The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “Okay, okay!” he said, laughing. “So what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Don’t you want to make at least a little apology?”

  “For what?” she demanded as she studied a cuticle. “Because I found a candidate to believe in, but am still working on his opponent’s campaign? Or how about for being afraid to back out now because I’ve invested so much of me and my future plans in this stupid gala?”

  “Well, I was just hoping for a little ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’ll take all that.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Rebecca said, running her hand through her hair. “I mean, I really have put a lot into this gala, and it’s less than a month away. Tom was pissed the last time I quit—can you imagine how upset he’d be if I quit now? And that’s not even the thing that bothers me, to be honest. You know what I really fear?”

  “What?”

  “That it would be disastrous if I up and walked away from the biggest fund-raising gala this state has ever seen. I’d be labeled a quitter. No one would hire me.”

  “It seems to me that you can finish what you committed to doing, but you don’t have to vote for the guy,” Matt said. “In the end, it’s your vote that counts, not the money raised.”

  “That’s a stretch, isn’t it?”

  “A huge one,” he admitted with a laugh. “But I think you’re right. Austin is still a small town in some respects, and it could affect you down the road if you quit now.”

  “It’s funny in a way—just a few months ago I was explaining to everyone on the invitation list that Tom was the best man for the job. Now I’m pretty sure he’s not.”

  “I know,” Matt said wearily. “I’ve known this guy for a long time, and I’m starting to have more questions than answers.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, until Rebecca at last asked, “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said. “I’m going to look into a couple of things this week, see if I can ferret out what’s really going on. But I do know one thing, Miss Priss . . . the next time you drive that badass truck into town, we’re going to have a little tête-à-tête.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I love you, too.” she said and sighed dreamily.

  All the doubts in her head were shoved aside in the next few weeks in favor of the gala. There was so much to be done. The event was to be held at the Three Nines ranch, an old spread, but more of a scenic conglomerate than working ranch anymore, with a few hundred head of cattle, a dude ranch, and lots of old pecan and oak trees. Caterers had to be consulted—barbecue for five hundred people took ten masters. Lighting had to be arranged, plus seating. A stage and dance floor had to be constructed, which the Three Nines was happy to contribute, as they had planned to create an amphitheater for the local performing arts scene, anyway. But the construction company hired to do it was slow as molasses, and Rebecca was fearful that the construction would never be finished in time. The entertainers had to have contracts, which Tom’s publicity firm was slow putting out.

  And then there was the matter of major contributions needed to pay for the event, which was Rebecca’s primary concern; and contributions needed to fill Tom’s war chest, which was his primary concern. Tom called Rebecca daily for a head count and openly speculated who would give more than the price per seat. Not a day went by that he didn’t ask about Rebecca’s father, to the point that it was grating on her nerves, and at last, Rebecca asked, “Why the great interest in my dad, Tom?”

  “Are you kidding?” He snorted incredulously (Tom had, in these last weeks sliding toward the election, gone from good ol’ boy to hot-tempered candidate). “What do you think? Your old man could make a sizable contribution to my campaign, Rebecca. You’ve talked to him about that, right?”

  “No, Tom, I asked him to come, that’s all,” she said through gritted teeth. “He’s not a fan of politics and even less so when it comes to Democrats. If you want more, you’ll have to ask him yourself,” she said. It galled her, because she knew her father would contribute if Tom asked, if only for her sake. That is exactly what she would have hoped for a few months ago—but now she couldn’t think how to explain to Dad that she’d done all this for a man she wouldn’t vote for.

  “Don’t think I won’t ask,” Tom said with all confidence. “You just get your old man there. I’ll do the rest.”

  Oh, that’s right, you’ll do it all, won’t you, you silver- tongued devil? And which magazine will you be reading from? Whatever. She charitably chalked up Tom’s testiness to a general state of being keyed up, and besides, her mind was already racing ahead to the phone call she needed to make about ushers. So she hung up, shook it off, went on with the dozens of calls she needed to make before she and Gray and Harold could take their routine trip out to see the site.

