The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “Your family is nice,” she remarked.

  He frowned dubiously at that.

  “But I don’t think your mom particularly likes me.”

  Now Jake smiled. “She likes you. She’s just hard to get to know.”

  Yeah, well, Robin hadn’t gotten to the age of thirty-four without developing a woman’s intuition about some things. Knowing when someone flat-out didn’t like her was one of them, and she vigorously shook her head. “It’s more than that. She thinks I’m messing with you.”

  Jake helped himself to another cracker, sans cheese, and munched thoughtfully. “Maybe. That’s because she doesn’t think I’m smart enough to know if I am being used. I don’t know if you noticed, but my mom doesn’t think too highly of me.”

  “You’re kidding!” Robin exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “How could she not be totally proud of you? How could anyone not think you are the most capable man in the world? Jeez, if I had a son like you, I’d be prancing all over Houston!”

  With a grateful smile, Jake reached up to tenderly stroke Robin’s cheek. “You can be a real sweetheart, in spite of all appearances to the contrary.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Jake chuckled at her earnestness. “I’ll let you in on a secret—my mom has never thought I measured up. I’ve never been able to do much of anything to please her. I pursued baseball and I was wasting my time. I started college and I was too old. I try to take Cole to live with me, and I am irresponsible. Honestly? Sometimes, the things she says—I think she believes I abandoned her like my dad did. And my Uncle Dan tells me I look a lot like the old man did at my age.”

  That piqued Robin’s curiosity; she watched Jake take another cracker and pop it into his mouth. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Dad?” He snorted derisively. “Haven’t heard from him since he ran off, more than twenty years ago. He’s probably dead. I’m sure Vickie will eventually get around to telling you the whole ugly story, but that . . . it’s what’s wrong with Mom. It colors everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s afraid of loving—it hurts too much.”

  He said it so nonchalantly, like it was what anyone should expect, that it took Robin aback. What a sad, revealing thing to say. What an awful thing to say! But she knew exactly what Jake meant. “Isn’t it funny how alike we are, you and me?” she asked. “My dad has never really thought I measured up, either. It seems like I have been forever trying to . . . to please him, to get him to say, hey, Robbie, you’re a good daughter, or a good person. Or just something like, come on up and let’s go out on the boat. But he never does. And when I do hear from him, it’s usually to rant about something I’ve done wrong.”

  “Wrong? What could be wrong? You’re a wonderful person, dedicated to your company, to him—”

  Robin laughed at how pathetic that sounded, given the betrayal she felt at her father’s hand. If only Jake understood how she had given him everything, only to be told she was basically mere window dressing to him. “Trust me,” she said with a sardonic laugh, “I’m wrong. You want to know his current complaint? I don’t have any roots. I haven’t pursued the right things in life.” But the words, spoken with sarcasm, seemed to hang in front of her. They even sounded true. “I don’t know why I care,” she continued thoughtfully, “but for some reason, I keep trying to get him to like me.” She shook her head at the lunacy of that, then smiled. “I guess I’m just stubborn.”

  “You really think your father doesn’t like you?” Jake asked, surprised.

  She nodded. “I think he loves me in some weird way. But he doesn’t like me.”

  Jake pressed his lips together, stared at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re absolutely amazing.”

  Robin gave him a grateful smile, cognizant that the way he was looking at her was making her heart skip, and tried to put a word to his look that she could cope with. “You’re starting to make me feel like I have something strange on my head,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, but Jake did not smile.

  “I mean it. You are a beautiful, vibrant, accomplished woman. And genuine, someone who is way more down to earth than she thinks. I look at you, and I see someone I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

  Robin gasped; her heart was now somersaulting, and she wanted to protest, wanted to stop him before he took this too far, and waved a desperate hand at him. “Jake,” she whispered weakly, but he caught her hand and brought it to his chest, pressed it against his heart.

  “I am falling in love with you, Robin.”

  Her physical reaction was so quick and sudden that the wineglass she had been holding so loosely went crashing to the floor. Jake let go of her hand, grabbed the tray between them, and saved it and the wine bottle from toppling over.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, flustered, as he put the tray on the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  Jake didn’t seem to hear her—he grabbed both her hands by the wrists and pulled her on top of him as he fell back, landing on a cloud of pillows. “Me too, because I can’t help how I feel or that you have managed to open a door in me that has been nailed shut.”

  She was skating on the edge of complete chaos—his words ripped through her like a scythe, opening ancient old wounds she didn’t even know she had. It was too much, too many emotions erupting inside her. This was a man who could speak like a poet, could make love like a real man, could make her laugh—she adored Jake, loved his company, loved to watch him work . . . But love? What did that really mean? Didn’t that mean there were expectations that were far too great for either of them?

  Jake suddenly let go of her, and she flopped over onto her side like a rag doll.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” he said. “I don’t know if it was the coffee, or the pink flamingos, or telling me how to bat, but somehow, you stuck one of those flimsy sandals in that door inside me and kicked it open without even trying.”

  Robin buried her face in the pillow, afraid she would say something stupid—even more afraid he would stop.

