The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “He’s making a buy,” Joe said. “Weed would be my guess.”

  Joe’s hunch proved right, as the two men remained in the parking lot, eventually walking around to the back of the other man’s car, where they shared a joint. When they’d finished, they talked a little more, and the man returned to the bar. The professor got in his car.

  This time, they followed him down Blackstone Avenue, to Laurel, and then Slater, the street on which Rachel lived, at which point, Flynn’s heart began to sink.

  “He’s going for the painting, you know,” Joe said, his voice a little softer than normal, knowing full well how important it was to Flynn that she not be involved.

  “We don’t know that,” Flynn insisted.

  Joe said nothing, just pulled up behind another parked car a couple of houses down from Rachel’s. From their vantage point, they saw the professor get out of his car and go inside. Joe looked at Flynn. “Free access to her house?”

  Flynn was not going to sit back and feel Joe’s pity. “I think I’ll just have a quick look about,” he said, and got out of the car before Joe could stop him.

  Hands in his coat pockets, he pulled his collar up around his face and walked down the sidewalk to Rachel’s house. Once he was in front, he paused, squatted down, and pretended to tie his shoe as he glanced at the house.

  He noticed straightaway that Rachel’s car was not in the drive. So what, then, was the professor doing? With a glance back at Joe, Flynn stood, walked calmly into the drive, could almost hear Joe screaming at him to come back before he blew his cover. To hell with his cover—things had progressed far beyond a mere professional interest.

  He walked the length of the drive, eyeing the long bank of windows. There were lights on, but no sign of the professor. It was, therefore, a bit of a shock when the professor suddenly emerged from the garage, and looked at Flynn strangely as he quickly shut the garage door behind him

  “Ah—hello,” Flynn said.

  “Oh. It’s you,” the professor said, and stood, hands on hips, squinting at Flynn. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy—he looked quite stoned. “Did we meet?” he asked. “I don’t remember.”

  “Ah, no. Charlie Windsor’s the name.”

  “Windsor . . . that sounds familiar,” the idiot said, and Flynn certainly hoped that it might, given the arse’s esteemed status as a college history professor. But the professor shrugged, turned back to the house before thinking it through. “She’s not here, dude,” he said.

  “Isn’t she?”

  “No.” He paused, looked at the house as if he was trying to remember what he was doing here himself, and put a hand to his nape, then looked at Flynn again. “Okay, so you want me to tell her you came by?”

  “Will you see her?”

  “Ah . . . I don’t know. I thought she was with you. Maybe she’s at school. Look, I’ll leave her a note, but I really need to get going.”

  “That would be lovely, thanks,” Flynn said. Yet he stood firmly rooted, waiting to see what the professor did next.

  The professor looked at him, terribly confused. “Right, right, so I’ll let her know.”

  “Brilliant, thank you.”

  Eyeing Flynn, the professor very tentatively went back inside the house. Flynn smiled, turned on his heel, and calmly walked back to Joe’s car.

  “Are you nuts?” Joe shouted before he could even get in the car. “You want to blow cover or what?”

  “My cover is quite intact. I actually spoke with our man.”

  “Ah, fuck,” Joe said, slamming is fist into the side panel of the door.

  “It’s quite all right, Detective Keating. He remembers me from the bar and thinks I came to call on Rachel. She’s not at home, he’s no idea where she might be, and promised to leave a note that I dropped by.”

  “You are so kidding,” Joe said with a laugh. “The guy cannot be that stupid.”

  “Apparently, he can and he is,” Flynn said, and slid down, watching the house.

  The professor left a short time later, empty-handed, and drove to his apartment.

  Joe and Flynn watched him stagger inside as if he carried some invisible weight on his shoulders.

  “I’ll put a couple of uniforms on him tonight,” Joe said. “But I need to get some sleep.” He looked at Flynn. “And you need to get in that house.”

