Somebody to Love(54)

“‘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.”