The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  Little Matt sprang to instant and rapt attention. Big Matt could only nod as he quietly turned the lock behind his back.

  “Well . . . ” She paused and shyly dropped her gaze. “If you wouldn’t mind having a seat at your desk, I have this fantasy where I come in, and . . . you know.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said flatly, but he was already moving to his chair.

  Rebecca came around to his side of the desk, very gracefully went down on her knees, and slipped in between his legs, and slowly unzipped his pants. “Be very quiet,” she said. “Or Harold will know what’s going on.” With a sly wink, she stunned Matt into silence; he gripped the arms of his chair as she closed her lips around the head of his penis, thought wildly that this could not be happening, that he was a professional, that he did not do this in his office. But then she moved her lips down the shaft, Matt turned to jelly and thought what the hell. His head fell back against the chair, and he was sinking into a vat of pure, unadulterated bliss, sinking and sinking as she began to move on him, licking and sucking and nibbling her way to his climax.

  Which came very quickly. Illicit sex in the office had the effect on him. “Wait,” he said hoarsely, not quite able to move yet, as she very carefully cleaned him up. “What about you?”

  Rebecca smiled as she came to her feet, leaned over him and kissed him on the lips. I’ll see you later,” she said, and walked around to the other side of his desk, picked up her bag, pausing only to straighten her skirt and sweater before prissing right out of his office like she owned the joint. Damn, if she wanted it, he’d give her the keys, the deed, and the brand-new coffeepot.

  There was no denying it—this was definitely love. Still grinning like an idiot, Matt zipped his pants, turned, and planted his elbows on his desk and dragged his hands through his hair in an effort to regain his composure. That was when he noticed the rolled-up flyer Rebecca had been carrying and left on his desk.

  Matt picked it up. Russ Erwin, the Man with a Conscience, it said. The tree-huggers anthem—We’re the only ones who care. Socialist Assholes.

  He tossed it in the trash can without another thought.

  Chapter Thirty

  I have come to the conclusion that politics are too serious a matter to be left to the politicians . . .

  CHARLES DE GAULLE

  Rebecca worked hard to rid herself of the trappings of the old Rebecca. She rearranged her furniture, let Jo Lynn change things around in the kitchen (even though she had to go out on the porch, unable to watch), and boxed up all her self-help books and mailed them to Rachel. She even went to Ruby Falls one afternoon with no makeup, wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

  And one morning when Bud proclaimed loudly on the radio, “No one can beat a deal at Reynolds Chevrolet, so come on down to the motor mile,” she went. Not to Bud’s dealership, of course, but to a rival Ford dealership. She had decided that her Range Rover was perfectly pretentious, and what she really needed was a pickup truck for hauling dogs (which now numbered five with the addition of Cookie, although Jo Lynn had dibs on Cookie, just as soon as Cookie grew out of eating shoes).

  The truck salesman had nothing but smiles for Rebecca’s breasts, and talked her into a red king cab pickup, the one with the heated leather seats and a surround-sound Bose speaker stereo. When Rebecca finally said okay, he ushered her into his cubicle to do the deal. Only he hadn’t counted on Rebecca having once been married to a car dealer, or having done her homework. He certainly hadn’t counted on the fact that she was no longer a doormat and was, at that very moment, visualizing herself kick-boxing him around the cubicle as she politely, but firmly, maintained her ground.

  A few hours later, mentally high-flying herself, Rebecca pulled off the lot with a brand-new, cherry red pickup, knowing damn well that Bud couldn’t beat the deal she had just gotten. With her new radio blaring, she drove north to a neighboring county seat, where a candidate’s forum was being held.

  Rebecca groaned when she saw the arrangement—in someone’s deranged opinion, it wasn’t too hot to have an outdoor forum. Nothing could be further from the truth, but nonetheless, in honor of Pioneer Days, a raised stage and podium had been built at one end of the town square. The candidates sat on the stage beneath a canopy, fanning themselves, while the people who had come out to hear them stood in the sweltering sun beneath umbrellas and big panama hats. Rebecca managed to squeeze in with some others to share the thin shade of a little tree, and from there, she could see Gilbert standing off to one side, making last-minute notes on a piece of paper.

