EVEN WEEKS AFTER arriving back in Rhode Island, Parker opened a flower shop.

Blossom was on the far side of Mackerly, away from the little green. It had occurred to Parker that while Ethan and Lucy were hugely important in her life, she probably shouldn’t take a storefront on the same block as their restaurant and pastry shop. So over to the other side of the island, next to a pizza place and a shoe store. An old, Lavinia-style flower shop was going out of business, and the timing had been perfect. A little construction for a new counter, made by Gianni, who was grumpy in his retirement and looked for odd jobs to keep him out of the house. A cozy little corner with a wing chair, a love seat and a coffee table, should a bride come in for a consultation. Parker had ordered some giant Georgia O’Keeffe posters and hung them on the brick wall, stocked up on tissue paper in every conceivable color and ribbons to match, and gotten to work.

She loved Blossom, loved Tuesday mornings, when she’d be at the shop at 5:00 a.m. to get the week’s delivery from the wholesaler. She loved the waxy, clean smell of flowers, loved Carlotta, whom she hired after the first week to run deliveries and cover some hours. Carlotta had six grown children and seventeen ear piercings, spoke Portuguese and often brought Parker a coffee.

After two weeks, Blossom already had repeat customers, including Ethan, bless his heart, who ordered all the flowers for his restaurant from her, ensuring some continuity. He also stopped by for flowers for his bride about once a week. She’d done one funeral and one birthday party. She had a wedding booked for Christmastime, and had sent out beautiful printed announcements, complete with pressed flowers, to her Harvard and Miss Porter’s classmates.

There was a lot of reason to hope she’d do just fine.

The shop was ten minutes from Nicky’s school, fifteen from the little Victorian they’d rented. Parker was already hoping to buy the house eventually. It was snug and adorable, more than enough room for her and Nicky. A spiral staircase led to Nicky’s room on the third floor, which he called the Bat Cave. Parker’s room was on the second floor, along with two smaller bedrooms, and downstairs was a galley kitchen, a dining room and a living room. Her favorite part, though, was a front porch.

Every night, Parker and Nicky sat out there before dinner. He’d tell her about his day, the games the gym teacher came up with, the art classes, his sight words, how Colette was the prettiest girl in kindergarten and the nicest, how she sat with him on the bus and they would probably get married.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he said, zipping his Matchbox cars over the porch railing. “You can live with us and our eight babies.” It was a simple statement, but Parker’s eyes filled with tears. It had been happening a lot.

Another plus of the front porch and normal neighborhood: accessibility to other humans. Christina and Louis, the newlyweds next door, talked in baby voices to each other, which, though exceedingly nauseating, was also kind of sweet. Jennifer, the single mom with the beautiful toddler, was lonely and often stopped for a chat.

Sometimes, Parker wondered how’d she’d managed to live at Grayhurst all those years.

One night, when Nicky was at Ethan’s, Parker sat on the porch, nursing a glass of wine, one foot on Beauty, who was snoring gently, when Lucy came up the front walk.

“Hey there,” she called, smiling. “I left the boys to do manly things. Figured we could hang out.”

“Absolutely,” Parker said. “Glass of wine?”

“Can’t,” Lucy said, patting her belly, which had begun to pop. “Those doctors are so mean. Know what they said last week? ‘Limit your chocolate intake.’ Don’t they know who I am?”

Parker laughed, and Lucy sat next to her. They chatted till it got dark—Nicky, Ethan, baby names, work—then went inside, little Beauty padding after them, then curling up in the corner to keep an eye on Lucy. She was still shy, though her abject terror at outsiders seemed to have passed.

“I love this place,” Lucy said, looking around. “You’ve done a nice job, Parker.”

“Thanks,” she said. She’d painted the walls a soft green, filled the bookshelves and hung some framed artwork by her son. “I never really had a place of my own. I mean, I had apartments and stuff, but my mom would come in with her decorator and take over.”

