by Julia London
“Have I noticed?” Robin laughed. “Did you forget? He hired me for appearances. Don’t tell me you’re just now figuring that out—didn’t you ever wonder why he was so hot for you to do the Miss Texas thing?”
“Yeah,” Rebecca said solemnly, guess I’m just now figuring it out.”
With a playful punch to the arm, Robin asked, “What’s with you, anyway? You’re so mopey.”
“I don’t know. Remember when Dad was really sick, and he handed down that ultimatum?”
“Ah, but there were so many,” Robin said with a roll of her eyes. “Which one?”
“The one about how we had to learn to stand on our own two feet, figure out the important things, or he’d cut us off.”
“Right. Well, I am trying to stand on my own two feet, but he’s worried that I am going to be a kept woman or some ridiculous thing like that. He doesn’t really care who I am or how I feel, just how I look to the rest of the world. He wants me to set up as some retiring social butterfly and do nothing but look after Grayson, because in his mind, that’s what I am supposed to be doing.”
“So? What else is new? Dad has always known what’s best for us without bothering to know us at all,” Robin said, almost cheerfully, having come to her conclusions about the old man and having moved on with her life.
It wasn’t so easy for Rebecca. “But I want him to care, Robin. I want him to see me for who I am.”
Robin shook her head. “My advice? Don’t care. Dad is never going to see you like you want him to see you. He’s never going to see anyone or anything other than exactly what he wants to see. But it doesn’t matter what he thinks. It’s your life, and you aren’t living it for him. Be who you are, Rebecca. And be happy. Life is too short to do anything else. If you give what he thinks a second thought, you will only make yourself crazy. Trust me on this one.”
Rebecca nodded, but she couldn’t do what Robin suggested, because she was already crazy.
“So what about that guy?” Robin asked, munching on some of Grandpa’s peanuts.
Rebecca glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “What guy?”
“The gorgeous one,” Robin said, nudging her with her shoulder.
“Nothing,” Rebecca said, and picked up her sketchbook and pencils and walked outside.
“Chicken!” Robin shouted after her, but Rebecca kept walking, out onto the porch, down the steps and across the lawn, where Frank, Bean, and Tater picked up her scent and came trotting out from their nap under the porch. They walked down to the river, where Rebecca propped herself up against the smooth bark of a weeping willow. From this vantage point, she had a vista of spring wildflowers, grazing cattle, and tall cottonwoods rustling over the river’s edge. The sight of it so soothing, bringing back myriad youthful memories when she and Robin and Rachel would come down here, talk about boys, paint their nails, and dream of happy ever after.
She opened the velvet box, took out a pencil, and picked up her sketchbook.
She stared at the thick paper, trying to dredge up the memory of how it felt to take a pencil in hand and let whatever it was inside her flow out onto the page. There was a time that it had taken no conscious thought at all, just pencil and paper. Now, it felt impossible. She didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin.
Tears clouded her vision, and she was struck with the desperate notion that she had given up all that she was to be Bud’s wife, including this part of her. She had believed his promises, had believed in their future. Now she had nothing left that she didn’t have to rebuild.
Rebecca looked at the tops of the cottonwood trees, bending and swaying in the afternoon breeze. Get it back, Matt had said. Just be.
Easy for him to say because he could just be who he was—arrogant and kind all at once, caring in a weird, fascist sort of way, she thought with a little smile. Smart. Competent. Sexy. Of course he could believe in himself. She wished she could believe in herself like that instead of stuffing her spirit down, leaving it to lurk in her thoughts and heart.
A flicker of light caught her eye, and Rebecca looked up to the tops of the cottonwood trees again. Miraculously, her hand began to move. She blinked, looked down at the pad she was holding and saw the first marks of a tree. She dropped the pencil, wiped her eyes, picked up her pencil again, and looked at the leaves impressed against a bright spring sky.
The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully—save a very heated argument between Robin and Dad about the Houston Astros, which drove Rebecca outside again. By the time Rebecca returned to her lake house, she was emotionally exhausted from her family and all the blasted introspection she had done.
She said good-bye to Grandma and Grandpa, then made hot dogs, Grayson’s favorite, for supper. Later, when Grayson settled down in front of taped episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants with the dogs, Rebecca went to her office with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to check her phone messages.
The first was left bright and early Friday morning by Tom. “Hey, did you see the piece in the paper about us? Great job, Rebecca! Listen, could you come in next week? I’d like to talk to you about a bigger deal. I’m thinking of a big summer fund-raising bash that will leave the competition gasping. You know, one with some great live entertainment like Lyle Lovett.” He rattled on about that; Rebecca jotted down a note to call him.
There was another early call from Bud, who, among other things, made a remark about the picture in the Austin paper. “I hope you are finally moving on with your life, Bec,” he said, which made her cringe, and then, “And I hope you got a chance to mention Tom to your dad.” Typical.