  “And there I was, trying to mind my own business, but suddenly, I can’t get you off my mind, I can’t sleep without dreaming of you, I can’t think without seeing you, I can’t wait to get here in the morning, and I can’t stand to leave at night. I didn’t know what the hell was the matter with me, but I can finally admit to myself and to you that I know what it is that has been clanking around in me. I am falling in love with you, Robin.”

  “Oh God, I don’t know what to say,” she moaned into the pillow.

  Jake leaned over her, kissed the back of her neck, then her shoulder. “Say, I love you, too, Hammerman. Say, me, too, or ditto, or you make me hot, you stud—”

  “Oh, Jake,” she whispered helplessly.

  “Say you adore me, say you love me,” he pressed.

  But the words seemed lodged in her gullet—she couldn’t force them out. Robin buried her face in a pillow. “I can’t,” she muttered helplessly.

  “Oh God,” Jake muttered somewhere above her, and she felt him draw away.

  Robin sat up. “No—it’s . . . I’m just not ready, Jake,” she pleaded with him.

  “Yeah, I see,” he said, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.

  “No, no, you don’t. I do adore you. I just. . . I want to—I need to go slow. . . .”

  Jake didn’t say anything for a moment, just gazed sadly at her. At last, he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “Okay,” he said and gently pushed Robin down onto the bed. He kissed her softly. “Okay,” he said again, as if to convince himself that it was okay, and kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, and then her breasts, pushing aside her blouse to explore her entire body with his mouth. Robin moaned, both from pleasure and pain. Pleasure from the expertise with which he brought her to the brink of a violent climax; pain from knowing that the man who did this to her had fallen in love with her, and that she didn’t know how to return it, or what to do wit
h it, other than to lie there, to let him say it, to let him show her. And when she came, she unconsciously called out his name as tender gratification rained down and covered her, creating a shroud beneath which she lay, feeling just barely alive as she tried to catch her breath and what was left of the bearings instilled in her a long, long time ago. Bearings that were fast slipping from her white-knuckled grip.

  Jake was up before the light the next morning. He envied Robin her zombie sleep, with arms and legs sprawled everywhere. An A-bomb wouldn’t have waked that girl. But he couldn’t sleep, troubled by his stupid admission, blurted out like a teenage boy in love. Gaga, Mom had called it. What he wouldn’t give to be able to deliver himself a good swift kick in the ass. What had he expected her to do with his poetic declarations? Announce her own undying love? Ask him to marry her?

  You’re a fucking idiot, man.

  He was already working when the crews showed up and started banging around the house, trying to figure out how he had come to fall in love with a woman who was so far above him in economic and social stature as to be unreachable. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by her wealth, exactly, or thought Robin above him in some way. It was just that it didn’t seem . . . practical. Robin knew it, but oh no, he had gone and fallen deep into the magic and believed it. For a man who accounted for every nickel he made, Jake didn’t think there would ever be a time he would feel good about spending money wantonly like she did, no matter how much money he had.

  But then again, he harbored the insane notion that if he could just concentrate on getting his architect degree—he was so damn close, after all—that he could, conceivably, make the kind of money Robin was used to. He could support those things she was accustomed to, like fancy restaurants, trips abroad, even shopping sprees. Although he might eventually have to put his foot down about the shoe thing, because nobody, and that meant nobody, should pay more than fifty bucks for a pair.

  It was that singular, faint hope of a potential future with Robin that made Jake even more determined than ever to finish school and expand his business, and it felt with every swing of the hammer against the brick wall that he was one step closer. And when Robin came out of her room that morning, dressed in a short skirt and a sheer blue blouse the color of her eyes, sporting a shy, dimpled smile, he was suddenly swinging the hammer with abandon, trying to remember when, if ever, he had been so captivated by a woman. And every time he looked at her—or caught her looking at him with the expression of confusion—or was it torture?—he felt an even bigger fool.

  That evening, Robin arrived on his doorstep with a picnic dinner she had gotten from a very fine French restaurant. As Jake looked down at what was supposed to be lamb in a port wine glaze, he couldn’t help wonder how much she had laid down for it. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “Pierre’s.”

  He knew that name belonged to a fancy French restaurant. “What did that set you back?” he asked, a little more sharply than he would have liked.

  Robin frowned. “What difference does it make?”

  Jake wished for a burger.

  They spent a quiet evening, Jake at his drafting table, working on a design for class. Next to him, at the dining room table, Robin’s fingers were fast and furious on the calculator as she reviewed some numbers from work. She was restless, muttering under her breath and bouncing up a lot. She would stalk about the dining room, brushing past him, her hand trailing down his back, or through his hair. Jake liked this—it felt comfortable, as if they had been doing this all their lives.

  He had completed a major portion of his design when Robin’s arms suddenly shot up in the air. “Yes!” she exclaimed, and smiled at him, eyes sparkling. “I got an e-mail from Girt. She said they just picked up a big seafood account that’s going to pay for some box-pressing machines. Styrofoam boxes, here we come!”

  “I remember when the word Styrofoam made you gag.”

