The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

“Whose kids?” Chantal instantly demanded with a dark and defensive frown.

  “Come in, Jason,” Rachel said, taking his hand and ignoring Chantal.

  She led him to the couch; he sat cautiously on the edge. “Was I supposed to bring something? I didn’t bring anything.”

  “That’s all right, there’s plenty,” Rachel said over Chantal’s snort of disapproval. “Just come in and make yourself at home.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t come empty-handed,” an effeminate male voice sniffed. Mr. Gregory had arrived.

  “Look what Mr. Gregory brought!” Chantal said, holding up a box with several bottles of wine. “Mmmmmm, we gonna have us a fine time,” she informed Tiffinnae.

  “Clara was rather fond of her wine,” Mr. Gregory said. “But I have no use for it. By the bye, I was viciously attacked with small mud pellets on my way in,” he added as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Dagne without so much as a glance.

  Chantal marched to the door and flung it open, stuck her head out the screen. “RAY. SHON. DRA!” she hollered. “YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING MUD BALLS OR I WILL SKIN YOUR BLACK HIDE, YOU HEAR ME?”

  Whether Rayshondra heard her or not, they would not know, for Chantal instantly slammed the door shut, then turned and walked into the living room. “That a new shirt, Jason?” she asked pleasantly.

  Rachel took the opportunity to introduce everyone to Dagne.

  Everyone said hi, except for Jason, who sort of muttered at his toes. Then Chantal suggested Rachel needed help in the kitchen, but Rachel insisted she didn’t, as she was scared to let Chantal anywhere near her kitchen unsupervised, but the woman was determined. So Rachel, Chantal, Tiffinnae, and Dagne all tromped to the kitchen together, leaving Mr. Gregory and Jason to stare at each other.

  It wasn’t long before they heard Sandy shout, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Rachel responded, coming out to greet her. Mr. Gregory was holding the door so she could maneuver in with her two grocery bags and her crutches.

  “Hiiii-iiii!” Sandy sang out to Rachel.

  “Jason, maybe you could give Sandy a hand with the bags?” Rachel asked. Jason came to his feet, slunk over to Sandy, and looked down at her foot.

  “I thought the other one was hurt,” he said. Rachel had to agree with Jason—two weeks ago, it had been the other foot bandaged up.

  “Oh it was,” Sandy cheerfully confirmed. “But would you believe I twisted this ankle so bad I can’t even walk?” She laughed. “Just as I was getting off these darn things! But then one night, I had one of my attacks; you know, and I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom— this medicine I’m on makes you pee every ten minutes and that’s so annoying—well anyway, I get up, but my sinuses were acting up so bad I could hardly think, and it was dark, and I was trying to find the wall switch, and I hit a stool, which made me sort of stagger back,” she said, now reenacting the tragic accident, “and wouldn’t you know it, my right ankle wasn’t strong enough to recover since I had hurt it so bad, so I twisted my left ankle trying to compensate for the right.”

  No one said a word for a moment, just stood there, blinking at her in disbelief. “Girl, you a mess,” Chantal said from the dining room, shaking her head.

  “I know,” Sandy said gleefully.

  Chantal snorted, walked back to the kitchen with Sandy hobbling after her.

  Jason looked at Rachel, still holding the bags. “What am I supposed to do with these?” he asked, holding the bags out to Rachel.

  “I’ll take them,” she said, wondering what in the hell had possessed her to host Thanksgiving. At the moment, she couldn’t think of a worse idea, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half past one. Where is Flynn?

  As she worked to prepare the meal, she kept one eye on the window for any sign of Flynn. The later the hour became, the clearer it became to her that he was not coming.

  He was not coming because she had gone and blurted the L word, and had scared the shit out of him. That was so like her, to ruin everything by doing something stupid. And it didn’t help that Dagne sidled up to her more than once with a hushed, “Where’s Flynn?”

  Rachel’s distraction caused her to forget the bread, and it wasn’t until Tiffinnae asked if anyone else noticed something burning that she remembered it—with a screech, she ran to the oven, pulled out two burned loaves of French bread.

