The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “No. What I think is strange is that I am struggling to relate to him, but I don’t really understand why. He’s just like my brothers and I were growing up—angry, defiant, rebellious . . . but for some reason, I can’t seem to see the world through his eyes.”

  “That’s because you had hope,” she said matter-of-factly and studied a cuticle as if it was the most obvious conclusion in the world. Yet the suggestion clanged like a bell in Jake. It was so plainly obvious, so simple, that he was stunned he had not realized it before. Of course Cole had no hope—he had lost his father and his mother, his grandmother was a disciplinarian, one uncle was in prison, and the other . . . well, the other yelled at him for the most part.

  It was a thought that lodged deep in Jake’s brain and his heart as their discussion turned from Cole to what Ross had been like as a kid, how Jake could see so much of his brother in Cole. By the time Pete came on the intercom and announced they were descending toward Burdette, Robin was laughing at the tale of Jake’s first date ever, and a double one at that, with Ross and the Dewley twins. He had been maybe fifteen at the time, and yes, he had been obsessed with Sara Dewley.

  The plane landed on an old, pitted runway, bouncing like a rubber ball as it shuddered to a stop. Robin leaned forward again, looked out the portal window, and winced. “It’s worse than I imagined.” They saw a dilapidated old metal building, and beyond that, the stacks of a smelting plant. When the plane shuddered to a stop and Pete opened the door, they were instantly assaulted by the smell of sardines or something very much like it.

  “Processing plant,” Pete offered helpfully at their twin grimaces. Exchanging wary glances, Jake and Robin waited for a young man with a red baseball hat to push the stairs up to the plane.

  Robin made a careful ascent to the bottom of the stairs. The young man eyed Jake as he came down behind her. “Where y’all from?”

  “Houston,” Jake responded while Robin straightened her clothing and glanced around.

  “You the ones for Wirt?”

  “Yes,” Robin said, eyeing the man. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, ‘cuz Girt sent someone to pick you up.” He pointed in the direction of the metal building. Jake and Robin turned their heads.

  Robin gasped.

  Jake instantly put an arm around her waist and muttered, “Don’t panic.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Like hell she wasn’t going to panic.

  The . . . conveyance . . . was an ancient pickup, which appeared to have been white at one time, but was now a fleshy color with a red fender, a silver hood, and a steel bumper. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat with the door open, one leg propped on the running board, an oily baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He spit on the tarmac, looked up, and waved lazily at Jake and Robin.

  “That’s Bob,” the kid said. “Girt sent him for you.”

  But Robin had already moved past Bob and was paralyzed by the sight of the two salvaged captain chairs, propped up in the bed of the truck against the cab, facing backward. “Ohmigod,” she muttered, frantically wondering how in the hell she would ever get in the back of that truck, much less ride in it. There was no amount of bubble wrap in the world worth ruining her Versace suit, and Styrofoam peanuts damn sure weren’t worth the humiliation. Oh no. Nononono—

  “Deep breaths,” Jake reminded her.

  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t ride in that. I won’t get near that!”

  “Come on, it’s not the end of the world—”

  “Yes, it is!” she whispered, frantically grabbing his arm. “Yes yes yes, it is! I can’t do it! I can’t! I’m wearing Ver-sa-ce!”

  “I am sure you can dry-clean fur sashi,” Jake said in all earnestness as he attempted to peel her fingers from their death grip of his arm.

  “I am not riding in that,” she said again. “I won’t do it!” She whipped around to the kid in the red baseball hat. “YO! There has to be another way into town. A taxi service? A rental car?”

  “Bob don’t mind taking you.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, letting go of Jake’s arm and marching to where the kid was standing. “I can’t ride in that truck.” He looked confused. “Okay, look at that,” she said, gesturing insistently to the truck, “and look at me. Do I look like I belong in that truck?”

  “Lady, you don’t look like you even belong in this state!”

  “That’s right!” she cried, relieved. “So how else can we get into town?”

  “Bob’s all we got.”

