Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(62)

“Don’t worry so much,” James       called, reading her mind. “It’s getting there. It looks worse before it gets       better.”

“I know, I know,” she said, a       bit irked that she was so transparent. An electrician had put in a few more       outlets and given them a discount, as he was an old schoolmate of Dewey’s.       The bathroom shower no longer leaked onto the floor; the Three Musketeers       had come over to supervise her caulking. She couldn’t change the fact that       the tiles were pink, but she was working on how to make that look cute and       retro, rather than hideous and dated.

So this was what house flipping       was like. Backbreaking, ever more expensive, built on a frail hope, but kind       of fun anyway.

Especially with Thing One. He       was eternally patient with her dopey questions—she hadn’t been able to       figure out how to change a vacuum-cleaner bag the other day—and he never       made her feel useless, the way Harry did. And when he smiled at her, she       felt a rush of something so sharp and sweet, it actually hurt her chest. Add       to this the fact that he walked around half-dressed all the time, and heck       yeah!

James knelt down to check       something on the roof, then stood and crossed his beautiful arms over his       beautiful chest. “Put up or shut up,” he said with a wink.

“Jeesh, Thing One! Such an ego.”       She paused. “But you are fun to look at.”

“You look nice, too,” he said.       “I’m on fire. Stunned with lust.” Her beige carpenter pants were grubby, the       T-shirt from Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano was torn, and her hair was stuffed       under a Yankees baseball cap—one didn’t forget where one was born, after       all, and Parker had been born at Columbia Presbyterian, New York, New York,       thank you too much. She was sweating like a racehorse and could only imagine       the shade of red her face had taken on: beet or boiled lobster. Either way,       she was not flushed a delicate pink; she knew that. The bathroom had a       mirror, after all.

Well. She’d cool off with a swim       in another hour or so, and hopefully James would be the one ogling then.       Seemed only fair. She knew he didn’t like her swimming—he watched her like       Nana watched the kids in Peter Pan when she was out there—but she also knew he       couldn’t take his eyes off her, eleven pounds be damned.

So. Mutual lusting. Always       fun.

“Parker? Oh, dear God, tell me       that isn’t you, sweating like an Ecuadoran stonemason.”

Parker’s eyes widened in shock       at the sound of the voice. She turned. Oh, Lord. It was true. “Mom? What are       you doing here?”

Althea Harrington Welles Foster       Brandheiser Levinstein was staring with openmouthed horror at Parker, the       house, the yard. She wore Jackie O–style sunglasses, a long silky scarf and       a white linen suit. The car was a red BMW with rental plates.

“This?” Althea said.       “This is       what Julia left you? Oh, the old shrew! I’d kill her if she wasn’t already       dead! She always made it sound like… Oh, Parker, you poor, poor thing. And       that father of yours. I’ll kill him, too. I hope he’s someone’s girlfriend       in prison. I hope he’s on a chain gang. I hope—”

“Mom! Wow. I can’t believe       you’re here.” Parker wiped her forehead with her sleeve and walked toward       Althea.

“Neither can I. I’m rather       hoping this is a bad dream or a hallucination. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me       you inherited the Pines. Please.”

“This is it. It’s all I have in       the world, Mother dear.”

“Oh, my God. You may as well       throw yourself off that dock and hope to drown quickly. The smell in this       town! How can you bear it?”

Actually, Parker had gotten used       to the smell of baitfish. She gave her mother a robust hug, which Althea       accepted, daintily patting Parker’s shoulder. “It is what it is, Mom. But       what are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me?”