  “Right,” Flynn agreed, but did not offer that given the events of yesterday, that might be easier said than done.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Flynn arrived at the corporate flat around ten that evening. There were four messages on his phone, left since yesterday morning when he’d gotten the call from Joe that the homicide case had broke.

  The first was from Iris. “Flynn, darling, do ring me, please. I’ve got some important news.” Good try, Iris, old girl. She was wising up, devising new techniques to harass him.

  The second message was from his mother. “Oh Flynn, darling, I was so hoping you’d be in,” she said. “Your father wants to speak with you. Please ring us, will you, so that your father might have a word. Hugs, darling!”

  Dear God, now Mum had roped Dad into the whole sordid affair. He felt sorry for the old man, could imagine him fighting tooth and nail to be left out of the gruesome details of Flynn’s love life, but nevertheless being dragged in bit by bit with Mum’s shrill harping, at last giving in for just a moment’s peace, a whimpering shell of the former man he was.

  The third message was, as he had guessed, from Rachel, and he winced with each breath she took in her rather long message to him. Christ, he’d really made a mess of it, hadn’t he?

  And the last message, the big surprise, was from his brother Ian. “Hello, mate, calling from Paris. Mum’s been a pain in the arse and hounding me a bit, so I thought I’d at least ring you up and see what’s gone on between you and the dragon lady,” he said, referring to Iris—Ian had never been shy about his dislike of her. “Give me a ring when you’ve a moment. Cheers,” he said, and clicked off.

  Flynn picked up the phone and dialed Rachel’s number, and got the answering machine. “Ah . . . Flynn here. Rachel, I’m terribly sorry about yesterday. Something rather important came up, and I was called away. Please do ring me,” he said, and hung up, unable to think of how to convey how sorry he was to a blasted answering machine.

  And then Flynn lay on the cheap plastic leather couch waiting for the phone to ring, not unlike he had done in his eighth school year when he had waited for Mary Elizabeth to ring up. Just like that night a thousand years ago, he had stared at the ceiling. Except then, he’d stared at a poster of Duran Duran, not a water stain as he was staring at now.

  And he was discovering that the wait was just as excruciating at thirty-four years old as it was at thirteen.

  Twice, Flynn sat up and reached for the phone, determined to ring again. And twice he lay down again, debating. It was too late, well past midnight, and moreover, he didn’t want to come across as some sort of adolescent stalker. It hadn’t worked particularly well for him the first time. He did, however, call again Saturday morning, when he awoke stiff and freezing on that bloody couch. Bugger, he got her answering machine again, and he was not inclined to leave another groveling message.

  He was not inclined to do much of anything but mope around and feel rather sorry for himself, which he did until early afternoon.

  Rachel arrived home Saturday afternoon after her temporary stint in a very small glassed-in booth of a gas station which was really suitable for only one person, not two, but nevertheless, she had stood behind Mabel Forrester and run credit cards through the machine.

  “Don’t know why they sent you down here,” Mabel said more than once. “I don’t usually got no one here with me.”

  “Maybe because of the holiday traffic,” Rachel offered.

  Mabel gave a harrumph at that. “It ain’t as if I can’t turn around and run them cards myself,” she muttered.

  The woman had a point. Seated in the only chair in the
booth, Mabel could swivel around and do just about anything, including stare at Rachel during the few lulls that they had.

  It had been a long, exhausting day, both physically and emotionally. As she explained to Mabel (when they had bonded a little later in the day), her date with Mike last evening had been a good one. They’d had a couple of drinks and listened to a rock band that was too loud for her tastes. And then he had returned her to her car and kissed her like any guy would do, and it had been perfectly nice. Just . . . nice. No sizzle, no spark, no desire to hop in the sack with him.

  “So? Don’t see him again,” Mabel had said.

  “I know . . . but the thing is, Mike is the more practical choice,” Rachel had argued earnestly. “I mean, he’s a nice guy, he likes me, he’s local. But Flynn . . .” She moaned, looked out the murky glass windows at the cars lined up at the pump. “Flynn is like . . . a dream guy. Someone you would never imagine meeting in a million years, you know?”