  Robin gaped at him, unable to absorb it, unable to see herself in the back of the pickup truck, no matter how hard she tried, not even on acid. Never. Not doing it.

  “Robin, you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

  Oh fine. Fix-it Fred thought she was just being a big baby. What did he know? “Jake. I am not dressed to ride around in the back of a pickup truck.”

  “Before you get your panties in a wad, I’m sure ol’ Bob intends for you to ride in the front with him. I’ll ride in the back.”

  He had to be kidding.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” he continued. “This isn’t Houston. Sometimes you gotta go along to get along. And I’m not afraid of ruining my fur sashi.”

  She wished he’d quit saying Versace like it was some sort of synthetic fiber.

  Bob, a long and lanky fellow, was now walking toward them, his hands in his pockets.

  “Now listen,” Jake added, wrapping his hand around Robin’s wrist as the kid started to drag the stairs away from the jet, “let me offer a little piece of friendly advice. If you don’t have anything nice to say about a man’s truck, then just don’t say anything at all. If you dis the truck, you dis the man. Got it?”

  “Huh?” she asked, but Bob was upon them and Jake was already extending his hand in greeting.

  “How you doing? Jake Manning. And this is Miss Lear.”

  Bob took his hand, shook it vigorously. “Bob Lamke. Girt asked me to give you folks a ride into town.” He shifted his gaze to Robin. “Bob Lamke,” he said again, offering his hand.

  Grease was caked beneath his fingernails; Robin quickly hid her hands, ignored Jake’s dark frown, and said, “Thanks for coming to pick us up.”

  “Oh . . .” Bob dropped his hand. “Well, if you’re ready,” he said, motioning to the truck.

  Robin nodded mutely. Jake slipped his hand over hers, gave her a hard squeeze, leaned over as they fell in behind Bob, and whispered, “You better step down off your little pedestal, girl.”

  Whatever. She was not going to start making deals in the bed of an old pickup truck, no matter how natural that might seem to Handy Andy.

  Surprisingly, Bob’s truck was not nearly as filthy as Robin had imagined—Jake was right; it appeared Bob took great care of it. On the inside, there were two different captain chairs with a large console between them, which, judging by the look of it, had been modified in someone’s backyard. From Bob’s rearview mirror hung a Christmas tree odor eater, and on the dash, a bobble-head New Orleans Saints football player smiled at her. The seat was actually clean, and Jake complimented an openly proud Bob on his redo of the bed before jumping effortlessly over the side and settling into the captain chair directly behind Robin.

  Bob pumped the gas a couple of times, then started the thing up. “Girt asked me to drive you through town,” he shouted over the muffler-less engine. “We’ll take a little tour of the plant after we’re through this afternoon.”

  “Through? Through with what?”

  Bob looked at her in surprise. “She didn’t tell you? Saturday’s bowling day!”

  No, it wasn’t a cruel joke the universe was playing on her; she wasn’t even hallucinating—she was, apparently, alive and well and standing in the middle of a bowling alley. This, of course, after the scenic route through town, which included a drive-by of the smelting plant, the new Super Wal-Mart, and the town square, where Christmas decorations were
still hanging. “They save money that way,” Bob informed her.

  But the Rock-n-Bowl was the town’s crowning glory. The moment Bob opened the tinted glass doors, a rush of air smelling like stale smoke and popcorn permeated her brain; and the sound of balls and pins so loud she could hardly hear Bob tell her to get her shoes. It took a moment for that to sink in, the hilarious notion that he actually expected her to bowl. She started to shake her head, but felt Jake’s hand on the small of her back pushing her forward, to the counter.

  “Tell them what size,” he said gruffly. “Remember, when in Rome . . .”

  Rome, hell! Too stunned to even think, Robin muttered her shoe size. The man put a pair of red-and-purple bowling shoes on the counter, then red-and-green ones for Jake, which he promptly picked up. “And smile. Sop looking so damned horrified.”

