sixty-two and business was slow; his brothers were just getting by. The law was supposed to have been a sure bet for James, a guaranteed decent salary, and making money had always been the goal.
At any rate, James had been upgraded to first class—the girl at the desk had liked his “smies,” whatever those were. James was enjoying the extra four inches of legroom when a man sat in the seat next to him, growling about the inconvenience of having to fly commercial. Harry Welles, legend of Wall Street, in the flesh.
A guy who probably had a whopping-size legal department.
James introduced himself, made wry comments about the joys of air travel, spent his last hundred bucks on a bottle of champagne—which Harry had declared cheap swill—got the guy to laugh and a few hours later found himself with a job offer. Not a corporate position, though. Harry’s longtime personal attorney had announced his retirement; would James like the job? On retainer for personal and family business, no other clients in case Harry needed him. It would be mostly real-estate dealings, as Harry owned a couple dozen corporate buildings, maybe some trust and estate planning. When Harry had named a salary, it was all James could do not to hump his leg. For that salary, he would’ve done anything. He needed money, a lot of it, and fast.
So James had become a glorified clerk, turning his attention to getting through loopholes so Harry could build a bigger boathouse, changing the terms of the lease on a commercial building. He set up a trust fund for Harry’s unborn grandchild. Paid off Harry’s occasional mistress. And became, it seemed, Harry’s closest friend.
It was odd; Harry had colleagues and clients and employees, he had connections, but he didn’t seem to have friends. And though James knew Harry had a daughter, he never talked about her. But from that first day on the airplane onward, Harry seemed to anoint James as the chosen one. He’d summon James to the city, take him out for dinner, tell tales of his early career. Took him to ball games. Slapped him on the back and told him he was doing a great job, even though the work was mindless and dull. One night, when Harry’d had too much to drink and James was seeing him back to his huge apartment in the city, Harry had said, “If I had a son, I hope he woulda been like you, kid.”
Strange, given that Harry had only known him a few months. And stranger still that for all the time he’d spent with Harry, he’d never heard him talk about Parker. James knew she existed, of course. But she was never discussed.
And then, on the eighth day of the sixth month as Harry’s attorney, when James had sunk eighteen Nerf baskets in a row and was in a heated mental debate between roast beef or turkey avocado, his cell phone rang. It was Harry. “James, my daughter had her baby. Can you swing by the hospital with the paperwork?”
“Hey, congratulations, Harry! Boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hang on. Mona! Did my daughter tell you the baby’s name?” There was a pause. “Don’t know. Can you get over there?”
“Sure! Absolutely.”
“Great. Tell my daughter I’ll get up there when I’ve got some free time. And I’ll see you here in the city next week. Knicks game, don’t forget.” With that, Harry hung up.
James stared at the phone. Granted, his own parents weren’t perfect, but they wouldn’t miss out on seeing a new grandchild. Parker was Harry’s only child, and this was her first baby, as James knew from the trust-fund paperwork.
Ten million dollars at birth, another ten at age thirty.
So much money, it felt fake to a kid from a blue-collar mill town in Maine.
And so James, then twenty-five years old, had taken the papers to the hospital for Parker’s signature. Uncomfortable about Harry’s apparent lack of interest, he stopped at a toy store and bought a stuffed animal, a large gray rabbit with floppy ears. That’s what people did for babies, after all. He was an uncle, and even though he wasn’t close to his brothers’ kids, he knew enough to send a toy on birthdays and Christmas.
He got to the hospital, found the maternity floor, went down the hall to room 433, and there was Parker Harrington Welles. She was all alone, holding what looked like a large burrito with a blue cap, and her face was so soft with wonder that James literally stopped in his tracks. Kinda fell in love right then and there.
Then she looked up, and there was no kinda about it.
“Hi,” she said quietly, a question in her eyes. Right, because he was a stranger, and she’d just given birth.
“Uh…hi.” His mouth was suddenly dry. “Um…I’m James. James Cahill. I’m your father’s attorney?” And you sound like the village idiot.
She blinked, and her face went completely blank. She looked back down at her baby, who made a little squeak. “So you’re the new Thing One.”
“Excuse me?”
“You replaced Sol?”
“Yeah. Yes. I replaced Sol. Uh, I have some papers. For you to sign. For the baby’s trust fund.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Congratulations, by the way. Um…cute baby.” Not that he could see anything from the doorway, but that was what you said to women who’d just popped a kid.
She adjusted the baby’s cap, then looked at James. “I take it my father’s not coming.”
Ouch. “Well, he—he wanted to, but he’s stuck in the city.”
Her face didn’t change, but for one second, something flashed across her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. Crap, he was like a twelve-year-old with his first crush. But man, her eyes were beautiful. Blue or green, he couldn’t tell from here. Didn’t matter. She was gorgeous. Long, straight blond hair, perfect mouth. Even in a johnny coat, she was frickin’ glorious.
Then a guy brushed past him, going instantly to Parker’s side, and reached down to touch the bottom half of the burrito. “How’s he doing?” he asked, and Parker smiled up at him. The father of the baby, clearly.
“Still sleeping,” Parker said. “Your parents were great, by the way.”
“You won’t be saying that when they show up four times a day,” he answered.
“Well, I think they’re sweet.”
“And they think you walk on water. Thanks for the middle name. That was really…” The guy’s voice choked up, and it was only then that he seemed to notice James, standing there like a lump.
Parker nodded at him. “My father’s attorney.”
James stepped forward and offered his hand, which the guy shook. “James Cahill. Congratulations.”
“Hi. Ethan Mirabelli. New dad.” He grinned broadly, clearly delighted with his title.
“Mr. Welles sends his best and says he’ll be up as soon as he can. He’s, um, very sorry he couldn’t make it.” James swallowed. Lying for the boss. Yikes.
“Really. He said that?” Parker asked coolly.
“Yes.”
