The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  Standing in the Turbo Temp office front, Rachel shoved the check into her satchel and turned around, walked back to the counter. The girl who had handed her the check was still sitting there, chewing a huge wad of bubble gum as she stared at the computer screen. She did not look up when Rachel reappeared at the counter.

  Rachel waited politely for the girl to at least notice her, which she would not do. Even moving around a little, from one foot to the other, got no reaction. So Rachel very carefully poked the little bell ringer.

  The girl looked up. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t suppose you have another job in there?”

  “It’s Thursday already.”

  “Right.” Yes, indeed it was Thursday already, but for the life of her Rachel couldn’t see what that had to do with the price of tea. “So is there anything else you might have?”

  “What I mean is, until next week, there won’t be anything.” This, the girl said without even looking at the computer. But she did blow a big pink bubble.

  Rachel was so tempted to pop that thing, but asked instead, “Could you just look? Maybe there’s a day thing I could do until next week.”

  The girl acted as if she’d just been asked to fetch her toothbrush and soap and get after the cleaning of Mt. Rushmore. With a very loud sigh, she pulled herself around to the computer and punched a couple of buttons. She sighed again for good measure as the thing loaded. Several boxes popped up on the screen that Rachel couldn’t quite make out. The girl stared intently, then said, “Got nothing this week.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Like I said—come back Monday.”

  Dejected, Rachel turned to go.

  “Unless . . .”

  Rachel whipped back around. “Unless?”

  “There’s this big party in the Blackstone neighborhood. One of those mansions over there. The caterer could use some help.”

  “Okay!”

  “No, not okay. Your quals don’t match up. I’m not allowed to send you out if your quals don’t match up.”

  “I beg your pardon, my what doesn’t match up?”

  “Your quals. Qual-i-fi-ca-tions,” she articulated scornfully. “’Course, I don’t have anyone else to do it.”

  “What exactly do you not have someone to do? Because I am sure I could do it, whatever it is,” Rachel said, leaning over the counter to see what the girl was looking at. But the girl didn’t care for that and gave Rachel a look from the corner of her eye as she angled the monitor away from Rachel.

  “The thing is, even if you can do it, I’m not allowed to send you to the job site if your quals don’t match.”

  “Okay, so what do I have to do to make my quals match?”

  The girl fixed a look on her that gave Rachel the distinct impression she thought she was dealing with a moron. “They have to be on your résumé. Here—” She punched a button and swiveled around to the printer, retrieved a paper when it finished printing, and handed it to Rachel.

  Caterer’s assistant. Ability to help serve food and drinks to party of 50-100 persons. Knowledge of meal courses, including appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Knowledge of cocktails and wines. Physical requirements: Ability to lift up to 25 pounds. Black attire required, including shoes. Apron will be provided.

  Rachel looked at the girl. “Are you saying I’m not qualified for this?”

  “It don’t say so on your résumé!” she reiterated adamantly.

  That was a minor obstacle. “How much do they pay?”

  The girl glanced at the screen. “Hundred for Saturday night. About six hours of work.”

  “So,” Rachel said, drumming her fingers on the counter, “what would it take to get food service added to my quals?”

  With a slight shrug, the girl blew a bubble as she sized Rachel up. She popped the bubble and said, “A ten ought to do it.”

  Rachel resisted the urge to wrap ten fingers around her skinny throat and dug in her bag, unwrapped a wad consisting of a five and four ones, found four quarters in the bottom, and pushed it all across the counter to the girl. “Thanks,” she said, and still clutching the paper, she marched out the door.

  Rachel’s phone did not ring that night either. She did, however, receive some e-mail.

  Subject Re: What’s going on?

  From: Rebecca Parrish

  To: Rach

  CC: Robbie

  WHAT GUY!?!?!? You can’t drop a little tidbit like that and just leave it hanging! And I assume you are KIDDING when you say you and Dagne used witchcraft because I KNOW you wouldn’t get into something so going-to-hell as witchcraft, RIGHT, RACHEL???

  So anyway, what’s he like? Is he nice? What does he look like? Have you actually gone out on a date? Where did you meet him? Does he know you’re rich? You know that’s the first thing Mom and Dad will want to know. Write back and tell us what’s going on!

  By the way . . . Mom called the other day and seems to think I should talk to you about finishing school and getting a job. So, here is me telling you to finish school and get a job. :)

  Bec, who’s dying to know about the GUY!

  Subject Re: [FWD: Re: What’s going on?]

  From:

  To: Rach

  CC: Rebecca Parrish

  First of all, what KIND of witchcraft? If it’s the weird kind, you’re dead. Do you have any idea what Grandma would do? I’m tempted to call her just for the entertainment value alone. So who’s the guy? Why can’t you ever just send an e-mail with all the information instead of making us jump through five million hoops to find out what’s going on?

