by Julia London
“Have you been smoking incense again?” Rachel asked suspiciously, then rolled onto her back so that she could stare up at the ten-foot ceiling and crown molding of her living room. “Do you know how ballistic Dad is going to go when he sees that tree and finds out Mr. Valicielo is suing me? Or that window upstairs that’s been broken for over a year? Or that the garage is leaning to the right and the cable has been cut off?”
“Pretty mad, huh?” Dagne asked as she examined a spot on her arm.
“Yep. Pretty mad. From the beginning, he told me I had to keep the place up, and if I didn’t, he was going to sell it. And then he told me if I didn’t get out of school he was cutting me off, as in permanently. I don’t really care, I swear I don’t, but I just need some time to get on my feet before he yanks the rug out.”
“It’ll work out. Trust me. I’ve got your back,” Dagne said with a wink.
Rachel half laughed, half moaned.
“I’m not kidding,” Dagne said, frowning at Rachel’s smile of disbelief. “All right, you don’t believe me? I’ll show you,” she said, and suddenly stood and grabbed her purse off the dining room table. She pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto Rachel’s tummy.
“What’s this?” Rachel asked, sitting up.
“You know that figurine of a dancer Myron gave you that you thought was so stupid? It got thirty dollars on eBay.”
“What?” Rachel cried, and looked in the envelope. It was full of money.
“And the torch thingies, they brought sixty,” Dagne said proudly. “There’s three hundred bucks in there.” Rachel stared at the money, then at Dagne.
“I wanted to wait another week. You remember that tea set he gave you? The bidding is up to one hundred and twenty-five dollars, but it won’t close for another three days.”
“You mean you sold those things on eBay?” Rachel asked, just to say it out loud.
“Yes,” Dagne said, beaming. “I mean, you were in a bind, and the stuff was just sitting around. You haven’t even noticed they’re missing,” she said proudly.
“Dagne! You did that for me?”
“I wanted to help. You’ve always helped me out when I needed it, and I wanted to do something for you.”
“I think I’m going to cry,” Rachel said, clutching the envelope to her chest.
“Please don’t,” Dagne said, blushing now. “Come on, forget that and tell me about Flynn. I wanna meet him!”
Rachel sighed dreamily and set the envelope aside. “God, Dagne, what can I say? He’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“So did you figure out if there is anyone waiting for him in England?”
That one caused her to wince a little. “There is someone. Or was. I think she doesn’t want to let go, and who can blame her? He told me he’d ended it, but that she’s not accepting the end.” She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at Dagne. “I won’t be able to accept it, either.”
“Accept what?”
“The end.”
Dagne snorted and gave her a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not going to end. From everything you’ve told me, he’s just as crazy about you as you are him.”
“Right . . . but he doesn’t know the whole story. He doesn’t know about Lear Transport Industries, or that I’ve been cut off and can’t pay my bills and my neighbor is suing me for all I am worth, which as of this moment, is about $410. He knows I am doing temp jobs, but I think he thinks that is just me having a little fun until I land on a dissertation topic. At least that’s partially true,” she said miserably.
“Hey, money is not everything,” Dagne said, with a bit of a spark. “Lots of people don’t have your kind of money and they manage to make a happy life.”
“I’m not saying it’s all about money, but . . .” She stopped there. There was no polite way to explain that a lot of money really did make a difference in the way people perceived a person. She should know—she’d been Miss Fortune long enough.
“He’s not going to hold it against you,” Dagne continued. “Anyway, we’re going to solve that problem. You may not be an heiress anymore, but you won’t be a pauper, either. At least until you find a real job. Actually, I was thinking of asking Glenn if there might be something in his company you could do.”
“Glenn?” Rachel said, coming to a full sitting position. “You’re still seeing him, aren’t you?”
Dagne shrugged, sipped her wine.
Rachel laughed. “I thought you couldn’t stand him!”
“I didn’t think I could,” Dagne said defensively. “But he is a nice guy and he’s got a really great job selling boats. Big boats. I was thinking of asking him if maybe you could be the boat girl.”
“Boat girl?”
“You know, the one who stands on the boat and points to things.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh geez, I really have to go soon,” she said and stood up. “I’m meeting him at Fratangelo’s later.”
“You’re actually letting him into the ‘hood?” Rachel asked, surprised.
“Shut up,” Dagne said. But she was smiling “Come on; let’s do that spell for your dad.”
“Did you have one in mind?” Rachel asked, gaining her feet.
“Of course. The one that instills kindness in meanies,” she said, walking over to a mirror next to the door to check herself out. “That’s the beauty of being a witch, you know. You can trot the spells out when you need them. So okay!” she said, turning away from the mirror. “This should go real quick as long as you have some dried wisteria and cow dung.”
“Cow dung,” Rachel said thoughtfully. “I think I left it in the basement.”
Dagne was halfway down the basement stairs before Rachel told her she was kidding.
A half hour later, they were standing under the eaves of the garage, shivering from a bone-chilling rain, preparing to do an “anti-misfortune spell,” which Rachel thought was hilarious. So hilarious, she kept giggling as Dagne tried to get the balsam wood to light. But it was too wet.
