The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  The girl gave Flynn change, let her middle finger slide suggestively across his palm. He gave her a smile and pocketed the change. “Ah, but therein lies the rub, eh?” he remarked as he turned and motioned for Joe to proceed him. “You haven’t got the slightest bit of a motive, have you?”

  “Like I said,” Joe announced as they walked into the bright sunshine of a brilliant fall day. “Watch a pro at work. Bet I’ve got a motive before Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll bet I’ve got the killer before then,” Flynn said, and grinned. “One hundred of your American dollars says I do.”

  “You’re on, pal,” Joe said with a snort, and punched the automatic lock on his key chain. “What have you got going on the other deal?” he asked as he opened the driver’s door.

  “I’ve a weaving class this evening,” Flynn said as they got into the car.

  Joe laughed. “Dude, you have got to be the first guy in the history of the world to take a fucking weaving class just to get inside some chick’s pants!”

  “Rather effective, wouldn’t you say?” Flynn asked breezily. “At least more so than rubbing against her to show her what I’m working with,” he said in his best American accent, mimicking Joe’s earlier advice.

  “Hey, whatever floats your boat. I happen to like the direct approach. Sounds like you prefer the . . . what do you call it? The nancy-boy approach.”

  He started the car over Flynn’s objections to the use of the term nancy-boy, and he was hardly done with it. At the precinct, he told the chaps he worked with that Flynn was off to a weaving class, and before Flynn could escape, they were asking after personalized pot holders. Not to be outdone, and to their considerable and collective amusement, he’d called them a fat lot of uncultured plebeians as he had taken his leave.

  Flynn purposely arrived late to class, hoping that he’d be dismissed from it altogether for his tardiness. But as luck would have it, no one seemed to notice. So much for being expelled.

  The other students were already paired off at one of four looms; Chantal and Tiffinnae, obviously, David and Lucy (David insisting that Lucy stay on his right so that he could get a proper feel for the loom, the nesh wimp), and Jason and Rachel were working together. Rather, Rachel was stringing the loom while Jason was watching her with the expression of a young man desperately in love.

  That left Flynn to share a loom with Sandy, who, he couldn’t help noticing, was on crutches this week.

  “Twisted my ankle,” she said cheerfully as Flynn pulled up a chair.

  “Put a bit of ice on it?” he asked absently as Rachel turned and smiled at him, her eyes lighting up.

  “Oh, I did everything, trust me,” Sandy quickly assured him. “I probably should have stayed off of it, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I tore some ligaments, and if that’s the case, then I might as well get used to getting around on these things!” she said brightly, and pulled a giant plastic bottle of Gatorade from her bag. “You ever jack up your ankle, Finn?” she asked as she began to stack a variety of pharmaceutical bottles on the small table next to her.

  “Flynn. I broke my leg playing football,” he said.

  “Whew!” Sandy laughed, waving her hand at him. “Don’t even get me started on broken limbs!”

  Flynn rather thought he’d take her advice on that score. “So what have we here?” he asked, looking at the giant loom. As Sandy began to explain, he felt Rachel come up behind him. He knew, because he caught the faint scent of vanilla, and because he felt her energy. That rattled him a bit—Flynn was not the sort of man to “feel” energy—but when he turned around, Rachel was smiling down at him, and the radiance of that smile filled the room.

  It was little wonder Jason was such a besotted bloke. She wore a white turtleneck sweater and a gray knit skirt that hugged her curvaceous frame, and a pair of dangling crystal earrings. She wore her dark curly hair in a rather remarkable and complex knot at her nape.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Miss Lear!” Chantal suddenly shouted across the room. “Tiffinnae done jammed this thing!”

  Rachel’s smile did not hide the glimmer of exasperation in her eyes, and with a sigh, she said, “I’ll check back with you guys later.” She went off to fix the misbehaving loom.

  “Mr. Gregory’s wife died,” Sandy announced.

