“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 said. “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.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Flynn arrived with a full bouquet of flowers, a bottle of pricey champagne, and a bag of gourmet brownies. He might not be able to talk his way back into her good graces, but he was not above trying to charm his way in.
The last twenty-four hours had been excruciatingly slow and surprisingly painful. For years, Flynn had considered himself a worldly man what with all the traveling and consorting with the very wealthy that he did. It wasn’t until he had been charmed by Iris that he began to realize that what he wanted most from life was a woman who loved him completely, with all his bloody faults, and a family to come home to.
That, and a career as a homicide detective, but that was another long and convoluted tale.