by Julia London
“Watch it, Tom,” Matt said hotly.
“You watch it, Parrish. Rebecca is worth bucks to me. Big bucks. And now people are calling here, wanting to talk to Rebecca, and she’s not here. Know what else? She won’t take the calls at her house. I am about to lose the biggest infusion of cash this campaign has seen yet, and if you think for one minute that we don’t need it, think again. We’re going negative, and that, my friend, requires some serious scratch!”
“You’re not serious,” Matt said angrily. “You’re going to put attack ads out? Why can’t you let your record speak for itself? Why do you need to drag Harbaugh through the mud? You’ve got enough of a track record and you’ve been touting that damn superhighway as the answer to everyone’s prayers!”
“Get real. Do you think anyone gives a shit about my track record? The only thing they care about is who I’ve fucked, which is why I kept my hands off Rebecca!”
The thought of Tom’s hands anywhere on Rebecca made Matt sick with revulsion, and Matt felt one step away from putting a fist down Tom’s throat.
“Now look, I need this gala deal. I need Rebecca. Once it’s over, you can have her, but right now, I need her and her dad!”
Matt’s revulsion was growing. “She’s not a thing, Tom.”
“Until November third, you’re all things to me,” he retorted, sweeping his arm in the general direction of the offices. “And before you get on your soapbox, just remember—you’re gonna be thinking the same damn thing when you run for DA. Think you can do it better? Well try doing it without money! And if you think anyone in the party is going to give you one red cent, then you better think of a way to fix this crap. So are you going to fix it?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Matt answered truthfully.
“You damn sure better try.”
Matt had to get out of there or kill the next Lt. Governor. He turned around and yanked the door open.
“Where are you going?” Tom barked.
“Where the hell do you think? To talk to Rebecca!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
If I’ve done anything I’m sorry for, I’m willing to be forgiven . . .
EDWARD N WESTCOTT
Thursday morning, Matt called the office and asked Harold to reschedule his appointments, as something personal and pressing had come up.
“But, Mr. Parrish,” Harold said urgently. “You have that motion to compel in front of Gambofini on the Rosenberg case. If you miss that—”
“Harold. Please reschedule,” he said calmly, knowing full well that Harold was right—his ass was grass as far as Gambofini was concerned, having been told no less than two dozen times that if he screwed up again, he’d personally work to see Matt disbarred. Of course, Gambofini threatened that each time Matt was before him, so he wasn’t really too worried, at least not this time. He was more worried about Ben, actually, because Ben usually made good on his threats to kick his ass.
Nevertheless, Matt had more important matters on hand at the moment. He changed into a pair of Levi’s, a white cotton button down, and his black ostrich boots that matched his belt, put his cell and pager on his dresser, and left his penthouse. In the garage, he put the top down on his Jag and shoved some Maui Jims on his face. It was a gorgeous day, and if he was going to go search the Highland Lakes area for one royally pissed off Miss Texas just so she could hand his head to him on a platter, he was at least going to enjoy the drive out.
When the phone rang, Rebecca was wearing a cut-off T-shirt and jean shorts over a two piece bathing suit, and had just fought off a horde of bees she had inadvertently discovered in the old barn she had decided to convert into an art studio . . . depending on how things looked once she got all the junk out.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly, using the cordless handset to swat at one last attacking bee as she backed out of the barn.
“Bec? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Dad,” she grunted, swatting one last time as pulled the barn door shut. “Just cleaning out the barn. So what’s up?”
“Does something have to be up for me to talk to my daughter?”
Honestly, that’s what she preferred, and in general, didn’t most people have a purpose when they phoned? “Of course not. But you usually don’t call just to discuss the weather.”
“So have you heard from your mom?” he asked, and Rebecca suppressed a groan. “Not in a couple of weeks. She was talking about going to Chicago to work on a project for the Heart Association fundraising drive. Maybe she went.” Dad made a sound of disapproval. “She’s been really busy,” Rebecca added in her mom’s defense.
