“I haven’t tossed a bloody thing—that was you, love,” he said, and hung up, tossed the phone aside, dragged his hands through his hair.
That was the first time she’d said she loved him since he had discovered her infidelity. He wondered if even Iris realized it. It mattered little now, for he really felt as if he was completely and irrevocably through with Iris Willow-Throckmorton.
He sighed, stood to go shower, and walked past the little table where he kept his laptop and files.
Something caught his eye as he walked past, though, and he paused, leaned down to look at the table.
It was glitter. Rachel had left a bit of her sparkle behind.
With a smile, Flynn headed for the shower.
Chapter Twenty-One
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: [FWD: Re: What’s going on?]
From: <[email protected]>
To: <[email protected]>
CC: <[email protected]>
[email protected] wrote:
So where have you been, you little witch? Ha haaa. I’m figuring no news is no news. I’m guessing the guy you “conjured” up might not have worked out. Well, don’t worry about it, kid. Your time will come, and like you said, you really don’t have time for dating right now with all that’s on your plate. And besides, half the time it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, believe me—remember Evan?
PS. Don’t forget the book.
P.S.S. You don’t have to explain white magic, duh, it’s all stupid.
What’s that supposed to mean, don’t worry about it? I’m not worried. Why should I be worried? Do you think I have something to be worried about? Like what? Like always a bridesmaid, never a bride worried? Is that what you mean? Like if a woman isn’t married or significantly involved in her 30s then there must be something wrong with her? There is nothing wrong with me, Robin. I just said it wasn’t that spectacular, like don’t write home to Mom and Dad, I’m not going to reach the exalted status of married Lear girl anytime soon. But I’m still going to SEE him. Actually, I’m seeing him and another guy. So let’s see . . . that’s one guy—white magic; one guy—just my good looks and charm. I won’t forget the stinkin’ book!
Subject Imodium AD contest
From: Lillian Stanton <lilandel@aolcom>
To: Rachel Ellen Lear<[email protected]>
Hi honey. Thanks for the name of the stuff you gave Grandpa at Blue Cross. He still ain’t 100% but he’s better you know how he is has to discuss each detail till he’s just blue in the face or you are. But a funny thing happened. Imodium AD had a little thing on the back of the box that said they’d pay five hundred dollars for a funny Imodium story well El just got up and typed them an e-mail about one day when he was playing golf and had an attack. Let’s just say he wasn’t in the pond looking for lost balls. But I’d put a thimble full of Imodium in his golf bag and sure enough it cleared his problem right up. I’ll let you know if Grandpa wins the contest. He says if he does he’s going to share it with every one of you girls. What’s the weather in Providence it is still too warm here and the holidays right around the corner. Well gotta go fix his supper because if he don’t eat at five I’m gonna hear about it. By the way I found this diet in Good Housekeeping. I hope you like grapefruit as much as I do because you really need to eat a lot of it according to the article but I’m sending it to you see for yourself. Luv U. Grandma
When Rachel hit the gym Monday morning, Lori, the desk jockey, said, “Wow! You’ve been coming almost a whole month now!” And judging by Lori’s half-sneer, she was losing the office pool on that one.
Rachel did twenty miles on the bike and even a few weights before heading off for Turbo Temps with a pay slip and the caterer’s black skirt in hand. An hour later, she left Turbo Temps without the skirt and ten dollars lighter, but with a paycheck and a three-day job. Yessir, as of 7:30 in the morning, she was entering the heady world of fishing industry’s processing and production phases.
Her next stop was the Brown University library so that she could continue her search for a dissertation topic. By the time she arrived home, her head was hurting and her sight was blurred from reading such tiny print all afternoon, but she believed she was very close to settling on a topic.
Fortunately, her sight wasn’t so blurred that she couldn’t see the red light blinking on her answering machine. She put down her bag and checked the display. There were three messages; she punched the playback button.
“Hey. Call me,” Dagne said into the phone. In the background, Rachel could hear the familiar sound of a computer keyboard being tapped at warp speed and figured Dagne was buying off eBay again.
Rachel took off her coat and kicked off her shoes as the answering machine moved to the second message. “Ah . . . Rachel, this is Flynn. You know—the bloke who saved you from incarceration.”