by Julia London
Jeff Hunter must have been reading his mind, because he surged forward so abruptly that it startled Matt. “We asked you here, Matt, because we’re interested in building the party toward the future. The fact of the matter is a lot of our state senators and representatives are nearing retirement. We need to bolster the important work of the Party in this state with new blood and new, relevant ideas, or we’re going to watch Austin turn from the last bastion for Democrats in Texas to a Republican stronghold to rival Waco. You can just imagine what effect that would have on our representation in Washington.”
Not really, but who cared? “So what’s stopping you?” Matt asked cheerfully, and picked up his bourbon.
“It’s not easy,” said Doug, pushing aside his vodka. “There aren’t that many people out there who are willing or capable of leading Texas Democrats into the new century. We need smart men and women with solid foundations who can be in Austin every legislative session. We’re looking for people to serve . . . people like you.”
Matt damn near sprayed bourbon all over them. “Like who?”
“You, Matt,” Tom said, and clapped him solidly on the shoulder.
Matt did the only logical thing—he laughed. Set his glass down and laughed hard and loud. The last thing he would ever aspire to be was a politician. The only reason he continued to hang with Tom was because they were fraternity brothers and because Tom was fun at a Longhorn football game. Besides, it helped to grease the wheels of government every now and again. But become a Tom? Still laughing, Matt clapped Tom right back on his shoulder and looked at Doug and Jeff. “I think you’ve got your new blood right here, guys,” he said. “I’m not the political type. I’ve got a good practice and, trust me. I’ve got some ghosts in my closet that you don’t even want to come near.”
“Come on, Matt. Hear us out,” Tom pleaded. “We’re not suggesting you run for an office right now. We’re only asking that you work closely with me on my campaign, see how you like Texas politics, and let us see how Texas politics likes you. You’ve got the right look, the right reputation. If there’s a good fit, we could talk about some substantial backing to put you in an office some day . . . like maybe district attorney.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Tom—I don’t see myself in any office but my own.”
“If everyone had that attitude, then Texas would go to the dogs, wouldn’t it?” Jeff asked sincerely.
“That’s not gonna work on me,” Matt said. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
Jeff started to retort something, but Tom held up his hand. “Hey, he’s not interested! We gave it our best shot. I’m starved; let’s order!” He picked up his menu.
After an awkward moment, Jeff and Doug did the same. Matt smiled behind his bourbon and downed it before picking up his menu to peruse the specials.
“By the way, Matt . . . remember Cal Blivins from Conroe?”
“Remember him? I vowed to beat the crap out of him the next time I saw him,” Matt said with a chuckle. “You know that.”
“Did you know he’s considering a run for state senator in the next four years? Word is he’s got some pretty impressive financial backers already on board.”
Whoa . . . Cal Blivins? The Cal Blivins who attended the University of Texas at the same time as Matt and Tom? The same worthless piece of shit who had screwed Matt’s girlfriend in the back of his pickup? Okay, so she wasn’t much of a girlfriend, and maybe Matt couldn’t remember her name anymore, but that was beside the point. Guys did not do that to guys. But Cal did. Cal was forever pushing to see what would stick. There wasn’t a sleazier man in the entire state, and the bastard would sell his mother to the devil if there was something in it for him
“You’re kidding,” Matt said flatly.
“We wouldn’t kid about something like that,” Doug assured him. “Blivins has so many hands in his pockets he’s already talking about cutting services. Tom said you sit on the board of the Children’s Aid Services, right? Well, Blivins thinks the private sector ought to pick that up. Worse, he’s making noises about the unthinkable—say hello to state income tax.”
Matt gasped in abject horror—the absence of a state income tax was the last sacred cow in Texas.
Nevertheless, he’d never once, thought of political office. Hell, he never thought of politics at all. Then again, he’d never thought of Cal Blivens at the capitol, either. Matt made the grave mistake of looking at Tom and felt his heart flutter. Nothing against Tom, but he was in politics because he couldn’t do anything else. Was he the Democrats’ great hope? Matt caught the waiter’s eye and held up a finger before asking, very cautiously, very tentatively, and oh so very stupidly, “So what exactly are we talking about here?”