“Oh, yeah? Well, she wasn’t too busy to box up the flowers I sent her and return them to me dead.”
Rebecca lifted her brows in surprise. “She did that?” she asked, incredulous.
Dad muttered something she couldn’t quite catch, and then, “Where’s Grayson?”
“He’s with Jo Lynn.”
“Figures. By the way, I heard from your ex today.”
That got her attention. Why would Bud call Dad? She had heard from her ex three days ago, and that was enough to last a lifetime. “You’re weak, Rebecca,” he’d offered out of nowhere. “You quit in the middle of Tom’s campaign like a kid and left him in a bind. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Why in the hell did he call you?” she asked, perturbed.
“To tell me that you quit what’s-his-name’s campaign. Right in the middle of it, he said. Just up and left them in a bind. Is that true?”
“Sort of,” she said slowly. “So what did you say?”
“I told him to mind his own goddamn business. What do you think I said? I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but he’s got some balls to call me up and say anything about you, that’s for damn sure!”
With a smile, Rebecca sank onto the broad stump of an oak that had been chopped down years ago. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me—I’ve always hated that bastard. Why’d you quit, anyway?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t working in the direction that the, ah . . . the senior member of the team wanted to go. And it became apparent that we didn’t see eye to eye, so I thought it was best if I just took what I had learned and moved on.”
Dad didn’t say anything for a moment. “Did you leave them in a bind?”
“Well . . . a little one, I guess. I was planning a big fund-raising event—”
“Bud mentioned it. A statewide affair with entertainment and lots of big names, right?”
“Yes,” she said, perplexed that Bud was calling Dad with all this information. “What is Bud’s problem, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Said this guy is a good friend of his. Sounded like the guy was pressuring him and I guess Bud’s embarrassed. He ought to be embarrassed he’s a Democrat. Nevertheless, Rebecca, did I not teach you anything?” he asked. “Like not giving up when you’ve given someone your word? Your word is your bond, and if you don’t honor it, what have you got?”
God, she was tired of her father. He was so quick to judge, so quick to criticize, without even knowing what had happened. Rebecca looked up at the tops of the blackjack oaks, realized she had finally reached the point where she just didn’t want to hear it anymore and was finally willing to say so. “Dad? Could you, just once, call and ask how I am doing without lecturing me? I honor my word. I did what I could for Tom, but in the end, it wasn’t what they needed—”
“Well, according to Buddy-boy, your pal needed the fund-raiser. Now listen, if you told him you were going to do this thing, then you need to do this thing. You can’t get a job if you’re a quitter. And besides, I told you to call me the next time you had something to show. Wasn’t I getting an invitation?”
Her pulse was pounding now. She grit her teeth, thought about all the times Robin had bitched about the old man. She was beginning to see things Robin’s way. “I hadn’t planned on it,” she said evenly.
“
What?” he asked, clearly surprised. “Why wouldn’t I get an invitation?”
“Because all you have done is criticize my involvement to begin with.”
“That’s not true!”
“And now that Bud Reynolds has called you up after what, two years, to tell you I am not behaving like he wants me to behave, you have turned around and called to lecture me. You have called up without knowing the facts to tell me what I’m doing wrong again. Well, thanks, Dad. Thanks for your expert advice on every little thing in my life. Now that you’ve delivered it, we can hang up. Good-bye!” she said, and clicked off the phone. And dropped it on the grass like it was on fire.
She was getting pretty ballsy with this hang-up business—now her father? She sat there staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again, waiting for Dad to build up a head of steam and fry her right to the tree stump.
But the phone didn’t ring.
Very carefully, Rebecca leaned over, picked it up with two fingers, then hurried toward the house, almost throwing it on the back porch in her haste to get away from it. She stood there a moment longer, certain it would ring, and could picture Dad, his face red with rage—no way could he live without having the last word!