  “Oh dear,” Flynn said.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Sandy said. “I sure didn’t think he was straight. And married? Uh-uh, I would never have guessed that. Well anyway, the funeral is tomorrow, and we’re all going.”

  “Are you?” he asked as he reached to touch some of the yarn already strung through the loom.

  “Don’t touch that!” Sandy said sharply, then quickly smiled. “I’ll show you how to do it,” she said, and resumed her explanation of how the loom worked.

  And just as Flynn was about to doze off, Rachel reappeared at his side and he’d never been quite so happy to see her. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Sandy was telling me all about the loom.”

  Rachel’s sympathetic smile indicated she knew his agony.

  “I told him about the funeral tomorrow, and how we’re all going,” Sandy added.

  “Oh. Well.” Rachel glanced uneasily at Flynn. “We just thought . . . not that you should think this, but . . . it’s just that poor Mr. Gregory has no family or friends. And we thought, how horrible to lose someone as precious as your spouse, then face that final good-bye alone,” she said, and for a moment, she lowered her head, touched a hand to her eyes.

  That puzzled Flynn greatly—yes, of course it was sad and all that, but to be so distraught for a man she couldn’t possibly know? He felt a little embarrassed and pushed a hand through his hair. “I, ah . . . I really am very sorry.”

  “Uh . . . Rachel?” Jason had turned around, was eyeing Flynn suspiciously. “I did what you said.”

  “Okay,” she said, and walked away to help Jason. Flynn watched her intently, fascinated by her sorrow.

  “Hello? We’re doing a project here, remember?” Sandy reminded Flynn.

  “Righto, that we are.”

  “Sorry if I seem a little mean, but I think I’m getting a migraine,” Sandy informed him, and picked up a pharmaceutical bottle. “I hope I brought the right medicine.”

  God in heaven, so did Flynn.

  When the class thankfully came to an end, the others packed up their things and left—Chantal and Tiffinnae helping Sandy, who could not possibly negotiate her very large bag and her crutches—which left Flynn and, predictably, Jason, who seemed determined to wait Flynn out.

  Flynn obliged him. He got up, walked to the door, and looked back at Rachel. “Ah, Rachel, there was something I meant to inquire.”

  “Sure,” she said, and walked to where he stood.

  Flynn smiled, glanced over her head at Jason, who was pretending to examine the loom. “I’d rather hoped to have a chance to chat, but I think Jason won’t allow it,” he whispered.

  She smiled sadly as she glanced over her shoulder. “He’s a very lonely kid. I think he sees me as some sort of big sister,” she whispered back.

  “Actually, I think it’s possible he sees you as the love of his life.” He smiled. “But I’m the lucky fellow who has the date, and frankly,” he glanced over her shoulder, to where Jason was still hunched down over the loom, waiting for him to leave, and moved closer to Rachel. “Since you left that rather provocative message on my telephone, I’ve been imagining what it is, exactly, you do with your loom.” He laughed low at her blush. “Shall I come round at eight?”

  “That would be great.”

  He opened the door, and walked out.

  “Ah, Flynn?” Rachel said, poking her head out the door as he began to walk down the corridor.

  “Yes?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Umm . . . don’t you want to know where I live?” she asked, her expression curious.

  Bloody hell—her blue eyes had k
nocked him off balance again, but he quickly recovered with a laugh. “That would indeed be helpful.” And he withdrew a small notebook from his coat pocket to take note of the direction he already knew quite well.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Rachel began her fish-packing stint and decided she had finally reached rock bottom. The fish were disgusting and the stench was enough to turn the most iron-clad of stomachs.

  That afternoon, after a long hot bath that still hadn’t quite removed the stench from her nostrils, Rachel attended Mrs. Gregory’s funeral and, thanks to Chantal and Tiffinnae, the impromptu reception of sorts that occurred thereafter. It was at the reception that one of them came up with the bright idea that they should all celebrate Thanksgiving together, and before Rachel could stop it, they’d agreed to have it at her house.