After several tries, Dagne tossed the match aside. “Never mind. We probably don’t really need to burn balsam anyway. So okay, all we have to do is wrap these stones in the ribbon and stack them. Five separate bundles,” she said, thrusting the stones and the ribbon to Rachel.
“Why do I always have to do it?” Rachel whined, snatching the stones and ribbon from Dagne.
“Because you are the one with all the problems, Miss Fortune,” Dagne reminded her.
“I can’t even see what I’m doing,” Rachel groused as she stacked the five stones they had taken from her water garden and tried to wrap them in the ribbon.
“Would you please hurry up? I’m going to be late for my date.”
Rachel fumbled in the dark with the stones, and finally, freezing and exasperated, she tied them as best she could. “Okay. There they are.”
“Great,” Dagne said. “Give me your hands.”
Rachel put her hands out; Dagne grabbed them and they stood, facing each other, holding hands.
“Turn your face to the moon,” she instructed Rachel.
“The moon? There is no moon! It’s raining!”
“God, just look up!” Dagne snapped. “Okay, here we go. Goddess moon, shine your light and show us the path away from the many misfortunes that surround us. Goddess moon, shine your light and lead us away from the misfortunes that will come. Goddess moon, shine your light, and fill us with your strength to avoid mi—”
The sound of the stacked stones falling over startled them both.
“Toavoidmisfortunes,” Dagne muttered quickly, and they both looked down. The stones had fallen out of the ribbon and scattered around their feet.
“That can’t be good,” Rachel said.
“It can’t be that bad—we got most of the spell in.” Dagne glanced at her watch. “I really gotta go,” she said, letting Rachel’s hands go, and she stooped to pick up the wet balsam.
Rachel grabbed the red ribbon but left the stone
s behind in her haste to follow Dagne inside. She followed her all the way to the front door. “You’re coming Thanksgiving, right?” she called as Dagne ran across the porch and down the steps.
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Dagne shouted as she reached her car, and quickly dove inside to get out of the rain.
Rachel stood there, watched her pull out of the drive. And as Dagne started down the street, an old Geo Metro pulled into the drive. Oh, no—Myron. Rachel thought she was supposed to be spared misfortune.
She stepped inside, went to pick up the wineglasses.
“Yo!” Myron called from the front door as she washed the wineglasses. “Anyone home?”
“Back here!”
He came striding through the kitchen door, planted a big kiss on her cheek. “I was beginning to think you didn’t live here anymore,” he said, moving instantly to the fridge. “I’ve been by a half-dozen times and you aren’t home. So I guess you’re working hard, huh?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder at him to see if he was kidding. Apparently, he wasn’t.
“Man, your cupboard is like, bare,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t even get a decent sandwich out of here.”
“I’m having a little financial crisis, remember?”
“What about the temp thing?” he asked.
“I can’t really make enough to pay all the bills,” she said.
Myron turned and looked at her. “You really need to call up the old man, Rachel. You’re wasting away to skin and bones.”
Hello, what did he say? “I am?” Rachel asked, looking down.
Myron laughed. “You could fit another of you in those jeans, haven’t you noticed?”
She stepped back a little farther from the sink and looked down, then behind. They did seem a little baggier than usual. But according to her scale, she hadn’t lost more than a few pounds at most.
“Anyway,” Myron said, “your old man is not going to cut you off, no matter what he says. I bet if you call him up and tell him you’re starving, he’ll come through. He’s just trying to scare you into finishing school, that’s all. So how’s that going, by the way?”
“Pretty good,” she said, perking up, for school was, at last, going well. “I think I settled on a dissertation topic. I’m going to write up the prospectus over the holidays.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Myron said, and his smile was, Rachel knew, genuine. “You know, I’ve been doing some thinking about my situation,” he said.
Myron thinking about himself—no surprise there.
“I’m not sure teaching college-level courses is my thing.”
Whoa, that was a shock. Rachel stopped what she was doing and turned around to look at him again. Not high, not kidding . . . “What do you mean? You’ve been a college professor forever.”
“I know,” Myron said with a laugh, and shut the fridge door, sauntered over to the pantry. “I just feel like it’s time for a change. You remember that place my folks have on Hilton Head?”
How could she forget? It was the one decent place he’d ever taken her, and even then she’d had to pay for half of the trip.
“I was thinking of going down there and doing some surfing. Just spend some time getting my head on straight, maybe smoke a joint or two and sort of mull over what life is all about, you know what I’m saying?”
No, she didn’t know what he was saying. This could not be the same, tenure-starved man she’d known for the last few years. “Are you all right, Myron?” she asked. “This doesn’t sound like you at all. I thought academia was your life.”
He laughed again, pulled out some bread and peanut butter and proceeded to make a sandwich. “I guess you aren’t the only one who’s been changing, Rach.”
“Have I been changing?”
“Are you kidding? Look at you. Working, finding a dissertation topic, going to the gym . . . that’s not the Rachel I know.”
It wasn’t really the Rachel she knew, either.