“Did you mind?” Lucy asked.

“Nah. It was her way of taking care of me.”

“And how is your mom?”

“Oh, she’s fine. She’s in the final ten for Real Housewives of Las Vegas.”

“Dear Lord.”

“I know. She might come out for Thanksgiving. But my cousin is a definite.”

“It’ll be great,” Lucy said. They were coming, too, as well as Gianni and Marie. A full house.

Lucy took a sip of her seltzer water, then pulled a throw pillow into her lap. “So.”

“Uh-oh. Are you going to lecture me?”

“Yes.” Lucy smiled. “You were so good at lecturing me about this time last year.”

“Was I?”

“Oh, yeah. Figured it was my turn.”

Parker sighed and took a sip of wine. “Okay. Go for it. I’m ready.”

“Thanks. Well, it seems to me that on some levels, you’ve never been better. The shop is fantastic, and you seem to love it.”

“I do,” Parker said. “Never thought I’d be a florist, but you’re right.”

“And this house feels so much more like you than Grayhurst ever did.”

Parker gave a half nod. “Yeah. Hard to feel at home in a mansion when it’s just two of you.”

“Nicky’s doing great, obviously.”

“He’s getting married.”

“Yes. Colette. Do you approve?”

Parker smiled. “I do. She came over on Sunday and has beautiful manners.”

Lucy was quiet for a minute. “You ever hear from James?”

Parker looked down. “No. We…we’re done. Summer lovin’, and all that.”

“Please, no singing.” Lucy smiled. “The thing is…well, you’ve been different since you got back. A little sad.”

Dang. There were those ninja tears again, slipping up on her without warning. “Um, you know. A lot of change.”

“Right,” said Lucy. “But I know you had feelings for James.”

Parker took a sip of wine. “No, you’re right. I did.”

“And I know that’s pretty rare for you.”

“Hey. I was in love with John Stamos for quite some time. Of course, I called him Jesse back then.”

“Okay, okay, so John Stamos, sure, who didn’t love him? And the Old Spice man, we can’t forget him.”

“He saw me through a lot of lonely hours,” Parker seconded.

Lucy smiled again, her soft, gentle smile. “But in all seriousness, Parker, the fact that this guy got to you…that’s huge. Isn’t it?”

Her words brought a lump to Parker’s throat. “He’s a lot like my father.” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Really? Because I never got that impression. I always thought James was kind of sweet. And a little lonely, maybe.”

Parker swallowed. “He is. Or he’s not. I don’t know, Luce. I was thinking about a future, a relationship, and the whole time he already had a job lined up in New York. And the girlfriend…”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me the story.”

“Right. So at the very best, it was a huge miscommunication. At worst, he was cheating on me. Or her.”

Lucy was quiet for a long minute. “Well, let me say something, and don’t get mad, okay?”

“I hate when people say that,” she grumbled.

“Right, but I’m in a delicate condition, so you have to listen.”

“Fire away, Pregnita.”

Lucy looked at her hand for a minute, and twisted her wedding ring. “It’s just that sometimes, the right guy seems really wrong. And sometimes, it’s easier to grab hold of an excuse, because really going for it, putting yourself out there…that’s hard. You know that. You saw me through that last year.”

Parker conceded the point with a nod.

“So, welcome to the world, Parker. Loving someone can be terrifying.” She set her glass down gently. “And it’s worth it.”

* * *

ON SUNDAY, WHEN THE SHOP was closed and Nicky was with Ethan, Parker got into the Volvo and headed north. It had been a week since the Lecture from Lucy, and she’d been itchy and scratchy ever since.

Life would be much simpler without a relationship.

She had a son to raise.

She had a business to run.

James didn’t want what she did. Or so he said. Except for that one time, on the dock. I’m in.

He’d gone into the water looking for her son.

As she turned onto the street of dear old dad’s correctional facility, a car pulled out of the parking lot. She caught the quickest glimpse of the driver, and before her brain registered who it was, longing surged up so fast and strong that her chest actually ached.