  The smell filled the kitchen, and the women set about opening windows, as Sandy directed them from her perch at the breakfast bar, and during the melee, Chantal’s gravy went bad and lumpy, and Dagne dropped her casserole, and Brussels sprouts went shooting across the floor.

  The meal was quickly turning into a disaster. But then someone was knocking on the door, and Dagne beamed at her. “There he is!” she sang.

  Yes, yes, it had to be him, he was just running late!

  “Who?” Tiffinnae demanded.

  Rachel was already on her way to the door and did not answer. She flung it open, all smiles, certain it was Flynn.

  But it was not Flynn. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Valicielo,” Rachel said warily, noticing that his face was unusually red.

  “Do you see what they did?” he demanded, dispensing with any greeting and gesturing wildly toward his house.

  “Who did?”

  “Those kids!” he spat.

  With great reluctance, Rachel stepped through the screen door and out onto the porch and looked at his yard. His little herd of deer and his frog had all been turned upside down and the pinwheels were missing altogether. The only thing that had survived the assault was the concrete rabbit. “Yikes,” Rachel said, wincing. “What happened?”

  “I’m calling the cops,” he spat.

  “No, Mr. Valicielo, please don’t do that,” Rachel cried. “They’re children of my guests. We’ll make them come inside—”

  “What’s going on here?” Chantal demanded behind her, and Rachel groaned as she walked out onto the porch.

  “Those kids attacked my yard!” Mr. Valicielo shouted, pointing to his yard.

  “Whose kids?”

  “I don’t know! Kids! Kids from here!”

  “If you be implying that my kids did that, you better step off, little man,” Chantal said, waving her head back and forth to match the finger she was waving at Mr. Valicielo.

  “I don’t know whose kids they are!” Mr. Valicielo shot back. “I just know they were kids. Black kids!” he added.

  “Oh geez, I wish you hadn’t said that,” Rachel said, but no one heard her on account of Chantal’s primal roar.

  “You think just ‘cuz some black kids in this neighborhood that they did that?” she asked, punching her fists to her hips.

  Mr. Valicielo at least had the good sense to look scared, but it did not stop him from speaking. The next thing Rachel knew, she was standing between Chantal and Mr. Valicielo, arms outwardly extended to keep them apart, begging Tiffinnae to stop baiting Chantal, and thoroughly disgusted with Jason and Mr. Gregory, who remained behind the screen door, peering out like scared little rabbits.

  Rachel begged Mr. Valicielo to please go home and she’d make sure all the kids at her house were inside, and then she would come and clean his yard up when they were finished with the Thanksgiving meal. Then she begged Chantal to please get her kids inside before he actually called the cops and ruined Thanksgiving.

  When they finally turned away from each other, both fuming, Rachel sagged against the porch railing, wondering what in the hell was going on here.

  “Rachel.”

  His voice startled her almost to her knees, and now Rachel was certain—something had gone terribly awry in the spell department, for now her nightmare was complete.

  She turned slowly, pushed her hair over her shoulder, and tried to smile. “H-hey, Dad. I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  He sort of frowned, reached for the railing, as if he needed to prop himself up. “Did you honestly think I’d stay away?” he asked
. “Well, I didn’t. I’m here. So are you going to invite me in?”

  Oh man, this was the last thing she needed, the very last thing she needed. But Dad was standing there in his cashmere coat and scarf, a fedora on his head, and a suit beneath that, judging by the trousers and shoes peeking out from beneath the coat. But even under the bulk of his coat and suit, she could tell he was thinner, and his face, she noticed, was more gaunt than it had been a couple of months ago.

  Yet . . . given what he had apparently witnessed so far, he didn’t seem particularly unhappy. Not particularly happy, either. More confused than anything else. Confused? That was weird—her father was many things, but confused was never one of them.

  “Hello?”

  She snapped out of it. “Of course, Dad,” she said, and reached out to him to hug him. “I have to warn you, my weaving class is here—”

  “I gathered—you said so in that smarty e-mail.”

