Somebody to Love. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ a positive indicator.

       There was a wooden stairway down to a small dock, but it was nearly full dark now, and Parker was not about to break her neck figuring out whether or not the stairs were sound.

       “Bite the bullet,” she said aloud. “Time to go inside and view your inheritance.”

       The key Thing One had supplied fit fine. Had he known this was her house? Had Harry? Think they might’ve given her a hint at what lay ahead?

       Parker turned the lock, which slid open after some wiggling. The door was warped, however, and stuck fast, so she shoved harder, using her shoulder. Once, twice, three times, and bam, it opened.

       Pitch-dark inside. She groped on the wall for a light switch and got lucky. Someone had turned on the electricity—or it had never been turned off—and a harsh yellow light momentarily blinded her.

       Permanently blinded might’ve been better.

       Parker closed her mouth, then opened it to swear, then realized that she didn’t know a word bad enough.

       Aunt Julia had been a hoarder.

       Faded boxes and stacks of crumbling newspapers lined the hallway so there was only a tiny path leading into the house. The smell was so thick and dry Parker choked. There was so much crap everywhere, it was hard to take in—pots, pans, candlesticks, yellowing plastic containers, paper plates, old fabric, swollen paperbacks, a set of encyclopedia, plastic dolls. Cripes! And this was just the hallway! Parker lifted her gaze to the cracked plaster walls visible above the hoard to the cracked plaster ceiling. God. The place was a wreck. She tried to take a calming breath, choked and pulled up her shirt to cover her mouth—or muffle her scream, she thought darkly. It’s only stuff, Spike said. Check it out a little. See what you got.

      Good advice, good advice. To her left was a bathroom, the door open. Pepto-Bismol-pink tub spilling over with…stuff. But there was a sink visible, and a toilet, thank the Lord. First things first.

      You’re not really going to pee in there, are you? asked the female Holy Rollers. When was that last cleaned?

       “Where else should I go?” Parker answered. “Outside?”

       A girl had to do what a girl had to do, especially after two coffees on the way up. Still, the horror of the situation was not lost on her. An eyeless doll lay in the bathtub, just in case the place wasn’t creepy enough. The toilet flushed, but when Parker turned on the faucet to wash her hands, nothing came out. Fine. She had Purell in the car.

       Across from the loo was a bedroom, she guessed—too much junk to open the door all the way. Praying no bats were currently living inside, Parker poked her head in. There may have been a bed, but it was hard to tell with all the boxes. Clothes, some still on their hangers, lay abandoned and forgotten. Shoes, hats, a box full of ceramic kittens, bags of yarn, books, macramé plant holders.

       A second bedroom held more of the same.

       She sidled down the hall, trying not to touch anything, toward what proved to be one big room, the kitchen on one side, what had once been a living room on the other. Another single lightbulb hung from a wire in here—still worked, showing piles of plastic bins filled with old clothing, more newspapers, sewing bric-a-brac. There was a fishing pole on the counter, couch cushions in front of the refrigerator, which looked to be from 1950, rounded and hulking. The oven was green, its door hanging open as if in a scream—Parker could totally relate. More boarded windows that probably overlooked the sea.

      Sometimes it’s darkest before dawn! the Holy Rollers chirped, patting her shoulder, and Parker envisioned herself backing over them with the Volvo. Platitudes were not going to help. A fire—a big one—might.

       How was she going to have Nicky come up here? How was she going to sell this place? Until this moment, Parker hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on a real house. This was all she had to her name, other than the $11,202.57?

       Oh, crap, she was hyperventilating. And who knew what she was breathing in?

       “It’s okay,” she said aloud. “We can do this. It’s bad, yes, sure, but that’s okay. This will be really fun. We can do this.”

       She could. She was a strong person. Right? She could lift heavy things, and she’d cleaned bathrooms and stuff before. Not that she really had to—there was always the housekeeper or cleaning service—but she’d done it. Zillions of people cleaned out garages and stuff, and she would, too. It would be deeply satisfying. Yes. Maybe she’d write a book about that, sure. Learning Life Skills Really, Really Fast.

       Good. There. She was calmer now.

       Suddenly, there was a fluttering of wings, and Parker screamed and ducked. A bird! In the house! A mourning dove, a glorified pigeon. “Get out!” she yelled, causing the bird to panic. It flew back and forth, hitting the walls, thudding sickeningly. “Stop!” she yelled. Bugger, it was coming at her! Parker covered her head and twisted and turned down the little path, bumped into a dressmaker’s dummy, the bird fluttering right over her head, that horrible, panicked trilling…gah! It hit her in the head, its feathers hideous, its little talons…

       Then Parker was outside. Hunched over, she dashed to her car, got in and slammed the door, panting wildly. “Bugger!” she yelled.

      Little Pigeon loved the lady’s hair. It was so cozy there! With a smile, he dug his little claws into her scalp and hunkered down.

       She was still shuddering. Good thing she’d just gone to the bathroom, or she would’ve wet herself.

       As her breathing calmed and the shaking of her limbs quieted, Parker made a mental list. Her eyes burned with tears, but that was stupid. Crying wasn’t going to help. Tomorrow, she’d see about…well, hell. Getting a Dumpster, to start. And some giant rubber gloves, and maybe a hazmat suit.

       Tonight, however…tonight, she’d be sleeping in the car. She had her comforter packed in the back, along with a few bags of groceries and her suitcase. She’d eat some Wheat Thins and sleep here.

       She cracked the windows. It had turned chilly—of course, they were what, fifty miles from Canada? But the air felt clean and pure, and Parker sucked in great lungfuls, that faint tang of fish nothing compared to the closed-up stuffiness of the house.

       And the stars were brilliant, blazing overhead in a clarity Parker had never seen before. The waves sloshed against the shore, and across the cove, the lights of the town glowed and winked as if welcoming her.

       She’d make this work. She had twenty-three days to make this work.

       But, even though she tried hard to keep such thoughts at bay, she couldn’t help remembering that a month ago, she’d stayed in a suite at the Peninsula Hotel in New York City with her son. Her publisher had taken them to dinner to Nobu to celebrate the release of the last Holy Rollers book, and after that, she and Nicky had gone up to the Top of the Rock, just the two of them, so he could see the view.

       Tonight, she was sleeping in her car.

       It was almost funny.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THOUGH HE VISITED the great state of Maine at least six times a year, crossing the Kittery Bridge never failed to make James feel as if someone had hammered a nail СКАЧАТЬ