The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  The question surprised her. “I . . . yes, Dad. I am. But why don’t you come see for yourself?”

  “What, come to Austin?” he asked in a voice that sounded, remarkably, almost hopeful.

  “Yes, to Austin. I think this gala is going to be really fantastic. I’ve pretty much done it on my own, but I’d really like . . . ” She stopped, hearing the words in her head and not wanting to say them.

  “You’d like . . . ?”

  “I’d really like to know what you think,” she said at last.

  “That,” he said, “is encouraging. Yes, I want to see it, Bec. I want to know what is important to you, in spite of what you believe.”

  Amazing what a little hanging up could do, Rebecca thought, and smiled. “Thanks, Dad,” she said. They talked a little longer about Grayson before ending the call. Rebecca was still sitting in Matt’s office, staring at the picture of him with her feet propped up on the edge of the desk when Matt came in, looking for her. “Hey,” he said.

  “Guess what? Dad is coming.”

  “Great,” Matt said, but Rebecca thought he looked a little pale.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Men and women, women and men. It will never work . . .

  ERICA JONG

  Sometimes Matt felt as if he were on a seesaw. Things would be going along so great, and then someone would accuse him of being pushy, or opinionated, or somehow superior, and lately he had been getting it all from sides. Enough that he was seriously reassessing—reassessing everything.

  First, there was Ben, who, when he found out Matt had taken on Charlie, a transient who had been hit by a public bus, went ballistic. “What in the hell is the matter with you? Are you trying to ruin us?” he had railed in Matt’s office one afternoon as Matt had calmly perched himself on the windowsill and let him have at it.

  “Yes, that’s what I am doing.” At Ben’s wide-eyed gape, Matt snorted. “Of course I am not trying to ruin us, but buddy, I have to tell you that your song of ruination is getting a little old. We’ve done pretty well for ourselves. I brought in the Rosenberg case and the Wheeler White case, and they were both big money settlements. Now you just sound greedy.”

  “And you sound like you think you have some superior cause and the rest of us attorneys just can’t understand your higher calling,” Ben had snapped so sharply that Harold had quickly jumped up and pulled the door shut. “I am sick to death of this save-the-world crap you have going, Matt. You may think you are bringing in the money, but take a look at the books. I am the only one consistently bringing in paying clients while you are taking on homeless drunks.”

  Matt really wanted to throttle Ben, but he managed to remain calm. “Charlie has a right to seek legal counsel. He got hit by a bus, Ben. He wasn’t doing anything but standing there when a big fat-ass bus with a big orange longhorn painted on the side came barreling around the corner on a red light. I know you don’t give a shit what happens to him, but look at it from a humanitarian standpoint. If there was a chance in hell this guy would have ever gotten off the streets, it’s gone now—he can hardly walk, much less work. Cap Metro knows they hit him, they know that their driver was at fault, yet they have practically told Charlie to go to hell.”

  “That’s because,” Ben said, barely able to control his seething, “your charity case had a blood alcohol content of point one four, almost twice the legal limit. Cap Metro will have no problem convincing a jury that the bum was so drunk, he stepped off the curb in front of their bus. You know that, and still you go looking for this kind of thing.”

  “I didn’t go looking for him,” Matt said, quickly reaching his limit of patience. “Kate Leslie in the drug diversion court called me. I had a hard time pretending that because the guy is homeless and an alcoholic, he was not entitled to the same laws and protections that we enjoy. So what if we lose the case? Doesn’t he deserve legal representation?”

  Ben threw his hands in the air. “There’s not a thing I can say to you, is there? We’re at opposite ends of the universe.”

  There it was, the truth said out loud and now lying there, like a corpse, between two old friends. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, just stared at each other as the truth sunk in. “Yeah,” Matt said at last. “I guess we are.”

  Ben had turned and walked out of his office.

  That’s the way they left it that afternoon and for days afterward, a philosophical argument hanging over them like a death knell, affecting everyone in the place. Even Harold, unflappable Harold, was making little mistakes, the type for which he normally would have offered his resignation. And that alone, Matt thought, was reason enough for him to do something. The only problem was, he couldn’t figure out what, exactly, he was supposed to do.

  So he just kept working, hoping the problem would go away, or that a solution would magically present itself.

  Fortunately, there was Rebecca to keep him afloat. He was enjoying her metamorphosis, watching her chip away at her perfect little cocoon and seeing her true self shine through. In sharp contrast to the perfectly put together house he had first entered, now there were books strewn all over her house, haphazardly dropped in one place or another, without regard to color or height. There were days at the lake house she never donned even a smudge of makeup—which made no difference to him, frankly, because there was something naturally seductive about her, whatever she wore or did. But the biggest sign of change had to be the evening Grayson spilled ice cream on a very expensive rug. She didn’t freak out, she didn’t scream with horror, she didn’t cry. She laughed and made some remark about how much the boy was like his mother when it came to ice cream—a real pig.