  But she was horrified. She had expected to breeze into town, have a short but intense discussion with Eldagirt—who had yet to make an appearance, by the way—and be home in time for cocktails with Cecilia in River Oaks. Not once, astonishingly enough, had the thought of bowling crossed her mind. Worse, Jake seemed completely unfazed by it, and much, much worse, looked as if he was actually excited by the prospect.

  He nudged her with his elbow to follow Bob. “Lookit, you’re going to piss everyone off if you keep looking so miserable,” he muttered low.

  What about her? What if she was a little pissed off about this sudden turn of events?

  “Now come on, Robin. This is Burdette and it’s Saturday,” he reminded her.

  “You cannot be serious,” she whispered hotly as they descended into the lane area. “You cannot possibly think that it is all right to do business like this!”

  “Why not? It’s just one step removed from doing business on the golf course.”

  Ahead of them, Bob stopped at a plastic picnic table bolted to the floor. Around it, three women were seated.

  “It is fifteen golf carts and five thousand caddies away from doing business on a golf course!” Robin said testily and stopped behind Bob, plastering a smile on her face. The three women, all in plus sizes, gave Robin a cool once-over as Bob explained she was the person Girt was expecting. But their eyeballs pretty much bulged two Torn-and-Jerry feet out of their sockets when Bob introduced Jake.

  “Ladies,” Jake said with a smile, “I hope you don’t mind if we crash your game.”

  “Honey, you can crash whatever you want,” one said, and they all laughed.

  Bob lackadaisically motioned to the women. “This is Sylvia and Sue, and that’s Reba.”

  “As in McIntyre,” Reba said, putting a pudgy hand to her hair.

  “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Jake, and this is Robin.”

  Not one of them took their eyes from Jake. Sue dragged long on a cigarette she held between two sausage-like fingers, eyeballing him up and down. “Are you gonna bowl?”

  “If you don’t mind letting a hack join.”

  “We don’t mind!” Sue and Reba chimed at the exact same time.

  “Where’s Girt?” Bob asked.

  Sylvia barely spared him a glance. “Running late. David’s not feeling well today, I guess. But she said to get started without her.”

  “Y’all better go on ahead. I imagine Girt’s gonna need some help,” Bob said and turned and walked away, leaving Robin and Jake with the three Humpty-Dumptys.

  “I’ll find a ball,” Jake offered, shedding his jacket, and walked to racks of bowling balls.

  The three women managed to drag their gaze from Jake’s butt to Robin and eyed her curiously. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Robin.”

  They all waited for Jake to come back.

  He was back in a jiffy, plopping himself down next to Sue with a devastating smile, which charmed the skintight, butterfly-appliqued stretch pants right off of her. She giggled at something he said about the shoes, and turned red as a beet when he declared that he couldn’t possibly hope to beat someone who came with her own bowling shirt. Sylvia and Reba were drooling, too. Well, at least she shared one thing in common with these women, Robin thought—they all thought Jake was a hunk. And when the hunk had finished changing shoes, he stood up, announced his intention to help Robin find a ball, grabbed her by the elbow, and marched her forward.

  When they were out of earshot of the women, he said, “All right, it is definitely time to get over yourself. Are you going to be miserable all afternoon, or are you at least going to attempt to hide your loathing?”

  “I don’t loathe them!” she protested.

  “Oh yeah? Well, you look like you’d just as soon drive head-on into a brick wall. Now put your shoes on and stop acting like you’re above bowling, because you’re not. You put on your shoes one foot at a time just like everyone else in this joint,” he said sternly and picked up a ball. “Here. Stick your fingers in there.”

  “I’m going to ruin my nails,” she pouted as she stuck them inside three holes.

  “You can buy more. What do you think, does it feel okay? Not too heavy?”

  She shrugged. He groaned, pointed her back to the table with her ball, her shoes, and her handbag. Robin sat gingerly next to Reba and forced herself to smile. “You bowl a lot?” Reba asked.

  “Ah . . . no.”

  “Have you ever bowled?” Sylvia asked, grinning at Sue’s horrified little snicker.

