The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “Back room. You might want to wait up here until someone comes to get your son. Grayson, right?” he asked, flashing a smile at Gray.

  The deep flush beneath her skin began to recede as Rebecca looked at Grayson, then at Matt. “No one is coming to get him. He’s here with me.”

  A look of confusion passed over Matt’s face. “We’re working.”

  “Yes. But he’s very well-mannered.”

  “My teacher says I have good cizinship,” Grayson reported.

  “That’s great!” Matt said to him, but then to Rebecca, “It’s really not a good idea. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”

  Well, here was a shocker—Matt didn’t think her idea was a good one. “Yes, I understand why you might be concerned. I mean, he’s only five,” she said, and Grayson helpfully held up five fingers. “But the thing is, I’m a volunteer. Which means no one is paying me. So there’s no one paying a babysitter, either, and I’m spending time here that I would normally spend with my son. Therefore, he’s here with me.”

  Matt opened his mouth to say something, but they both heard the front door open at that moment and turned expectantly toward the door. Grayson took the opportunity to wriggle from Rebecca’s grip on his shoulders.

  “Rebecca!” Tom boomed the moment he laid eyes on her from the doorway. Behind him was Gilbert, crowding in to peek over Tom’s shoulder. “Who is this young man?” Tom exclaimed, walking into the room with Gilbert practically on his back. “No, don’t tell me—he looks exactly like Bud!”

  Rebecca felt that inward wince. “This is Grayson,” she said. “Grayson, say hello to Senator Masters.”

  “Hello,” Grayson repeated, the darling little cherub.

  “Dude!” Gilbert said. “Give me five!” He squatted down, held up his hand; Grayson happily wound up and shot across the floor to slap Gilbert’s hand with all the strength in his stocky little body. Gilbert rocked back on his sandals for a moment, and then rolled over onto his back, playing dead, much to Grayson’s delight, and that, of course, was all Gilbert had to do to make a friend. Grayson was instantly laughing and climbing over his dead body, until Gilbert suddenly shot up and hoisted Grayson onto his shoulders to take him for a ride.

  In the meantime, Tom looked around at the things Rebecca had put on the walls. “The place looks great!” he exclaimed. “Did you do this, Matt?” he asked, and paused to laugh at his own jest before throwing his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and squeezing tight. “Rebecca, you are perfect for this team. This is great,” he said, gesturing to the wall adornments. And then he abruptly let go, pivoted about and started for the back room. “I want flags like these in every office,” he boomed.

  His enthusiastic response had put some wind back into her alter ego sails, and Rebecca followed him, walking past Matt, chin lifted. “Already done,” she said pertly.

  “I am so not surprised,” Matt said behind her.

  They gathered in the back when Angie (in gold streaks) and Pat (in standard-issue gay) arrived, laden with paper bags full of sodas, chips, and salsa, around which they all gathered in the back room. “I love chips and salsa,” Tom said. “They ought to make it a law or something.”

  “You are they,” Pat reminded him, to which Tom nodded thoughtfully, as if that notion had just occurred to him.

  Matt (who had taken a seat right next to Rebecca, naturally, for what better place from which to torment her?) did not partake of the chips and salsa. He sat so close that she could smell his cologne, absently drumming his hand on the table in front of her. While the others chatted about unfamiliar people and events, Rebecca couldn’t help noticing his strong, capable hand. It was huge. Which naturally reminded her of what Robin often said— “Big hands, big dick. They’ve done scientific studies, you know.” And that Rachel often disputed that fact. “It’s the feet, not the hands. Always check the feet first!” A surreptitious peek below the table confirmed that Matt had it covered on both fronts.

  Too heavy on the visualization front had Rebecca’s face flushing hot again, but damn it, she could not stop looking at his hand.

  Fortunately, Matt didn’t notice; he was too busy leaning across her to squint at the motivational poster she had pinned up on the wall. “Building the Perfect Team: No one person can perform a task to the highest standards,” he thoughtfully read aloud, then glanced around the table. “I’d say we’ve pretty much proven that in spades.” He looked back at the poster. “Yet a team can contain experts in many fields.” He looked at Rebecca. “Like decorating?”

