fifty-six rejections to her name. Make that fifty-seven. Mickey was full of sincerity and good messages—having a purpose, commitment, courage, second chances. With all the schlock that was out there, it was hard not to feel bitter.
“Got anything else?” George asked, already glancing at his watch.
“Yeah, I do,” Parker said. “How’s this? A band of child angels are sent to earth to teach kids about God. Right? They haven’t earned their wings, though, so they roller-skate everywhere—they’re the Holy Rollers. Do you love it? All they eat is angel food cake, and they live in a tree fort called Eden, and whenever a regular kid is up against a tough moral decision, in come the Holy Rollers and the preaching begins.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s The Crippled Lamb meets The Little Rascals meets The Exorcist.” She sighed and stood up. “Well, thanks for your time, George. Good to see you.”
“Hang on,” he said.
The next week, she’d had an offer and a contract, and she and Suze, her old roomie from Miss Porter’s School, had come to Grayhurst to celebrate, eat whatever Harry’s chef felt like cooking them, swim in the indoor pool and laugh at life’s ironies. The second night, they’d gone to Lenny’s, the local bar, and there was Ethan Mirabelli, who’d flirted with them equally, despite Suze being gay and built like a professional wrestler. When Ethan had asked for Parker’s phone number, Suze had given her a heavy elbow to the ribs, her way of indicating approval. And the rest, as they say, was history.
Parker and Lucy took their goodies into the front room and were laughing over Lucy’s in-laws’ propensity for dropping by during certain intimate moments. “It’s like they know,” Lucy said. “Honestly, some days I think they have the apartment bugged.”
“They might,” Parker agreed. Her phone rang, and Parker glanced at the screen “Oh, speaking of difficult parents, it’s my mother. I bet she has a husband for me.”
“Goody! Put her on speaker so I can hear, too!” Lucy clapped like a little kid.
Parker clicked on. “Hi, Mom.”
“Darling, I have someone for you!” Althea Harrington Welles Etc. Etc. sang out.
Parker pulled a face for Lucy. “Hooray! Don’t even worry about us meeting—just start planning the wedding.”
“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.”
