The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  They wandered out of the art festival, and he took her to her car, feeling more and more disturbed with each block as she chatted about art. He had the strange and unusual compulsion to prove to her that he was likable, that he could be more than a one-night stand, and when she got out of the car with his mom’s gift that she had held in her lap, he got out too, grabbing her bag from behind the seat and walking around to her side of her car.

  She looked up at him, lifted a brow in question.

  How odd that he should feel so awkward—he held out her bag to her; she took it with a faint smile and slung it over her shoulder, then attempted to hand him his mother’s gift.

  “You know what? You really shouldn’t be uptight about that Miss Texas thing. I mean, if ever there was a woman who was meant to be a beauty queen, it’s you.”

  A strange expression washed over her face, and Rebecca looked down at the gift she was holding. Matt had the uneasy feeling that she had heard this a million times before, and it made him feel an even bigger fool as his brain groped the rusty parts for how to express his feelings. “I’m not . . . Look, Rebecca, I’m a lawyer, not a poet. But there are some things I just know, and all I am trying to say is, you are so damn gorgeous that you probably steal into men’s dreams all the time without even knowing it. You are a man’s dream.”

  Rebecca said nothing, but slowly pushed the floral piece toward him.

  Matt took it in one hand, and with the other, he impulsively reached up, touched her temple, unable to stop himself from feeling her skin beneath his fingertips once more. “If you ever want to finish off that drought,” he muttered, listing forward to kiss her while she stood, paralyzed. Her lips, slightly parted, quivered beneath his, and as his hand drifted to her neck, he felt her pulse racing. And then she was responding, lifting up to him, kissing him deep, stepping closer, her hand on his neck, her tongue in his mouth, kissing him deeper. Every fiber, every cell in him was suddenly alive; he could feel a draw from his groin to his throat, and as he began to snake his arm around her waist, she broke the kiss.

  Dazed, Matt just stood there.

  Rebecca touched her finger to his lips, looked up at him through thick, dark lashes, her eyes crystal blue beneath. “Thank you, Matt Thanks for last night and for saying what you did about me. But I think you should know, I’m not really in a place—”

  She was about to give him the brush-off, and Matt’s survival instincts kicked in. He pulled the floral thing between them, smiled lopsidedly. “Whoa—don’t get me wrong,” he said, forcing a laugh. “I was just saying thanks for the memories.” He winked at her.

  Rebecca smiled, but her eyes said she didn’t believe him. “That’s what I thought,” she said softly, and stepped around him, walked to her car, opened the door, and tossed her bag inside. And then she started it up, throwing the thing in reverse and leaving the parking lot while he stood there like a dolt, holding some artsy-fartsy sculpture of paper flowers, quietly disturbed by the uncomfortable realization he had made that very same exit more times than he could count.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As with most things involving human emotion and sexuality it may take some time getting through whatever holds you back—but the outcome is certainly worthwhile!

  AWOMANSTOUCH.COM

  Rebecca couldn’t get back to Ruby Falls fast enough.

  Once she was safely ensconced in her refuge, Rebecca fed her dogs, then treated herself to a long, soaking, bubble bath. But the soothing eye compress was not cold enough to chase his image from her mind’s eye, and the water wasn’t hot enough to melt away the feel of his body against hers, nor the lingering heat of the most sublime orgasm of her life. Each time she thought of it, she felt an enticing shiver snake down her spine. And when he had kissed her again in the garage of the Four Seasons—or rather, when she had kissed him—she had feared that she would melt again, like she had the night before, right into his arms . . .

  So what if she did? Was that so bad? Yes! Yes, yes, yes . . .

  Okay, maybe it was, but she’d be a whole lot happier if she could only say why.

  Her head was pounding, so Rebecca turned in very early, Frank at the foot of her bed, and Bean with his head under the bed (the only part of his body that would fit) and dreamed a stupid, ridiculous, sensual dream in which she and Matt had mind-blowing sex, and he brought her to the very brink of what had all the markings of being the most stupendous orgasm ever. But she awoke, unfulfilled and miserable. The usual.