  As those weeks flew by, Rebecca and Matt saw each other as often as they could, but they were both terribly busy. She missed him. She knew he was up to his neck—he had hinted at some trouble at the firm—but when she asked, he shrugged it off, saying he wanted to talk about sunnier subjects. And she knew that Tom was demanding as much of Matt’s time as he was of hers in advance of this gala. Most recently, Matt said over dinner one night, Tom had asked him to investigate Russ Erwin’s background, and even though Matt had found nothing untoward, Tom was relentless. “I don’t know, Rebecca, there is nothing to suggest that Russ Erwin isn’t as exactly what he appears to be: a stand-up guy with a real concern about what is going on in Texas.”

  “Did you tell that to Tom?”

  “I did,” Matt said. “But have you seen the ads the Republicans are putting out on Tom, the one from Eeyore’s birthday party where he looks like a clown?”

  “Yes,” she said with a wince—just one more thing Matt was right about. The list was beginning to pile up so high she’d have to ride a crane to the top.

  “The whole race is going negative. Tom and Gunter are putting out an ad in the next few days that shows Phil Harbaugh laughing at some joke, only he looks half drunk. The caption is going to be something like, ‘This is what Harbaugh thinks about Medicare’. And that’s only the beginning,” he warned her. “Russ Erwin has managed to stay off the radar screen until now. But there is a new poll next week, and if he’s gained any ground—which I suspect he has—then he will become the target of the nasty ads, too.”

  “I am beginning to detest politics,” Rebecca said, putting down her fork, her appetite gone.

  “You and me both,” Matt grimly agreed.

  “Once this gala is over, I’m through,” she said resolutely.

  “And that, sweet cheeks, is just a week away. Is everything ready?” Matt asked, picking at her plate from across the table.

  “I think so,” she said, crossing her fingers. “The entertainment is lined up, at last. The caterers are all set. We got the temporary liquor license through, but Tom had to make some calls for that to happen. And the site is finally completed. The only thing I have left to worry about is what to wear,” she said.

  Matt laughed. “That’s funny. You’re going to knock them dead, Miss Texas, even if you wear your work jeans.”

  “I wish I could believe it. There will be some people who would like to see me fall flat on my face.”

  “Like who?” Matt demanded, pausing in his scavenging of her dinner. “Give me their names and I’ll kick their ass.”

  She flashed him an appreciative smile and said, “Like Bud. And some of our so-called friends from Dallas with lots of money. And then there are some who just make me really nervous, like Dad.”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be so proud, he’ll bust,” Matt said confidently.

  “Not my dad. And I thank my lucky stars your parents will be out of town.”

  “My parents love you, girl,” Matt said with an impatient frown. “You couldn’t do a thing wrong if you tried.”

  “I just don’t want to mess this up. I feel like my whole life has come down to this one event and eve
rything I ever was or thought I could be is going to be proven by its success or failure.”

  Now Matt put down his fork. “That’s just crazy. It’s a party, Rebecca. Are you really that fragile?”

  She looked at her wineglass, then at Matt, and said hopelessly, “Yeah, I think I am. Self-help books and transformation seminars notwithstanding, I am neither confident in my abilities nor prepared to pick myself up and dust myself off.”

  Matt reached across the table, gripped her hand in his. “I’m confident in your abilities. Whatever you think is going to happen, it won’t, because I know you, and I know this will be a grand success. But if something happens, whatever the fallout, I want you to know you can fall on me and I will be there to pick you up and brush you off.”

  Rebecca felt a rush of warmth as his sincere sentiment swirled around her heart. “Why, Matthew Parrish,” she said, squeezing his hand, “that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “I mean it.” Matt lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then asked, “Are you going to eat that?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, dose-knit family in another city . . .