  Candidates for the legislature went first, all of them promising great things for the future of the state and their district. No new taxes was a common theme, and several seemed to think bigger pots on the state lottery was the answer to revenue problems. Each one, to a candidate, promised program cuts. But not programs to do with children. Or the elderly. Or teachers. Or criminal justice. Or special needs populations. Who exactly that left, Rebecca wasn’t sure.

  When it was at last time for the candidates for lieutenant governor to speak, Tom was up first. “I urge you to look at my record in the senate,” he said, and stabbed his forefinger against the podium to make his point. “My opponent has made a mess of the state budget with all his special interests, and now he wants to take the dollars out of your pocket to pay for his special interests!” he bellowed as his opponent shook his head vehemently. “I promise you, as the next lieutenant governor of this state I will provide the leadership necessary to make sure that does not happen!”

  That earned him a huge round of applause. “I will make commerce a top priority! More commerce means more revenue for our state coffers!” he said, getting another thunderous round of applause.

  His Republican opponent, Phil Harbaugh, was next up. Harbaugh thanked the crowd for coming out, said he’d rather have worked for special interests than not to have worked at all like his opponent, and would continue to work to improve funding for education and competitive insurance rates. He took his seat to a smattering of applause.

  Up last was the Independent candidate, Russ Erwin. He unwound his lanky self from his seat, stood up, and strolled to the podium. He wasn’t wearing a suit like the others, but had on boots, Wranglers, a rodeo belt, and a cowboy shirt. He respectfully removed the cowboy hat from his head, and bent over the microphone.

  “My name is Russ Erwin,” he said to the crowd. “I’m a rancher. Got me about a three-section spread out by Lampasas. I mostly run livestock, but I grow a little sorghum, too.” He paused, shifted the hat to his other hand, and bent over again. “Now, I never set out to be a politician, that’s for darn sure. I wouldn’t have given you a plugged nickel for ‘em. Then I got a little notice on my gate one day, delivered by the State of Texas, telling me they was gonna run a superhighway and gas pipeline from Fort Worth all the way to Old Mexico, and that it would bring jobs to the area, and all of us in Lampasas County would prosper because of this highway.” He paused again, ran his palm over his temple. “Now, had I known all it took was a highway to prosper, I’d have said yes a long time ago.”

  The crowd laughed; several of them nodded. Of course, Rebecca had heard Tom mention this on more than one occasion, always as the next best thing since sliced bread.

  “Anyway, I got that piece of paper, and I guess I had a slightly different take on it. I could see what they had planned was going to displace a lot of ranchers whose families had been working that land since before Texas was even a state. And I could tell that superhighway was gonna flat out ruin our landscape. ‘Course, there wasn’t a word about any of that on the paper,” he said, chuckling. “So I called up my representatives, said I had a problem. I went through the whole darn list and not one of ‘em could help me. I’d call up one, and he’d say, ‘Well, now, Mr. Erwin, I’m not on that committee, you need to call so-n-so.’ This went on until every last one had pointed to the next guy. That was enough to get my dander up, so I started looking into these committees and such, and the more
I looked, the more I saw stuff happening that I didn’t much care for.

  “Now, Mr. Masters here,” he said, indicating Tom with his hat, “he says, just look at my record. Well, I did. And about the only thing I could find was a resolution he got passed naming chips and salsa the official state snack. I like a good bowl of chips with some salsa like anyone, but I don’t see what that has to do with protecting our land, or making sure we get teachers paid enough to educate our young, or even making sure that the fine people assembled here today in this heat don’t have to spend every last dime they got.”

  Tom laughed with the few hearty members in the crowd, but shifted anxiously in his seat.

