Author: Kristan Higgins

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Louise answered. “She’ll probably end up overdosing in a nightclub bathroom somewhere.” There was a pause and the clink of ice as Louise took a sip of her Long Island iced tea.

Parker became even more of a freak by getting pregnant out of wedlock—and staying pregnant—and choosing to be a single mom. The books put her over the edge.

Family gatherings…eesh. Parker once described them to Ethan as Flowers in the Attic meets Jaws. Generally, she avoided them like a robust case of Ebola, but once a year or so, she had to make an appearance, and Esme’s wedding was one such affair.

Parker was a bridesmaid, pretty much because Harry was paying for the wedding, an obscene affair at the Rosecliff mansion in Newport. Esme and Aunt Vivian had wheedled and whined to Harry for weeks before he finally played Santa and said of course he’d pay for his niece’s wedding. Apparently, Esme had been yearning to get married at Rosecliff since her conception, and she’d gleefully spent Harry’s money hand over fist: flowers and hairstylists, a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, yada yada yada.

None of that made Parker welcome. She’d spent the rehearsal dinner largely being ignored and pretending not to mind. She hadn’t been invited to help Esme get ready the morning of the wedding, either. Nicky was with Ethan, so Parker had gone to Rosecliff alone. She figured she’d do her bridesmaid duties, endure the reception, then leave as soon as she could.

“Thanks, Chuck,” she said to the driver of the car service her father kept on retainer. “I’ll be maybe three hours, okay? I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”

“You bet, Miss Welles,” he said.

“Sure you don’t want to be my date?” she said, tipping him a twenty.

“Very. No offense.”

She laughed. “I hear you, pal. See you later.” Heart sinking a little, she got out of the car. “I am a wonderful mother,” she said as she approached the mansion. “I am a very successful author.” Preach it, sister! the Holy Rollers chorused. “And no one can make you feel inferior if you’ve had enough to drink. Or something.”

Without your consent! the angels corrected in their tiny, scolding voices.

Inside was the Coven—Esme, the bride, and Juliet and Regan as co–maids of honor—huddled together in a preceremony clump. Her aunts made disapproving noises about Parker’s timing, though she’d arrived ten minutes before they’d told her to.

“You look exhausted,” Aunt Vivian said, frowning. “Are you sick?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Parker said. “Esme, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks. Um…so do you?” the bride said, staring at Parker as if she had a third arm.

Parker smiled determinedly, took her bouquet and walked down the aisle, her eyes searching for her father. One thing they had in common—they hated family events. She didn’t see him, but then again, there were four hundred wedding guests.

In the receiving line, Juliet took her shots. “Parker, did you bring your husband? Wait, are you married? I always forget.” As if they hadn’t seen each other the night before.

“Nope. Not married.”

“And how old is your son again? It is a boy, right?”

“Nicky’s three.”

“Are you seeing anyone these days? It must be hard, because who wants a single mom?”

Finally, the reception began in earnest. Parker glanced around for a safe haven, hoping to see a friendly face somewhere. One of her uncles—Louise’s husband—had always been nice, but the last time she’d seen him, he’d hugged her a little too long, his hand a little too low on her back.

Still no Harry. He wouldn’t miss a family wedding—or the chance to remind people who paid for it—and last she knew, he was coming. For a second, she indulged in the fantasy that she and her father were close. That they’d sit together today, that he’d dance with her and tell her she was the prettiest girl in the room. He’d come to Grayhurst after the wedding and play Candy Land with Nicky, read him books until her son fell asleep. Then she and her dad would watch something manly on TV, because Harry loved war movies. Saving Private Ryan. She’d make popcorn.

Right.

She should’ve brought a date. Ethan would’ve come, and Lucy would’ve loved to have babysat. She could’ve hired an escort, like in that movie she’d fallen asleep on a few weeks ago. But needing armor and actually admitting you needed armor were different things.

A drink, however, was definitely in order.

“Hello,” she said to the bartender, smiling. “I would like a very strong martini with three olives and a smidge of brine.”

“Belvedere okay?” he asked.

“How about Stoli Elit? Got any of that?” she said. It was her father’s favorite.

“You have good taste,” he said.

“Got that right, buddy,” she answered, grinning. She gave him a fifty as a tip, knowing half her relatives would fail to tip him at all. Rich people. Sucky tippers.

The martini went down as it should, icy cold and so smooth she barely noticed.

“Parker! What are you doing, just standing there?” It was dear Cousin Regan, dragging her fiancé behind her.

“I’m taking it all in,” Parker said.

“You haven’t met Rob, my fiancé, have you?” Regan asked.

“We met last night,” Parker said, nodding at him, the poor guy. “Hello again.”

“So, like, our wedding?” Regan said. “I’m thinking Manhattan? Like…the Pierre? Right, Rob?”

Parker nodded, feigning interest. This would be Regan’s third engagement, and if it followed suit, it should be over in, oh, about an hour. Regan enjoyed upstaging other people’s weddings.