Chapter Four
You can’t play the game if you are not in the game . . .
A BRAND-NEW DAY: STARTING UP AND STARTING OVER
In Rebecca’s eagerness to move to the lake house, she had not counted on sharing it with so many refugees.
The latest refugee to reach them was big and brown and covered with ticks. His leg had been broken and then had healed funny, which made him look like he was half drunk when he walked. Even more unfortunate for the mutt was that he was too ugly and too used up for anyone to want him. He was never going to look much better than he did at this moment, covered head to toe in soapy bubbles.
Rebecca had discovered him in the early dawn when she had gone outside to become one with nature (as advised in a new book Rachel had sent her, Changing Lives: A Return to the Basics Through the Power of Tai Chi). His head was deep inside her garbage can, the contents of which had been strewn about the gravel path leading up to the main road. But the poor dog hadn’t found much to sustain him, and when Rebecca called to him, he didn’t bolt, but banged around the garbage can in his eagerness to get out, wagging his tail like a dog who enthusiastically and firmly believed that where there was a woman, dog food couldn’t be too far away.
Now that his belly was full, Rebecca and Grayson were bathing him—or rather, the unnamed Big Dog was bathing Grayson, who was likewise covered in soapy bubbles. Rebecca hadn’t fared much better—her T-shirt now sported two distinct paw prints where the dog had jumped up to thank her for his Purina. He was such a gentle and loving giant, it was beyond Rebecca’s ability to comprehend how someone could drive down a near-deserted road, open the car door, push him out, and then drive off. Surely there was a special place in hell for those folks—and based on what she’d seen, it would have to be a very large place, because Big Dog was the fourth mutt to have found his way to her door, in addition to a pair of parakeets who had roosted for a week in the old cottonwood tree.
Of the three prior refugees, Rebecca and Grayson had agreed to keep Bean (so named from a broken tag where only Bean-something was legible), because the chunky yellow dog was mentally deranged. He walked into doors, couldn’t find his food bowl, and always seemed to be going in the opposite direction of the rest of the world. Rebecca and Grayson found homes for the other two by sitting out front of Sam’s Corner Grocery in nearby Ruby Falls one long Saturday afternoon.
Now it appeared that loony Bean would have company. Big Dog must have known Rebecca wouldn’t turn him away, that she of all humans would understand why he had come here. After all, it was the same reason she had come here—to escape the reality of being out there. And truthfully, she didn’t mind; the dogs gave her something to do to fill the endlessly empty moments that piled up around her.
The lake house was perfect for outcasts, too. It was really an old ranch house, three quarters of an hour outside Austin on a lonely stretch of river between the Highland lakes, and six miles from tiny Ruby Falls. The house itself was big and airy; its many windows were covered with sheer, silky drapes that lifted gracefully with each breeze off the river. A porch wrapped all the way around the big square of a house, and one corner was screened off to make a sleeping porch for those sultry summer nights. Inside, the floors were made of old timbers, and
in the center of the house was a huge great room with dueling limestone fireplaces. On one end of the great room, a corridor led to three bedrooms and two baths. On the other end, just behind the enormous kitchen and utility room, another corridor led to the master bedroom and two rooms that served as storage and an office.
What Rebecca loved best about the house was the long and gentle slope of green grass down to the bank of the Colorado River, lined with pecan trees and tall cottonwoods. That was where Rebecca and Grayson were hosing down Big Dog, screeching with laughter each time the dog wound up and shook off the water, spraying them in the process.
As a phone began to ring on the porch, Grayson picked up the hose and sprayed the dog a second time. The dog resolutely shook the water off again, sending Grayson into another shrieking fit of laughter. Rebecca ran up the steps, wiping water from her face, and as she grabbed the phone, she yelled, “Don’t drown him, honey! Hello?”
