’LL SEE YOU SOON,” James said into Mary Elizabeth’s hair. “Love you.”

“I love you, too. Why don’t you live here?” she asked, smiling up at him. “We could be together all the time.”

She always asked, and it always sliced him right open, that question. “Well, I have to work,” he said, tucking some of her curly hair behind her ears.

“Work here.” Her blue eyes were as innocent as the sky. “You should work here, James.”

“I wish I could. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Bring me a present.”

“Don’t I always?”

“A big present. I want a present, James.”

“You got it.”

He kissed her cheek and walked to his truck.

Parker had been right. It was good to take a day off. First he’d gone to see Harry, a helluva drive, more than four hours across the state of Maine, just over the New Hampshire line. His boss had been nicely surprised. He looked fairly awful, though, gray-faced and a little slack. The wages of sobriety, at least at first. They’d talked for an hour or so, shooting the breeze, talking about the Red Sox and their excellent fielding, sure to collapse when hopes were high, as usual. Harry had some funny stories about some of his fellow inmates, most of whom, like him, were in for white-collar crimes or too many petty misdemeanors. There’d been a Ping-Pong tournament. Movie night.

Harry didn’t ask about Parker, not directly. About Nicky’s trip, and the progress on the house, yes. But nothing more. As ever, James had the impression that while Harry loved him like a son, the subject of Parker was off-limits.

Then, on the way home, James stopped by to see Mary Elizabeth, which was always a painfully happy occasion. As ever, she was overjoyed to see him. Luckily, she’d had no other visitors today, because God knew, that made things awkward.

As he left Mary Elizabeth’s, James checked his phone. No service, that was right. They were in East Boonies, Maine, after all. Still, it was a beautiful place. And only forty minutes from his parents’. But that was a stop he wouldn’t make, though he supposed eventually he’d have to.

Once back on the interstate, James’s phone chirped. One missed call…Parker.

Well. That was kind of nice. Maybe she wanted him to pick something up for dinner, as it was now after six. Unlikely, but maybe. They’d been in this war of supreme pleasantness since the night he’d dared to mention St. Ethan.

He pulled over and listened to her message. Listened to it again. And a third time.

Well, holy crap. He’d better put the pedal to the metal. Unfortunately, he was still an hour and a half away.

James couldn’t help laughing as he pulled back on the highway. Parker Harrington Welles, in a holding cell. He couldn’t wait to see it.

* * *

WHEN HE WALKED INTO the Gideon’s Cove Police Department, it was eight o’clock. James had been on the phone most of his drive, first with Dewey, then with Lavinia, who was out of town herself, then with Maggie Beaumont, who knew everything. James had called the local judge, set up an arraignment, took care of Parker’s bail and left a message for the prosecutor’s office.

“James Cahill,” he said to the sergeant on duty. “Attorney for Parker Welles.”

As Officer Dewitt led him down the stone stairs to the holding cell, James could hear Parker…crying? His heart lurched. But no, not crying. Singing? And my God, that smell!

“‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,’” someone—a man—chanted.

“‘All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’” Parker answered back.

“‘Forward, the light brigade,’” the man shouted triumphantly.

She was lying on the steel bunk, an old magazine with a picture of Cameron Diaz covering her face. “‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred,’” she said, definitely a panicky edge to her voice.

“Your attorney’s here,” Officer Dewitt said, unlocking the door.

Parker jerked upright, hitting her head on the top bunk. “James!” She hurtled across the cell, and before he knew it, she was in his arms, hugging him hard, and though she smelled a little dank from her time in the basement, it was sure better than that other smell, and man, he hadn’t felt anything this good in years, her hair silky against his cheek, her body pressed against his.

“Parker. Always lovely to see you,” he murmured, hugging her back.

“James, oh, James, thank God you’re here,” she blurted into his shoulder. “That man over there, he pooped on the floor, and holy halos, there was so much of it! He hasn’t stopped chanting that horrible poem for hours, and if I don’t stop reciting ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ I’m going to kill myself.”