  “Right,” she said weakly. “But they aren’t . . . they’re not exactly the sort . . .”

  And then Dad, in an uncharacteristic display of affection, put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her into his side. “I got a pretty good picture a minute ago, baby girl,” he said with a crooked smile. “You don’t need to worry about me; I’m neither shocked nor appalled. I’m just glad to see you. You look great, you know it?”

  “What?” she stammered. “What?”

  He chuckled, kissed her temple. “I said, you look great.”

  She could not remember the last time Dad had said anything kind about her appearance, and Rachel blinked up at him in complete astonishment.

  And Dad laughed. He laughed.

  Aaron had argued with Bonnie about making this trip. After Rachel’s sarcastic response to his e-mail, he could not see that anything would be gained from it until she had a major attitude adjustment. But Bonnie had convinced him a quiet Thanksgiving with his daughter was just the thing—they could relax, they could talk, and he could listen.

  He really did want to make things right with Rachel, he really did. She was his baby girl. So he’d geared himself up for it—a day of listening and struggling to keep his mouth shut.

  But naturally, he and Bonnie had misunderstood Rachel again—her sarcasm had been the truth, and as he looked around, he wondered, God in heaven, who were these people?

  He sat at the end of the table he’d bought for Rachel at some tony furniture shop in New York, gazing at them all, as the meal was hardly edible (the turkey terribly dry, the dressing missing some major ingredient, the gravy lumpy. The only thing that was any good was the wine).

  There were the two black women, who, while highly entertaining, were really not who he pictured bent over the looms he imagined Rachel used when she was doing her earth angel thing, instructing people how to weave tapestries or whatever. And the old dude. Jesus, who’d died? He was as morose as he could possibly be, and every expression, every gesture, telegraphed his desire to be elsewhere. And Sandy, the hypochondriac. Whoa, what a nut job that one was. If she laid one more ailment on him, Aaron was going to call her bluff, ask her if she’d ever had cancer, then match her chemo for chemo, surgery for surgery. There was a name for that, the need to be sick all the time, he was pretty sure. Rachel’s friend Dagne had to be the nuttiest of them all, what with all the crap about witchcraft, then getting upset when everyone laughed at her.

  The kid dressed in black sort of fascinated him, for Aaron couldn’t make what he was supposed to be. From where he was sitting, it looked like the kid was wearing eye makeup. But it was clear the kid was crazy about Rachel, and who could blame him?

  Aaron was not surprised by how engaging his daughter was. She had an uncanny ability to relate to each and every one of these fruitcakes. She was the bright spot at the table, the one to whom everyone naturally gravitated. Nothing at all like the meek girl she was around him, preferring the shadows and leaving Becky and Robbie up front. Here, she was the sunlight.

  What did surprise him was how uncommonly talented she was. The nut job Sandy had shown him a tapestry she was doing on the loom, apparently one she had taken from a picture in a magazine and calculated onto her loom. She was an artist. The things Aaron had been wrong about in the last sixty years never ceased to amaze him.

  His good mood was dampened, however, when The Professor strolled in halfway through the meal, all smug-looking, and carrying a single six-pack of beer.

  He first stopped to bless the children, all five of whom were eating off paper plates in front of a movie. The asshole bent down to speak to each one of them. Like he cared. Like they cared. The oldest kid, a girl, looked at him with the complete disdain he deserved.

  So did Aaron.

  “Hello, everyone, I’m Professor Tidwell,” he announced with a smile and a bow.

  Mostly, they just eyed him curiously. But then he strolled down the length of the table and kissed Rachel on the top of her head. Aaron did not miss her grimace at that, or Dagne’s roll of her eyes.

  The Professor continued on into the kitchen, during which time Rachel hastily explained he was a friend. He returned a few moments later with a plate and a chair, which he put next to Rachel and asked for a variety of things to be passed to him, filled his plate, cracked open a beer, then looked around the table. “So,” he said, interrupting another conversation, “you’re all Rachel’s students, are you? I once oversaw her on a teaching internship, and I know she’s an excellent teacher. I am sure you all agree.”