  “Not anymore, not since I figured out how profitable the chunky white stuff is. Come on, ask me anything. I can tell you whatever you want to know about thickness, consistency, and how to color it. Styrofoam need not be only white, you know.”

  “First bubble wrap, now Styrofoam,” he said, shaking his head. “Your talents are amazing. What’s next, shrink-wrap? How will anyone compete?”

  “That’s precisely the point, Hammerhead. Did you think Queen of Bubble Wrap was just some silly title I had given myself? Oh no!” She laughed, leaned back in her chair, and stretched her arms high. “Girt said David’s still got that bug thing he had when we were there a while ago. She’s really worried.”

  A surprising shift in attitude about Girt, he couldn’t help note. “Sounds like you guys are starting to be friends.”

  Robin looked surprised. “It does?”

  “Well, yeah, when you start talking about her kid and what she’s doing. What would you call it?”

  Robin gave a little laugh; her eves fell to her laptop. “I don’t know . . . it’s just that we’ve been talking on and off about her business, and these things sort of naturally pop up, I guess.”

  “That’s how most friendships start.”

  Robin seemed to consider that for a moment, then firmly shook her head. “Girt and I have a lot in common, but not that much in common.”

  She said it as if it were out of the question, completely impractical, and it left Jake feeling cold.

  And he wasn’t the only one bothered by her remark—as Robin drove home that night (after being tempted to spend another night with Jake, but afraid of . . . what?), she thought about the evening, how natural it had felt, the two of them just being together. It seemed so right. So natural. So what was it she was afraid of?

  Love?

  No way. Love didn’t scare her—she had loved before! No, she was afraid of getting tied down, of letting her heart do the talking instead of her head and ending up miserable because of a foolish mistake. And ending up with Jake would eventually prove to be a foolish mistake for them both, because the expectation he would have of her would far outstrip her ability to deliver. Wouldn’t it? Yes. Yes, of course it would.

  So why, then, was she so head over heels for Jake if he was so wrong for her? And he was wrong, no matter how much she liked him. All the warning signs were there—baggage (Cole, his family), instability (a fledgling business), bad choices (Lindy, whom Robin had accidentally heard on Jake’s machine asking how he was doing, for Chrissakes), moneyphobia (turned white as a sheet when she suggested flying to Manhattan for the weekend). Oh yeah, he was all wrong, just like Girt was the wrong sort of friend for her, no matter how much she liked the old girl.

  As Robin pulled into her drive, her head was beginning to ache, her stomach in knots. Every time she tried to think her stomach knotted up. It was too hard, too confusing, so she was just not going to do it. Nope, she was going to look on the Internet for flights to Acapulco, because she had the sudden and overwhelming urge to go somewhere.

  And she might have just gone that moment, had the phone not been ringing when she came into the house.

  Robin threw her bag aside and went diving for the phone. “Hello?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Mom! Where are you?”

  “New York. We’ll be here for another couple of weeks until your dad completes his treatment. Then I think we’ll be heading out to the ranch.”

  Good; they’d be in Texas again, close to her. “How is he?” Robin asked.

  “Cantankerous. Miserable. Testy. But I think the spiritual healing course we are doing is helping a lot.”

  Robin cringed; she could just imagine what Dad thought of that.

  “I’ve been trying to call you for a couple of days and wish you a happy Easter. Have you been out of town again?”

  “No. I was with a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  What was that she heard, the wail of a locomotive headed right for her? “Just a guy,” she said and immediately regretted th
e words.

  “Anyone I know?” Nosey Parker pressed.

  “No, Mom. It’s just . . . no one you know.”

  Nosey said nothing, but Robin could practically hear the steam coming out of her ears. “Why the big secret?”

  “Okay, exactly how old does a woman have to be before her mom stops giving her the third degree?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. One hundred and five?” Mom shot back.

  Robin couldn’t help herself; she laughed. “Oh man, I’ve got such a long way to go! Mom, it’s really not that big of a deal. He’s the guy I contracted to renovate my house. But he’s a really nice guy! And we have a lot in common, so it’s been kind of fun, that’s all.” Only a small lie. Really more of an understatement.

  “What’s wrong with him—is he an ax murderer?” Mom asked.

  Robin snorted. “No!”

  “Two heads?”

  “Mom!” Robin cried, laughing.

  “I’m just wondering why you sound so apologetic.”

  She did sound apologetic. Robin’s smile faded; she sank into a chair next to the table and stared at the wall she had busted up. “I . . . I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

  “Well . . . I just wanted to check how you were doing, honey. I’ll call you and let you know when we’ll be at the ranch so you can come out and see your dad.”

  The mention of Dad rattled Robin. She unconsciously shook her head, tried to shake Jake from the forefront. “Does . . . does Dad want to see me?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Of course he does, silly! He wants his girls around him, and I think after this round of treatment, he’ll need to see you. It’s been rough on him.”

  “Yes, of course. Just give me a couple of days notice, would you? Evan and I are in the middle of a couple of projects.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Give my best to Evan.”

  Yes, Evan. Safe, familiar Evan. Speaking of which, she needed to call him, and after hanging up with her mother, she dialed Dallas.

  Chapter Twenty-four