“I’m afraid you have to stay overnight,” James said.

She pulled back, eyes wide with horror.

“Just kidding,” he said, grinning. “You’re free to go.”

Those beautiful eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrible man.”

“Hey. I’m not the drug dealer here.”

“My cousin is growing pot in her greenhouse,” Parker said. “That’s another thing. Pot, James.”

“More on that later,” he said, taking her hand and leading her up the stone stairs. “Let’s get you home. Thanks, Officer.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, sitting at his desk and picking up a newspaper.

“Yes, thanks for nothing,” Parker echoed. “What happened to Young Billy? He would’ve come down here and cleaned up that mess, I bet. I only called for you a thousand or so times.”

“You know how many drunks we get bellowing for us all the time?” the cop said, turning a page of the newspaper. “A lot.”

“I’m not a drunk! I should never have been in here. I thought it was a fern!”

“Right.”

“It looked like a fern.” The officer rolled his eyes. Parker turned to James. “It looked like a fern, James. Or a miniature Japanese maple tree. It was actually quite pretty. And since I’m not a drug dealer and in fact made it all the way to the ripe old age of thirty-five without ever having smoked marijuana or even a cigarette, I can tell you, I had no idea what it was!”

“And yet a ninety-nine-year-old lady in the nursing home ID’d it immediately,” the cop said.

“So maybe she’s a pot smoker! I’m not!” Parker snapped.

“Okay, settle down, honey,” James said.

At the term of endearment, she glanced at him sharply. Then she took a deep breath and flicked the cop’s newspaper. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Officer,” she said. “Have a wonderful day.”

“You’re that rich chick, aren’t you?” he said, finally looking up. “The one whose father is in jail?”

“Yes.”

“Runs in the family, I see.”

She straightened into princess posture and tilted her head slightly. “And inbreeding must run in yours.”

“Okay, Parker, let’s go,” James said. “Don’t get into more trouble.” He took her hand more firmly this time and led her out into the cool, clear night.

“We need to get Beauty,” Parker said. “She’s at Maggie’s—at least I think she is. Young Billy Bottoms—”

“I already picked her up. She’s in the truck.”

James held the door for Parker, and at the sight of her dog, she seemed to melt a little. “Hi, honey,” she murmured, burying her face in the dog’s neck. Same as she’d done to him.

“So. Jail,” he said. “I guess you can cross that off your bucket list.”

“Yes. That and amputating a toe, just for fun.”

He glanced at her as he backed out and headed past the diner. “You okay?”

“Peachy.”

“That hug was nice,” he said mildly.

She didn’t answer for a minute, though her cheeks flushed slightly. “Did you have to…arraign me or whatever? Put up bail?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

He sighed. Emphatically.

“Any word from Lavinia?” she asked, looking out the window.

“I talked to her. Says she wants to grow medical marijuana, fully intended to get a license one of these days. Doesn’t seem really concerned about prosecution. She said she slept with the D.A. back in the seventies.”

“Beautiful. So what happens next?”

James glanced at her profile. “There’ll be a hearing. You’ll tell the judge that you didn’t intend to sell an illegal substance. Maybe a fine, some community service. I wouldn’t worry about it. Lavinia will have to give her plants to a licensed marijuana grower.” He was already going through a mental Rolodex to see if he had any friends from law school practicing in Maine who might be able to do him a favor.

They were home within minutes. Parker jumped out of the truck, Beauty on her heels. The dog had been friendly enough when James had picked her up at Maggie’s house, where she’d been rolling around on the floor with Maggie’s much bigger yellow Lab, but now that Parker was back, he was once again persona non grata.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” James offered.

“That’s okay. I have to call Nicky,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him all day.”

“You gonna tell him what happened?”

She gave him an odd look. “No, James. He’s five.”

“Right.” Stupid question.