  “Jealous,” she muttered, looking straight ahead.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m a lot of things right now, but jealous isn’t one of them. Would you like to know what I am?” He smiled that deadly lopsided smile again.

  Fortunately, Pat saved any conversation about which things, exactly, he was, by asking Tom, “Can we get started? I’ve got a school board meeting tonight.”

  Rebecca was grateful for Pat’s intervention—Grayson was beginning to tire, and was, at present, hanging over her lap like a limp rag. Juggling his weight, she pulled from her new briefcase the papers she had printed from her computer, spread them neatly before her, lined them up in proper order, fished out a pen, and placed it carefully to the side, in case she needed to take notes.

  “Okay,” Tom sighed, clearly unhappy that Pat had ended the good time. “I’d like to get a list together of what groups we need to target immediately. I also need to get reports on where we are with the mailers.”

  Rebecca raised her hand. Pat did not; Pat just started to rattle off a number of the groups Rebecca had so carefully researched. “Young Democrats in the metro areas, Junior League in Dallas and Houston, and maybe most importantly,” she said, “the Texas Democrats for Change.”

  “Let’s start with TDC,” Tom said as Rebecca frantically looked at her list. “So, let’s think of—”

  Be aggressive! Rebecca’s alter ego shouted at her. “Ah, Tom, excuse me?” Rebecca blurted, hand up high. “There is one other group I’d like to put on the table.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, ah . . . Pat covered most of them,” she said, flashing a smile at Pat, “but there is one other that might be worth a look. The Silver Panthers.”

  Next to her, Matt sat back, folded his arms loosely across his chest and grinned.

  “They are a grassroots organization of senior citizens,” she explained.

  “Oh, we know who they are,” Tom said. “And thank you for mentioning them. We inadvertently forgot them.” He smiled. “They are a tough nut to crack . . . but I’m sure you know that, right?”

  “Ooh . . . well, they are having their state convention at Lakeway at the end of the month. And I . . . I was thinking it might be a good opportunity to introduce you to them.”

  “Rebecca, that’s a great idea,” Tom declared.

  She smiled, relaxing a little. “I don’t know for a fact if we can get their attention at this late date—”

  “Here’s a surprise: We can’t,” Matt interjected amicably.

  Without sparing him a glance, Rebecca continued, “But I thought, maybe, we could host like a little party or something, and invite as many conference attendees as we could get.”

  “Perfect! Line it up!” Tom said.

  “Ah, Tom . . .” Matt interrupted. “Nothing against a good early fund-raiser. But it’s really a little early to do more than a ‘friends of Tom’ deal, don’t you think? I mean, don’t you want to finish getting your platform together before we meet with any significant groups? We skated through the March primary with the bare bones, but now is the time to focus on getting your message out there. The Panthers might want to hear your stance on any number of issues.”

  “Ah hell, Matt, they’re just a bunch of old folks!” Tom said cheerfully.

  “That might be a little shortsighted,” Matt easily continued. “These are active folks who will care about more tha
n just health care.”

  “Dude—don’t worry, be happy,” Tom insisted with a winsome grin. “Look, we’ve got plenty of time. I am already working out the last platform issues with the party folks,” he assured Matt. “So, Rebecca, if you can get us in front of the Silver Panthers, you’ll be the shining star of this campaign. Okay, let’s see what else—Angie, I want the phone bank up so we can start making some cold calls next week.”

  And as Tom began to rattle off a list of tasks for the group to tackle, Rebecca risked a look at Popinjay. He was looking at her, too, calm and expressionless. She smiled tightly, turned back to her papers. Matt slowly leaned over, so close that when he whispered, she felt his breath in her hair. “Don’t set it up,” he said. “We need to chat with the party folks first.”

  “He just asked me to,” she whispered back.