  Okay, back to me. I checked out the link you sent on (let me get this right) TAN-TRA, and it didn’t have any pictures. Come on, don’t you have a book or something? Maybe a video? That would actually be better because Jake and I aren’t big readers. Rob.

  Subject RE: RE: [FWD: Re: What’s going on?]

  From: Rebecca Parrish

  To: Robbie

  CC: Rach

  Oh right, I meant to ask you about that tantric thing. Can Matt and I get a book, too? But not a video. I would die if a video like that showed up and Grayson plugged it into the TV. Anyway, I don’t think it’s legal to send that kind of video through the mail. Bec

  Subject RE: RE: [FWD: Re: What’s going on?]

  From:

  To:

  CC:

  News Flash—maybe one of the reasons I don’t send long e-mails is because of the response I get from my older sisters (e.g., please see thread below). First—okay, you guys, let me try this again. TANTRA is an eastern mystical science and it’s all about understanding the universe you live in. It is not a sex manual, for God’s sake. If you really want to get into it, you’re supposed to study how to connect with the universe and become more complete in ALL aspects of your life, not just the bedroom, you sex-crazy dolts. But okay, part of that connection is an awareness and release of sexual energy. So if y’all will promise to at least read about the mystical science of Tantra, I will send you a little pocket companion book I have that talks about the sexual energy part and how to release it. Do you promise????? I’m not sending it unless you say you promise.

  So as for the guy, it’s really nothing. I was just filling up the white space on the screen so I wouldn’t be accused of not giving enough info. Really, he’s not that spectacular or anything, and I’m not sure I’m interested. It’s too much trouble at this point, anyway. I mean, I have to get a job and finish school. I really don’t have time for a relationship right now. Speaking of jobs, I have to go. TTFN . . . Rachel

  P.S. And it’s WHITE magic, although I am sure I will have to explain that, too. :)

  When she finished answering nosey e-mails from her sisters, Rachel went to bed,
where she lay, not sleeping, but staring at the ceiling for a long time.

  The next day, she tackled the clutter of her house. Sort of. She was actually looking for the little gift book on tantric sex someone had given her so she could send it to the maniacs in Texas, but she couldn’t find it, which forced her to dig through the clutter and tidy up.

  It was easy for her house to become cluttered; it was very small for one thing, and she had a bit of a pack-rat habit. There were lots of things she recognized she’d kept too long, but could not bring herself to throw away— like the ferns and ivies and herbal baskets that hung in several corners of her house. Most of them had lived past their prime, but Rachel refused to give up on living things and would diligently nurse them back to life after long winters. She did, however, rearrange them.

  And there were the many hand-woven, thick wool rugs scattered about the wood floors, all from her weaving classes, and most of them projects abandoned by her less-industrious students that she had finished. There were so many of them that they almost formed a carpet.

  She had a lot of furniture (and wind chimes), too, the result of one overly enthusiastic spending spree in search of feng shui. In her one living area were two overstuffed couches, an armchair, and a huge ottoman. There was also a large wood frame on which was her latest needlework project—a copy of a fourteenth-century French tapestry. Reduced in size, naturally. Which accounted for the sheets of paper and the calculator nearby as she figured proportions from the original.

  And of course, on every conceivable surface, there were books. Stacks and stacks of them, some read, some intended to be read. School books, reference materials, old dusty-paged tomes of medieval history and ancient languages. There were stacks of fiction books, too, which Rachel knew she would never get around to reading as much as she would like to, but was loath to give away, just in case something catastrophic happened, like she had a horrible accident that required an extensive period of recuperation during which she’d be confined to bed and could do nothing but read. God forbid she should come up short on books if that happened. So she just kept moving the stacks around, dusting over them and around them and adding to them every time she came within a five-mile radius of anyplace that sold books.

  There were also the odds and ends that kept ending up in her house. Some were her own doing—every time she went to England, she’d come back with a bagful of trinkets, most of which she could never remember why she bought.

  She found four hand-painted teacups and saucers, which she was certain had come from Myron, but couldn’t remember having received from him. And now, on the dining room hutch her mother had insisted she have, a new collection of little thick-glassed bottles and bowls, all thanks to her dabbling in Dagne’s witchcraft.

  That was where she found the book on tantric sex for some odd reason, and as it was small enough to lose again, she stuck it in her bag so she wouldn’t forget to mail it. That was also where she found her horoscope chart, too, and checked to see if Mars was still in retrograde or what the hell the problem was. Her study of the chart, however, was not illuminating. Go figure.

  And as she tossed that onto a new stack, she noticed the spell book Dagne had brought into her life. Wicked Good: A Witch’s Guide to Effective Spells for Women.

  Rachel picked it up, intending to put it away, but the heavy book somehow slipped between her fingers and fell onto the hardwood floor with a thud. She picked it up by the spine, and the book started to slip again, so she caught it underneath with her other arm . . . and noticed that it had fallen on the page of Seduction Spells.

