Somebody to Love. Kristan Higgins
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“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, haven’t you heard? Anyway, his name is…oh, well, I don’t remember. But his last name is Gorman, as in Senator Gorman from Virginia? His father. Those charges were dropped, by the way. Isn’t it exciting, sweetheart? I’m thinking The Caucus Room for your engagement announcement party, the National Cathedral for your wedding, reception at the senator’s home on the Chesapeake. It’s stunning. I looked it up on Google Earth.”
“Just tell me when to show up in the big white dress.”
“Can I be matron of honor?” Lucy whispered.
“Definitely. Mom, Lucy’s here.”
“Lucy?”
“My best friend?”
“I’m aware, dear. Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mrs.—um…Althea,” Lucy said.
“Lucy, maybe you can make her take this seriously. She’s so obsessed with that child, she hasn’t noticed she’s getting old! Honestly, my only daughter, never married.”
“It’s awful,” Lucy concurred, grinning. “I tried to fix her up with my mute assistant at the bakery, but she said no to him, too.”
“I’d rather date Jorge than a senator’s kid,” Parker said. “His tattoos are amazing. That one of the crucifixion? So lifelike.”
“Fine. Make fun of me, girls. Oh, did you see my Facebook? I’m auditioning for Real Housewives out here. Maury thinks it’s a great idea.”
Parker mimicked a scream, then said, “That’s great, Mom. So you think you might come visit next month?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maury has this thing. How’s Nicky?”
“He misses you,” Parker said, playing the guilt card.
“Well, you kiss that beautiful boy for me, all right? And seriously, sweetheart, think about the Gorman heir. I hate to think of you in that hideous old house, all alone except for your toddler.”
“He’s five and a half, Mom.”
“Oh. Well, when does one stop being a toddler? Anyway, it’s not my point. My point is— Oops! Maury’s ringing in. Kisses to my grandson! Nice to hear your voice, Lisa. Bye, Parker! Talk soon!”
“Bye, Mom.” Parker sighed. “More wine, Lisa?”
Lucy laughed. “I like your mom.”
“I’d like to see her more, that’s for sure,” Parker grumbled.
Just as they’d finished their first glass of wine and were debating on whether to Google the Old Spice man or Ryan Gosling, they heard the crunch of tires on the long gravel driveway. “Think Nicky forgot something?” Lucy asked, going to the window and pushing back the silk drapes. “Eesh! It’s your father. And his entourage.”
“Oh, bugger and damn. Do we have time to hide?”
“I think I’m allowed to hide,” Lucy said. “You probably have to say hi.”
“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Parker ordered.
A flare of nervousness—her trademark reaction to Daddy Dearest—flashed through her stomach. Almost automatically, she smoothed her hair and glanced down at her attire. Since she’d been at Nicky’s school as Parker Welles, Author, rather than Nicky’s Mom, she’d dressed up a little…beige silk shirt, ivory pencil skirt, the fantabulous leopard-print shoes. Good. A little armor.
She joined Lucy at the window and looked out. The driver of the limo opened the back door, and Harry Welles emerged into the sunlight, followed closely by Thing One and Thing Two, his minions.
Technically, Grayhurst was Harry Welles’s home, though he lived in a sleek and sterile duplex on Manhattan’s East Side. He only came to Rhode Island to impress clients or when he couldn’t avoid a family event. He was the third generation to run Welles Financial, once a conservative financial-services firm, which Harry transformed into the kind of Wall Street playah that was often picketed by students and teachers’ unions. He never traveled alone—flunkies like Thing One and Thing Two were part of Harry’s makeup.
The three men came up the walkway and into the house, Thing One and Thing Two trailing at a respectful distance behind him, like castrati guards in a harem.
Her father scanned her, unsmiling.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, keeping her tone pleasant. “How are you?”
“Parker. I’m glad you’re here.” Her father glanced at her friend. “Lucy.”
“Hello, Mr. Welles. Nice to see you again.”
Harry took a deep, disapproving breath—well, it seemed disapproving. “I have something to discuss with you, Parker. Is Nicky here?”
“He’s with his father this weekend. But I can run over and get him.” There was that pesky, hopeful note in her voice. If you don’t like me, at least like my kid, Dad.
“No, that’s just as well. We need to discuss a few family matters.” He looked pointedly at Lucy, who smiled sweetly and, bless her heart, didn’t move a muscle. Harry’s eyes shifted back to Parker. “How’s Apollo?”
“Still alive.”
“Good.” Pleasantries finished, he strode down the hallway. “Join me in the study, please,” he added without looking back.
“Miss Welles, your father would like you to join him in the study,” said Thing Two somberly. The man held a long and meaningless title at Welles Financial, but so far as Parker could tell, his job was to echo her father and occasionally slap him on the back in admiration. He fell into step behind Harry, keeping six or seven paces behind.
“Parker. Always lovely to see you.”
And then there was Thing One.
It was his customary line, usually delivered with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and she hated it. Yes, Thing One was attractive—Harry would never hire an ugly person. The whole cheekbones and perfect haircut and bored affect…okay, okay, he was hot. But he knew it, which detracted significantly, and that line—Parker, always lovely to see you—blick. Add to the fact that he was a Harry-in-the-making, and his appeal went down to nil.
Thing One didn’t work for Welles Financial; he was Harry’s personal attorney, having replaced the original Thing One a few years ago—why change a perfectly good nickname? He lived somewhere here in Rhode Island and did things like…well, Parker really didn’t know. Occasionally she’d have to sign a paper he brought by. Otherwise, he seemed fairly useless, glib, smug and so far up her father’s butt she wondered how he could see daylight.
“Thing One,” she murmured with a regal nod. Miss Porter’s hadn’t been for nothing.
“It’s James, since you can’t seem to remember. I also answer to Mr. Cahill.”
“Thing One suits you so much more.”
He gave her a sardonic look, then turned to her friend. “Hello, Lucy,” he said. He’d met her at a number of Nicky-related events—God forbid Harry come alone. “Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Oh, thank you,” Lucy said, looking a little surprised that he knew. Parker wasn’t. Harry was hardly a doting grandfather, but he did keep tabs on Nicky’s life. Or had his people keep tabs, as the case might be.
“After you, ladies,” he said. He looked somber. Parker was more accustomed to seeing him in full-blown slickster mode, kissing up to her dad, glad-handing whoever was around him. A small quiver of anxiety ran through her gut. Something was…off.
As they walked down the hall, Parker rubbed the tip of her ear. It was itchy. Stress eczema, probably, brought on by dear old dad.