James.

Her hands zinged with adrenaline, and she bit her lip hard. But he didn’t see her, turned the other way, didn’t seem to glance in his rearview mirror, didn’t tap his brakes.

She went in, the guards as polite as the waiters at the Pierre, and went into the visiting room. A few minutes later, Harry appeared.

“Parker,” he said. He looked better than last time. “What a surprise.”

“Harry. How are you?”

“Good. And you?”

“Fine.”

“How’s Nicky?”

“He’s great. He wants to get married and have eight kids.” She pushed some hair behind her ears, her heart thudding sickly, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Seems like a lot.” Harry gave a small smile, and Parker felt something shift in her chest.

“So I saw James leaving as I pulled in,” she said.

Her father nodded. “He comes every other weekend or so. Good kid.” Her father paused, tracing an invisible design on the tabletop. “Of course, he should come see me, since he’s the one who put me here.”

Parker’s mouth dropped open. “You know about that?”

Harry shrugged. “He told me a few weeks ago, but I already suspected. I was stupid. He did the right thing.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? That he’s the one responsible?”

“Well, the truth is, I’d have probably gotten caught anyway. He jump-started the process, let’s put it that way.”

Parker shook her head. “Did you want to get caught, Harry? Is that it?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. You get to a point where you think you’re invincible. That you’re smarter than everyone else. Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push things.”

You always did.

“I have a question for you, Harry,” she said, her voice low.

For the first time during the visit, her father looked uncomfortable. “Go ahead.”

She hesitated, her stomach twisting. Say it, Spike advised. She swallowed. “How is it that you could be such a crappy father to me and be so…easy with James? The first time I ever saw you two together, you were already closer than you and I have ever been. He put you in here, and you don’t seem to hold anything against him.” Her voice was shaking.

Harry didn’t answer.

“You barely speak to me. We’ve talked more since you were convicted than we have in a decade, and I’m sure it’s because you’re bored. But James…James is your BFF, even now. Did you always want a son? Is that my problem? I was born with the wrong parts?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. He glanced over her shoulder, thinking, then looked at her again. “It’s not that at all.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“It’s that you’ve been waiting for me to screw up again since you were ten years old.”

“When I walked in on you doing the babysitter, you mean?” Her voice was loud, and several people looked over.

“Yes.” His eyes were stony. “Exactly. And ever since that day, you’ve sat in judgment, just like your mother. You moved into Grayhurst to remind me of that day, to remind me that I was dog shit.”

“You were screwing my babysitter, Harry! You were dog shit!”

Her father shook his head “See, that’s your problem, Parker. Granted, I’m completely to blame for that day. But nothing I could do afterward could ever make up for that one stupid roll in the sack. You wouldn’t forgive me. Ever.”

“You never apologized,” she said tightly.

“You seem to wait for people to disappoint you, Parker,” he continued, ignoring her comment. “And guess what? They will. People make mistakes. We’re not perfect. You want to know why I like James? Because he likes me, Parker. Not many people do, in case you haven’t noticed. It was nice to be with someone who wasn’t simply kissing my ass or talking behind my back. He didn’t sit and judge and wait.”

“You paid him well.”

“Well, I haven’t paid him since May—”

“But he said—”

“—and yet he’s the only one who comes to see me, other than one visit from you. Two, counting today, which I gather is for you to vent your spleen and tell me what a shitty father I’ve been.”

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you, Dad?”

The question shocked them both. Harry’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“When I was a kid,” she went on, slowly, as the thoughts seemed to form only as she spoke, “you made me feel like the most important person in the world. I worshipped you, Harry. Everything I did, I did to impress you. But after that day, you could hardly look at me. It was like you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” he said. “I never hated you.” His gaze dropped to the table.

