Page 36 of Parker
He stopped arguing with her around an hour ago. They all did. Every contract, deed, and document has been inspected by her sharp eye this week. The men in this room are shitting themselves.
Yesterday, she removed two of their colleagues from the building after discovering they had been taking bribes from potential tenants. Fifty years of service to Parker Industries between them, and they’re gone.
Imelda’s voice resonates around the room, her confidence ballooning every day. “Listen to me, all of you. My husband is dead. How things were done when he was your boss will be different from how I will ask you to do them. If you don’t enjoyhaving a woman in charge…” She shrugs her shoulders, then points to the door. “Leave now.”
The only chink in her armor I’ve seen came a few days ago. She’d summoned us all to the boardroom, but when I arrived, she was alone. Standing at the window with a photo in her hand. It was of her and my father in their younger years, smiling, arms linked like teenagers.
She turned as I approached, then slipped the photo into her pocket.
“I spent decades standing behind a man,” she said, her voice cool but brittle. “Now I’m leading... and I miss the silence of being unnoticed. Sometimes what you dream of isn’t what you think it is.”
Before I could answer, the others walked in, and the meeting began like nothing had happened.
***
As I look in the mirror, my mother stands behind me. My suit is crisp in navy blue, Nicky’s favorite color, and the pale pink shirt and tie soften the sharp lines. I have shined my shoes, tweaked my hair, and re-checked every detail of my outfit is exactly as my bride-to-be wants.
“Will you not reconsider, Mother, please?” I ask again. She shakes her head sadly. “I appreciate this has all happened quickly. That love for you is something very different from what it is for me. But my mother not being at my wedding will be something I regret for years to come. I’m begging you to think about it.”
She dusts an invisible speck from my shoulder, standing to my side so we can look at each other in the mirror. Her eyes are red from the tears she shed this morning, begging me not to go through with this so soon after my father’s death, four monthsago. But nothing will change my mind. Nicky is the woman I want to be married to.
“Joel, you’re my only child, but I will not stand by and watch you make this horrendous mistake. This girl is not the one. What you are feeling is not love, but attachment. Be realistic—she’s a recovered convict who has snagged you. Dragging you down the aisle makes perfect sense in her world, not yours.”
“No,” I hiss. She recoils from me. This is the first time I’ve seen her vulnerable side since she stepped up within the business. “I’ll not explain myself again. Suit yourself. See you at work on Monday.”
“I’m sorry you’re not able to honeymoon,” she mumbles. “I’m complicating things, and I need you with me.”
Her words temper my anger slightly. Her reservations are completely understandable—my relationship with Nicky has moved fast—but I’m saddened she doesn’t understand or can’t move to accept my decision to marry her. I knew she wasn’t heartless. Just terrified. Of loss, of headlines, of me making a mistake I couldn’t take back.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Nicky and I have years to go on romantic holidays. The two nights in the castle hotel will be perfect. Thank you for your generosity with the gift and for giving Nicky a chance in our business.” With regret, I give my mother one last hug before walking off to become a married man.
The short notice for our wedding limited our ability to find a local venue available on a Friday. The trees are losing their leaves, and the rain falls outside —a normal fall morning in Glasgow. A park in the city's suburbs nestles the registry office. From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a government office.
We chose here because of the gardens; they are beautifully filled with masses of plants and trees. At this time of year,the tones of gold, orange, and brown will give us a stunning backdrop for our photographs. If it ever stops raining.
Outside the registry office, Ebony stands just beyond the line of arriving guests, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other. She wears impeccably tailored trousers, a high-neck blouse, and a coat that probably cost more than most of the guests’ outfits combined.
“No flash inside the building,” she says, voice brisk but polite. “We want soft candids, not tabloid glare. Capture emotion, not intrusion.”
I watch her work from a distance. She isn’t just here in a professional capacity. This was personal. Her presence is part control, part containment. She is spinning this marriage as a human-interest victory. Parker heir finds redemption through love. Former convict bride becomes corporate Cinderella. It is classic damage control. Ebony hasn’t missed a trick.
She catches my gaze and nods, barely. Approval? A warning? I can’t tell. But she is already turning back to the camera crew before I can figure it out.
Whatever this wedding means to me, it means something else entirely to her. And knowing her, she already has the headline drafted.
Boyd walks beside me, stiff in his matching suit. Not that I consider him my best friend, but candidates for my best man were thin on the ground. My family trusts Boyd; he has guarded our lives for decades.
Male friends are not something I have an abundance of. The boys I drank with in the past, city boys, have distanced themselves since my sobriety. They will be here today with their partners to watch me get married, but our boys’ nights out are long gone. It saddens me, but I must accept that for me to stay sober, reducing my contact with them is a necessity.
10:30 a.m. Only thirty minutes for my bride to arrive, if she is on time.
From the few months we have known each other, I’ve learned so much I love about her already. Nicky is fiercely loyal to her friend, Sophie, who’s her maid of honor today. She had a challenging childhood, and her mother’s lack of support causes her a lot of pain.
Like my own, her mother will not be attending our day, unable to put her opinions to one side and permit herself to come.
Since her release from prison, Nicky has been trying tirelessly to find employment with no success. No employer wants to take a risk on her, even though she can prove she has conquered her demons. While locked up, she completed a business degree, learned French to a conversational level, and worked on her own personal issues. I find her tenacity breathtaking.
My mother disliked the idea of Nicky working at Parker Fashion, but finally agreed, saying she could at least keep an eye on her.
