by Julia London
“Hello,” he croaked into the phone.
“Flynn darling!” Iris fawned.
“Iris.”
“I should be very cross with you, Flynn Oliver! You promised to ring me yesterday, do you recall?”
“Sorry—I had to work.”
“They sound like monsters, the Americans, always making you work,” she said petulantly. “When are you coming home, Flynnie?”
“I can’t say,” he told her truthfully. Both projects were taking more time than he’d anticipated. “It may be a while yet.”
Iris sighed her displeasure. “Oh, Flynn,” she said softly. “I do believe you’ll never forgive me.”
He rolled his eyes, sat on the couch, arms braced on his knees. “Iris, please, couldn’t this all possibly wait until I’ve returned to jolly old England?”
“No, it can’t. I don’t think you understand how crushed I am by the whole thing, and I’ve scarcely slept a wink since you’ve been gone, darling. I think about the wonderful times we had together, and how foolish it was of me to jeopardize everything simply because I was lonely.”
“Iris—”
“The thing is, lambkins, that I never meant to harm us. I really rather thought of it as nothing more than a silly little tryst. It meant absolutely nothing.”
“Yes, so you’ve said several times now. But really, how am I to trust you, Iris? How can I know that when I’m off on assignment, you aren’t shagging the neighbor and thinking it a harmless tryst?”
“Because I am swearing on my life that I won’t do it again,” she said, her voice pleading. “I am giving you my solemn vow to be ever faithful.”
Flynn suppressed a groan.
“Oh darling, you know how much I love you! Remember that afternoon we drove to Windsor and took the little boat out onto the river?”
He remembered it; of course he remembered it. He’d been terribly happy then—it was a couple of months before he’d gone off so terribly sentimental and asked her to marry him.
That day at Windsor, she’d been in the front of the boat, lounging against several pillows, a parasol over her head, looking quite delectable as they floated along to a picnic spot she knew about. Flynn had adored that day—they had laughed and talked about a number of things, as comfortable together as an old pair of slippers, and he’d seen his future stretch before him: a beautiful wife, happy children, a dog or two.
“Remember the spot where we picnicked?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky.
He recalled that as well and leaned back against the couch. In a secluded area, on a thick quilt, she had seduced him, had enticed him, with the help of strawberries and cream, to eat her as if she were a luscious dessert. Just the memory of it aroused him, and he put his hand on top of his boxers, felt his dick growing thick again.
“Think of it, darling,” she said softly. “Remember it with me. I’m thinking of it, too, touching myself precisely where you licked me,” she whispered. “Do you remember? Wouldn’t you like to lick me again like you did that day? Wouldn’t you like to feel me come again?”
His dick was beginning to pulse, and he slipped his hand inside his boxers, stroked it. “Go on,” he said, as his fingers curled tightly around it.
“It was delicious,” she purred. “I was quite wet, just as I am now, and insatiable. I couldn’t get enough of you. I came so hard, but I only wanted more. I said, ‘Flynn, darling, shag me,’” She moaned into the phone.
But Flynn’s hand stilled. This was all a lot of fun, but Iris had skipped one small detail he could never skip. That same day, he had asked her to return the favor, but she had wrinkled her nose with disgust and vowed that her lips would never go near “that thing.”
“And I remember how it felt when you slid inside me—”
“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you, Iris?” he said, withdrawing his hand from his boxers and sitting up. “You’re forgetting that I wanted something from you, too.”
She said nothing for a moment, but he noticed her breathing stilled. “Why must you bring that up now? I thought we were having a laugh.”
“Because it’s important to me. Now let’s play another game of recall, shall we?”
“Flynn—”
“Let’s start with the day I discovered you and Paul. You tried to brush it off by saying that you had only—and these were your precise words—blown him on occasion.”
Iris wisely said nothing.
“I actually loved you, Iris. But I’m not certain you ever loved me.”
“Of course I did! What a horrid thing to say! And I still do love you, desperately so! Why do you think I keep ringing you? I am quite despondent and quite frantic to salvage what we had!”
“I’m hardly convinced,” he said calmly.
“What other possible motive could I have?” she demanded, her voice going shrill.
“Actually, that’s an excellent question, and one I haven’t quite put my finger on. But I suspect it has something to do with my family’s ties to the Duke of Alnwick and your esteem of the aristocracy.”
“That’s horrid!”
“Perhaps it is. As I said, I haven’t quite worked it all through. But I don’t think I want to work it through, Iris. I think I’m quite done with you, really. It’s over. Really very much over. And now, if you will excuse me, I must run along, for I’ve got quite a lot to do here.”
“Flynn!” she cried. “Please don’t hang up! Don’t toss everything we had into the rubbish bin!”
“I haven’t tossed a bloody thing—that was you, love,” he said, and hung up, tossed the phone aside, dragged his hands through his hair.
That was the first time she’d said she loved him since he had discovered her infidelity. He wondered if even Iris realized it. It mattered little now, for he really felt as if he was completely and irrevocably through with Iris Willow-Throckmorton.
He sighed, stood to go shower, and walked past the little table where he kept his laptop and files.
