Kristan Higgins - Somebody to Love

“Well, actually, I’m in Maine right now, and I’ll be here for a while. Six or eight weeks. Figured I’d let you know.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” she finally said.

It was impressive, how much could be packed into a two-letter word. They must teach it at woman school. “Yeah. So, just wanted to say bye and have a nice summer and all.” James pressed his thumb against his eye socket, bracing for the relationship talk.

“What about…you know? Us?”

Ah, mooseshit. Was there an us? Because he’d seen Leah, a very pretty redhead who liked to play pool and flirt, maybe six or seven times since they’d met at a wedding on New Year’s Eve, and if there was an us, it was pretty anemic. There was him, and there was her, and the two of them intersected at a bar once in a while, which generally led to more intersecting in bed, which had always seemed like enough.

Until this moment.

“Well, I have to be in Maine this summer,” James repeated.

“For Harry?”

“Yep. So I figured I’d call, tell you I wouldn’t be around. And after the summer, I really don’t know where I’ll be jobwise.” There. Mission accomplished.

“You want some company up there? I love Maine!”

Mission not accomplished. James sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, I’ll be busy, Leah. And it’s far. Way up the coast. But it’s been fun hanging out. Good luck with everything.” He winced. He didn’t mean to sound like a dick. They just taught it in guy school.

There was a lengthy pause, then a sigh. “Fine.” Another pause. “Where are you staying?”

“A town called Gideon’s Cove. Harry’s daughter has some property up there.”

“Harry’s in jail, right?”

“Yeah. But his daughter needs a little help. Real-estate stuff.” James never liked talking about what he did, just in case what he didn’t do came out. Well, I sit in my office a lot. Shot thirty-nine Nerf baskets in a row one day. I was really stoked.

Another pause. “Well, try to have fun,” she said, her voice a little brighter. “And thanks for calling, James! That was so thoughtful.”

Atta girl. Leah was sweet. Not tremendously bright, but good-natured and fun. It’d been really easy, hanging out with her. And easy was good so far as he was concerned. “You take care, Leah.”

“You, too, James. Give me a call when you’re back, if you feel like it.”

“You bet. Take care,” he repeated.

There. His condo was sublet for the summer. Leah had been informed. Stella, his secretary, had told James not to worry; she’d been about to quit anyway and become a jujitsu instructor. The guys he played basketball with on Saturday mornings had taken him out for a beer as a farewell. No point in telling Mary Elizabeth about work…she pretty much only cared if he brought her a present.

His parents could wait.

So. On to Gideon’s Cove to see Parker. Maybe she’d be glad to see him.

Right. And the ice-skating in hell was fabulous this time of year. But she was Harry’s daughter, and James owed him more than he could say.

Six years ago, James had been stuck on the tarmac in L.A., where he’d interviewed for a job—one of 204 prospects, apparently. He’d been out of law school for a year and had yet to get a job offer, and panic was setting in. His father was 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.