“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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“I’M NOT GOING in there. You’re crazy. You’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ve hardly killed anyone this year,” James said. “Come on. I feel like an idiot as it is.”

“’Cuz you are an idiot, man. Go yourself. Leave me out of this, skinny.”

James could feel his teeth turning to dust, he was grinding them so hard. When he’d signed up for Big Brothers Big Sisters, he’d envisioned taking some cute little kid to the movies, shooting hoops, going out for ice cream. Someone around Nicky Mirabelli’s age, for example, or maybe seven or eight. In this scenario, he’d pick up the kid in a poor but respectable neighborhood where the parent(s) would be delighted to see him.

Instead, he’d been greeted by the dead-eyed stare of an enormous man who’d exuded boredom and contempt like a toxic gas.

“Hi. I’m James Cahill from Big Brothers? I’m here for Taymal.”

“That right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Okay. Let’s go, then.” He grabbed a jacket, then stopped. “What? You got a problem?”

So yeah. Taymal was fifteen years old, stood six feet three and had the physique of a Patriots linebacker. He looked as if he could—and might—snap James in half.

Nevertheless, James couldn’t exactly say, “I was looking for someone cuter and less frightening,” so here they were, standing poolside at the Providence YMCA. “Look. I signed us both up,” he said.

“That is not my problem, skinny.”

It was probably a hundred degrees in here, and about a thousand little kids seemed to be having a screaming contest for who could sound the most in peril. James’s skin was crawling, his nerves were like piano wire, and he was trying not to let Taymal see that he was fricking terrified.

While Taymal refused to go in the pool, he had nonetheless let James spend $89 on a pair of swim trunks an hour before, since he didn’t own any. He also asked if James would buy him a $165 pair of Nike sneakers. When James asked if he liked basketball, Taymal gave him a very loud and eloquent lecture on racial stereotyping, then asked if he could get a Kobe Bryant shirt.

“Just try it, Taymal. It’s okay if you don’t know how to swim. We’re here for lessons.”

“Bite me, skinny. I can swim. I don’t want to.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Why? You think black people can’t swim?”

“No, I didn’t mean that—”

“Hi! Are you James and Taymal? I’m Quinn! I’m your swim instructor!” A very beautiful girl bounced up to them. Red bathing suit, blue eyes, brown, curly hair streaked with the greenish-blond of a swimmer. “Are you guys ready?”

“Oh, baby, I am so ready,” Taymal said, pursing his lips and giving her an appreciative scan.

“Taymal. Stop.” This was a really, really bad idea. “Show some respect, okay?”

“Oh, indeed. Quinn, honey, I respect you, baby—”

“Yeah, you actually will have to stop or I get to drown you,” Quinn said, tapping her clipboard. “It’s part of the rules.”

Taymal rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not going swimming. Uh-uh. No way.”

“Great,” James said. “Well, let’s stand here for an hour, then, and listen to the children scream.”

“I’ll give you two a minute. How’s that?” Quinn said, bouncing away again.

“What do you wanna swim for, anyway?” Taymal said.

James thought about the answer he’d prepared: really important skill to have, the importance of wholesome hobbies. They could swim here in the winter and go to the beach in the summer—though whether Taymal would tolerate him for even ten more minutes was dubious. He sighed. “We don’t have to. I’ll take you out to eat instead.”

“Now you’re talking.”

James looked at all those little kids in the shallow end of the pool, shrieking and splashing. “I almost drowned when I was a kid. My sister, too. She has brain damage because of it, and I’ve been scared to swim ever since. I thought maybe if I had someone with me, it wouldn’t be so hard. But it still seems hard. See?” He held up his hand, which was shaking.

“Shit, man. That is one sad story. Where do you wanna eat?”

“I don’t know. Chili’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

James turned to go. “Sorry, Quinn,” he called. “We have to cancel.”

“Not a problem,” she answered.

When he got to the door, he found that Taymal wasn’t with him. The kid—the Hulk—was still at the edge of the pool. James sighed and went back.

“You really wanna do this?” Taymal asked, jerking his chin at the water.

“No. I mean, I actually do know how to swim—I just hate it. But if you don’t want to do this, I’ll come back another time without you.”

Taymal gave him a long-suffering look. “Dude, you’re about to piss your pants as it is. You won’t come back. Yo, Quinn! Come on over, beautiful! My man’s ready.”

* * *

WHEN JAMES GOT HOME late that afternoon, he was exhausted, his head was killing him and he was fairly sure there was some nasty-ass pool water lurking in his left lung.

But.

He’d been swimming. Not as rewarding as when Parker had bribed him out to the dock, but he’d done it. Taymal had howled with laughter, shown off his own pretty solid swimming skills and then, at Chili’s, eaten a bacon burger, a full order of baby back ribs and the Triple Dipper platter. Extra fries.

“You want to see me again?” James asked as he pulled up in front of Taymal’s house.

“What, are you my girlfriend now?” the kid asked. “Dude, this is part of my parole, okay?”