The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  “I just wondered if everything was all right. I mean, when you didn’t come back—”

  “I wasn’t gone that long.”

  “Well, your beer is getting warm,” Myron said. “Are you going to drink it?”

  “I didn’t realize,” Flynn said politely, and stepped away from her, leaving a cold draft on her back. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening—it would seem I owe you another apology.” He made a move to step around Myron.

  “No, really, you don’t owe me an apology,” Rachel said as she realized he was leaving. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I’m not really—”

  “Oh, sorry,” Myron said as he moved out of Flynn’s way and bumped up against Rachel.

  Flynn smiled, let his gaze flick over her once more before lifting his hand. “Have a good evening.” He turned and walked on, leaving her there with a moron.

  As he disappeared into the crowd, Rachel sighed with great exasperation and shoved Myron away from her.

  “What?” he demanded. “I thought that dude was bothering you!”

  “He wasn’t bothering me!”

  “You mean you liked him?” the dolt asked, looking over his shoulder at Flynn’s retreating back.

  “Oh just . . . shut up, Myron!” Rachel said hotly, and walked into the ladies’ room, furious with herself for not having more guts.

  Flynn walked to the other side of the bar, nodded slyly at Joe, then proceeded to the parking lot, Joe following behind. He got in the passenger side of the car; Joe got in behind the wheel and started up his blue 1977 Camaro, revving the motor a couple of times as he liked to do.

  “So?” Joe asked as he coasted through the parking lot toward the street.

  “Apparently she’s already hooked up,” Flynn said.

  “You mean you got nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing,” Flynn said. “I got a look.”

  “A look? What look?”

  “A look,” Flynn repeated, motioning vaguely with his hand. “You know . . . a bloody look.”

  “Dude . . .” Joe sighed, shook his head. “You’re going about this all wrong. You have to come on to her. Let her think you want in her pants. Rub up against her, like, let her know what you’re working with. Women like that.”

  “Do they, indeed,” Flynn drawled.

  Joe shrugged as he turned the Camaro onto the street. “Works for me,” he said, and hit the gas.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel’s night went from bad to worse, but all things being equal, the incident involving the police later went pretty well, considering Dagne was involved.

  After Myron had chased Flynn away, Rachel called Glinda the Good Witch from Fratangelo’s and convinced her to show up at her house a little later with some Chinese food and her spell book.

  “For real?” Dagne asked, all excited.

  “For real. I think. No, no, not for real, just . . . I don’t know—”

  “I’ll meet you in an hour,” Dagne said, and hung up before Rachel could talk herself out of it.

  She finished her beer, left a sulky Myron, and went home, where she changed into black yoga pants and a fleece hoodie. When Dagne arrived a short time later, they laid out the Chinese food in the living room, lit a bunch of candles and a fire to keep the energy costs down, and sat on big floor pillows to dine on sweet and sour pork. It’s hard to do witchcraft on an empty stomach. By this point, of course, Rachel had lost all confidence and had convinced herself that Flynn had been put off by Myron at the very least.

  As she told Dagne about it, Dagne’s chopsticks froze midway to her mouth, a piece of pork dangling precariously over the coffee table, and she remained that way, wide-eyed, until Rachel finished the story.

  “Is that all?” Dagne asked.

  Rachel nodded.

  Dagne suddenly shot her arms straight up in the air, miraculously holding on to the pork, and gave a shout of triumph before popping the bite into her mouth. “This is fantastic!”

  “I wish,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “But I think it’s over,” she said, staring into her container. “He thinks Myron and I are together.”

  “Are you nuts? Remember our spells? Don’t you believe in anything?”

  “I know this will come as a shock, Dagne, but I sort of have a hard time believing in witchcraft—even the good kind.”

  “Oh, sure,” Dagne said, putting down her chopsticks with a thwack. “You can believe in astrology and parallel universes and past lives, but noooo, can’t believe in a little magic, can you?” She folded her arms, pouting. “Spirituality is so far out of the realm of possibility for you, isn’t it!”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe in the possibility of this kind of . . . spirituality,” Rachel patiently tried to explain, “but I think it’s more likely that he got a good look at Ben and Jerry back here,” she said, patting her butt, “and Myron, and then wondered what drugs he was on.”