  What worried her was that it didn’t end there. She felt fearfully and mysteriously fantastic Sunday, as if there was something wild inside, something that had been awakened after years of paralysis, trying to claw its way free, and it scared her. It had been so long since she had been anything but perfect, never so much as a hair out of place, her manner and her life all carefully controlled. To think that something wildly imperfect was rumbling about inside and demanding to be set free seemed like . . . anarchy.

  There was only one thing to be done for it—housecleaning. Top to bottom, scrubbing, scrubbing, and scrubbing to get rid of that earthy feeling and put everything back in its proper place, including Matt, who had become, much to her horror, someone she thought she could actually like. Really like.

  Naturally, the housekeeping did no good. Exhausted, she tried a different tact, and after devouring a container of Haagen-Dazs for supper, she spent the evening in the midst of her growing library of self-help and Zen books, scouring them for any tips or advice that might help her move onward through the strange fog that had enveloped her sometime Friday and now refused to dissipate.

  No luck, of course.

  So she pored through Friends and Lovers and How to Know the Difference in minute detail, but found nothing to help her put Matt in his proper category. Stupid book. It could at least list some attributes or something.

  A phone call from Rachel, all excited, was the topper of her excruciatingly raw day. “I’ve been charting your horoscope!” she said happily when Rebecca answered the phone.

  “Why?”

  “What a silly question. Bec, it’s fantastic. Okay, you know Uranus is in Pisces, which is really great, I mean, you should really be prepared for something totally awesome. And then, guess what. Venus is in Pisces, too! So anyway, I was looking at your horoscope for the next year, and you will not believe what it says. Guess.”

  “I—”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you,” she said breathlessly. “It says that Venus will orbit very closely to Uranus, and there will be a strong current of electricity in the air, and that a Pisces will have powers of magnetism they have not known in seventy years. And that there is someone very close to you, probably a Cancer, who will fulfill you in ways you never dreamed.” Rachel paused there for dramatic effect, waiting for Rebecca to say something.

  “Oh,” Rebecca obliged her.

  “Bec!” Rachel cried, distressed she was not made ecstatic by the news. “Have I steered you wrong yet? Don’t you want to fall in love and—”

  Rebecca’s heart suddenly lurched. “No!” she said sharply. “No, Rachel, I don’t. I just got a divorce, remember?”

  “Come on, of course you do. Your divorce was months and months ago. So what, are you going to live alone all your life listening to sad songs on the radio? Listen, ‘Someone very close—”

  “I heard you. But there is no one very close to me, and I am not unfulfilled. I’m happy!”

  “Being perfect does not necessarily equal happiness.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rebecca demanded.

  “What part did you not get? The perfect part or the happy part?”

  Rebecca snorted. “Will someone please explain to me why everyone is so concerned about my life?”

  “Well . . . because we love you,” Rachel said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “And Bud was a jerk. You deserve to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” Rebecca insisted, feeling, inexplicably, close to tears.

>   “Whatever,” Rachel said, clearly exasperated. “Listen, I have to go. I’m leaving for England Thursday and I have to finish Robin’s horoscope. She’s going to get a huge windfall in June!”

  “She’ll be thrilled,” Rebecca said, and listened to Rachel’s singsong good-bye as she hung up.

  Honestly, she wished Rachel would stop calling with her bullshit because Rebecca could never shake it from her thoughts. She certainly tossed and turned her way through that night (thanks, Rach!), staring long and hard at the shadows of leaves dappled in the moonlight on the old limestone wall of her room. By morning, she had reached a few wobbly conclusions: One illicit encounter did not a romance make, and in fact, Matt’s great looks aside, there really wasn’t that much to like about him, except maybe his sense of humor, even though it tended toward the smarty-pants. Oh, and he seemed practical, which she liked. And smart. And there was the fact that he had been unexpectedly kind to her. But that was about it as far as she could see. He didn’t seem that crazy about her, either, and they really had nothing in common and even if they did have something in common, which they did not, she really wasn’t ready for anything like . . . that. Horoscopes notwithstanding.