  Matt scooted closer, leaned over again. “I’m telling you that it’s premature. He doesn’t have enough of the right things to say just yet, and the party will want to orchestrate it. Don’t worry; I’ll talk to him when we’re through here.”

  Rebecca wondered if Matt knew so much, why he wasn’t running for office himself. “FYI,” she whispered, “you are not the candidate. Tom is.”

  “Now, why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” he cheerfully remarked, and straightened in his seat. But then he leaned over again, his eyes on Tom. “By the way . . . do you always smell so good?” he whispered.

  There was that bothersome flush again.

  “The March primaries are over, folks!” Tom was bellowing, moving into his pep talk. “We’ve got our work cut out for us and we need to gear up for the big fight!” He slapped both hands down on the scarred metal table. “The Republicans are going to try to chew us up and spit us out, so come in each day ready to do the work of two people. Fair enough? Angie will get the offices set up tomorrow and man the front. Parrish, we’ll fine-tune that platform soon,” he said with a wink, and abruptly stood up. “Okay, gotta roll! Thanks for dropping in, folks. Come on, Angie, let’s go check out my office.”

  Angie immediately jumped up to follow Tom, as did Gilbert, which left only Pat and Matt behind with Rebecca, who was busy getting Grayson off her lap, who was pretending he was dead and was not cooperating.

  Pat turned and looked at Matt. “Another productive meeting, huh?” she asked sarcastically.

  Rebecca had no clue what Pat meant—she thought the meeting had been very productive.

  Grayson slid off her lap, stood, and shoved his hands into his jeans. “Mom, when can we go home?” he whined.

  “Now, honey,” she said, and gathered her papers, stacking them properly (all facing the same direction and in numeric order. She had, of course, numbered them) before sliding them carefully into the color-coded file in her new briefcase.

  “Good idea about the Silver Panthers, Rebecca,” Pat said. “But . . . getting something together so soon by the end of the month is kind of stretching it, don’t you think?” she asked, exchanging a look with Matt. “I mean, if you want to do it right.”

  Now, those were fighting words. Right was the only way Rebecca ever did anything, and if there was one thing on this earth she did to perfection, it was host a party. She pasted a pageant smile on her face. “It’s really not so hard. I’ve got some ideas.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t be too disappointed if you can’t do it, honey,” Pat said in such a condescending way that made Rebecca’s alter ego campaign strategist rear her ugly head and growled.

  “I can do it,” she repeated.

  “Look, Rebecca,” Matt said, “no offense, but seeing as how you’re really new to the political scene, what Pat is saying is that it’s really not doable. You’re hitting the start of the campaign season, and if you aren’t already on their agenda, you’re not going to get on it at this late date. And besides, the Panthers are notorious for keeping their meetings closed.”

  Rebecca did not care to be lectured to, particularly in a tone that made her feel stupid, and particularly with Grayson hanging, dead weight, off one hand. All it took was knowing the right people, which, okay, she didn’t know, really. But she knew how to find them. “Thanks for your concern,” she said, trying to make Grayson stand. “But I’m not trying to get on their agenda. I’m just talking about a little preconvention party.”

  Matt sighed in a way that made Rebecca want to punch him square in the nose. “Well, whatever,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “It won’t hurt you to try, I suppose. It will probably be good experience for you.”

  Rebecca smiled, shoved a limp Grayson in the direction of the door, and heard herself ask, incredibly, “Would you like to put a little wager on it?”

  That certainly got his attention. “What?” he asked, choking on a laugh.

  What was she doing? But Rebecca looked at Matt and realized she meant what she’d said. She hadn’t been married to Bud for nothing—if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was throw a bash that would leave people talking. She smiled, slung her briefcase over her shoulder. “I said, do you want to bet?”

  Pat’s mouth dropped open, but Matt smiled very darkly as he turned toward her. “I’ll definitely take that bet,” he said, his gray eyes piercing hers with the challenge. “So what’s the wager, Miss Texas?”

  “Come on, Mom!” Grayson moaned, tugging on her hand.