The last message, left just after ten on Friday, was from Matt. She smiled when he said, “Mork, you home?” Just the sound of his voice made her feel warm. “Ah . . . well. This is Big Pants in case you hadn’t figured that out. So . . .” He paused there, drew a breath. “Look, I know we’re not going there, but I’ve got a couple of tickets to the lyric opera and I thought you might enjoy it. The thing is, I’m not the most lyric guy in the world—you probably already knew that—and I could use someone to translate for me . . .” His voice trailed off again. She heard a faint tapping in the background. “Okay, so if you’re interested, it’s Sunday at six. Give me a call if you want to go. Okay. Talk to you soon. Bye,” he said, and hung up.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. She debated calling him, but decided not to, to stick with her instincts, and her instincts said this could never really go anywhere. Her curiosity about him was really nothing more than the usual curiosity that comes after divorce. She’d read enough self-help books to know that a rebound affair was really not healthy, and this couldn’t possibly be more than that. So no matter how much her heart was leaning in one direction, her mind was yanking her in another. Just don’t go there . . .
When Bonnie Lear returned to her Los Angeles Brentwood home from the gym Monday afternoon, there was a note on the door. Bealman Florists, it said. She turned the card over; a delivery man had left a message for her to call. Bonnie dug out her cell phone and dialed the number. The guy said he needed to come by and deliver.
“Flowers?” she asked.
The guy laughed. “You could say that.”
Bonnie looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run a few errands. Why don’t you just leave it on the porch?”
“It’s too big to leave on the porch, ma’am,” he said.
“Too big?”
“This isn’t one order. It’s like, dozens.”
Bonnie paused in trying to fit her key in the door. “Dozens? Dozens of what?”
“Roses. Listen, I’m not too far. If you can just stay put for a half hour, I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” she sighed, and clicked off the phone. She walked into the kitchen, stared out at the backyard pool.
A quarter of an hour later, she heard a vehicle in the drive and walked out onto her front porch. It was not a small van, but a big delivery truck. The man hopped down out of the day cab, walked around to the back.
Bonnie joined him there, peering over his shoulder as he reviewed several pages of a bill of lading. Then he unlatched the back and pushed the roll-away door up.
The sickly sweet scent was overpowering, knocking them both back a step. The truck was full of roses. Yellow, white, red, pink . . . dozens and dozens of roses.
“Someone must really be in the doghouse, huh?” the delivery guy remarked with a grin.
Damn him. Damn him! “Is there a card?” Bonnie asked, and the man handed her a stack of them. She opened the first one.
Please forgive me. I love you. Aaron.
She crumpled it in her hand and damn near threw it at the delivery man.
Chapter Nineteen
If we don’t change our direction we’re likely to end up where we’re headed . . .
CHINESE PROVERB
On the Friday after the Tom Masters Charity Bingo Bash, at the same moment Rebecca was suffering through the RV trip from hell, Matt was in his office, staring at the phone instead of getting stuff together for a hearing on the Kiker case.
He had already picked up the phone twice and put it down. This was a really stupid idea. Nothing was different with Rebecca—it was a thank-you kiss that he tried to take a little further than she’d intended. Nothing to get all excited about and certainly nothing to make a fool of himself over. He told himself he should really forget the whole thing and move on. Maybe call Debbie Seaforth. Which was why, then, when he picked up the phone a third time, he dialed Rebecca’s number really fast before he talked himself out of it.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Matt was just about to hang up when the answering machine picked up and her silky calm voice was asking him to leave a message. He hadn’t thought about that, and the piercing beep signaling it was time to leave his message rattled him badly. “Ah hey, Mork, you home?” he blurted, wincing, and continued to wince until he had stopped blathering into her machine and had hung up.
Then he pounded his desk with his fist. This was bullshit—he was acting like a kid! Since when was he so unnerved by a woman? Never, which was why he really had to stop letting his balls do all his important thinking.
He got up, started going through the files, but was interrupted by the buzz of his interoffice speaker. “It’s your mother, Mr. Parrish,” Harold said over the intercom.
Oh no. Matt loved his mom, but the lady could talk. “Tell her I’ll call her later,” he said, clicked off, and walked across the room to a file cabinet.
The buzzer rang again.
With a sigh, Matt walked back, punched the button. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but your mother is very insistent.”
Harold would never know what an understatement that was. “Okay, put her through,” he said, and picked up the handset. “Mom? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, Matthew. But I was not in the mood to wait to find out who this lovely young woman is!”
“What woman, Mom?” Matt asked absently as he thumbed through some files.
“The one standing beside you,” she said, all chipper. “In the paper.”
It worked; she definitely got Matt’s attention. “The paper?”
“The Statesman, silly,” Mom giggled. “This morning I open it up and there you are, big as life smack dab in the middle of the Life section, standing behind that friend of yours who is running for office. But you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at her. And what an interesting look it is!”
Oh man. Matt’s first instinct was to play dumb. “Mom, she’s just someone working on Tom’s campaign. You know how it is. You’ve seen me in the paper with different women.”
“Yes I know, my darling son, but you’re usually more interested in the camera than your date,” she purred with all motherly privilege. “And besides, I am not the one who is excited.”
The little wave of panic was now spiraling into full mast. “Okay, well, this is a delightful conversation, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a hearing in an hour and I can’t find the damn file—”
“Oh, you run right along, honey. I’m going to cut out the pictures so that you can look at them later. Three in all, if you’re interested. Bye now!”