“But first, a shower. I thought Crazy Dave was going to throw poop at me, like the gorillas do at the zoo.” She shuddered, gave him a grin and disappeared into the bathroom. A second later, the door popped open, and for one ridiculous, wonderful instant, he thought she was about to invite him in.

“Thank you, James. For the bail and whatever else you had to do. And for getting Beauty.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Another smile, and she closed the door, leaving him standing there.

A half hour later, Parker was down on the dock, though it was now fully dark, laughing on the phone as she told Mr. and Mrs. Paragon about her day in the clink, no doubt.

Her hair was about the only thing he could see now. It had brightened in the sunlight; she’d been working outside, hacking the long grass, digging up the scrubby bushes that overhung the stairs to the water. She hadn’t complained once since getting the news, hadn’t blinked at the backbreaking work. She really hadn’t even complained too much about spending six hours in a cell.

Harry would be proud of her, James thought. Or he should be.

Why Harry could barely tolerate his only child was a mystery. James had seen that unique look of hers leveled at Harry so many times—that jaded, knowing look, the same one she’d given James himself so often, though less lately. But sometimes, when she was looking at Harry, James was almost sure he’d seen something else. A flash of hope. Regret. Sorrow.

Then again, he knew jack about relationships and people and certainly nothing about fathers and daughters. But if he ever did have a daughter—unlikely, but still—a look like that would kill him.

Her laughter rang out against the shushing of the waves against the rocky shore.

Damn Ethan Mirabelli. Parker would smile at James, thank him—oh, yes, she was wicked polite—but she would never let him in her inner circle. He couldn’t blame her, not really. He wasn’t good with kids. His father liked to tell him he didn’t take life seriously enough, disgusted that he hadn’t done more—more what, he wasn’t sure. More penance, probably. He’d done well enough in college and law school, but it wasn’t as if he was brilliant. Once, a professor had written a comment on one of James’s papers: “Well written but lacking substance.” Kind of struck a chord. Then James took a boring desk job for the money, and now he was unemployed.

James finished his beer and went to the stove. Took some bread, cut a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece in each slice, added some olive oil to the pan, then the bread. Cracked an egg. Toad in the hole. Comfort food for the woman who’d been in prison, whether she wanted his comfort or not.

As he approached the dock, he could hear her talking. A story, actually. He paused before stepping onto the creaky wooden dock, not wanting her to know he was there.

“Mickey never forgot what it was like to be left out,” she was saying. “From that day on, he shared all the calls with Wensley, and in time, Wensley became a great fire truck, too, same as Mickey, and the two were great friends. Mickey was a legend, and all the children of New York knew his story, and whenever he went racing through the city, little kids and their parents, grown-ups going to work, rich people and poor people, police officers and tourists…all would stop and watch as the bravest fire truck there ever was went out to do the job he loved so well. The end.” She paused. “You still awake, sweetheart? Nicky? I love you, honey.”

There was a pause. “Hey, Ethan. Guess he was pretty worn-out. Okay. You guys have a great day tomorrow. No, I won’t. I’m a model citizen from now on.” She laughed. “Good night, buddy. Give Lucy a smooch from me.”

She clicked off and stroked Beauty’s cheek; the dog was lying with her head on Parker’s lap, and gave a little wag. James stepped onto the dock, and Parker looked up.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the plate down next to her.

“I’m starving, actually. Thank you, James. It smells great. What is it?”

“Toad in the hole.”

“I’ve never had that before.”

“Get outta town.”

“Nope. It’s the sad truth.” She smiled and took a bite. “Goes great with this sauvignon blanc I stole from Harry’s wine cellar. Want some?”

“No, I’m good.” He sat next to her, though the rocking of the dock was a little unsettling. Beauty moved closer to Parker’s chair, though not to the other side. Progress. “So was that the tail end of Mickey the Fire Engine I overheard?”

She looked up sharply. “Yes. How’d you know that?”