“And how are your little books doing?” her cousin asked, nudging Rob with her elbow.

“They’re doing great. The last one came out at number five on the Times list,” Parker said.

“Rob, Parker writes those strange little books about the angels,” Regan said in mock explanation. “They’re very…um…precious?”

“So glad you like them,” Parker said. “Excuse me for one second.” No point in hanging around Regan, who’d recently posted a vicious review of The Holy Rollers and the Blind Little Bunny on Amazon. She’d forgotten to use a screen name, however. Or maybe she hadn’t.

Regan’s whisper, loud enough to ensure she was heard, followed Parker. “Those books? They, like, make you want to hurl. And her mother? On her fourth rich old man. Seriously.”

The thing was, Regan couldn’t say anything about her books that Parker didn’t already think herself. The books were a joke, it was true. That they were bringing Save the Children some serious money didn’t matter to the Coven.

As for Althea, well, it was also true.

“How about another one of these?” she said to the nice bartender.

She sidled through the crowd, saying hello here and there, making her way out of the throng. She had to stay; if she left, it would be an admission of defeat. But hey. She could have a quiet moment. The thing about having a three-year-old…the only time he didn’t talk was when he was asleep, and the questions these days! Why, Mommy? Why? Why? Why not? Why? She smiled. Maybe she’d give Ethan a call, see how their wunderkind was doing. So much for not wanting to talk to anyone. A friendly, nice person…she would love to talk to a friendly, nice person. But these mean people? They sucked.

Seemed as if the martinis were having the desired effect. That bartender knew what he was doing, yes, sir.

She wandered into the foyer—well, a foyer, because this place was huge. It was less crowded here, and oh, perfect. A small, secret staircase leading up to the second floor.

Parker went up, not spilling a drop of martini because hey! She was a Miss Porter’s grad, thank you very much! Stellar education and social graces. Also, the drink was nearly gone.

At the top of the staircase was a long hallway blocked by a velvet rope. Parker sat down a few steps from the top. From here, she could see not only the foyer, but the guests going in and out of the ballroom. Esme, despite being Bridezilla, was beautiful in her crystal-beaded dress, and certainly, as settings went, it didn’t get better than Rosecliff, if you liked ostentatious excess, which the Welles family certainly did. Everyone was dressed to kill, and laughter and squeals floated up.

Oh, bugger. A dark-haired man had spied her staircase and was heading up. Parker looked into her purse, planning to make that phone call and avoid conversation. But the man stopped.

“Parker. Always lovely to see you.”

She winced and looked up. “Thing One. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Is my father here?” she asked, hating that he would know and she didn’t.

“I’m afraid he can’t make it.”

For God’s sake. Her father was blowing off his own niece’s wedding. The Coven would have a fit. Parker was used to it—Thing One: Emissary—but Harry usually put in an appearance with the extended family, the better to lord his power.

“Anything you need, Parker?”

“No thank you.”

“Not even this?” He handed her an icy glass and sat next to her. “I asked the bartender what you were drinking.”

“And to think I never liked you,” she said with a small smile. He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, Thing One.”

He had a drink, as well, and sat down next to her. Like every man there, he was wearing a tux, which was…good. Not many men looked worse in a tuxedo, and Thing One was no exception. He was quite attractive. Not to her, of course. But he looked…good.

Wicked good.

She took a sip of her drink.

“Having a nice time?” he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

“Oh, absolutely. You?”

“You bet.” This was their first one-on-one conversation since…since Nicky was born, come to think of it. “So how have you been, Parker?” he asked.

She smiled as she sipped the martini. “Do you care, Thing One?”

“Of course. I’m paid to care.” He grinned at her, and Parker had to laugh.

“At least you’re honest. If there is such a thing as an honest lawyer, that is.” He had a nice smile. Hell.

“I get the idea that you’re somehow persona non grata around here,” he said. “Why is that?”

“No clue.”

“Probably because you’re prettier than anyone else.”

Parker rolled her eyes. “Save the ass kissing for my father, dear boy.”

He shook his head and looked into his drink, the smile playing around his mouth. “Beautiful women. So cruel.”

“Smarmy men. So common.”

“Now you’re just reinforcing my point.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, slender box tied with a silky black ribbon. “Happy birthday from your dad.”

Oh, hell. Bugger and damn. She swallowed carefully, not looking at Thing One.

Because yes, it was her birthday. No one had mentioned that fact when Esme’s wedding date had been set, and Parker hadn’t wanted to bring it up. She wasn’t sure that her aunts knew when her birthday was.

She wasn’t sure her father knew when her birthday was.

Parker took the package from Thing One’s hand and untied the ribbon.

Inside the box was a fountain pen made of some glossy blue stone. It was heavy and beautiful, and there were two cartridges of peacock-green ink. She could use it for signings. The kids would love the ink color, and her signature would look like calligraphy, coming out of the brass nib.

It was perfect. “My father did not pick this out,” she said, not looking at him.