  GEORGE BURNS

  When Robin, Jake, and Cole arrived at the newly named Flying Pig Lakehouse (it said so above the gate) the night before the gala, Robin noticed immediately there was something different about Rebecca. Very different. What, exactly, she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She was pretty sure it wasn’t the dogs, although there were four or five (Robin couldn’t be sure), all of them looking a little knocked around by life. And Rebecca’s lack of makeup was highly unusual for her, being a former beauty queen and all, but Robin didn’t think that was it, either.

  She watched Rebecca closely as Jake’s son, Cole (a few months shy of his seventeenth birthday and along to babysit Grayson, for big money, as he put it), handed Grayson a paper bag.

  “What is it?” Grayson asked.

  “Well, open it up, goof, and check it out,” Cole responded.

  Very carefully, Grayson opened it, peeked inside, then gasped loudly as he turned to Rebecca. “It’s green slime!” he said in a reverent tone, and looked up at Cole with open adoration.

  “Ever seen a dog eat green slime?” Cole asked, ushering Grayson out back, where the dogs were frantically awaiting any attention.

  Something was different, all right—Rebecca was not the sort to beam so broadly at green slime. Quite the opposite, really. And the house. Sure, it was clean, picked up, as would be expected. But it was not . . . perfect. That was it! It wasn’t perfect! Rebecca wasn’t perfect. Robin had figured it out, and gleefully went about the rest of the afternoon looking to see how many imperfections she could find, sort of like looking for Waldo.

  There were plenty—mismatched towels in the cupboard, one of Rebecca’s old oil paintings hanging slightly askew, a TV remote tossed carelessly onto the floor. Some life-changing thing had happened to her sister, and Robin figured she knew what it was. After all, the same thing had happened to her not all that long ago.

  Naturally, Robin wanted all the gory details, but she had some news of her own she was dying to share. So when Rebecca was preparing a sumptuous supper of pork tenderloin, and asked Robin to open a bottle of wine and taste it, Robin sighed.

  “You might as well tell her,” Jake said, pausing in the repair of a door hinge to frown at Robin, also anxious to have the news out in the open. “It’s not like you can hide it, you know.”

  “I’m not trying to hide it, thank you, Mr. Fixit,” she said irritably.

  “Hide what?” Rebecca asked. “You’re on the wagon?”

  “Very funny.” Robin grinned. “But not exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “She’s pregnant,” Jake announced matter-of-factly, and shrugged when Robin shrieked.

  “I was going to tell her!”

  “Not until you had tortured her.”

  “Robin! When?” Rebecca cried.

  “Due in the spring,” she said, with a whimper, however, as Rebecca had flung her arms around her.

  “Who knows?” Rebecca asked breathlessly as the dogs barked excitedly. “Does Mom know? Rachel?”

  “I told Mom before she headed for Seattle. She was out of her mind excited. And I told Rachel on the way down yesterday, who said she knew, of course, because my horoscope said something about big changes.” She laughed.

  “And Dad?”

  Robin’s grin faded a little. “Umm . . . not yet. I thought I’d tell him this weekend.”

  “Rob-bie!” Rebecca cried. “This weekend?”

  “I thought it would be better to do it in person, because you know what he is going to say. When—”

  “—are you getting married,” Rebecca chimed in with Robin. “So? Are you?”

  “Yeah,” Robin said, smiling softly at Jake’s back.

  “Maybe,” Jake corrected her, deadpan. “I’ll see how you conduct yourself this weekend and then decide.”

  “He’d die without me,” Robin said, shrugging. “So what about you?” she asked, hiding a smirk when Rebecca almost dropped the knife she had just picked up.

  “What about me?” Rebecca asked, but Robin noticed she was avoiding eye contact.

  “Come on, Bec. It’s obvious.”

  The blood drained from her sister’s face, and she immediately began stirring a sauce for the pork with a vengeance. “I am not pregnant, if that’s—”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Robin laughed. “But come on—are you getting married?”

  Rebecca did not look up from her stirring of the sauce, refused to look at perhaps the one person on the face of the earth who would know if she was lying or not. How lucky for Robin, then, that the doorbell rang at that very moment. “I knew it. You’re in love!” she exclaimed as she whirled and started for the door. “Rachel was right!”