  The more Matt knew Rebecca, the lovelier she became, and he knew, of course, that he was head over heels for her. Completely and totally captivated, obviously and permanently bewitched. Obvious to him, anyway, because when she began to exhibit her newfound enthusiasm for politics, he really couldn’t think of anything to say, especially since he had, in a heated moment, encouraged it. And then having subsequently learned, on those rare occasions he actually did say something, like, Why are you doing this, the new Rebecca could bust his balls like nobody’s business in the course of reminding him why she was doing it.

  Matt chalked up her absurd infatuation with Russ Erwin to that gentle quirkiness about her he found so endearing, and listed it as one of the frighteningly few things in the con column, along with hogs the covers, which she audaciously denied.

  But there was, admittedly, another part of him that was mildly alarmed she could be so easily taken in by a bunch of grass-eating, tree-clinging, salamander lovers. Rebecca was exactly the type those environmental goofballs preyed on—big-hearted, overly concerned about things like stray dogs and spindly tomato plants and trash on the roadside. He could just hear them now: Please, Rebecca, please help us save the universe! Corporate America is stealing our air! Your son and your dogs and your tomato plants will not have air to breathe and we will ALL choke to death!

  Matt had been around this race long enough to know that if it wasn’t one gimmick, it was another, and this Russ Erwin, whoever he was, had landed on a pretty good one. Normally, he would have ignored it, but normally, he wasn’t working on the opponent’s campaign. And normally, neither was she. There was just a little too much conflict of interest there for the lawyer in him to ignore. And furthermore, he had a personal stake in the outcome of this race—a stake that, given his rift with Ben, was beginning to emerge as very important. If running for district attorney was really an option for him, he was going to have to see this bullshit through.

  So when Rebecca called him up one day, asked if she could tag along that evening to one of the last candidate forums, he said yes, thinking it would be a good opportunity to point out a few things about Tom and Phil Harbaugh that might perhaps move her off the Russ Erwin dime.

  She was at his loft at precisely six o’clock in the evening, aimed with a small notebook and a sheath of study papers. They too
k her new king cab pickup to fetch Pat and Angie. Both women looked at Rebecca as if she’d lost her mind.

  “What did you buy this for?” Pat demanded, struggling to climb up to the backseat in the tight, but securely fastened, dull gray skirt she always wore.

  “To haul dogs and other stuff. Do you like it?”

  “It’s not really you,” Pat said flatly. “It’s more like . . . I don’t even know who it’s like.”

  “I think it’s totally awesome,” said Angie, whose hair was neon blue today, almost an exact match to the new tattoo of a bluebird on her neck.

  “Thanks!” Rebecca chirped. “Where’s Gilbert?”

  “He went with Tom. They needed to go over his opening remarks one last time,” Angie said.

  “Meaning, Gilbert is writing them as Tom decides them on the way over,” Pat translated, then made a sound of disgust. “Sometimes, I wonder who’s really running the show.”

  “Why do you support him?” Rebecca asked, looking in her rearview mirror at the more-dour-than-usual Pat.

  She shrugged, looked out the window. “Oh, he’s not that bad. And he’s definitely the lesser of two evils.”

  “You mean three,” Rebecca corrected her.

  “No, I didn’t mean three. I meant two. The Independent guy hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  Fortunately, Matt, thought, Rebecca didn’t argue.

  They reached the auditorium where the forum would be held and trooped in together, but the place was packed to the gills and they had to separate to find seats. Matt and Rebecca managed to snag two end seats on the aisle, one directly behind the other.

  After a series of deadly boring speeches by local and state politicians (what was it about politicians that made them promise to keep remarks brief, then proceed to talk until they were blue in the face?), the candidates were finally introduced. The lieutenant governor candidates would go first, followed by the gubernatorial candidates.

  The first one up was the incumbent Phil Harbaugh, who made a couple of very lame jokes that Matt didn’t even get before he launched into a little speech about the lack of revenues to keep state government running—without noting, Matt thought wryly, if all the state government apparatus needed to keep running—and talked about his plans to increase revenue that would NOT RESULT IN A TAX INCREASE TO THE AVERAGE, HARDWORKING TEXAN! His solution? Increase the gas and/or grocery tax, which, to Matt’s way of thinking, amounted to a tax increase to the average, hardworking Texan, no matter how you sliced it.

  Tom was next. Matt winced when he began his speech with an off-color joke about how these debates were a little like his wife—no matter how logical you were, you could never really win—and then proceeded to explain to the audience that he wasn’t going to talk about taxes and program cuts, but how to strengthen the economy. Matt braced himself. Surprisingly, Tom had a couple of realistic things to say and had gotten much more articulate on his plan for economic growth: the superhighway, with a major gas pipeline running underneath, from Dallas–Ft. Worth to Mexico, all five hundred some-odd miles. This, Tom argued, would provide jobs and a new high-speed route for commerce around an already congested traffic corridor.

  Of course Matt knew Tom was a proponent, but what surprised him was that his speech was suspiciously articulate, full of facts, and so unlike Tom that Matt had to wonder how he’d done it. He looked at Gilbert standing off to the side, noticed the look of shock on his face, too, which bolstered his feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And as he sat in stunned amazement as Tom actually argued—with percentages—for economic growth, Rebecca tapped him on the arm.

