Somebody to Love(57)

Another smile, and she closed the door, leaving him standing there.

A half hour later, Parker was down on the dock, though it was now fully dark, laughing on the phone as she told Mr. and Mrs. Paragon about her day in the clink, no doubt.

Her hair was about the only thing he could see now. It had brightened in the sunlight; she’d been working outside, hacking the long grass, digging up the scrubby bushes that overhung the stairs to the water. She hadn’t complained once since getting the news, hadn’t blinked at the backbreaking work. She really hadn’t even complained too much about spending six hours in a cell.

Harry would be proud of her, James thought. Or he should be.

Why Harry could barely tolerate his only child was a mystery. James had seen that unique look of hers leveled at Harry so many times—that jaded, knowing look, the same one she’d given James himself so often, though less lately. But sometimes, when she was looking at Harry, James was almost sure he’d seen something else. A flash of hope. Regret. Sorrow.

Then again, he knew jack about relationships and people and certainly nothing about fathers and daughters. But if he ever did have a daughter—unlikely, but still—a look like that would kill him.

Her laughter rang out against the shushing of the waves against the rocky shore.

Damn Ethan Mirabelli. Parker would smile at James, thank him—oh, yes, she was wicked polite—but she would never let him in her inner circle. He couldn’t blame her, not really. He wasn’t good with kids. His father liked to tell him he didn’t take life seriously enough, disgusted that he hadn’t done more—more what, he wasn’t sure. More penance, probably. He’d done well enough in college and law school, but it wasn’t as if he was brilliant. Once, a professor had written a comment on one of James’s papers: “Well written but lacking substance.” Kind of struck a chord. Then James took a boring desk job for the money, and now he was unemployed.

James finished his beer and went to the stove. Took some bread, cut a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece in each slice, added some olive oil to the pan, then the bread. Cracked an egg. Toad in the hole. Comfort food for the woman who’d been in prison, whether she wanted his comfort or not.

As he approached the dock, he could hear her talking. A story, actually. He paused before stepping onto the creaky wooden dock, not wanting her to know he was there.

“Mickey never forgot what it was like to be left out,” she was saying. “From that day on, he shared all the calls with Wensley, and in time, Wensley became a great fire truck, too, same as Mickey, and the two were great friends. Mickey was a legend, and all the children of New York knew his story, and whenever he went racing through the city, little kids and their parents, grown-ups going to work, rich people and poor people, police officers and tourists…all would stop and watch as the bravest fire truck there ever was went out to do the job he loved so well. The end.” She paused. “You still awake, sweetheart? Nicky? I love you, honey.”

There was a pause. “Hey, Ethan. Guess he was pretty worn-out. Okay. You guys have a great day tomorrow. No, I won’t. I’m a model citizen from now on.” She laughed. “Good night, buddy. Give Lucy a smooch from me.”

She clicked off and stroked Beauty’s cheek; the dog was lying with her head on Parker’s lap, and gave a little wag. James stepped onto the dock, and Parker looked up.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the plate down next to her.

“I’m starving, actually. Thank you, James. It smells great. What is it?”

“Toad in the hole.”

“I’ve never had that before.”

“Get outta town.”

“Nope. It’s the sad truth.” She smiled and took a bite. “Goes great with this sauvignon blanc I stole from Harry’s wine cellar. Want some?”

“No, I’m good.” He sat next to her, though the rocking of the dock was a little unsettling. Beauty moved closer to Parker’s chair, though not to the other side. Progress. “So was that the tail end of Mickey the Fire Engine I overheard?”

She looked up sharply. “Yes. How’d you know that?”

He shrugged. “Harry asked me to double-check Grayhurst one more time. I found a box in the attic. It’s in the house somewhere. I meant to give it to you before. Anyway, it’s got some of your papers from college. Mickey the Fire Engine, too.” He glanced at her, shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you also read my essay on the significance of language in The Sound and the Fury?”

“Passed on that one. Too many big words.”

She went back to her toad. “Mickey was my first manuscript,” she said. “Couldn’t sell it to save my life. That copy is the last one. I burned all the others along with the rejection letters.”

“I thought it was great,” he said.

“Did you?” Her voice was wry.

“Mmm-hmm. Even got choked up a little.”

“Really.”

James grinned. “Well, there were fire trucks involved. Doesn’t every boy love fire trucks?”

“Not if you work in publishing, apparently.”

“How’s the writing coming along?” he asked.

She sighed. “I haven’t hit on the right idea yet. Guess the Holy Rollers burned me out a little bit.”