  When Rachel arrived home, with hardly enough time to prepare for her date, her answering machine was blinking with five messages.

  The first one was from Dad. “Rachel, call me when you get in, please,” he said in a voice that sounded more impatient than anything else. So she made a mental note to call him someday and went on to the next four.

  They were all from Dagne. Her first message was to report on her date with Glenn, which, she said, had been surprisingly hot. And then she had called wanting her spell book for another date with Glenn. Her third message was to inform Rachel she had come by and picked up the spell book, and her fourth message was her explanation that she had returned the spell book, along with a cream Rachel was to use in conjunction with spell number forty-two before her date tonight, because that combination had apparently worked wonders for Dagne. She ended the call with a plea to call her first thing in the morning, and oh yes, she’d left a little gift for her on the dining room table.

  Rachel found the cream on the dining room table, along with the spell book, and a lovely moonstone necklace. The accompanying note from Dagne explained she had picked it up off eBay for her and she was to wear it, as it was her stone and had been blessed, naturally, by Dagne, Goddess of Kitsch.

  Rachel was not above kitsch.

  She took the cream, moonstone, and spell book upstairs to her bedroom and master bath with the idea of having one last try at ridding herself of the fish smell, please God.

  By the time Flynn arrived, she had donned her new dress and boots, had her hair artfully arranged at the nape of her neck with delicate sliver filigree wending through it, and was wearing the moonstone necklace that went very well with her crystal earrings, a combination that, according to the spell book, would bring her harmony.

  She didn’t know if she had any harmony, but for the first time in a very long time, Rachel felt pretty.

  When she opened the door, Flynn smiled broadly and stood back to admire the full length of her. “God,” he said. “You’re bloody gorgeous!”

  That remark earned him a smile with enough wattage to light all of Providence. As he stepped across the threshold, he leaned forward as if to kiss her lightly, but then thought the better of it and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her more fully as Rachel giggled against his mouth.

  “Beg your pardon, but you do have that effect on me,” he said with a lopsided grin as she laughingly wiped the lipstick from his lips. “You look smashing, Rachel.”

  She laughed, grabbed up her coat. Flynn took it from her hands, held it open for her to slip into, and as she straightened the sleeves of her dress, he nuzzled her neck. “That perfume you are wearing . . . it smells a bit different,” he murmured against her skin

  “Fish?” she asked weakly.

  “More like . . . cake. Whatever is, it certainly has my full attention.”

  “That’s the intent,” she said, relieved that it was not fish and appreciative of just how powerful a little bit of vanilla and a scent spell could be. She belted her coat, turned around, and noticed Flynn was looking around the living area of her bungalow. “I know, I know, it’s really cluttered,” she said apologetically. “You’re probably the neat type, right?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m never in one place long enough to be one sort or the other.”

  Why that should make her feel strangely insecure, Rachel wasn’t certain, other than the fact that he had used the words never and in one place all in one sentence. But never mind that—she glanced around, winced a little as she realized what he was seeing—books and plants were everywhere, dozens of strange knickknacks, a stagnant, half-completed project on a large loom, and crystals hanging in each window to ensure positive energy flow.

  It occurred to her that it might be better if they got out of there before he could see the witchcraft stuff in the dining room that might, to the casual observer, make her seem totally wacked.

  “Ready?” she asked, opening the door. She picked up her big bag, slung it over her shoulder. Not exactly a look, but in a previous era of eschewing anything that wasn’t made from natural plant fibers, she had given away all her really cool purses.

  “I am,” Flynn said, dragging his gaze from the room to her, and caught the door, held it open for her. He waited for her to lock the door, then took her hand and escorted her to his car.

  On the drive to the restaurant, Flynn asked her about Mrs. Gregory’s funeral.