The phone rang. “I need to get that,” she said, and ducked out of the kitchen, feeling his eyes on her back.
“Hallo, might I please speak with the gorgeous woman who refuses to believe that penguins make marvelous pets?” the distinctive British voice asked when she answered.
A warm flush went right through her. “Speaking,” she said, smiling softly, and pushed her hair behind her ear.
“What are you about, Rachel? I’ve missed your laughter today.”
“I’ve been holed up in the library.”
“How exciting for you. I hope it was at least productive.”
“It was. I’ve got enough to write a prospectus, I think.”
“Fantastic news!” Flynn said happily. “I’ve absolutely no idea what a prospectus is, but I’m chuffed to bits for you, love. Perhaps we might celebrate your blinding success—I’ll grab some takeaway Chinese and stop by, eh?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Myron was standing in the kitchen, eating his sandwich, staring at her. “I could just come there.”
“Here? But we’re always here, aren’t we? And besides, your place is much roomier. After a thorough study of chapter fourteen of the tantric manual, I’m rather convinced we’ll need all the room we can get.”
Rachel laughed, but she could feel the heat in her face and stole another glimpse of Myron. “But my house is really a mess. Honestly, there’s not that much room,” she said low. “I promise, I’ll have it all cleaned up in time for Thanksgiving. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” he said. “But can’t we have a preview—”
“Tonight’s really not good,” she said quickly.
He said nothing for a moment, then laughed low. “Are you, by chance, hiding anything?”
“Hiding?” She laughed nervously.
“Bodies, perhaps? Gold bouillon? Brownies?”
Rachel smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes, actually, I would. You treat that charming little bungalow like Fort Knox.”
She detected a little irritation in his voice. “Flynn—”
“Right, come here, then. I’ll order up the Chinese, if that’s all right.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you in an hour, okay?”
“Yes and do be quick, will you? Chapter fourteen will take a bit of time.”
“What about special shoes?”
“Couldn’t possibly hurt.”
She laughed. “See you soon,” she said, and clicked off, stood there for a moment, then finally turned around. Myron had finished his sandwich. But he was still staring at her.
He brushed his hands together, removing the crumbs. “So! I guess then, from the sound of it, you’re still seeing that guy.”
She nodded.
He looked down at his shoes and sighed. “That’s great, Rachel. I’m happy if you’re happy. Really. I am. I’m probably going to move to Hilton Head anyway, so it’s not as if we were going anywhere, right?”
“Going anywhere?” she echoed loudly. “We haven’t gone anywhere since I can’t remember when, Myron.”
With a sheepish laugh, he folded his arms. “Yeah, you’re right, I know you’re right. I guess I’ve just been thinking about us lately and I thought maybe . . . well, you know. Maybe we could hook up again.”
Okay, so now the world had really spun right off its axis. She put the phone on the dining table, next to a pair of porcelain candlesticks Myron had left last week. “You dumped me, remember? Honestly, Myron, sometimes I don’t get you at all.”
“Hey, it’s just a thought! No big deal,” Myron said laughingly. “Listen, I gotta run. So what’s the deal with Thanksgiving?” he asked as he strolled past her, as if he’d never mentioned hooking up.
“Nothing,” she said, still perplexed by his last statement. “Just a few friends.”
“Great. I’m not doing anything, so I’ll stop by. Maybe I can check out this dude you’re so hot about,” he said with a laugh. “Okay, see you. Thanks for the sand
wich.” He reached for the door.
“Myron!” Rachel called.
He turned, and shook his head with a smile. “Don’t worry, Rach—I’m not going to come back into the picture and screw things up for you.”
Who was this guy? She didn’t know if she should be more appalled that he thought he could actually screw anything up for her, or that he was even contemplating renewing a long-dead relationship. But at the moment she had something more pressing on her mind. “Actually, I was going to ask about my phone. I want it back.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I still have that, don’t I?”
“Yes. You still have it, you’ve had it forever, and I’d really like it back. I haven’t paid the phone bill, and that may be the only phone I have—”
“Not to worry,” he said, lifting his hand and cutting her off. “I’ll bring it Thanksgiving. Okay, gotta jet. See you,” he said, and with a wink, he sauntered out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter fourteen began with a mutual bath and cleansing, and was supposed to progress to something a bit more athletic, but thanks to some yin-and-yang techniques Flynn had perfected on his own, they never got past the bubble bath and champagne.
Afterward, they lounged in the bath, lying at opposite ends. Flynn’s toes were doing a little postcoital exploration on their own, but Rachel’s were on either side of his head, and wiggled when she talked.
He was admiring her, scarcely hearing her discourse on the intricacies of successful sidewalk pamphlet distribution, or whatever odd job she’d done recently, because he was thinking of their lovemaking and how terribly pleased he was that she was a lustful lover, a woman who was as emboldened to seek her own pleasure as she was to give it.
Iris—he didn’t really like thinking of Iris—but while Iris thought nothing, apparently, of blowing Paul, she had been a fragile lover with him, always making little sounds to signal her fear of being broken in two, or her displeasure with particular positions.