“Hey.”
An old, familiar shiver shot down her spine at the sound of his voice. His phone skills definitely hadn’t improved, but he really didn’t need to identify himself, as she would know that voice just about anywhere. As would the rest of Texas, who had to listen to him at least five times a day on the radio or TV. “Bud,” she said simply.
“What’s all that racket?” he asked, hearing Grayson’s laughter on the lawn.
“Grayson is giving a dog a bath.”
“Another stray?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Take him to the pound and let them put the poor thing out of his misery.”
That was the last thing she would ever do, and on top of that, when would he stop telling her what to do?
“You always had such a soft heart, Becky. Remember Flopper?”
That caught her off guard—she hadn’t thought of her horse Flopper in a long time. Bud had given her the gelding for their first wedding anniversary, and Rebecca had loved that horse. When he got sick, Bud was the one who took him to the vet and returned home alone. Rebecca had cried for days in Bud’s arms, which she really didn’t want to think about now, and asked, “What do you want, Bud?”
“Jesus,” he said, “what’s the matter with you?”
Of course the old Rebecca—the doormat?—would have politely carried on a conversation about Flopper, regardless of how she felt or how much she despised Bud for what he had done to her in the last few years of their marriage. Fortunately, that Rebecca had been put out of her considerable misery. “I’m sorry, Bud, did you forget? We’re divorced.”
“I know that,” he said irritably. “But we were together a long time, and I’d think the least you could do is be friendly.”
Was he seriously out of his philandering mind? He wanted to be friends now? “Bud. What do you want?”
“You know, sometimes you act like it was all one way. You had your part in it, too, Becky—you think you’re that perfect?”
Oh. Dear. God. How had she endured all those years with this man? “Did you really call to discuss ancient history?” she asked (pleased that even though he was making her furious at the moment, she wasn’t falling into old traps, just like her book Surviving Divorce: A Woman’s Guide to Starting Over said: Never let your ex-spouse drag you back into conflict. Walk tall, walk proud, but most importantly, walk away!).
“No, I called because I ran into Robin, and she said you were looking for a job. By the way, that sister of yours still has a mouth on her.”
Rebecca could only hope that Robbie had laid a few choice words on ol’ Budro. “Yes, Bud, I am looking for a job.”
“Why? And what do you think you can do?”
First Dad, now her ex. Rebecca closed her eyes, tried to draw on the inner peace she was supposed to be learning through tai chi, recognizing instantly that in spite of the claims on the back of the video box, it wasn’t working for shit at the moment. “Frankly, it’s none of your goddamn business.”
“It’s my business if it affects my son,” he said gruffly. “But if that’s what you’re going to do, at least call one of my dealerships down there. We can put you in the office somewhere—”
“No thanks.”
“Bec, I’m just trying to help.”
Like hell he was. “Thanks, but I don’t need or want your help.”
He sighed again, only louder. “Fine. Whatever. Listen, Candace and I’ve been invited to Aspen this weekend, so I’m gonna have to bail on Grayson.”
Rebecca sank onto one of the Adirondack chairs, her anger giving way to frustration. “You’ve bailed on your son four times in the last two months. Don’t you know that he misses his father?”
“You’re the one who moved, Rebecca.”
“You didn’t see him in Dallas, either, Bud.”
“Don’t try and lay a guilt trip on me. Just tell him—”
“Uh-uh, no way!” Rebecca quickly interrupted. “You tell him—I’m sick of carrying your water.”
“My water?” he started, but whatever else he said, Rebecca did not hear, because she had already jerked the phone away from her ear and yelled, “Grayson! Your dad wants to talk to you!”