  “Rachel, really,” Dagne said angrily, “why do you always have to put yourself down?”

  “Hey! When it comes to guys, I know of what I speak.”

  “Bullshit,” Dagne said low.

  “Okay, let’s start with high school,” Rachel said, jabbing at Dagne in the air with her chopsticks. “Did I ever tell you that guys used to call me Miss Fortune? Get it? Lots of money, but what a misfortune that I was a chunky one. And then, when I was a senior, this gorgeous guy asked me out. I mean, he was hot and the most popular guy in school, and he was asking me, tubby drama student with frizzy hair, out on a date. And the first date was great—we went to a carnival. He won me a big teddy bear, and then took me home, does not kiss me good night, but casually asks if my sister Rebecca was home for the summer. You remember Bec? The beauty queen? Tall and thin and gorgeous and sleek hair? Then our second date, he comes over to pick me up, and didn’t even get past the gate before he was asking if Rebecca was there. Well, long story short, the guy was only interested in Rebecca, and he was using me to get to her. And that, Dagne, was just the beginning of a long line of complete disasters.”

  Even though it had been fifteen years, it still stung like hell.

  “What has that got to do with Flynn?” Dagne demanded.

  “Everything,” Rachel said. “The point is, guys like him are usually after something else, like, say, my sister. And even if you argue that’s not the deal with Flynn, then I will argue that the situation is actually even worse, because now he thinks Myron is my boyfriend.”

  “He used to be,” Dagne pointed out.

  “Not helpful, Dagne! Are you ever going to let me forget that serious lapse in judgment?”

  “No,” Dagne said immediately. “So anyway, what if Flynn thinks Myron the leech is your boyfriend? You’ll set the record straight. And listen, everyone had a bad experience or two in high school. Are you going to let that guide the rest of your life? Jesus, George Steinbrenner talked me into taking off my shirt in front of the entire football team, and I did it, but do you think I sit around moping about it now?”

  The moment the words were out of Dagne’s mouth, she made a tiny gasp of surprise, and she and Rachel sat there, staring at each other, until an unspoken agreement passed that they would leave that admission for another time.

  “Not that George Steinbrenner,” Dagne hastily clarified, and picked up her chopsticks. “All I’m saying is that you need to have a little faith. Lookit, I did a spell on Glenn and he called. I did a couple of spells on you and you got a job and you’ve got a cool guy interested in you, so—”

  “Glenn called you?” Rachel interrupted, dumbfounded. “I thought you didn’t like Glenn.”

  Dagne shrugged. “I was practicing. So come on, just try believing for a week and I promise, Flynn will find you again, and he will be interested in you, and he will not be afraid of your enormous butt or of Myron.”

  Rachel laughed. “Okay,” she said, “I am willing to concede something witchcrafty may be going on here. But need I remind you that not all your spells are wo
rking? The weight-loss spell doesn’t work for shit, thank you, and I don’t have a real job yet.”

  “I never said a real job,” Dagne said cheerfully.

  “So . . . if I believe . . . do you think? I mean, is it possible . . .” Rachel stopped there, couldn’t believe such ludicrous thoughts were about to turn into words and come out of her mouth.

  “What?”

  “Is it possible to do a spell that would make me . . . you know, less . . . tongue-tied or something?” Rachel blurted, gesturing impatiently at her mouth, and then slapped her hand against her forehead as her own words filtered into her consciousness. “I am so pathetic. Listen to me, asking you to cast some spell that will make me less of a geek!”

  “You’re not a geek, Rach.”

  “Yes I am,” she moaned, burying her face in her arms folded on the coffee table. “I’m not used to guys, especially drop-dead gorgeous guys, and I don’t know what to say, and all I want is for once, just once, to be, I don’t know . . . sexy.”