He shrugged. “Harry asked me to double-check Grayhurst one more time. I found a box in the attic. It’s in the house somewhere. I meant to give it to you before. Anyway, it’s got some of your papers from college. Mickey the Fire Engine, too.” He glanced at her, shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you also read my essay on the significance of language in The Sound and the Fury?”

“Passed on that one. Too many big words.”

She went back to her toad. “Mickey was my first manuscript,” she said. “Couldn’t sell it to save my life. That copy is the last one. I burned all the others along with the rejection letters.”

“I thought it was great,” he said.

“Did you?” Her voice was wry.

“Mmm-hmm. Even got choked up a little.”

“Really.”

James grinned. “Well, there were fire trucks involved. Doesn’t every boy love fire trucks?”

“Not if you work in publishing, apparently.”

“How’s the writing coming along?” he asked.

She sighed. “I haven’t hit on the right idea yet. Guess the Holy Rollers burned me out a little bit.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. The sky was completely clear, and the stars so brilliant they looked almost like a thin veil of clouds. Taking care not to move too quickly, or to look at her, James reached down and stroked Beauty’s head. The dog allowed it. Taking that as a sign, he decided to go for it.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Parker?”

“How is it that a Harvard grad can’t recognize marijuana?” she said, offering the last bite of toad in the hole to her dog, who took it delicately.

“Why don’t you and Harry get along?”

She didn’t move for a second, just let Beauty lick her fingers. Then she poured herself a little more wine and looked up at the sky. Sighed. He could smell her soap from here.

“I don’t know, Thing One,” she said quietly. “Maybe he wanted a son.”

“Do you think that’s it?”

Another pause. “No.” She cleared her throat. “So I guess I owe you a real answer, huh? Since you bailed me out and chose to spend your summer up here, working like an ox.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, I do. I do.” She shifted in her seat and looked at him, then back out at the water. A loon called from past Douglas Point. “Okay, here’s the deal. When I was little, I worshipped Harry. I mean, what little girl doesn’t love her dad?”

“I guess they all do.”

Parker took a sip of wine and petted her dog, her hand very close to James’s, though she didn’t appear to notice. “It was hard not to. He had the whole package—looks, charm, brilliance. If Harry had you in his sights, you felt like the most amazing, interesting person in the world.”

James grunted. True enough.

“And I don’t know, it was a long time ago, but he seemed to adore me, too. I used to—” She broke off for a second, not choked up as much as lost in a memory. “I used to go running into Welles Financial and his whole staff would treat me like a princess. And it didn’t matter if he was on the phone or in a meeting, he’d tell whoever it was that his daughter was here and kick them out, or he’d introduce me, pull me onto his lap and then keep talking, like I was smart enough to understand.”

“So what changed?” he asked.

“The summer I was ten, I caught him in bed with my babysitter.”

James flinched. “Ah, shit.”

“Indeed.” She stroked Beauty’s ear, not looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Parker.”

She didn’t say anything for a minute. “Keep that to yourself, okay? Nobody else knows. Well, my mother. And the babysitter, but she was paid off.” She finished her wine. “It’s been a long day. Thank you for everything, James.” She stood up, and he lurched to his feet, blocking her path.

“Is that it?” he asked.

She tilted her head. “What more should there be?”

“I don’t know, Parker. You drop an announcement like that and then hike off to bed?”

She didn’t answer, just looked at him, her brows drawn together.

“I’ve known you for years,” he heard himself say with a sinking sense of dread. Shut up, idiot. “We slept together once. You could talk to me, Parker. You could…we could be friends.”

Yeah. Chicks loved when you begged. How about if he went ahead and handed her his balls and said, Do what you will. Any second, she was going to smother a laugh or roll her eyes or call him Thing One, and—

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, her lips a soft, sweet press, her summery dress swishing against his arm. “Thank you, James,” she said, her voice softer now.

Then she stepped around him, Beauty scuttling past, as well, and went up the stairs to the house.