The kid’s face lit up; he instantly dropped the hose, left the dog standing patiently. Rebecca winced, her heart sinking for Grayson as he rushed to the porch, struggling to take the stairs two at a time. He snatched the phone Rebecca held out to him, and she leaned back, looked up at the ceiling fan turning lazily above her head as he said, “Hi, Daddy! Guess what. We got another dog! . . . Huh? . . . No, it’s brown. The other one is yellow. He was eating out of the garbage can and Mom found him, and we haven’t named him yet. . . . Huh?”
Grayson stopped; the light began to fade from his face. Rebecca could not hear him breathe; he was holding his breath, concentrating on what his father was telling him. It probably took no longer than a moment or two for Bud to tell his son that he had chosen Candace over him once again, but it seemed to take forever for the disappointment to seep in before Grayson said quietly, “Oh!” And then, “But when can I come see you, Daddy?” Another long moment passed. “Well, can I come see Lucy? . . . Oh . . . okay,” he said softly, and handed the phone to Rebecca without another word.
She watched him walk down the porch steps to the dog, his head lowered, the spring gone from his step. “Way to go,” she said low into the phone.
“Don’t!” Bud snapped. “I can’t help that this stuff comes up on my weekend to have him. Look, I gotta go. Tell Gray I’ll call him later this week.” He hung up.
“Liar,” she muttered, and hung up, too. She sat there for a minute or two, watching Grayson halfheartedly try to get the soap off Big Dog and wondered, with her new, twenty-twenty hindsight glasses, if Bud had always been so dismissive of Grayson. The Lord knew she hadn’t been around enough—Rebecca had left a lot of the heavy lifting to Lucy. At the time it hadn’t seemed that way, but now . . . well, now she wished hindsight wasn’t so damn clear, because she rarely liked what she saw.
What was it the book Giving Up and Giving In: The Path to Spiritual Well-being said? Let the water rush under the bridge, but continue on across, or something like that, for the past is the past and the only direction worth looking is ahead.
What horseshit.
Grayson was still pretty down after his nap and even his favorite cartoon, SpongeBob SquarePants, wasn’t cheering him up. He was lying on his stomach on the thick looped rug with his head propped in his hands, staring morosely at the TV as SpongeBob made a stack of crabby patties. The dogs were lying curled on either side of him; the brown dog seemed very happy to have found a home, and a very congenial Bean didn’t seem to mind sharing it—assuming, of course, he even knew he was sharing it, which was debatable.
Rebecca was also in a pretty foul mood. Bud was always a downer, but add him to the fact that she’d had no luck in getting even a nibble on a job and could see nothing but long, empty days stretching before her, and she was miserable.
Seated in her office among a neat stack of résumés and
the Sunday want ads, she had a variety of self-help books to study, including two new ones, courtesy of Rachel, who was really into spiritual astrology this month. Just last night, on the phone, she had excitedly reported that Uranus was in Rebecca’s house and was rising.
“What?” Rebecca had asked, confused.
“Uranus!” Rachel cried gleefully. “The last time Uranus was in your house was like 1920-something. Do you know what this means?”
“No, I—”
“It means that doors will open for you that you never dreamed would open! You are going to be able to draw from energy stores you didn’t even know you had! Things that seemed bleak just a few weeks ago are now wonderful new opportunities! Your karma is really going to take off, Rebecca!”
“Rachel,” Rebecca said skeptically. “First, take a breath. And second, do you really believe that stuff?”
Her sister gasped. “Of course I believe it. Don’t you?”
It was hard to argue with such enthusiasm, and Rebecca didn’t try. But she made a mental note to have a serious talk with Rach at some future date about all this new-age guru crap she kept sending her way. It damn sure didn’t feel like Uranus had suddenly moved in and taken up residence in her house, and there weren’t any doors opening for her that she could see. More like they were slamming shut.
With a weary sigh, Rebecca picked up her journal (a practice recommended in virtually all of her books and seminars, including Moira’s, so what the hey), into which she faithfully entered three positive things about her life each day. Before she attacked the new round of résumé distribution, she entered:
Positive Affirmations of My Life:
1.Shoes for all occasions
2.Dogs
3.