Somebody to Love(55)
“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.
* * *
WHEN 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.”