  “There’s plenty of stuff like that for Mr. Harbaugh, too, but I won’t take your time now, because it’s too damn hot to listen to a bunch of political talk. I’m not trying to cast aspersions on these two gentlemen. I figure they done the best they knew how to do. But like my ol’ daddy used to say, if you want something done right, you just ‘bout have to do it yourself. So folks, I am running for lieutenant governor of this fine state because I figure if I want it done right, I’m gonna have to do it myself. Thank you kindly for you time.” The crowd went wild with applause; Mr. Erwin stepped back, put on his hat, and sauntered to his seat, where he sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded neatly on his lap.

  Both Tom and Phil Harbaugh looked like they wanted to bolt.

  This was the fourth candidate forum Rebecca had been to, the fourth time she’d seen the plainspoken, straightforward Mr. Erwin, and she liked his style. When the event was over, Rebecca pushed through the crowd to the stage, slipping behind a couple of men so Tom wouldn’t see her as he tried to get off the stage and into air-conditioning. But there were several people standing around Mr. Erwin; he was taking the time to speak to them all. When at last he turned to her, she stuck out her hand. “Mr. Erwin. I heard what you said and I’d like to help in some way if I can.”

  “Well, now,” Mr. Erwin said with a grin, shaking her hand. “We always got room for one more.”

  That weekend, Matt asked Rebecca and Grayson to come to town for a change. Rebecca arrived at his building and parked in the second of his two parking spaces, but her truck was so big that it left just a slip of a space for his Jag.

  She and Grayson were already in his loft when he came in, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry,” he said, after greeting Grayson with a high five and crossing the room to kiss her. “I’ll call the management right now and get someone to move that monster thing. That’s never happened before—it must be a new tenant,” he said, reaching for the phone.

  “Don’t you like it?” she asked, shoving her hands in the faded work jeans she’d worn all day.

  “Like what?”

  “My new red truck!”

  Matt’s jaw dropped; he paused in the reaching for the phone.

  “Mom got a pickup,” Grayson said, “so we can take our dogs with us.”

  A look of panic came over Matt, and he quickly looked around the room. Rebecca laughed. “We didn’t bring them here, silly. Jo Lynn is looking after them.”

  “Wait—you bought a king cab truck?” Matt said as his gaze swept her from head to foot. Rebecca nodded. Matt grinned. “I think you must be the best-looking Farmer Fred I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, folding her into a big hug.

  That night, Matt took them out for his version of a gourmet meal, to Guero’s Taco Bar. As they helped themselves to the fajita fixings—and Grayson built a volcano made of cheese and guacamole—Rebecca mentioned the candidate’s forum.

  “You went?” Matt asked, only mildly surprised, having grown accustomed to her attendance at all the candidate events. “I thought about going up, but I had a hearing I couldn’t get out of.”

  “It was interesting,” she said as she carefully selected a strip of chicken from the cast iron skillet. “Tom’s really pushing revived commerce.”

  Matt glanced up. “The party’s platform is education.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “The best speaker of them all was Russ Erwin, the Independent.”

  “Oh yeah?” Matt snorted before taking a swig of his beer. “Now there’s a tree-hugger looking for an audience.” But as he drank his beer, he saw that Rebecca’s fork had frozen in midair, and slowly lowered his bottle. “What?”

  “He’s not just a tree-hugger looking for an audience. He’s a rancher who is fighting big government’s encroachment on his life.”

  Matt was groaning before she could even finish. “Rebecca, honey, you’re kidding, right?”

  “I am so not kidding, Matt. I am very serious. Russ Erwin makes the most sense of any of them, and I like him. I think he has what it takes to be lieutenant governor.”

  “Mom, are you gonna eat that?” Grayson asked, pointing at the chicken on her plate.

  Matt planted his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “Rebecca. I admire the fact that you are learning about the issues. But organic fruit is not the way to go.”

  For a moment, Rebecca could only glare at him.