  Frankly, after years of marriage, she was just now beginning to find herself again. She did not want to risk losing herself all over again, and men had a way of making her lose herself. No, no, all that had happened was a sexy little—okay, mind-blowing— thing in the middle of a very bad drunk. It was not the end of the world, and neither was it the start of anything big. It was just . . . nothing.

  She wasn’t unhappy.

  There was, however, one thing she could privately admit: Robin was right. She really needed to get laid.

  Positive Affirmations of My Life:

  1.Grayson coming home today!

  2.Bingo bash this week, which means, at last, I can get that monkey off my back! Yippee!

  3.Survived drunken stupor and bonus, broke the four-year dry spell. Which means I can do a couple more years no sweat until I am ready for a relationship. With sex. Because a person can do anything for a couple of years if they put their mind to it.

  When Rebecca arrived to pick up her son at the designated rendezvous point (a Holiday Inn on the interstate), Bud and Grayson and what’s-her-face were already there. Grayson got out of the big Cadillac Escalade and waved, then darted around to the back of the vehicle. Bud met him there, opened up the hatch, lifted out his backpack. And while Grayson struggled to put it on, Bud reached into the back and handed Grayson a fat, wiggling, little black puppy with paws the size of Frisbees.

  “Hey!” Rebecca shouted, marching across the parking lot as Bud gathered the leash and water bowl.

  “Hi, Mom!” Grayson called cheerfully. “Look what Candace got me!”

  Why, how thoughtful of CandyAss! “Gray, honey, did you tell Candace that we already have two dogs?” she asked, leaning down to kiss his face, which was covered with something very sticky and sweet.

  “What’s one more?” Bud asked matter-of-factly, thrusting a box with biscuits and a water bowl at her. “And besides, he wanted the dog.”

  “Really? He wants a horse, too,” she said over Grayson’s head. “Are you going to pull one of those out of your truck?”

  “Come on, Rebecca.”

  “Gray wants lots of things he can’t have, Bud,” she said calmly. “You might have at least asked. This means more food and more dog to take care of, and by the look of him, that will not be a cheap proposition, because that guy is not going to grow up to be a dainty little dog!”

  “We named him Tater,” Grayson announced. “Candace helped me think of it.” The puppy reacted to his new name by licking the sticky stuff from Grayson’s cheek.

  “How helpful of her,” Rebecca said, then glared at Bud.

  “Would you please stop acting like a princess? What’s one lousy dog? You got a big enough place, and Lord knows you have enough of my money to feed it.”

  Actually, in hindsight, she did not have nearly as much of his money as she should have gone for.

  “So I hear you’re with Masters?” he said, changing the subject and startling her.

  “What? How did you know that—Robin?”

  He shrugged. “That’s a better move for you, really, instead of the work idea.” He paused to get something out of the SUV, giving Rebecca time to visualize herself kicking him square in the nuts, martial arts style. “You know, Aaron would really like Tom.”

  “Who, Dad? He doesn’t like politics or politicians.”

  “Masters is different. You should really talk to Aaron about Tom.”

  What was this? Bud’s sudden interest in her dad’s political leanings—any leanings—was certainly odd, and as he shut the back of the SUV, she had a sudden, sickening thought. “Did you have anything to do with Tom calling me in the first place?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “No, Rebecca. I just think it’s a good move, that’s all.”

  What a relief. She’d rather die than take something Bud had set up for her.

  “Okay, buddy, I have to go,” Bud said, running his hand over Grayson’s unruly top. “Candy and I have a long drive to Dallas.”

  “But Dad, when can I come see you and Lucy?” Grayson asked, struggling to hold on to the monster puppy.

  “I’ll call you,” Bud said, and then looked at Rebecca. “You doing okay? You look too skinny.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You sure you’re handling all this okay?”

  “All what?”