Parker looked at her father, the once-powerful legend of Wall Street. For years, it seemed that Harry had a pact with the devil, barely aging, the only change the silvering of his hair. But in prison, the years had caught up. He’d missed a spot shaving, and the skin under his eyes was puffy. His hair was longer, and a lock stood up in the back, same way Nicky’s did. Maybe her son’s cowlick wasn’t courtesy of Ethan’s gene pool. Maybe her son looked a little bit like his grandfather.

“I never hated you, either, Dad,” she said gently. “I moved into Grayhurst because it was where my happiest times were. Except for that one day.”

He looked up, and his eyes were wet. “I’m sorry about your trust fund,” he said. “I hope to make it up to you and Nicky both when I get out.”

“Don’t bother,” Parker answered. “Losing it was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

There was another long silence. “I’m sorry about the babysitter,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Thank you.”

“No touching,” said the guard. Parker squeezed her father’s hand, then obeyed.

* * *

SO THAT WAS SOMETHING, she thought as she drove home. Obviously, you didn’t repair a relationship that had been neglected for a quarter century in one conversation. But they’d said more across that little metal table than they’d said in years. Decades. It was a start.

Her father’s words echoed in her head. You wait for people to disappoint you.

No one had ever called Harry Welles dumb.

Beauty greeted her at the door, wagging vigorously, sniffing her shoes to see where she’d been. Parker bent to pet the dog’s soft head. “How was your day? Tell me you didn’t just lie on the couch and watch QVC.” The dog wagged some more, her eyes filled with love.

Funny, how Parker really hadn’t been looking for a dog and now couldn’t imagine life without her little pal.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said, heading upstairs.

Nick had left his drawing pad on her bed; they’d been coloring last night. She missed her son in the familiar rush, even though he hadn’t been gone for even twenty-four hours. Flipping through his pad, she saw the chronicle of their recent life—a girl with curly hair and blue eyes who could only be Colette, Nicky’s love. A brown-and-white dog. “It’s you,” she said, holding out the pad for Beauty to see. Lots of pictures of swords and maces. Darth Maul, his face distinguishable by the red-and-black coloring. A school bus with smiling faces in the windows. Sweet.

The next one gave her pause. Two smiling stick figures next to a house with a triangle for a roof. The smaller figure had spiky hair and held a gun and a square. The taller figure had curly brown hair.

James and Nicky and the nail gun.

He must have drawn this recently; the drawing pad was the one she’d bought him for school.

So he’d been thinking about James. Remembering him fondly, even, because the stick figures were holding hands.

She put the pad down and, on impulse, went to her closet for the box of stuff she’d taken from the house in Maine. Some rocks her son had insisted they bring. The plastic tomato with the top hat and eyelashes. The red notebook of her wretched story ideas. The manuscript of Mickey the Fire Engine. A piece of driftwood Beauty had brought her. Two pieces of blue sea glass.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been looking for. Sighing, she opened the notebook. There were the pulverized chipmunks. Swimmy the Shark, being eaten by his mommy. The Lonely Maggot. Nice. Quite a theme of distress here, most def. Oh, crikey, the Ark Angels. That one was really scraping the barrel.

She turned back to Mickey, the story Nicky loved. Now that was the book that should’ve made her famous. A hardworking but aging fire truck bumped into disservice by the bigger, shinier truck. Only Firefighter Bill had kept the faith in Mickey, and on that frigid winter night when the apartment building was on fire and the newer truck’s engine couldn’t start, Bill asked Mickey to come through just one more time.

Wonderful themes about being chosen, being useful, commitment and friendship. Of showing up when you were needed the most. Of forgiveness.

James had said he loved Mickey.

Beauty rested her muzzle on Parker’s shin. “Really? You think so?” Parker asked, rubbing the dog’s velvety snout. The dog blinked. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

She brought the manuscript downstairs, rustled around in her desk and pulled out a manila envelope and did a Google search of the address. James F. X. Cahill, c/o Goldman Sachs, 200 West Street, New York, NY.