  “Not particularly remarkable as far as those things go,” she said. “No one came except some of the weaving class—Sandy, Chantal, Tiffinnae, and Jason and me.”

  “I’m sure the old chap was quite touched,” Flynn said.

  “Actually, no,” Rachel said with a snort. “He seemed more annoyed than thankful, particularly when the pastor began to speak of the afterlife, and Chantal and Tiffinnae answered every point with a hallelujah, or a praise Jesus, or a more generic, mmm-hmm.”

  “I can picture it all quite clearly,” Flynn said with a grin.

  “And then, after the service, the church ladies set up a buffet, and Chantal and Tiffinnae decided we must all stay so that Mr. Gregory wouldn’t have to eat alone. We all agreed it was pretty good,” she said, but looked at Flynn from the corner of her eye. “Everyone except Sandy, of course. Acid reflux, you know. But I had some Tums in my bag just in case, so she managed to choke down two plate-loads.”

  He laughed heartily at that, and Rachel continued to regale him with the very long list of maladies that had afflicted Sandy, until they reached the restaurant.

  The restaurant was in one of the old historic homes that had been turned into an establishment for cozy couples dining with fancy tablecloths and real candles. Rachel had been in lots of places like this, usually as the third wheel in her parents’ night out. This was the first time, however, she had been invited to such a restaurant by a man who was not related to her, and it gave her a whole new sort of thrill.

  They were seated at a small bay window, and Flynn ordered a bottle of wine (a very expensive bottle of wine, ooh-la-la), and when the steward had poured the wine and left, Flynn lifted his glass. “A toast. To an intriguingly beautiful woman with brains and compassion for cats and old men and witches.”

  Rachel beamed, touched her glass to his.

  “It was really quite nice of you to do that for Mr. Gregory,” Flynn said. “He didn’t strike me as the endearing sort.”

  “Oh, he’s not the least bit endearing.” Actually, as the afternoon had worn on, Rachel had been rather irritated with the old coot. “I didn’t intend to have a whole caravan attend her funeral . . . but when he called and left a message, there had been something in his voice . . .” There had been something in his voice—the pitch of loneliness. “And he wasn’t very glad to see me when I went to his house. He wasn’t going to let me in. He said I was just an instructor, not a friend or neighbor.”

  “Sodding bastard,” Flynn said cheerfully.

  Rachel laughed. “He finally let me in, and once he did, I think he was glad I had come.” Rachel paused again, looked at the candle flame. “I can’t imagine just how deep that ache must reach, you know? It must feel as if an organ
has been wrenched right out of you,” she said, and damn it all to hell if she didn’t feel herself tearing up for the thousandth time that day as an image of her father flashed across her mind. Talk about sodding bastards . . . and now he was really going to piss her off by dying.

  Before she could hide the sorrow, Flynn reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Yes, I would think it must,” he said softly, and squeezed her hand. “But I can’t imagine this distress is just for Mr. Gregory, is it?”

  “No . . .” she said, shaking her head with a self-conscious smile. She drew a deep breath, gained her composure as Flynn laced her fingers through his. “My dad has colon cancer, and it keeps coming back. We never know from one month to the next what the prognosis is because it seems to change all the time. And when Mr. Gregory’s wife died . . . I just can’t seem to stop thinking about how it all might end for my parents, or how devastating it would be to lose someone who has been part of your entire life, from start to finish.” She bit her lower lip to keep tears in the back of her eyes, told herself to get a grip.

  But Flynn smiled sympathetically and said, “For what it’s worth, I rather think that real love between two people is, by its very nature, quite devastating. And I rather suspect that when it’s time to face that long good night, if one hasn’t felt love’s devastation in one form or another, then perhaps one hasn’t known true love at all. That’s the payoff, I suppose.”

  The profundity of that statement and the elegance with which he had said it astounded her. Rachel swallowed back any tears. “That was beautiful,” she said sincerely. “And you’re right.”