  Okeydokey, here they went. “Once,” Robin said. The three women looked at each other. Robin bent over, slipped off Cole Haan flats, and, with a grimace, forced herself to slide her foot into one bowling shoe, then the other.

  “Can we take a couple of practice rounds?” Jake asked as he breezed by.

  “Sure!” Sue all but shouted, and bounced to her feet and hurried to the carousel, where she picked up a flaming pink ball.

  “This oughta be good,” Sylvia said, sniggering with Reba.

  It was good. Jake brought the ball up to his nose, gracefully glided to the edge of the lane, one leg sweeping long behind him as he went down and let the ball roll from his fingers. Much to Robin’s surprise, he knocked all the pins down.

  “Strike!” shrieked Reba.

  Jake turned around, grinning from ear to ear, sooo pleased with himself. “Ladies, I do believe I am ready to go,” he said proudly, and smiled as the three of them came clamoring forward to bowl their practice rounds.

  Surprisingly, the women bowled as expertly, and almost as gracefully, as Jake. Reba was the last to lumber up to the line, and in movement that seemed to defy physics, knocked all the pins down except two, which she managed to hit with the next ball.

  Then all heads swiveled, Exorcist-like, toward Robin. Jake motioned for her to come up. Damn. Robin had bowled once in her life, and that was only because she’d had one too many beers, and it had been a public persona disaster. As she really was not one to relish making a complete ass of herself, Robin swallowed a lump in her throat, stood, and walked stiffly in the funky shoes to where Jake was standing.

  Jake put his hands on his hips. “You’ll need a ball.”

  Well, he didn’t have to smirk when he said it. Robin pivoted like a robot, went to the carousel and picked up the blue ball he had selected for her, and walked back to the line.

  “Relax,” Jake said. “This isn’t Chinese water torture. Just line it up and let go.”

  “I think I can figure out how to bowl,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

  Jake frowned, leaned over her shoulder. “Do you want this company? If you don’t, then let’s just ask one of these nice ladies for a ride hack to the airstrip and get the hell out of here. If you do want this company, then I strongly suggest you get that chip off your fur sashi shoulder and lighten up.”

  “And just who are you, my conscience?”

  “Fine,” he muttered and stepped back. “Be a bitch about it. You’re up.”

  Bitch. Bitch! Oh yeah, she was up, all right. So far up that when she was done with him, she was going to leave his dismembered body a
ll over Louisiana. Robin lifted the ball, eyed the pins down the lane, took two steps forward, and let the ball fly.

  Only it flew across the lane, popped up out of the gutter, and went sailing down the next lane, where it ricocheted off the pin gate and disappeared into a hole on the side. Dumbfounded by her incompetence, Robin stood there, wondering if this latest episode of The Twilight Zone was ever going to end.

  “Serves you right,” Jake said. “But don’t freak out,” he added, his voice a little softer. “We’ll find you another ball and hopefully you’ll get it right next time. It would help if you’d loosen up and bend your knees a little.”

  “I did bend my knees,” she whimpered.

  “No, baby, there was no bending of any knees anywhere on this lane. There wasn’t even a bend of an arm. Or a waist. That was a Frankenstein bowl if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Great. Robin turned around to get her ball and noticed that none of the women made eye contact. So it was that bad.

  Her second bowl wasn’t much better—but she managed to keep it in her gutter. Robin quickly made her way back to her seat on the bench and fell into it, wondered if Sue was talking about her when she leaned over to whisper something to Reba. What a nightmare! If it made any difference to the Tweedledees, she had no more desire to be in this bowling alley than they desired her to be here. All she wanted to do was discuss a little bubble wrap and get the hell out of Dodge, but noooo. She glared at Jake, wondered how he did it so easily, grudgingly admiring how he seemed to adapt to everything around him.

  When she stepped up to the lane for her next turn, barriers suddenly popped up on either side of the lane, startling her. The howl of Sue’s laughter behind her was almost her undoing. She turned slowly, looked at them looking at her, obviously enjoying themselves at her expense. All except Jake, who came striding forward. “What the hell?” she softly demanded.