Somebody to Love. Kristan Higgins
five thousand in cash for you.” James reached into his briefcase—a gift from Harry—and handed her an envelope, which she took automatically. “You have some jewelry that’s yours, right?”
“I guess so,” she said. James knew exactly what she had, as it was listed on the insurance forms. Nothing spectacular—some aging pearl necklaces, a few antique stickpins from her grandmother. All in all, maybe worth another couple grand. Parker wasn’t the type to drape herself in diamonds or redecorate or buy a sports car—she drove a Volvo Cross Country that was a good five or six years old. She didn’t even travel that much. She was more like the Welles family of yore—quieter, old-money New England wealth.
Harry was the new breed—make sure the world knew how much you had by spending every cent.
And even though she’d handed him his nuts on a platter a few years ago, he couldn’t help feeling really shitty about the whole situation. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he said gently, and she cut her eyes over to him. Yikes.
“I suppose there was no way you could’ve given me a heads-up, Thing One.”
“No. I’m sorry. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Hope that lets you sleep at night.”
“Moving on,” James continued, “you do own the house in Maine.”
“Which house in Maine?”
Rich people. Honestly. “Your great-aunt Julia Harrington left you a house when she died six years ago. Ring a bell?”
She frowned. “Oh, my gosh, right. I was just about to have Nicky when she died. Where is it? I never did make it up there.”
James kept his expression neutral. How do you forget about inheriting a house? “The house is in Gideon’s Cove,” he said, handing Parker the folder. “North of Bar Harbor.” He knew the town…or he did once. His bachelor uncle owned a bar up there, and James had spent a couple of summers with him as a teenager.
“So I could sell that, right?” Parker asked, her expression brightening a little. “Sell the house and have a nest egg?”
“You could,” James said. He didn’t know which house was hers, though he had a copy of the deed. If he remembered, Shoreline Drive had some nice places on it.
“Fine.” She was quiet for a minute. “I’ll go up there when Ethan and Lucy take Nicky on vacation, slap on some paint and get it listed with a real-estate agent.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. His own experience was that life was rarely that easy, but for her sake, he hoped it was.
“You reminded her about the house?” Harry asked, striding back into the room.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“Good. Parker, James knows the area. He’ll go with you and check out the property.” Right. She’d love that. God save him.
“He’ll go with you,” Vernon agreed.
“No, he won’t,” Parker said. “But thanks all the same, Thing One.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Harry said sharply. “You’ll need help.”
Parker turned to James, her eyes about as warm as Apollo’s. “Thing One, my father is so very kind to offer your services, but no thank you.”
“Fine,” Harry said. “Do whatever you want. You always do. We’ll be in touch.”
“Harry,” she began, standing up. There was the pinkie squeeze again. “Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”
“I’ll be fine.” He flashed her a toothy smile that was so far from sincere it made James wince. Then Harry strode back out, looking every bit the master of Wall Street he used to be, Vernon murmuring on his heels.
And James, he well knew, was expected to follow. He stood up, then turned to Parker, who was staring at the snake. “I’m really sorry about all this, Parker,” he said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
She gave him a look they must’ve taught her at her fancy prep school. I’m sorry, and you are…? “Save the ass kissing for my father, Thing One.”
Sigh. Some people never changed. “I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Okay, enough with the princess act. “I am good for some things,” he said. “As you might remember. Carpentry is one of them.”
“Really. How fascinating. Bye-bye, Thing One. And tell my father I’m not taking that snake.”
James stood there another minute, torn between guilt—his favorite pastime—the desire to help her in some way and the fact that he could see down her shirt a little bit from here. Fantastic view.
You don’t take anything seriously, do you? his father’s voice demanded in his head.
Hard to deny. “I loved the last Holy Rollers book, by the way,” he added.
“Then your IQ is even lower than I thought.”
He couldn’t help a smile. Parker looked away. “Call me and let me know what happens on Monday,” she said.
“Will do.” He picked up his briefcase and turned back to her. “See you in Maine.”
She shot him an icy look. “Not if I see you first. The gun laws are pretty clear about intruders on private property.” He said nothing. “Go, Thing One. Your master awaits.”
James obeyed. There was nothing else he could do.
For now, anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE TWO WEEKS since her father’s bombshell, Parker thought she’d done a pretty good job of holding it together. She was a mother…you don’t get to walk around cursing like Job or crying. And Lucy had been amazing that first weekend, helping her through the initial shock, going through the house, determining what could reasonably be called Parker’s as the movers tagged and wrapped her family’s belongings.
Not a lot was Parker’s outright. Her Mac, of course. A few pieces of furniture, a couple of paintings, a few little things for the house—a vase, some throw pillows, nothing tremendously valuable.
“You know I’ll help with money,” Lucy’d said at least fifteen times. “I have Jimmy’s life insurance, and—”
“I appreciate that,” Parker said. “But you know what? It’s okay. It’s shocking, sure, but Ethan’s got a nice bit tucked away for Nicky’s college, and I can flip the house in Maine and have a little money and write some more books. Or get a job doing something else.”
She smiled firmly, trying to forget that she’d A) ignored her father’s advice to major in economics and had instead double-majored in two such ridiculously unemployable fields that she actually woke up covered in a cold sweat one night—English was bad enough, but Ethics? Ethics?—and B) she hadn’t had a new idea for a book series since the hideous Holy Rollers had been conceived. It was such bad timing that she’d given the little suckers their wings and halos. She could’ve milked them forever.
But honestly, after the initial shock, it was a little hard to feel as if a great injustice had befallen her. For thirty-five years, she’d had more privilege and wealth than ninety-eight percent of the world. When she’d watched the footage of the Occupy Wall Street gang, back before she was broke, she couldn’t help thinking they had a point.
And now the point had been made. Now, she was normal. Better than normal, according to Lucy—she had a little over eleven grand in her bank account, no debt and a house on the coast of Maine. By Paris Hilton standards, she was destitute; by normal-people standards, sitting kind of pretty.
“I’m going to