Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(116)

She turned back to Mickey, the story Nicky loved. Now that was the book that should’ve made her famous. A hardworking but aging fire truck bumped into disservice by the bigger, shinier truck. Only Firefighter Bill had kept the faith in Mickey, and on that frigid winter night when the apartment building was on fire and the newer truck’s engine couldn’t start, Bill asked Mickey to come through just one more time.

Wonderful themes about being chosen, being useful, commitment and friendship. Of showing up when you were needed the most. Of forgiveness.

James had said he loved Mickey.

Beauty rested her muzzle on Parker’s shin. “Really? You think so?” Parker asked, rubbing the dog’s velvety snout. The dog blinked. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

She brought the manuscript downstairs, rustled around in her desk and pulled out a manila envelope and did a Google search of the address. James F. X. Cahill, c/o Goldman Sachs, 200 West Street, New York, NY.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“I’M NOT GOING in there. You’re crazy. You’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ve hardly killed anyone this year,” James said. “Come on. I feel like an idiot as it is.”

“’Cuz you are an idiot, man. Go yourself. Leave me out of this, skinny.”

James could feel his teeth turning to dust, he was grinding them so hard. When he’d signed up for Big Brothers Big Sisters, he’d envisioned taking some cute little kid to the movies, shooting hoops, going out for ice cream. Someone around Nicky Mirabelli’s age, for example, or maybe seven or eight. In this scenario, he’d pick up the kid in a poor but respectable neighborhood where the parent(s) would be delighted to see him.

Instead, he’d been greeted by the dead-eyed stare of an enormous man who’d exuded boredom and contempt like a toxic gas.

“Hi. I’m James Cahill from Big Brothers? I’m here for Taymal.”

“That right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Okay. Let’s go, then.” He grabbed a jacket, then stopped. “What? You got a problem?”

So yeah. Taymal was fifteen years old, stood six feet three and had the physique of a Patriots linebacker. He looked as if he could—and might—snap James in half.

Nevertheless, James couldn’t exactly say, “I was looking for someone cuter and less frightening,” so here they were, standing poolside at the Providence YMCA. “Look. I signed us both up,” he said.

“That is not my problem, skinny.”

It was probably a hundred degrees in here, and about a thousand little kids seemed to be having a screaming contest for who could sound the most in peril. James’s skin was crawling, his nerves were like piano wire, and he was trying not to let Taymal see that he was fricking terrified.

While Taymal refused to go in the pool, he had nonetheless let James spend $89 on a pair of swim trunks an hour before, since he didn’t own any. He also asked if James would buy him a $165 pair of Nike sneakers. When James asked if he liked basketball, Taymal gave him a very loud and eloquent lecture on racial stereotyping, then asked if he could get a Kobe Bryant shirt.

“Just try it, Taymal. It’s okay if you don’t know how to swim. We’re here for lessons.”

“Bite me, skinny. I can swim. I don’t want to.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Why? You think black people can’t swim?”

“No, I didn’t mean that—”

“Hi! Are you James and Taymal? I’m Quinn! I’m your swim instructor!” A very beautiful girl bounced up to them. Red bathing suit, blue eyes, brown, curly hair streaked with the greenish-blond of a swimmer. “Are you guys ready?”

“Oh, baby, I am so ready,” Taymal said, pursing his lips and giving her an appreciative scan.

“Taymal. Stop.” This was a really, really bad idea. “Show some respect, okay?”

“Oh, indeed. Quinn, honey, I respect you, baby—”

“Yeah, you actually will have to stop or I get to drown you,” Quinn said, tapping her clipboard. “It’s part of the rules.”

Taymal rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not going swimming. Uh-uh. No way.”

“Great,” James said. “Well, let’s stand here for an hour, then, and listen to the children scream.”

“I’ll give you two a minute. How’s that?” Quinn said, bouncing away again.

“What do you wanna swim for, anyway?” Taymal said.

James thought about the answer he’d prepared: really important skill to have, the importance of wholesome hobbies. They could swim here in the winter and go to the beach in the summer—though whether Taymal would tolerate him for even ten more minutes was dubious. He sighed. “We don’t have to. I’ll take you out to eat instead.”

“Now you’re talking.”

James looked at all those little kids in the shallow end of the pool, shrieking and splashing. “I almost drowned when I was a kid. My sister, too. She has brain damage because of it, and I’ve been scared to swim ever since. I thought maybe if I had someone with me, it wouldn’t be so hard. But it still seems hard. See?” He held up his hand, which was shaking.

“Shit, man. That is one sad story. Where do you wanna eat?”