  “You are sexy,” Dagne insisted, and bonked Rachel on the top of her head with her chopsticks. “Anyway, this guy is already under your spell, and it’s only a matter of when he’ll find you again, and he will be crazy about you. You, Rachel.”

  “That’s so nice,” Rachel said with a smile. “But I am hardly convinced. Come on, please?”

  Dagne sighed, pulled the heavy spell book from her canvas bag. “You’re such work, you know that? Living in some high school drama and worried about a perfectly fine ass. You think you have to look like your sisters to be desirable, and that’s so maddeningly dumb for someone so smart that it just makes me want to scream. Open your eyes! In fact, look at your eyes. You have those gorgeous blue-green eyes, and all that black heroine hair, and you are very shapely. Do you know how many women would kill for that shape? I wish I had your curves—but okay,” she said, holding up a hand as Rachel opened her mouth to argue, “if you want a spell to make you desirable, we’ll do one.”

  “Finally!” Rachel said cheerfully, and got up, removed all the Chinese food containers as Dagne searched the spell book.

  “Aha!” Dagne said at last, and began jabbing her finger at one musty, pink page. “Got it. The spell should encompass his senses. So, for example, scent. Every time he smells a certain scent, he’ll want you.” She looked up, her eyes shining. “We have to be outside this time. This one is all about the moon. Do you have gardenia oil?”

  Rachel laughed. “No. Does anyone have gardenia oil?”

  “Rose oil?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, you have to have something that smells really good, something natural.”

  Rachel thought a moment, suggested slowly, “I have Mexican vanilla.”

  Dagne thought about it. “Okay, let’s use that,” she said, and sprang to her feet, headed for the kitchen.

  Rachel was right behind her.

  They managed to find substitutes for everything Dagne said they needed—and Dagne assured her, with what Rachel thought was false bravado, that it was quite all right to substitute in spell work. Skeptical, Rachel nonetheless stomped outside with Dagne, behind the garage, where the elm tree lay across Mr. Valicielo’s fence. And they even managed to complete one spell—the scent spell—before the police arrived, called by Mr. Valicielo, naturally, who was convinced someone was sneaking around wanting to steal his backyard gnomes.

  The two cops who came—cute guys—looked at Dagne like she was a freak when she explained she was casting a spell.

  The blond one told them both to stop casting spells and go inside and quit bothering the neighbors. Fortunately, Dagne did not argue, because she and Rachel were freezing to death. But, Dagne noted cheerfully, all was not lost. If everything went according to plan, Rachel would wake up sexy.

  And vanilla, apparently.

  The spell-casting made Rachel sleepy, and she slept soundly, with the curious scent of vanilla all around her, while a dream of Flynn the Knight romped round her mind.

  Only this time, he was naked.

  While Rachel was dreaming of him naked, Flynn opened the door to his corporate apartment, walked inside and dumped his trench coat, and headed straight for the fridge. He grabbed a kitchen towel, opened the freezer compartment, and filled it with several ice cubes. Then he got a beer and walked over to the cheap, fake leather couch and lay down, his head propped on one arm folded slung behind him. He took a swig of beer, then put the towel with the ice on his left eye.

  Ouch. That really stung.

  He knew the moment he laid eyes on that dodgy waterfront pub there would be trouble; he could tell by the way all the blokes had sneered at him and Joe when they’d entered the establishment. Nevertheless, he never dreamed that the situation would actually result in fisticuffs.

  Flynn couldn’t help himself—he smiled broadly. And immediately winced at the pain it caused his bruised eye.

  He’d really sent that sad bastard sailing across the table, hadn’t he? That was a bloody good cut he’d gotten off, and furthermore, he was quite pleased to note that not one of those sodding nancy boys had gotten as much as a lick on him. In fact it was the bartender who, in an effort to break up the fight, had knocked Flynn across the face with the bar stool.

  All in all, he’d had a rather jolly good time of it.

  He was still grinning at the ceiling when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock—three in the morning, which, unfortunately, could only mean one thing.

  With a sigh, he pushed himself up and reached for the phone. “Hello.”

  “Flynn, darling, is that you?”