Something caught his eye as he walked past, though, and he paused, leaned down to look at the table.
It was glitter. Rachel had left a bit of her sparkle behind.
With a smile, Flynn headed for the shower.
Chapter Twenty-One
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: [FWD: Re: What’s going on?]
From:
To:
CC:
[email protected] wrote:
So where have you been, you little witch? Ha haaa. I’m figuring no news is no news. I’m guessing the guy you “conjured” up might not have worked out. Well, don’t worry about it, kid. Your time will come, and like you said, you really don’t have time for dating right now with all that’s on your plate. And besides, half the time it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, believe me—remember Evan?
PS. Don’t forget the book.
P.S.S. You don’t have to explain white magic, duh, it’s all stupid.
What’s that supposed to mean, don’t worry about it? I’m not worried. Why should I be worried? Do you think I have something to be worried about? Like what? Like always a bridesmaid, never a bride worried? Is that what you mean? Like if a woman isn’t married or significantly involved in her 30s then there must be something wrong with her? There is nothing wrong with me, Robin. I just said it wasn’t that spectacular, like don’t write home to Mom and Dad, I’m not going to reach the exalted status of married Lear girl anytime soon. But I’m still going to SEE him. Actually, I’m seeing him and another guy. So let’s see . . . that’s one guy—white magic; one guy—just my good looks and charm. I won’t forget the stinkin’ book!
Subject Imodium AD contest
From: Lillian Stanton
To: Rachel Ellen Lear
Hi honey. Thanks for the name of the stuff you gave Grandpa at Blue Cross. He still ain’t 100% but he’s better you know how he is has to discuss each d
etail till he’s just blue in the face or you are. But a funny thing happened. Imodium AD had a little thing on the back of the box that said they’d pay five hundred dollars for a funny Imodium story well El just got up and typed them an e-mail about one day when he was playing golf and had an attack. Let’s just say he wasn’t in the pond looking for lost balls. But I’d put a thimble full of Imodium in his golf bag and sure enough it cleared his problem right up. I’ll let you know if Grandpa wins the contest. He says if he does he’s going to share it with every one of you girls. What’s the weather in Providence it is still too warm here and the holidays right around the corner. Well gotta go fix his supper because if he don’t eat at five I’m gonna hear about it. By the way I found this diet in Good Housekeeping. I hope you like grapefruit as much as I do because you really need to eat a lot of it according to the article but I’m sending it to you see for yourself. Luv U. Grandma
When Rachel hit the gym Monday morning, Lori, the desk jockey, said, “Wow! You’ve been coming almost a whole month now!” And judging by Lori’s half-sneer, she was losing the office pool on that one.
Rachel did twenty miles on the bike and even a few weights before heading off for Turbo Temps with a pay slip and the caterer’s black skirt in hand. An hour later, she left Turbo Temps without the skirt and ten dollars lighter, but with a paycheck and a three-day job. Yessir, as of 7:30 in the morning, she was entering the heady world of fishing industry’s processing and production phases.
Her next stop was the Brown University library so that she could continue her search for a dissertation topic. By the time she arrived home, her head was hurting and her sight was blurred from reading such tiny print all afternoon, but she believed she was very close to settling on a topic.
Fortunately, her sight wasn’t so blurred that she couldn’t see the red light blinking on her answering machine. She put down her bag and checked the display. There were three messages; she punched the playback button.
“Hey. Call me,” Dagne said into the phone. In the background, Rachel could hear the familiar sound of a computer keyboard being tapped at warp speed and figured Dagne was buying off eBay again.
Rachel took off her coat and kicked off her shoes as the answering machine moved to the second message. “Ah . . . Rachel, this is Flynn. You know—the bloke who saved you from incarceration.”
Rachel immediately turned around to beam happily at the answering machine.
“As it happens, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about you, and frankly, I’m rather disappointed you’re not in. In the future, I’d request that you might better anticipate when I might ring you,” he said, and she turned her beaming up a notch. “We’re still on for Wednesday, are we? If it’s not a bother, could you possibly ring me and let me know for certain? There’s a love.” He rattled off the number. Rachel memorized it, etched it into her conscious thoughts for all of time. “Cheers, then,” he said, and clicked off.
She was still smiling when the machine moved to the last message. “This is Mr. Donald Gregory calling for Miss Rachel Lear.”
Surprised, Rachel looked at the machine “I regret to bother you at home, but I must reluctantly inform you that I will not be attending class tomorrow evening,” he said evenly. “My wife passed away today after a lengthy illness.” He announced it as if he was announcing he’d had a gall bladder attack.
Rachel didn’t know if she should be more startled by his apathy at having lost his wife or the fact that he had a wife. She would have sworn he had a boy toy or an ancient queen stashed away in a tiny apartment.
“While this is very sad news, it is also a blessing,” he continued stoically. “She has really . . . suffered for a very long time,” he said, his voice catching just a little. “In any event, I shall be absent from class. Thank you, and have a good day.” The answering machine clicked off.