Matt frowned at his mom’s little chuckle as she hung up. He sprang out of his chair, strode across his office to the door, and yanked it open. “Harold!” he barked. “Bring me today’s paper!” He pivoted sharply and marched back to his desk.
Harold appeared almost instantly with the folded paper in his hand, which he laid in front of Matt, the Life section conveniently on top. “You and Miss Lear look really marvelous together,” he said admiringly. “Page six.”
“He and who?” Ben asked from the door, wandering in as Matt yanked the paper open to page six.
“Miss Lear.”
“The beauty queen?”
“Do you guys mind?” Matt asked testily. “I’ve got to get ready for a hearing in less than an hour—”
“Hey, I wanna see,” Ben said, waltzing across the room to have a look.
“They’re fabulous pictures,” Harold said. “I take it the Bingo Bash was a success.”
“The what?” Ben exclaimed loudly.
“Long story,” Matt muttered, turning to page six to see what the rest of the world had apparently already seen this morning. Judas H. Priest, there they were, gazing into each other’s eyes. When the hell had that happened?
The second photo was of Tom and company, but once again, just off to the right, Rebecca was smiling suspiciously at Matt, and he was smiling as if . . . he couldn’t even think straight. He couldn’t breathe, especially with Ben hanging over one shoulder and Harold drooling from across the desk. He looked at the last picture, the one that really made him feel sick. Tom in the hallway, standing next to that old woman on that deadly scooter (she’d almost taken him out twice with that thing). And over the top of her steel wool head, you could see Matt and Rebecca, slipping out the back door. She looked a little nervous, but he had a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“I thought you didn’t like her,” Ben remarked, peering closely at the last picture.
“I don’t,” Matt responded, perhaps a little too sharply. “At least not like that.”
“Don’t like her?” Harold gasped, horrified. “But what about the art festival?”
“Jesus, it must be love!” Ben cried, banging Matt on the shoulder. “Bingo and an art festival?” He laughed, strolled toward the door in a definite swagger as Harold followed behind in a definite swish, “So what’s the hearing this afternoon?” Ben asked before walking out.
“Uh-oh,” Harold murmured, and went out.
“Discovery for Kelly Kiker.” Matt muttered.
Ben sighed to the ceiling, shook his head. “I thought you were going to give her a referral. In fact, I think you promised. So when is it that we start lining up cases that actually make us a little money?”
Matt shoved the paper into the drawer and stood, returning to the file cabinet to look for the papers he needed. “I’m doing this pro bono—”
“Like I said—we need cases that make money. Look, it’s great you want to help this chick out, but it takes you away from cases that might actually make us a little something.”
“Okay, Townsend. You’ve made your point a million times over, but I really don’t have time for the refrain right now. I need to get to court.”
“Whatever,” Ben muttered, and walked out the door. “But it would be nice if you could remember how we pay the salaries around here and try and chip in with a few profitable cases.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Matt muttered under his breath as he searched for the wayward file, and thought Ben would probably bust a gut if he knew Matt had given Kelly five hundred dollars out of his own pocket to buy some suitable clothes.
He found the file a moment later, grabbed up his briefcase, stuck the file under his arm, and headed for the courthouse. It was a quick two-block walk, and as he came up to the last crosswalk, he saw Debbie Sea
forth coming from the opposite direction.
He smiled.
Debbie looked away.
Whoa. The light changed; Matt began striding across the street. Debbie tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him, but Matt stepped directly in front of her in the middle of the crosswalk. Debbie gave off a sigh of irritation; her eyes narrowed as she looked at Matt.
“Deb, what the hell?” he asked, stretching his arms wide.
“You’re blocking traffic,” she said, and stepped around him, ducking under his arm.
Matt pivoted, caught up and walked with her, bending his head to get a look at her face. “Okay, what’s the matter, Deb? Did I forget an important date? Did I say something I shouldn’t have? What did I do that you won’t at least pretend to be glad to see me?”
“Oh, please!” She reached the curb and stepping up on the sidewalk. “Why would I be glad to see you?” She punched the pedestrian button to cross the next intersection. Four times. In furiously rapid succession.
Granted, Matt was not wholly unaccustomed to The Wrath of a Woman, having been the recipient of it on many occasions. But he’d be the first guy in line to confess that he rarely had a clue as to what brought The Wrath on. Seriously. No, seriously. And in this instance, he risked what he instinctively knew to be a monumental blunder and tried to get at the root of it, instead of turning around and walking straight to court like his gut told him to do. “Maybe I think you’d be glad to see me because the two of us had such a good time together.”
Debbie slowly turned her head, demon-style, and gave him one of those prosecutorial, I’ll-bite-out-your-jugular-and-eat-it look that made his balls cinch up and reminded him how thankful he was that he did not practice criminal law. “That’s just the problem, Matt,” she said, breathing fire. “We’ve been together. Just like you and every other chick in town, apparently. Seen the paper lately?”
Yow. Matt never got to answer. The light turned green and Debbie was striding across the intersection, leaving him to bob like a rubber duck in her furious wake.