  Matt turned slightly. She was holding up a thin magazine to him; he could see her manicured finger jabbing at something he was to look at. He took the magazine, glanced at the front—Southwest Region Engineering and Construction—and then the article Rebecca was so rabid for him to see. It was entitled “The Superhighway Gas Pipeline—Boon or Bust?” Granted, it was dark, and he couldn’t read all of the fine print, but he understood what had excited her: Tom’s speech advocating the superhighway was almost identical to that article.

  At least it explained Tom’s sudden articulation.

  As Matt was trying to scan the fine print, Tom finished his remarks by telling the audience he was the best man for the job and to vote for him in November. He got a fair amount of applause as he took his seat and the next candidate, Russ Erwin was introduced. Matt looked up, saw a lanky cowboy in jeans, blue blazer, and boots saunter to the podium, and had an image of him sitting on a split rail fence, spitting tobacco as he watched the ranch hands work the cattle. The man casually put one hand on the podium, one in his pocket, and said, “Hello, folks. My name is Russ Erwin and I am running for lieutenant governor.”

  It was easy to see, Matt thought as the man talked, why Rebecca was taken with him. He had a down-home folksy manner about him that was appealing. He talked a little about government, how he didn’t need any more of it in his life, a point with which no one could disagree. He talked about how he had gotten into this race because he couldn’t find a government agency in all that huge bureaucracy that could help him, and he didn’t think that was right, either. And how he was all for economic development, but that a superhighway and gas pipeline would displace ranchers—and he reminded the audience that Texas was built on ranching. He said the plan for the highway and pipeline was short-sighted in its economic thinking. The jobs would be around temporarily, and then what?

  By the time Russ Erwin finished his speech, Matt was impressed. And wondering, like Tom had earlier, if there was something in Erwin’s background that could derail his plain look and plain talk. Because it was a dangerously successful look and talk.

  That night, after they had dropped Pat and Angie (having listened to Pat gripe about the seating, the lighting, and the fact that she couldn’t hear anything) and were driving back to his place, Rebecca playfully poked him in the ribs. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Did you look at the magazine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  Matt laughed. “What is it you want me to say?”

  “I want you to say that it’s odd Tom was making a speech that was almost identical to that article.”

  “Okay, Tom’s speech was almost identical to that article.”

  “And?” she asked, sparing another look at him.

  “And what?”

  “Matt! Don’t you think it’s a little strange Tom is spouting almost word for word what some huge construction and engineering firm says are the benefits of this superhighway and pipeline?”

  “I don’t think it’s uncommon to take information from a variety of sources.”

  “Okay. Then don’t you think it’s a little strange that Tom is suddenly taking information from anyone? I mean, you are the one who was so adamant he shore up his platform, and he wouldn’t do it.”

  Matt had to agree—that was a little strange. “He’s probably one of those candidates who glad-hands for money first, and then decides what he’s going to say,” he said, voicing his thoughts aloud. “He’s a procrastinator.”

  “A procrastinator?” Rebecca laughed. “Is he that, or someone who stands to make a lot of money on the highway deal?”

  That observation startled Matt so completely that he jerked his gaze to her. “What are you implying?”

  “Just what you think I am implying. That Tom stands to gain a lot from engineers and construction firms if he’s elected and sees that highway project through.”

  She spoke so matter-of-factly. “Do you know what you are saying?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said forcefully. “Do you think I speak without understanding my own words?”

  “Rebecca, I’ve known Tom a long time. He’s a lot of things, but he is not a crook,” Matt said, but wondered why he was defending Tom. It wasn’t as if he held such huge regard for him. And hadn’t he sat in the same auditorium as Rebecca wondering
what the scam was?

  “I hope you’re right about Tom, I really do,” she said. “But it seems odd to me that a candidate who has not been able to put two words together before tonight suddenly comes up with a great speech. You don’t have to buy into my theory,” she said as she turned the truck into the garage of his building.

  “Thanks,” he said. “And now, maybe you’ll tell me where a former beauty queen picked up such an obscure trade magazine?”

  Rebecca pulled into a slot, put her cark in park. “Believe it or not, this former beauty queen can read. You can find that magazine at any library or bookstore. You’ll be surprised what you might find in a bookstore, Matt—lots of information to help you make an informed opinion. Know what that is? Or do you think that law degree makes all your thoughts golden?”

  “Good night,” he said, and climbed out of her pickup and thought for once, he was glad he was going to bed alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It is dangerous for a candidate to say things that people might remember . . .

  EUGENE McCARTHY

  Rebecca had just said good night to Jo Lynn and watched her drive away in her golf cart when the phone rang. “You’re right,” Matt said when she answered. “There was something a little strange about Tom’s speech.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Is that all?”

  “Are you going to make me grovel?”

  “Yes, I am. I love it when you grovel,” she said, grinning.

  She heard him sigh. “Okay, you’re right; I should visit a bookstore sometime.”

  Rebecca waited for the rest. “That’s it?” she said after a moment passed.

  “What more do you want?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . something like, ‘I am one notch below dog shit for ever suggesting that you couldn’t think of those ideas on your own,’ or, ‘When I say ugly things like that, please know that I am really just insecure about the size of my—’“