  Funny how sharp Iris’s voice could sound, even from across the pond.

  “Yes, Iris. Who exactly were you expecting?”

  “Oh, darling, don’t be naff, please! I’ve been trying to get you for ages!”

  “And now you have me,” he said, gingerly pressing the towel and ice to his eye.

  “Are you quite all right? When you didn’t ring back, I began to suspect the worst.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been frightfully busy.”

  “Have you? You really mustn’t overwork yourself.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ve been frightfully busy myself,” she said with a bit of a laugh. “Eileen Fiskmark-Jones had a lovely gathering last weekend, and I must have gone daft, because I promised to help her put it on. She held it at the Royal Fitzhugh Hotel on Regent Street. You know the one, where Charles and Camilla had their spring fling last year?”

  Flynn rolled his eyes.

  “You simply could not imagine all the trouble we had with the caterer! Firstly, they were to have served duck, but what did they come with? Cornish game hens. Can you imagine?”

  “The horror,” he muttered.

  “Quite,” Iris said, missing the sarcasm in his voice. “And then, as if that weren’t tragedy enough, the flowers didn’t arrive until a quarter to. Eileen was simply beside herself.”

  “Eileen is always beside herself, Iris. She’s barmy.”

  “I think America’s made you cheeky.”

  “Has it? I’m a bit knackered, that’s all. It is three o’clock here. In the morning,” he added pointedly.

  “Aren’t you the least interested in how the whole do turned out?” Iris asked, her voice taking on a familiar whine.

  Flynn sighed. “How did it turn out, Iris?”

  “It was smashing, of course. Honestly, when Eileen and I put our heads together, everything goes tickety-boo!”

  “Was Paul Haversham at this do?” Flynn asked calmly. “Because I know everything goes tickety-boo when you and he take off your pants, too.”

  “Dear God, that’s ugly,” Iris said. “Why must you always be so cross?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Iris. Perhaps because you are my fiancée and you cheated on me? That might make a man a bit cross.”

  She sighed again. “I’ve told you, it was a fling, nothing more! Are you intent on punishing me for the rest of our lives? I told you
I’m frightfully sorry for it, and frankly, I cannot understand why you won’t accept my apology. Really, Flynn, you were gone for weeks, off to Monaco, then to Lithuania . . . what was I to do?”

  “You were to keep your knickers on,” Flynn said coldly, and lowered the ice from his eye, ignoring her little gasp of hurt. “If there is nothing else, I’d really like to get some sleep,” he said, and quietly clicked off before she could object.

  He tossed the phone aside, lay back on the couch and closed his eyes, and felt the fatigue wash over him. His mind raced with various images—Iris’s pale and delicate face, which he had once thought was so bloody beautiful . . . and oddly, the smiling, pretty face of Rachel. There was certainly a look of honesty there in her smile and in her eyes, a look that Iris did not possess, nor could she, apparently, manufacture.

  As Flynn drifted off to sleep on that couch, the image of Rachel in his mind’s eye, that long thick braid of hair over her shoulder, those lovely blue-green eyes, he thought he smelled something a little curious. What was it?

  Vanilla?

  Interesting. It reminded him of his mother’s butter rum cake.

  Flynn was still dreaming of butter rum cake when Aaron and Bonnie departed the marriage therapist’s office. They’d canceled the last two appointments because Aaron was feeling too ill from the chemotherapy. At least that was the lie Bonnie had told the therapist.

  The truth was that Aaron had refused to do his homework. He had never bargained for homework when he signed up for marriage counseling, and it wasn’t until a tearful Bonnie started to pack a bag that he gave in, sat down, and did it.

  And as he predicted, things hadn’t gone exactly well this morning. Bonnie was hardly speaking to him now, but he wondered what the hell she expected when that fucking therapist had given them their “marital” workbooks at the last session. He’d known instantly they were headed for disaster.

  The first exercise was what Daniel called “amazingly simple.” Aaron was supposed to list three things about Bonnie that he loved, and how each “thing” made him feel, and then he was to list three things he did not love and how those things made him feel.