  “Myron—” Rachel started, her self-conscious blush evident to Aaron at the other end of the table.

  “It’s okay, Rach,” The Professor said with a laugh. “They won’t say anything disparaging while you’re sitting here.” He laughed again. No one else did, but Professor Tidwell didn’t notice, as he was diving headfirst into that turkey like he hadn’t eaten in days. “No, I’m serious,” he continued with his mouth full. “Rachel’s got a gift for teaching.”

  “Hey Myron, did you bring beer for anyone else?” Dagne asked, and Aaron thought perhaps he’d misjudged her—that little fruitcake might have more sense than he’d originally thought.

  “I brought a six-pack. I figured you’d have plenty.”

  “That was very thoughtful,” Dagne said coolly, earning herself another brownie point with Aaron. “Can I get anyone anything? I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “I’d like one of those beers, if you don’t mind, Dagne,” Aaron said, his gaze on The Professor.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Lear,” she said, and The Professor jerked his head up, wide-eyed, and looked at Aaron.

  “Hello, Byron,” Aaron said. “I’m Rachel’s father, Aaron Lear.”

  “Ooh, girl, this is gonna be good,” one of the black women said with a snicker.

  “Mr. Lear?” he said, and suddenly didn’t seem quite so full of himself. “I, ah . . . I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, and came to his feet, wiped his hands on his cords, and hurried down the length of the table to shake Aaron’s hand.

  “I just couldn’t stay away,” Aaron drawled, looking the ass straight in the eye.

  The ass quickly dropped his hand, returned to his plate of food, and was, thankfully, silent, allowing one of the black women to wonder why her dressing had dried out so.

  “Probably the moon,” Dagne opined with a sigh.

  Everyone looked at her blankly; and then one of the other women stood with her plate.

  “At least we got dessert,” she said, and began to clear the table.

  The rest of the afternoon was excruciatingly boring for Aaron. Rachel’s guests milled about the living room, some staring at a muted football game, the kid in black trying to play a game with the kids (but from the sound of it, they were constantly correcting his understanding of the game), and Chantal lounged on the couch after trooping over to the neighbor’s house to right his deer.

  The Professor tried to make small talk with Aaron, but he was too bored with the man to make conversation, and answered his si
lly questions (“Are you a history fan, too?” “Rachel is going to make a great professor, don’t you think?” “I like the St. Louis Cardinals . . . oh, when did they move to Arizona?”) with one- or two-syllable answers.

  Aaron tried to watch football, but he couldn’t help noticing that Rachel seemed terribly distracted, kept walking to the window and peering out, then disappearing into the kitchen again.

  There was no one more grateful than Aaron when at last everyone began to leave, trickling out until there was no one left but The Professor, Dagne, and Rachel.

  The Professor was the first to take his leave. “Okay! I better get going. I have to work tomorrow.” He glanced nervously at Aaron, then went and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Thanks for the meal.”

  “Sure,” she said, looking at her feet. “By the way . . . did you bring my phone?”

  The ass winced, snapped his fingers. “I knew I was forgetting something,” he said. “I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of things I want to give you.”

  Aaron could only imagine what they were. As The Professor slunk out the door, Dagne gathered her things. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Lear.”

  “You, too, Dagne. Now don’t get yourself in trouble with that witchcraft,” he said with a wink.

  Dagne sighed, shook her head. “It’s too late for that,” she said, and looked at Rachel. “Remember that thing we did the other day? I think we screwed it up.”

  “Okay, well listen, I’ll call you later,” Rachel quickly interrupted, ushering her friend to the door. They stepped outside; Aaron could hear a rather heated discussion taking place, and then finally, Rachel called good-bye and came back in, looking more distressed than before.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just—” The telephone interrupted whatever she was going to say, and she practically dove for the thing. “Just a minute, Dad,” she said, grabbing up the receiver. “Hello?” she answered breathlessly, but instantly, her face fell. “Oh. Yes, hi, Mike . . . I’m sorry, I’m just sort of rattled. I had a lot of people over today,” she said, and turned from Aaron, walked into the kitchen.