  Matt’s dark smile deepened, and Rebecca felt a curious shiver race down her spine. “I’ll make it easy,” he said, and honest to God, that cool, steady voice made her weak in the knees. “The winner gets to choose a favor of his or her choice,” he said. “You get Tom in front of the Panthers, and you can make me do whatever you want.” He lifted his gaze from his casual perusal of her, and she could have sworn she saw smoke in his eyes. “Deal?”

  NO, REBECCA! Don’t be stupid! Nononono . . . “You’re on,” she said, and let Grayson drag her out of the room with him.

  Chapter Nine

  From the age of six, I have known that I was sexy. And let me tell you it has been hell, sheer hell, waiting to do something about it . . .

  BETTE DAVIS

  In an old Victorian house in the Heights of Houston, Robin Lear was lying on the couch, dressed in her preferred style of jeans and a boy’s T-shirt, her bare feet propped on the arm. She held the phone to one ear as she squinted at the crown molding along the ten-foot ceiling and absently played with the silk fringe of a pillow. “I haven’t talked to her,” she repeated to her father, who was, and had been for the last month, trying to get hold of Mom.

  “Are you telling me your mother hasn’t called you in a whole goddamn month?” Dad demanded in his typically subtle, kid-glove fashion.

  “No, I’m saying I haven’t talked to her since the last time you called me and interrogated me about it. Mom is in L.A.” Exactly where she’d been for the last few months since Dad’s cancer had gone into remission and he’d gotten impossible to deal with again. For all his jaw-boning about how his three daughters needed to learn to stand on their own two feet and appreciate the important things in life, he could certainly use a lesson or two in that very thing.

  “I know she’s in L.A.!” he barked in her ear. “I want to know if you’ve talked to her!”

  “No!” Robin shouted back, drawing a look from her significant other, Jake Manning, who was at his drafting table, busy with their latest renovation project and trying very hard to tune Robin out. But he looked at her now, one brow lifted in silent question. She waved a hand at him, indicating it was nothing out of the ordinary. “Try Rebecca,” she suggested. “She might—”

  “I can’t get her on the phone, either!” Dad pouted.

  Hmm, go figure. “She’s really busy.”

  “She doesn’t need to be so damn busy! You tell me—why can’t she just relax and take good care of Grayson and stop trying to one-up Bud?”

  “One-up Bud? She is not trying to one-up Bud.”

  “Like hell she isn’t. She—”

 
Fortunately (for Robin anyway, who didn’t want to hear whatever Dad was going to say about Rebecca’s life, because it was Rebecca’s life, a fact he seemed to have forgotten in his determination to make Rebecca lead her own life) was lost behind the beep of an incoming call.

  “—that she was wasting time, but she won’t listen to me.”

  “Dad, I’m getting another call.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said gruffly.

  With a groan, Robin sat up, punched the second line. “Hello?”

  “Robin, thank God,” Rebecca said breathlessly into the phone. “Listen, you keep up with politics, right? Have you ever heard of the Silver Panthers?”

  “The who?”

  “The Silver Panthers!” her usually calm, rock-solid sister cried impatiently.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you? Don’t you pay attention to anything except Jake?”

  “Hey, watch it,” Robin said. “Listen, Dad’s on the other line—”

  “Shit!” Rebecca moaned. “Don’t tell him it’s me, okay?”

  “I won’t, just let me get him off the phone,” Robin said, clicking over Rebecca’s moan. “Dad? I need to go.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It is someone for me,” she said primly. “I really have to go, but listen, call Rachel. She was talking to Mom a couple of weeks ago, even thinking of going to L.A.” Rachel would be pissed that Robin was sharing the love.

  “She was?” Dad asked, his voice hopeful.

  Robin bit her lip; Rachel was going to kill her for sure.

  “All right, I’ll call her. But when you next talk to your mother, you tell her I’d appreciate a phone call.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye, Dad.” She clicked over. “Rebecca?”

  “I’m here. Is he gone?”

  “Yep. Listen, the next time you talk to Mom, will you please ask her to call him before he drives us all to jump off a cliff?”