  “You know, us. Our split.”

  “Bud, please don’t patronize me,” Rebecca said evenly. “We’ve been divorced almost a year.” She grabbed the puppy by the scruff of the neck before it wriggled free of Grayson’s grip.

  “Don’t, Mom! I got him,” he complained, and twisted away from her. “Tater is my dog!”

  “Okay, see you,” said Bud, already striding toward the driver’s seat.

  Grayson whipped around. “Dad! Dad!” he screamed. “Byyyyyye, Dad!”

  Bud waved, then disappeared into the Escalade. Grayson stood there, watching Bud take off, speeding out of the parking lot without so much as a backward glance. When the Esplanade had disappeared into traffic, Rebecca put her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sweetie.”

  Grayson jerked away from her. “I’m coming,” he said, and began stalking toward the Rover as well as he could with the squiggling puppy.

  Rebecca tried to talk to him on the way home, but Grayson was in a foul mood, as he usually was after seeing Bud. “I had fun with Dad,” was the only thing she could get out of him about his weekend at the coast. “I wish Dad had married Lucy,” he added petulantly, and Rebecca figured the kid was determined to find a way to hurt her.

  His disposition did not improve that evening, either. While Bean took the new addition to their family in stride (if he even noticed), Frank wasn’t too pleased, and snapped twice at a very playful Tater. That infuriated Grayson, who, after throwing a tantrum and insisting that Rebecca put Frank out, which she would not, scooped up Tater and marched off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

  A half hour later, Rebecca peeked into his room. Grayson was sprawled on his race car bed, snotty-nosed and red-faced from having cried himself to sleep. Her heart went out to him; what could possibly be so troubling to a little kid? She didn’t know, but at the moment, Tater, who had already shredded one of Grayson’s books, was working on a shoe.

  Rebecca trotted the pup out into the backyard and handed him over to Frank and Bean for proper training. Well. To Frank, anyway.

  With the help of Grayson’s cranky return, Rebecca was able to push Matt from her mind and focus what was left of her brain on Tom Masters’s Bingo Bash. She exchanged what seemed like no less than a thousand e-mails with Francine McDonough, the Silver Panthers’ president. The plan was simple: The pots would be split between the Silver Panthers Charity Drive (the proceeds to be donated to the charity of the winner’s choic
e), and reimbursing the Elks’ Lodge the expense of the room and food. As the Elks Lodge frequently held their own charitable bingo nights, Rebecca had all the bingo stuff lined up—bingo sheets, bingo balls, a bingo ball mixer-upper thing, as well as extra “dabbers.” And as Grandma was an avid bingo fan, she helped Rebecca line up the most important feature: the bingo caller, who, Grandma said, was the best this side of Louisiana.

  Rebecca paid a couple of visits to the Elks’ Lodge to review the setup, making sure the refreshments and decorations were all in order. She even coaxed Grayson into helping her finger-paint some cute signs to be placed around the bingo room (Tom Masters for Lt. Governor!). She called Tom three times to make sure he understood where and when he should be in attendance, but could only get Gilbert, who assured her Tom was on board and would be where he needed to be at the appropriate time. She did not, however, make or receive a single call from Big Pants, and frankly, wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. On the one hand, she had told him—sort of—that she did not want it to go any further. But after he said what he did, she had thought . . . maybe even hoped a little . . . that he might call. Not that she wanted him to call, because she didn’t. Really.

  So when he did call late the night before the bingo bash—when she was in her silk pajamas, curled up with Surviving Divorce: A Woman’s Path to Starting Over—she wasn’t sure if she should be put out with how long it had taken him or just politely pleased that he had called.

  “Hey, Mork,” he said when she answered.

  “Matt Parrish. Is there a problem?” she asked evenly, and God help him if he had really called at this hour about the campaign.

  But with a chuckle that was surprisingly reassuring, he said, “I was going to ask the same of you.”

  “Why would I have a problem?” she asked, pushing her book aside and pulling her knees up under her chin.