  Mabel snorted. “Girl, why would you want to be living practical when you can be living the dream?” she’d asked, and snorted again. “I’d live the dream my damn self,” she muttered, and swiveled around again to accept money from two guys with dreadlocks.

  Live the dream my damn self. How lyrical that had sounded.

  It only depressed her more, because (and she had failed to mention this to Mabel), Flynn wasn’t living his dream. He’d obviously been appalled by her declaration of love. And now there was a nice, normal guy who liked her, and all she could think of was Flynn.

  It was enough to make even the most practical of people insane, and by the time Rachel arrived home, she wanted nothing more than to devour a giant pan of warm brownies and take a hot soaking bath.

  Unfortunately, Myron was there. She groaned as she got out of her car, as he was definitely the last person she wanted to see today. But as she entered her house through the kitchen door—the quickest route to avoid any encounter with Mr. Valicielo—she gasped, dropped her bag.

  Her house was a wreck. Drawers were pulled out, crap was stacked on the breakfast bar, and the refrigerator door was standing wide open.

  She dropped her bag, marched into the dining room where she found more of the same—stuff stacked everywhere, drawers and cabinets open and the contents jumbled. And as she stood there, her mouth agape, trying to make sense of it all, Myron came trudging up the stairs from the basement. “Oh. Hey,” he said when he saw her.

  “Hey? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “What?”

  “God, Myron!” she exclaimed angrily. “Look at my house! Look what you’ve done to my house!”

  Myron looked around. “Oh, man. I didn’t realize,” he said stupidly, and she realized he was stoned again.

  “This is unreal!” she cried, and whirled around, went into the kitchen, slammed the fridge door shut. “I asked you to please call before dropping by. Do you think I exist to feed you and clean up after you? What sort of friend are you?”

  Myron followed her. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was making a mess!” he shouted at her. “But you have something of mine and I can’t find it!”

  “I have something of yours? And that’s a reason to trash my house?”

  “It’s a painting of a colonial woman. Small, like an eight by ten. What did you do with it?” he demanded.

  Now she was pissed. Huge, steam-out-of-the-ears pissed. “Don’t shout at me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know where your stupid painting is, I don’t care about your stupid painting. I’ve let you store them here because I thought we were friends, but you have taken advantage of my friendship long enough. I want my key back, right now.”

  “Listen, Rachel, you have to remember,” he said, sounding a little desperate now. “I have to find it!”

  There was a look in his eyes she didn’t like, and she turned away, slammed a knickknack drawer shut. “I don’t know where it is. You have to remember.”

  “Fuck,” Myron muttered, and stared at the floor for a minute. “FUCK!”

  “All right, it’s time for you to go,” Rachel said, and pointed toward the door.

  “I have to find that goddamn painting!” he roared. “Do you not understand? I HAVE TO FIND THAT PAINTING!”

  “You’re stoned,” she said disgustedly. “Look around you! It’s obviously not here! You’ve turned my house upside down and it’s not here! I want you to go, Myron. I want you to give me the key and leave my house and not come back. You’re stoned and you’re rude, and you’re—”

  “Shut up, Rachel,” he said nastily, and tossed her key onto the breakfast bar and stalked to the door. “Just shut the fuck up,” he said again, and kicked the door open and went out.

  Her instincts told her to lock the door, and she raced behind him, slamming the door shut and locked it, then ran to the front to lock that one, too. The phone began to ring as she watched Myron back out of her driveway at breakneck speed, almost colliding with her car as he did.

  She grabbed the phone up without looking at the caller ID, her eyes still on Myron. “Hello,” she said, walking to the window again.

  “Rachel?”

  His voice was an injection of calm into chaos, and she closed her eyes, drew a breath. “Flynn,” she whispered.

  “I . . . I hadn’t thought I’d get you. I’ve been trying to reach you without much luck. Have the time to chat a bit?”