  “Isn’t that rich,” she said with a frown, not happy at all to be reminded of Flynn, or He Who Had Not Called. She moved to close the book and put it away, but her eye caught tiny print on the bottom of a table of contents that guided the reader to enchanting spells of seduction and everlasting love. “That’s weird,” she muttered. It was something she had not heretofore noticed, and she’d damn sure looked at the page enough times. The print was so tiny and the daylight was fading so fast that Rachel had to lift the book to her face and squint to read it.

  Warning! Spells cannot be used to enslave another being! To hold someone against their will is wrong! If you are guilty of using one of these powerful spells to entice love that is not meant to be, the spell will only be temporary, and may cause more heartache than good!

  She lifted her head, blinked down at the page. How in the hell had she missed that warning? It seemed pretty important, and really, having spent the last several weeks honing her spell-casting abilities, one would think she might have noticed an important disclaimer like that. No wonder Flynn hadn’t called!

  She had used her goddess powers to entice someone who didn’t want to be enticed, and in return, she’d gotten majorly worked up over a kiss that was going nowhere. “How stupid am I?” she demanded of herself, and slapped the spell book shut, slammed it down on the hutch, and glared at it, furious.

  Oh yeah, she was furious, all right. Furious that she’d made a fool of herself over some stranger, had believed it was kismet, had even made the fatal mistake of mentioning it to her sisters. And she was furious for being so naïve and stupid and trusting of a woman she knew better than to trust! She was furious with Dagne, too, and held her totally responsible for this mess, because she was the one who had forced Rachel into this ridiculous witchcraft business to begin with. But then again, who was the idiot who had been dumb enough to believe anything Dagne Delaney had to say, and worse, had actually cast all those ridiculous spells?

  “Her name is Rachel,” she said disgustedly. “And don’t forget the spells with the actual dancing, you dolt. I am so through with this crap,” she said angrily, and turned around to find a box to put all the witchcraft junk in, because that was definitely the one box she would toss out to the street—

  But her sleeve caught the hutch and the spell book and sent it flying across the dining room. It sailed wide of the hutch and landed, spine up, pages down, beneath the arch that separated the dining room from the living room.

  Only . . . the funny thing was, Rachel didn’t remember hitting it, exactly. In fact, she was pretty certain she hadn’t touched the book. A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she slowly turned and looked at the hutch. Nothing else was disturbed. She glanced at the spell book again, wondered how it had defied physics to land spine up again, its pages bunched and folded beneath the heavy cardboard covers.

  “This isn’t creepy,” she scoffed aloud, hugging herself. “Because this stuff isn’t real. It’s bullshit, like everything else Dagne does.”

  So why, then, did she hear a tiny little voice in her head that sounded exactly like Dagne telling her if she believed, it was real?

  “No. This is so ridiculous.” She took a hesitant step toward the spell book. And another. Was she imagining things, or had it grown unusually cold in here? And another step, and another, until she was suddenly running in little-girl steps to the book, which she snatched up quickly and held to her chest as she ran into the living room and threw herself on the couch, burying her face in the pillows.

  But after a moment, when she realized she really couldn’t breathe, she slowly pushed herself up, peeled the spell book from her chest, and looked down at the pages to where it had fallen open. It was a spell of personal growth and prosperity.

  Physical and emotional prosperity will come when you are ready to receive it. To prepare yourself, you will need . . .

  Now that was a classic example of serendipity if ever she’d seen one, and she was not so practical as to turn her back on it. So Rachel pushed herself up, shoved her hair behind her ears, and began to read how to prepare herself for physical and emotional prosperity.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The address for the Saturday soiree was near Blackstone Avenue, a swank area of town full of mansions and old money and old people with enough history in town to throw massive parties where hundreds might attend. This one was set in an old colonial mansion, which was
painted yellow and sat back from the street on a grassy hill behind a tall wrought iron fence.

  Rachel motored up the long, circular drive, and was immediately met out front of the large portico by a man dressed in an old-style footman’s uniform, complete with white-haired wig and queue. “Yes?” he asked tersely when Rachel rolled down her window.

  “I’m supposed to meet the caterer.”

  “The caterer was told to have all staff park on the street,” he said, pointing with his big, white, cartoonish gloved hands toward the gate. “Once you’ve done so, you may find your crew just up the drive there,” he said, and pointed toward the service drive.

  “Thanks!” Rachel called out the window as he stalked away. “Jerk,” she muttered beneath her breath as she motored on around the drive and onto the street.

  Naturally, she had to park fourteen thousand miles away, and it was freezing out, and she was really PMS-ing, as in, retaining water like the proverbial sea cow. She didn’t have anything but her lavender shawl, so her teeth were chattering by the time she reached the top of the hill. She skirted around the end of the house so as not to run into Paul Revere, Doorman, and trudged on the path that led to the servants’ entrance (she knew exactly what the path was, having spent her formative years in Houston in a house of similar size, where they’d had an actual guard posted at their gate for reasons that seemed more ridiculous the older she got).