  “Robin, don’t you dare answer that door!” Rebecca cried, and Robin heard a clattering of utensils as she reached the door before Rebecca, flung it open, and stood, hand on hip, sizing up the new guy from the top of his head to the tips of his polished loafers, almost pitching right into him when Rebecca collided with her back.

  The new, very handsome guy clasped his hands behind his back and patiently waited for Robin to complete her inspection, at which point, he asked, “So what do you think? Do I pass?”

  “Oh my God,” Rebecca muttered helplessly behind her.

  “Oh, you pass, all right,” Robin said, smiling brightly. “I mean, dude—”

  “She means,” Rebecca said, elbowing her sister sharply, “that she’s pleased to meet you.”

  Robin could only nod violently in agreement that she was very pleased to meet who she was now firmly convinced was her future brother-in-law.

  “Hey,” Jake said, stepping around and in front of Robin to extend his hand. “I’m Jake, this one’s keeper. Come on in and I’ll get you a beer, and if she gets out of hand, just give me the sign, and I’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said, “I might have to take you up on that.” To Robin, he grinned as he shook her hand. “I’ve been anxious to meet you,” he said, and paused briefly to kiss Rebecca, at which point Robin saw The Look, the very same look she often saw in Jake’s eyes, the look of love, but hello, it was nothing compared to the look in Rebecca’s eyes. Robin could not recall ever seeing Rebecca so . . . happy. “So,” she said to Matt, batting her eyes. “You’ve heard about me?”

  “Yes. And I’ve been retained to represent Rebecca Lear in a very old dispute. Does a certain pair of red, high-heeled shoes mean anything to you?”

  Robin laughed. “Does a black eye mean anything to you?” she shot back, just as Jake dragged her inside with an arm around her waist, rolling his eyes as he handed Matt a beer and Robin complained that certainly after twenty years, Rebecca should let bygones be bygones, and besides, the last she saw, the red shoes were still hanging from the high wire above River Oaks.
<
br />   It was one of the best dinners Rebecca had ever had—Matt fit in so easily, and the four of them laughed and carried on until well after midnight, long after Grayson and Cole had turned in.

  Matt was finally coaxed into telling a nosey Robin how he’d met Rebecca, and watched Rebecca’s face flame with shame as Robin and Jake doubled over with laughter.

  “Come on, Robbie,” Rebecca pleaded. “Haven’t you ever made a boneheaded mistake before?”

  “Nothing like that! You thought he stole your quesadilla?” Robin doubled over again.

  “Ah . . . beg your pardon, Robbie?” Jake asked. “You haven’t?” And proceeded to tell, above Robin’s objections, how their first face-to-face meeting occurred. In jail.

  “Long story,” Rebecca said to Matt’s curious look.

  “You have no idea how long,” Jake said, laughing.

  When Matt finally said he had to leave, Rebecca followed him outside. “Great night,” he said, opening his car door. “I really like Robin a lot. She’s . . . well, she’s . . .”

  “I know,” Rebecca assured him. “Don’t try and explain it. You’ll never think of the right word, trust me.”

  Matt leaned over, kissed her good night. “Get some sleep. I know you are in knots about this deal, but everything’s going to be fine.”

  She watched him drive away, walked back into the house where Robin was waiting for her. “He’s the one,” her sister said flatly. “And before you give me some song and dance, you better say yes, because he’s perfect for you! I adore him! And he’s smart, and funny, and he’s so laid back—”

  “All right,” Rebecca said, laughing. “I will admit that he’s definitely the top contender for the rest of my life. There’s just one little thing.”

  “What? Robin demanded.

  “Dad,” Rebecca said, pushing her sister toward the kitchen. “He hasn’t met Dad yet.”

  “Oooh,” Robin said, and sadly shook her head. “Jesus, I hope he doesn’t dump you. Where is Dad, anyway?”