Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(39)

Malone sat down across from her, and Parker jumped a little. “Hey there,” she said.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble.

She was about to deny it and found herself telling the truth instead. “I miss my kid. He’s with his dad in California for a few weeks.”

Malone gave a brief nod. “My daughter lives most of the year in Oregon with her mother.”

“Is that your daughter over there?”

Malone looked, his face softening a bit. “Ayuh.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

“Don’t talk about it.” He smiled a little. “How old’s your boy?”

“Five and a half.”

“Tough to be apart when they’re small.”

She tried a smile. “Yeah. Well, he’ll actually be coming up when they get back. So. Three weeks to go.”

Malone nodded again. “Hang in there.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she lied. “But thanks, Malone. And congratulations again.”

She got up from the booth and waited at the counter as the gap-toothed cook made a ham-and-egg sandwich to go. He refused payment, telling her everything was on the house today.

Nice to be in a place where she was anonymous. Not one mention of the Holy Rollers, or Harry—except from Lavinia.

The sun was shining, a brisk wind coming in off the water, the waves slapping sharply against the wooden pier. The lobster boats bobbed merrily at their moorings, and a seagull strutted down the sidewalk in front of her, the breeze ruffling its feathers but not its composure.

Upon further inspection, Gideon’s Cove had a bit more to it than at first glance. There was a lovely brick town hall, the police station, a bar called Dewey’s and Lavinia’s flower shop—called Lavinia’s Flower Shoppe. Parker peered in the window and saw that it was crowded with little souvenirs and fake flower arrangements. A half inch of dust was on the sill. Well. She’d make herself useful.

After that, the town became mostly residential. There were some beautiful old houses in the Federal style with handsome front doors and widow’s walks, rhododendron and lilies blooming in the yards. But the town quickly gave way to blue-collar, with two-family homes and small bungalows as the hills rose around the cove. At the top of one street, Parker could see Douglas Point. Hard to believe that had been in her family and her mother never mentioned it. Then again, Althea was hazy with details.

Aunt Julia’s place wasn’t visible. Maybe, given Thing One’s extra weight, it had fallen into the sea.

Either way, she should probably go back home. To the hovel.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FOUR DAYS LATER, as James ripped shingles off the roof, he had to admit he’d been wrong in thinking Parker would be a wuss when it came to hard physical labor. Grayhurst had had a cleaning crew, a gardening service, a handyman on call 24/7 and a personal chef who delivered meals daily. But there was Parker, hacking down the weeds along the stairway to the dock like a member of a chain gang. Cut-off jeans that showed her long, gorgeous legs. The jeans were the ones the mouse had run into, and she’d said there was no way in hell she was giving the rodent another chance. A shirt from Joe’s Diner; apparently, Miss Welles hadn’t packed—or didn’t own—a proper T-shirt. A Yankees hat, the only thing marring her golden beauty. Well, she couldn’t help it. Had spent most of her childhood in New York.

Nope, Parker had dug right in, shoveling the remainder of her aunt’s belongings into trash bags, sorting through what could go to the Salvation Army—not a lot—and what was recyclable. If she had to ask him how to change the head of the sponge mop, well, it was kind of appealing.

She talked to her kid probably four times a day, which James thought was a lot. Then again, he probably talked to his parents four times a year, so what did he know?

She whacked at the weeds again, swinging the scythe like a golf club, then stopped to throw Beauty a stick. She glanced up at James, saw him looking and gave a quick wave, then looked away.

Yeah. Even though they’d been together for five solid days, there was little change in their relationship. She was polite. She was a good worker and listened when he told her how to do something. She had a decent sense of humor. Still called him Thing One occasionally. Didn’t seem to be moping about her lost fortune, though she got quiet sometimes, maybe missing her kid.

In other words, she was as out of reach as ever. They talked about the house. The dog. The town. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes of conversation a day. She spent more time than that by far on the phone with her kid. And the Paragon. And Mrs. Paragon.

Whatever. He had his own work to do, ripping the decaying shingles off the roof. Sweat dampened his hair, and he wiped his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Gideon’s Cove was experiencing a rare heat wave the past day or so, with temperatures into the nineties. Humid, too. And the blackflies…he’d forgotten about those bloodthirsty little suckers.

He turned as a truck slowed in front of the house. Probably one of Parker’s fan club, the old guys from the hardware store, who’d been dropping by daily to check on her progress. She had those three wrapped, that was for sure. Called them the Three Musketeers, which made the old guys shuffle and blush as if she’d knighted them.

It wasn’t one of the Musketeers. It was his oldest brother, Tom, a good twenty pounds heavier than he’d been two Christmases ago when James had last seen him. Red-faced, and not from the sun.