  “What?” he asked, seeming clueless as to how patronizing and arrogant he was. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Oh, I understand,” she said, barely able to speak. “I understand that when you told me I should get involved, you really meant, Rebecca, you’re just a former beauty queen, so let me give you my expert guidance and maybe you can begin to understand—”

  “Rebecca!” he said quickly, laughing a little as he reached over to put his hand on her wrist. But Rebecca moved her hand just as quickly so he couldn’t do it. Matt’s eyes narrowed; he slid a look at Grayson, who was busy sticking meat in his volcano, oblivious. “I am not telling you what to think. All I am trying to say is, that if you listen to him for more than a moment, you will probably hear him advocate something that comes really close to socialism.”

  Rebecca really couldn’t remember from tenth-grade government class what socialism was, precisely (but she’d definitely be looking it up as soon as she got home), yet as far as she knew, this was a free country. She sniffed, straightened in her chair, looked away from him.

  “So what, you’re not talking to me now?”

  “Of course I am talking to you, Matt,” she said in the same patient voice she often used with Grayson. “I just believe, being an American and all, that I can listen to whomever I want, and you can go straight to hell. Or listen to Tom if you choose, providing, of course, you’re ready for a superhighway-slash-pipeline in your backyard. And in the meantime, we can go on our merry little way, being a little democratic unit, each of us free to think and vote as we please.” She glared at Matt, daring him to argue.

  He sat for a long moment as if he was actually debating whether or not to argue, tapping his fork against the side of his plate as he considered her. But then he suddenly grinned, stabbed more chicken, and put it on his plate. “You’re right—I can’t argue with an impassioned plea for the right to vote our conscience. So I am going to change the subject. Tom says that we have almost three hundred affirmative replies to this shindig you’re throwing.”

  “Three hundred and twenty-five,” she said pertly. “And about fifty calls from people wanting to get their friends in. I can’t believe it, but I think this is going to be one very cool and hip event.”

  “What about your dad?” Matt asked, rolling a tortilla.

  Dad. “Don’t remind me,” she moaned, and moved to dismantle Grayson’s second volcano.

  Rebecca hadn’t spoken to Dad since the afternoon she’d hung up on him. She should call him and make amends, she knew that, but she had no desire to do so, and ended up putting the call off in favor of another fabulous weekend, where the subject of Russ Erwin did not come up again. Nor did the campaign. On Saturday, Matt and Rebecca took Grayson to the new Texas History museum, then on to Barton Springs, where Grayson and Matt swam in the cool spring waters while Rebecca lazily read a romance novel (which, she smugly noted, had nothing on the nights she and Matt spent tog
ether). Saturday evening, Matt’s sister happily took Grayson until the family meal on Sunday so that Matt and Rebecca could have an evening alone.

  Matt was excited about the date he’d planned at an old-fashioned supper club. They dined on sea bass, listened to some great jazz, and crawled home in the early-morning hours. As exhausted as they were, both of them were still anxious to put their hands on each other’s body, and made slow, languid love until they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. And in that unearthly place between wake and sleep, as Matt’s breathing began to deepen, Rebecca smiled, whispered, “This is love . . . I love you, too.” He didn’t speak, just rolled over and wrapped his arm around her.

  On Sunday afternoon, while Matt was dozing through a baseball game on TV, Rebecca padded into his office and dialed her father in New York.

  “Yeah,” he answered gruffly.

  “Dad?”

  “Rebecca,” he said quietly. “So you finally decided to pick up the phone and speak to your old man again?”

  She closed her eyes, preparing herself. “Yes.”

  “Great minds think alike, I guess. I got tired of waiting for you to make the first move and I’ve tried to get you all weekend, but you won’t answer the phone.”

  “That’s because Grayson and I have been in Austin. With a friend.”

  There was the dead silence on the other end while it sunk in. And at last Dad said, “Aha.”

  Rebecca sighed, stared at a picture of Matt at some event somewhere. “Dad, you remember the gala? Well, I thought about what you said, and I put it together after all. I am calling to invite you. I was hoping you would come and see what I’ve been doing, and . . . and meet Matt.”

  Dad didn’t say anything at first. “That’s his name, huh?”

  “Matt Parrish. He’s a lawyer in town.”

  “God,” he groaned, then sighed wearily. “Are you happy, Bec?”