  “Ah . . .” She paused, looked out the window. Myron was definitely gone.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered low, and before she could explain, he said, “At least allow me to say a couple of things, will you? Beginning with how dreadfully sorry I am for yesterday. Something cropped up that I couldn’t extract myself from, and I—”

  “I know, so your message said,” she responded, forgetting Myron. “Could you not find a phone?”

  “Yes, I could find a phone . . . but for reasons I cannot fully explain as of yet, I could not call you—”

  “Flynn—”

  “Rachel, please listen to me. I had to do something yesterday that I cannot discuss with you. Not yet, at least, and I know that sounds rather cloak and daggerish, but it’s the truth. And the other truth is I wanted to come. I was not the least bit turned off by what you said, and in fact, I was rather encouraged by it. I suppose I should have said so straightaway, but the problem is, there are a few things you don’t understand that make it rather difficult—”

  “What things?” she asked. “Another woman?” she blurted, the idea tumbling out from the dark corners of her mind, where all devastating notions lurked, ready to pounce at the first sign of insecurity.

  “No, not . . . That is to say, not . . . just . . .”

  “It is another woman.”

  “God no, Rachel. No.” He sighed into the phone, and she could picture him dragging his hand through his hair like he often did. “You know what I did today?” he suddenly asked. “I had a long walk along the river where you and I have walked and talked. I worried I wouldn’t reach you. I thought perhaps you were avoiding me, which I might have well deserved, but nevertheless, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I realized that I haven’t stopped thinking of you since nearly the moment we met in the coffeehouse. Jesus, I can’t seem to think straight at all, really, but I know one thing—we really must talk. I have to ask you some things, I have to tell you some things. We can’t possibly go on like this.”

  Could they go on at all? “Yes, I think we need to talk,” she said softly.

  “Then . . . then you’ll agree? When might we meet?”

  “Tomorrow. Around five,” she said, because she couldn’t see him now, not after what Myron had done to her house, not as exhausted as she was. At the moment, she had no energy to hear whatever it was he had to tell her. Whatever it was, it could not possibly be good.

  “That’s the earliest, is it?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Can you come here?”

  “Yes,” he s
aid. “I’ll come round tomorrow, then. And thank you, Rachel, for giving me a chance to explain.”

  Right. Explain some things that were going to devastate her. “Okay. See you tomorrow,” she said, and clicked off.

  That night, Rachel dreamed that she was trying to find Flynn in the mess of her house, uncertain if he was real or just a painting. But in each pile she looked, it seemed to get bigger and bigger.

  The next morning, Rachel went to the gym. Lori cracked her gum as she gave her the once-over, and said, “You’re looking good, girl! How much you lost?”

  “Three pounds,” Rachel said as she signed in.

  “No way! More like fifteen or twenty, right?”

  “Three,” Rachel said, holding up her hand and wiggling three fingers at Lori, then walked on, into the gym, where she rode until her legs were rubber and she couldn’t feel her arms.

  She did, however, feel remarkably calmer and much more placid about things. Whatever Flynn had to say, she was ready to hear. It wasn’t the first time she’d been dumped, that was for sure, but it was certainly the first time she’d been dumped with kid gloves. She fully expected something along a range of “Could we be friends” to “I have a wretched disease” to “I really never expected it to go so far, and I have this thing at home.” Thing being, of course, a woman.

  She had managed to put her house together by midafternoon by pushing stuff under furniture and forcing it into drawers, and even avoided two calls from Mike (“Hey, Rachel, you doing anything tonight?”), even though it made her feel extremely guilty. She even tried to find Dagne to tell her to come get her witchcraft stuff, because she was not doing that anymore, but with no luck. No doubt Dagne and Glenn had patched things up. That was always the way it went. Dagne got the guy, Rachel didn’t.

  So Rachel put the witchcraft paraphernalia away without ceremony . . . except to stand and stare at the cabinet for a moment and marvel at her silly diversion into it.

  Well, no more. She would be meeting life head on from here on out, and she went upstairs to check her astrological chart to make sure that was a good approach.