That poor, poor man! Regardless of how ill his wife had been, or for how long, it had to be excruciatingly painful to lose her so close to the holidays. It reminded Rachel of her father’s cancer, and she felt the burn of tears in her throat just thinking about the awful possibility of his death.
She shook off the morbid thought, glanced at the clock, picked up the phone and dialed Myron’s number. His answering machine picked up. “I’m not in. Please leave your name, a brief message, and a number where I may reach you.”
“Myron, my cell?” she said to the machine, wondering if that was brief enough for him. “Did you borrow it again? If you did, I’d really like it back.” She clicked off, dialed her cell phone, but got her own voice mail and hung up. She next dialed Flynn’s number.
He wasn’t in, either, and more was the pity. “Hi, Flynn,” she said, trying to sound sexy, and wincing at her lack of finesse. “We’re definitely on for Wednesday. I’m really looking forward to it. And of course, there is class tomorrow evening. I think you’ll find my loom techniques are very . . . good,” she said, unable to think of a sexy word, and said a quick good-bye, then hung up and moaned, “Loom techniques?” And with that, she headed upstairs, determined to pay a visit to Mr. Gregory, poor thing.
After successfully locating the class papers and Mr. Gregory’s address, she dressed in a long denim skirt, a ruby sweater, and Doc Martens, then donned a denim jacket and scarf and walked out onto her drive. She was fitting her key in the car lock when Mr. Valicielo stepped out of the shadows to the fender of her Beetle. “Judas Priest!” she cried with alarm. “Mr. Valicielo, you scared me!”
“Sorry,” he said, ducking his little head. She took a breath, noticed he was wearing a giant parka that swallowed him, and a fishing hat that was barely on his head, which gave her the impression that he had slapped it on in a hurry. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t ever seem to find you at home. You, ah . . . you said you’d have money to remove the tree?” he reminded her, glancing uneasily at said tree.
Right. She had said that. But that was before she’d gone and spent her money on a new dress for her first date in eons. “Yeah, I did,” she said, nodding thoughtfully, and looked at the tree. What was the big deal, anyway? It didn’t look like the fence was any more damaged than when the tree first fell. “The thing is, I didn’t make as much as I hoped.”
Mr. Valicielo pressed his lips together so hard that they almost disappeared. “Your father has money, doesn’t he? Maybe he’ll loan you the money.”
“Well, there’s just a little bit of a problem there,” she said, holding up her fingers to show him just how little a problem, which of course he could not see through her mittens. “My dad doesn’t support me—”
“I meant, just ask him for a loan.”
“Right,” she nodded. “But not even a loan. He’s, ah . . . well . . . here’s the thing, Mr. Valicielo,” she said, studying the angle of her sideview mirror intently. “The long and short of it is, he has sort of cut me off.”
She peeked at him. Even in the dim glow of her porch light, she could see the color drain from his face. He looked at the tree, put his hands on his bony hips (sort of—his jacket was far too big), and turned a pretty hellacious glare on her. “I don’t know if I can be any plainer, Miss Lear,” he said, going all formal on her. “Your tree is ruining my fence. If you don’t have it removed, I am prepared to take you to small claims court!”
“What?” She had visions of Judge Judy and cameras and a rooting section filled with dozens of Valicielo clones. “Mr. Valicielo!” she cried. “Please don’t do that. I promise I’m saving money as fast as I can to have it removed. You just have to give me a little time.”
Now he tried to fold his arms in that huge parka, but could only manage to grab each elbow as he shifted his weight, still glaring at her from beneath his stupid fishing hat. “I’m sorry, Miss Lear, but you are running out of time! I have tried to be patient, I have tried to give you time, but the fact is, you have made no effort to dispose of that tree, and it is ruining my fence.” He pivoted about, marching back into the dark and toward his house.
&n
bsp; “Miserable old coot,” she muttered.
“I can hear you!” he shouted from the edge of darkness.
Rachel quickly got in her car and drove off.
This was the last thing she needed, but for the moment, she was refusing to let Mr. Valicielo ruin her good spirits. She had Mr. Gregory to worry about after all, and besides, SHE HAD A DATE THIS WEEK. Like some stupid tree was going to mess that up.
But a teeny-tiny voice kept whispering small claims court in the back of her mind.
Rachel found Mr. Gregory’s house easily enough. It was in Mount Pleasant, an older, established neighborhood where neat bungalows and cottages lined the streets. A porch light was on, but there was no light coming from the windows, save a sliver that peeked out between a crack in the curtains.
Rachel hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, walked up the old steps and across the wooden porch, and rapped sharply on the door. She heard a floor creak somewhere, then footsteps, steady and slow. The footfall stopped just on the other side of the door, and although she couldn’t see anyone, she smiled and waved at the peephole.
One lock bolt slid open. Then a deadbolt. Then two more bolts and maybe even a chain lock before the door creaked open a couple of inches. “Rachel?” Mr. Gregory said.
“Hi, Mr. Gregory.” He did not open the door farther, nor did he speak. “I, ah . . . I got your message,” she said uncertainly, “and I came to see if I could do anything for you.”
He said nothing.
“In Texas, when someone suffers a loss, everyone comes over to pay their respects and help where they can.”