But the damn thing didn’t ring, which was entirely too spooky . . . and also liberating when she thought about it, and she did a small victory pump for the real Rebecca shining through.
Right. But just in case he did call back . . . Rebecca wiped up a beach towel from the padded wicker furniture, and stomped off with her new bad self toward the river to join Grayson and Jo Lynn.
Those two had apparently given up the frog hunt, for they were sitting, side by side, on the edge of the dock, their legs swinging freely beneath them above the river. “Mind if I join you?” Rebecca asked as she took a seat next to Grayson.
“How’s that barn coming?” Jo Lynn asked.
“Full of bees and lots of junk. It’s going to take some work.”
“Ah, well. Can’t sit around, so you might as well work. We were just going up for ice cream. You want some?” she asked as Grayson put on his sandals.
“No, thanks I’m going in for a swim. Jo Lynn? If the phone rings, don’t answer it, okay?”
Jo Lynn looked at her curiously, but when Rebecca gave her a halfhearted shrug, she smiled. “Okay,” she said, and took Grayson’s hand, led him up the grassy slope to the house.
Matt stopped at Sam’s Corner Grocery in Ruby Falls, bought a pack of gum and two huge bouquets of roses, which he pieced together as one. He asked the checker (a big girl who, in her smock, reminded him of a Red Delicious apple), if she knew Rebecca Lear. “Sweetie, everyone knows Rebecca Lear,” she said.
“Miss Texas, right?” he asked as he handed her a fiver for his purchase.
“Huh?” she asked, squinting up at him beneath a mound of teased hair.
“She was Miss Texas.”
The woman, whose name tag read Dinah, gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes grew wide. “She was?” she squealed, and immediately whirled around to the only other checker in the store. “Did you hear that, Karen? Rebecca Lear—you know, that real pretty girl that lives down on the old Peckinpaugh ranch? She was Miss Texas!”
“Miss Texas?” Karen cried. “You’re kidding!”
Both women looked at Matt to see if he was kidding. “I’m not,” he quickly assured them.
“How come she never told us?” Karen demanded of him.
“I, ah . . . I don’t know why she didn’t. I thought that’s what you meant when you said everyone knew her.”
“Oh, no, I meant because of the dogs,” Dinah said as she handed him his change and receipt.
“Old man Abbot just shoots them strays, you know that?” Karen said while she used her little finger as a toothpick.
“Oh, he does not!” Dinah exclaimed.
“Does too.” Karen insisted.
“If you could just point me toward her house?” Matt asked.
Dinah spared him a glance— “Straight down fourteen oh six, big stone fence and wrought iron gate right after the cemetery” —before beginning to argue Karen’s source of information on old man Abbot.
Matt ducked out, found the cemetery and old stone fence easy enough, the old wrought iron gate, too, just like Dinah had said. But Dinah hadn’t mentioned the flying pig on top of one of the stone gate pillars. It looked fairly new. And big. And not very Rebecca-ish.
Fortunately, the gate was open, so Matt turned onto the narrow gravel road, drove slowly through a thicket of trees, mesquite, and cactus, until he rounded a bend and saw an old ranch house—limestone, one story, lots of crankcase windows, and a big wraparound porch. Along the front railings were a smattering of azalea bushes, still blooming even thought it was late in the season. In two old cast iron kettles, several antique rosebushes were blooming white and pink. On one end of the porch was an old wooden porch swing, the white paint chipping and peeling, and on the other end, tasteful and expensive wicker furniture.
The house looked very charming. Just like its owner.
Matt pulled up, killed the motor, gathered the roses, and climbed out of the Jag, at which point he noticed that what looked like dirt and mulch between the azaleas were actually lumps of dogs, three in all, who were now rising to their feet to greet him in true dog fashion—by charging forward. A big, mean-looking, one-eyed yellow dog charged the hardest at him, fangs bared and fur standing. Matt thought he was going to have to dive headfirst into his car for safety, but the dog ran smack into the front fender, stumbled backward a bit, then sat. And that, apparently, ended his desire for a manwich.
