daddy?” Parker asked, her voice small.

The word was electrifying. Both Harry and Lila jumped, scrambling for covers, but not before Parker had seen Lila’s boobies, and her father’s graying chest hair.

“Jesus, Parker, get out!” her father yelled.

“Oh, God, I think she peed herself,” Lila said, her face twisted with sympathy.

“I did not!” Parker shouted, her face broiling hot. “I did not, you…you…slut!”

“Parker, this is not what you think,” her father said sternly.

She was downstairs, feet flying so fast she wondered how she didn’t fall, almost wished she would fall, crack her head open on the marble floor, go to the hospital; that would punish them. Down another flight, through the wine cellar that had always creeped her out, into the garage where her father kept his fancy cars. She climbed into the Porsche and curled up on the floor of the passenger seat.

Hours later, Esteban, one of the gardeners, found her and lifted her out. Althea was back, white-faced with fury and screaming at Harry. She grabbed Parker and half dragged her upstairs, yanked out some suitcases and began hurling clothes inside.

“Althea, don’t be ridiculous,” Harry barked. “It’s not what she thought! She’s read too many books, that’s all. She misunderstood.” He didn’t even bother looking at her.

Maybe that was the worst part. She was ten going on thirty, after all. Her father was…what was that expression Lila the Slut used? Throwing her under the bus.

It’s not what she thought. “Bullshit,” she whispered.

“Parker, don’t swear,” her father said automatically. “It’s crass.”

“Bullshit!” she yelled. “It was what I thought. It was gross! You’re disgusting, Da—” No. He didn’t deserve to be called Daddy. “You make me sick, Harry.”

Althea yanked the suitcase closed. “You had to screw the babysitter. That’s your legacy to your child. Rot in hell, you bastard,” she said. She grabbed Parker by the hand, and an hour later, she and her mother were in a suite in the Devon Hotel, her mother already on the phone with her attorney.

Parker sat in the bed, ostensibly watching TV. Piercing her heart was an icicle of fear.

Their family had ended. And her father…her father didn’t love her anymore.

CHAPTER       EIGHTEEN

“EVERYONE HAS LEFT US. Everyone. You, Nicky, Lucy and that       Ethan. We’re bereft. Bereft, Parker.”

Parker grinned. Ethan’s mother       didn’t believe in Skype, and therefore couldn’t see Parker enjoying the       melodrama. “I’m sorry, Marie. I miss you and Gianni, too.”

“Our grandson! Six weeks without       him! I don’t know if Gianni’s heart can take it.”

“Well, Ethan will be back soon,       Marie.”

“Who takes three weeks for a       vacation? And then Ethan’s taking that precious boy to see you.”

“Well, he is my son.”

“We’re so alone. To think we       left Valle de Muerte to be abandoned by our family.”

Parker bit down on a laugh. She       got quite a kick out of the Mirabellis, who’d always been good to her, so       long as she could ignore the many, many, many nudges, hints and suggestions       on how to raise Nicky and why she should’ve married Ethan—at least that       battle hymn had stopped since he married Lucy—and how Parker should eat       much, much more.

“So what’s new up there? In       Maine?”       Marie said the word suspiciously, as if not quite certain Maine was a true       part of the United States.

“Oh, not too much.” Parker opted       not to mention her stint in the clink. “Lots of work to do before Nicky gets       here.”

There was a gusty sigh. “You       could come home,” Marie suggested. Parker had told her and Gianni about her       father—hard to miss when CNN had done a special on him—and the change in her       finances, but Marie didn’t always pay attention to facts she deemed       unpleasant.

“As soon as I get this house       ready to be sold, I’ll be back. Nicky and I will be home at the end of       August at the latest.” She had to be; Nicky started kindergarten after Labor       Day. All-day kindergarten. The thought caused her heart to spasm.

“August. I could be dead by       August.”

“True, true. Well, I have work       to do, so I should get going, Marie,” Parker said, having fielded enough       guilt for the day. She loved the Mirabellis. She was also very grateful not       to be their daughter-in-law and could therefore hang up, whereas Lucy could       not. “I’ll call you soon.”

“You’re eating enough? You’re       too skinny.”

“Aw! Thanks! I’ve gained eleven       pounds this year.”

“Well, it’s not enough. We love       you, sweetheart. Gianni says hello. You know how he is—he won’t talk on the       phone. Bye-bye.”

Parker hung up and went outside.       It was two days after her inadvertent drug dealing, and before Marie’s call,       she’d been working at improving the house’s curb appeal, mainly by hacking       up the roots of the sumac trees and scrubby pines. She’d buy some hanging       baskets, since she knew the wholesalers now, and put out some pots of       geranium and sweet-potato vine. Who knew? Maybe it would trick someone into       buying the place.

James had been right about her       sentence of community service. Yesterday, when the judge had found out that       she was a children’s author, he ordered her to do a library program on the       Holy Rollers, the favorite books of His Honor’s six-year-old grandchild.       Frankly, Parker would rather have spent another day in jail with Crazy Dave       (who was out with no fines at all, go figure). Lavinia had been told to file       for a medical-marijuana-growers’ license, and would also be having dinner       with the judge on Saturday with a possible session of “slapping uglies”       afterward.

As for James, he was on the roof       right now, doing God knew what. Looking beautiful, apparently. Killer tan,       too, no matter that she’d bought him his own 100-factor sunscreen. His hair       was curling from sweat, and the skin on his back glistened. She did love a       sweaty man.

That’s icky, said Golly.

“You’ll appreciate it when       you’re older,” Parker muttered. Yes, she was thirty-five years old and       hadn’t been laid in three years. Time to look away. Time to      focus.

Funds were running low. A       part-time job at the flower shop was not doing much other than covering       groceries. To her own eyes, the cottage didn’t look much better. In fact, it       looked worse. The sides were stripped and covered in Tyvek, the shingles       having yet to be delivered. The grass, which she’d hacked away at like some       Amazon explorer, was uneven, rife with weeds and dry, thanks to a notable       lack of rain this summer.

“Don’t worry so much,” James       called, reading her mind. “It’s getting there. It looks worse before it gets       better.”

“I know, I know,” she said, a       bit irked that she was so transparent. An electrician had put in a few more       outlets and given them a discount, as he was an old schoolmate of Dewey’s.       The bathroom shower no longer leaked onto the floor; the Three Musketeers       had come over to supervise her caulking. She couldn’t change the fact that       the tiles were pink, but she was working on how to make that look cute and       retro, rather than hideous and dated.