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 miss coming over here,” Lucy said as she folded a sweater. “Guess I’ll need to find another friend with a mansion.”
Parker smiled, appreciating Lucy’s attempt to keep things light, not to mention her help at packing. Lucy was very organized. “Good luck with that.”
“How does Nicky seem to be doing?”
“Well, you know how he is. One minute, he thinks it’s great that we’re moving, the next he forgets why we’re packing. I don’t think he’s really wrapped his brain around the idea that we won’t be coming back to live here. But I was thinking of moving anyway. It’s easier than explaining why my father’s in jail.”
“He told Ethan that Grandpa Harry was in a time-out.”
“Yeah, that’s how I put it. He had to go away and think about playing by the rules and being greedy.” She winced. “Nicky still took it pretty hard. But Harry’ll probably be out on good behavior and all that in a couple years.” Years. Crikey.
“And how are you doing with that, Parker? I know you and your father aren’t really close, but still.”
“Yeah. But still.” She gave Lucy a quick look. “I don’t know. I feel bad for him on the one hand. On the other, he deserved it. Then again, I’ve lived off family money all my life, and I never really looked at where it came from. So anyway, it all belongs to the Feds now.”
“It must be hard, though.”
Parker swallowed. It was hard. The people from the SEC had been here last week, and they’d let her keep a few sentimental things—a model of a duck that her grandfather had carved, the little white vase her grandmother had let her fill with flowers from the garden. “Well, I did snag a few bottles of wine from the cellar.”
“Priorities.”
“Exactly. And it was nothing really expensive.”
“So tell me about your cottage in Maine. Am I wrong to think Bush compound? Sort of like this place, but with gray shingles?”
Parker snorted. “I don’t know. I only met my great-aunt a couple of times. You know my mother, always dragging me off to a new stepfather. When we did see family, someone was always having a nervous breakdown. There were no picnics, no bonfires, no uncles who dressed up as Santa. One of my few memories of Aunt Julia is that she told me to start smoking or I’d get fat. I was probably about thirteen at the time.” She gave Lucy a rueful smile.
“Jeesh, Parks! How come you’re so normal?”
“I’m probably not,” she admitted, tossing some socks into her suitcase.
“So you barely see your relatives, but you inherit their summer homes.”
“Yes. It’s our own form of guilt and family obligation and to make up for decades of bitterness, alcoholism and neglect.”
“Weren’t you curious about the house?”
Parker shrugged. “Well, I was nine months pregnant when Julia died. Then that colic—remember? I could barely say my own name for six months. The truth is, I kind of forgot about it.” Parker zipped up a suitcase. “I did a Google search of the address, but all I got was a spot on a map; no satellite pictures available. Apparently I have a second or third cousin up there, according to my mom. I left a message on what I think is her machine.”
“Well, it’s great that you’ll have someone close by.”
“I know. I did see pictures of the town, and it’s really pretty, Luce. Like a postcard…lobster boats and pine trees. And I do know the house has a water view, so how bad can it be?”
“Right. I bet it’s beautiful.”
“So I’ll zip up there, spend a little money, flip it, zip back down here, find a place for us to live, and we should be all set before Nicky starts kindergarten.” She folded a cashmere hoodie. “It’ll be fun. It’ll be good for me.”
“And what about a new book series? Think you’ll get some writing done up there?”
The million-dollar question. “I hope so. I figured my father’s crimes would hurt sales, right? But no. The opposite, and now my publisher is all over me for another idea before the notoriety fades. Can you believe that?”
“Well, that’s good, I guess. That you’re wanted.”
“Yeah.” It was good; it was just a little disheartening to picture writing another sappy series, rather than that elusive, noble, touching Charlotte’s Web kind of masterpiece she’d been hoping to pull off. Attitude is everything, the Holy Rollers chided. “I’m really excited to get started.”
That’s better! the HRs cheered. They’d aged to about twelve and giggled a lot these days.
“So I was thinking,” Lucy said, shooting her a little smile. “No kid for three weeks…you should have a fling.”
Parker snorted.
“No, no! It’d be great! A summertime romance with some hot sailing dude or a fisherman. I’m thinking George Clooney in The Perfect Storm—”
“His character dies.”
“You can do a little swimming, eat some lobster, do whatever else they do in Maine, but live a little, Parker. Find a summer hottie and get it on, girl! What do you say?”