The other two dogs, however, one black, one red brindle, had better navigational skills than Old Yeller and raced around their stunned compatriot, barking fiercely. Matt put one hand down, fumbled with the roses, and looked at the porch. “Hey, hey! Come on, Frank! Come on, Bean! Tater and Tot, which ones are you?” he asked, his voice friendly and light. It worked. The dogs instantly started wagging their tales, sniffing at his crotch and shoes, and were joined by a little three-legged dog that came racing around the corner of the house. Even the yellow one found his bearings again and came wandering over to have a good sniff.
“Thrilled to make your acquaintance,” Matt said to the dogs, and once he was assured no one was going to bite him, he walked up onto the porch, ducking under a wind chime made from old forks and spoons to knock on the door. The dogs all stood behind him, tails wagging, as if they had accompanied him all the way from Austin.
Hearing footsteps and muffled voices, Matt saw a figure behind the opaque glass of the door and steeled himself, adjusting the roses in his arm. But when the door was opened, it was not Rebecca. For a split second, Matt thought he had the wrong house . . . until he remembered meeting the older woman at the bingo bash. “Ah . . . hi. I think we met at the Masters fund-raiser—”
“I remember. Matt, right?”
“Right. I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Jo Lynn.”
“Jo Lynn, of course,” he said. “I was looking for Rebecca.”
“MATT!” Grayson shrieked from somewhere in the house, and Matt heard the sound of small feet running across wood floors. “MATT!” he shrieked again as he came skidding into the foyer behind Jo Lynn.
“Hey, pal!” Matt said, grinning down at an anxious little face smeared with chocolate ice cream, surprised by how glad he was to see the boy.
Judging by the way Grayson roughly pushed in front of Jo Lynn, he was pretty glad to see Matt, too, and clasped his hands, stared at him almost pleadingly. “Are you coming back?” he asked breathlessly. “Me and Jo Lynn looked for frogs but we didn’t find any. Can we go frog hunting? Are you going to stay here?”
Matt smiled uneasily at Jo Lynn, who was now eyeballing him with a very curious expression, and he quickly squatted down to talk to Gray. “Dude. You can’t hunt for frogs in the heat of the day! You have to wait until it cools off. That’s when they come out to have a look aro
und.”
“Okay. Can we hunt when it cools off?”
“Maybe.” Provided his mother didn’t send his body floating down the river or hang it from the cottonwood he had seen towering above the house in back. We’ll see.”
“Want some ice cream?” Gray continued breathlessly, and put his sticky hand on Matt’s, tugging him inside.
“Uh . . . not just now, okay?” he said, standing, but Grayson would not let go of his hand. “I need to speak to your mom first.”
“She’s down at the river,” Jo Lynn said, now standing back to let him enter. “I can send Grayson down.”
“Actually, would it be all right if I walked down?” Matt asked. If there was going to be another scene, he preferred Grayson not witness it this time, having recognized, of course, that that was the second most reprehensible thing he’d ever done in his life.
Jo Lynn looked over her shoulder, toward another row of big picture windows on the opposite end of a great room, through which Matt could see a stretch of glimmering river. “I guess that’d be okay,” she said after a moment. “Come on in.”
Matt stepped inside—or rather, was pulled in by Grayson, who still had a fierce clamp on his hand, and along with the four dogs, moved into the cool interior. He was standing a few steps above a sunken great room, where overstuffed couches and armchairs graced the wooden floor and large woven rug. A massive fireplace was on one wall, and from either side of the room, long corridors shot off in different directions. At the opposite end of where he was standing was a rustic dining table. A bar separated the great room from what he supposed was the kitchen area, given the ice cream container and two bowls there.
It was a lovely room, warm and inviting, right out of the pages of Southern Living. But Matt couldn’t help noticing, as Grayson pulled him along to follow Jo Lynn (the dogs, too, naturally), that the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of the fireplace were arranged by color and height.