Gorgeous. And somewhere close by was her house.
The Harringtons had been wealthy, too—not like the Welles family, but sedately comfortable. Althea had gone to Bryn Mawr and grew up in Westchester; Aunt Julia had been from the Boston side of the family, and had lived in a musty but respectable town house. Parker had only visited a few times, so her memory was dim. A house on the coast of Maine…surely it had potential.
Unfortunately, her GPS didn’t acknowledge the existence of Shoreline Drive. Wouldn’t hurt to find someone to ask.
Parker got out of the car, her lower back creaking a little, stretched and inhaled deeply. Then gagged. Bugger! What was that smell? Sure, Gideon’s Cove was a fishing village, but there was fish…and then there was this. Briny, fishy and rotten, thick enough to practically taste. It must have had something to do with the corrugated-metal building past the harbormaster’s building.
A few more breaths, and the smell wasn’t quite so repulsive. The wind was stiff and salty, so at least there was that. And though it was a beautiful evening, no one seemed to be around. Seagulls hovered on the breeze, and waves slapped against the white hulls of the boats. The wind shushed through the pines. Farther away, Parker heard some music, a baby crying. Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Aha. There was someone—a man motoring in from one of the lobster boats. He pulled up to the dock, jumped neatly out and tied off the boat, then came up the ramp toward her. Perfect. A local who could give her directions. “Hi,” Parker called, waving in case he missed her.
He stopped in front of her, then nodded.
Oh, Mommy! The word fling jumped rather forcefully to mind. She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Perfect. Lucy had urged her to have a fling, and the gods of Fling had sent this guy. How was that for convenience? Black hair. Light blue eyes. Laugh lines. Welcome to Gideon’s Cove indeed.
He didn’t say a word. Just looked at her. Perhaps he was mute.
“Hi there,” she said again, sticking out her hand. “I’m Parker. I’m visiting for a few weeks.”
He nodded again and shook her hand briefly, his hand strong and calloused. “Malone.”
Dead sexy, just the one name. “Nice to meet you.”
He didn’t answer. Which was fine—he didn’t have to speak. He could simply stand there, looking hot. Okay, but yes, it was going on a little long. So. How to proceed? Truth was, Parker was a little—very—out of practice on the boy-girl front. Too bad Fling Material didn’t say, Hey there, blondie, welcome to town. Let me buy you a drink and show you around! Maybe we could have a fling, because I find you very attractive.
Yeah, no. He didn’t seem to be the talking type. But he hadn’t left, either. “So,” she said. “Right. Well, I’m looking for my aunt’s house. Julia Harrington. She lived on Shoreline Drive.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Do you happen to know where that is?”
“Ayuh.” He said nothing more for a second, then, realizing perhaps more was required, cleared his throat. “About a mile out of town, that side of the cove.” Malone pointed. “Take a left out of the lot, then a quick right, and there you are.”
His voice was rough, and he dropped his Rs even more than they did in Rhode Island. It worked. “Thanks,” Parker said, her voice perhaps a little breathy. Go ahead, ask him out, Spike advised. He’s a guy. He’ll say yes.
Her ears were itchy. “Well, um, I’m sure I’ll see you around. Small town and all.” That was not asking him out. “And thank you, Malone was it? Malone.” Still not asking him out. “So…I’ll see you around?” Jeesh. So out of practice.
But no, no, looky here. He was smiling a little. Heck yeah! Maybe she wasn’t so bad at this after all.
“Good night,” he said.
Nope. She did suck. She would’ve said good-night, but he was already walking away.
That was terrible, the Holy Rollers said in disappointment. They were right. She was very bad at asking men out. This hadn’t always been the case, but it was sure true now, wasn’t it? Tall, Dark and Silent had simply appeared, all tousled and manly with those rough and calloused hands that, come on, probably knew their way around the female anatomy, because really. How many gay lobstermen were there?
“All right, settle down,” she told herself, getting back into her car. Talking aloud, the writer’s affliction. “Let’s get home before we start jumping the locals.”
Home. That had a nice sound to it, yes indeed.
Julia’s house was at 97 Shoreline Drive, and Parker drove slowly, checking the numbers on mailboxes and doors. The road wasn’t much wider than a driveway. There were a few very nice houses—two Victorians, a Greek Revival—but they grew smaller and more sparse as the road curved with the rocky shoreline, leaving behind the snug little town surprisingly fast. The last house was 66 Shoreline Drive; otherwise, there was nothing, other than a decrepit little shed that appeared to be about to fall into the ocean.
Hang on a sec. The road led to a small peninsula that jutted out into the cove, and Parker glimpsed a clearing in the pine trees. Heart rate kicking up a few levels, she wound down the road, then slowed to a stop. This had to be it; it was the end of Shoreline Drive. An iron gate barred the driveway, flanked by stone posts and a small, tasteful sign—Welcome to the Pines at Douglas Point. Number 66 was a ways back; this had to be 97.
Heck yeah!
She turned off the engine and got out of the car. Lucy had joked about the Bush compound, but Parker wasn’t sure the Bushes could afford this place. The house was gorgeous. Smaller, much smaller, than Grayhurst, but absolutely stunning. The driveway led up through the pines to what had to be a fifteen- or twenty-room stone house. Slate-shingled roof. Iron lampposts. Though the light was fading from the sky, Parker could see mullioned windows galore, huge beds of white and red impatiens, hydrangeas, mountain laurel and ivy…the place was like a park! Good Lord, in ten minutes, she could be inside, wine and bath a reality!
“Thank you, Aunt Julia!” Parker breathed. She couldn’t wait to see what it looked like. Was it furnished? She had an air mattress, just in case, but given how well kept the outside was, she’d bet it was full of solid old furniture. Maybe there was a caretaker; it sure looked that way. Weird that she owned the place and had never been sent a bill or anything. Then again, maybe her accountant had taken care of it. Still, she should’ve known if someone was on the payroll.
Whatever. She wasn’t complaining. You know what? She’d have a party before she sold it. Nicky could wear his little tux, and she’d wear that ice-blue Vera Wang, and they’d send out invitations—Parker Harrington Welles and Nicholas Giacomo Mirabelli warmly request the honor of your company for the weekend at the Pines at Douglas Point, Gideon’s Cove, Maine.
“Okay, okay, let’s get inside,” Parker muttered. There was a code box; she flipped it open. State-of-the-art. Getting back into the car, she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the envelope Thing One had given her the day he told her she was broke. There was the deed, there was his business card, there was a key…but no code. Dang it! She pulled out her phone and found Thing One on her contacts list. It went right to voice mail. The one time she actually needed something from him, and he was unavailable.
“Hi, Thing One, it’s Parker. I’m here in Gideon’s Cove, and I have the key, but I don’t have a code for the gate. Would you please call me as soon as you get this? Thanks.”