The Girl of Sand & Fog

by Ward, Susan

  Damn, now I’m hyperemotional again.

  I let out a ragged breath, grab a sweatshirt from the floor, and pull it over my tank top. “Go back to Mrs. Barton and tell her I’m not going. Have fun without me.”

  Krystal hurries out of the room and a few minutes later I hear the hotel suite door open and close. Good. Gone. I knew Mrs. Barton wouldn’t come in and try to argue toe-to-toe with me. She’s happier when I don’t join these fun educational outings she loves to plan for our benefit—not.

  I can tell we’re just doing shit she wants to.

  OK, how do I figure out a way to stay here?

  I march down the hallway to my dad’s room, knock once loudly, and enter.

  “I’m not going on another Bataan Death March all day with Mrs. Doubtfire.”

  Alan jerks up from his pillow and checks the clock. He turns over in bed and uses his fingers to push the hair from his face. “Bataan Death March. Wrong country. That’s the Philippines. We’re in Australia. Melbourne is an interesting city. You are going today. You want to be a filmmaker—go learn something. I need quiet and sleep, so you get sightseeing today.”

  I roll my eyes.

  It’s so annoying when Alan takes my sarcastic comments, dissects them, thinks it’s funny to correct me and gets a subtle jab in himself.

  Learn something.

  Very funny.

  We both know Mrs. Barton is full of crap and doesn’t know shit about anything. Who’d want to learn anything from her?

  I cross the room and drop down heavily on the edge of his bed. “I’m too old for a nanny. You do realize that, don’t you? Or do you just get off embarrassing me?”

  My dad sits up, reaches for his cigarettes, looks at me, grimaces and then tosses them back down on the night table.

  “Mrs. Barton isn’t here for you, Kaley. The security detail is. It sucks being an Internet sensation, doesn’t it?”

  “This is ridiculous. I don’t want to go with them. I don’t need security every time I leave the suite. Mom wouldn’t make me live this way. She’d know it was lame.”

  His jaw clenches—wrong move mentioning Mom this early in the morning—and he climbs from bed.

  “Maybe, but your mom isn’t here,” he counters in a clipped voice.

  My stomach turns.

  Why won’t they just start talking to each other?

  I can’t take it anymore.

  “And whose fault is that?” I exclaim, running from the room and slamming the door closed between us before he can aptly point out that it’s my fault.

  I go into my room, dress for the pool, and shove my stuff into my tote. Not staying here. Not fighting with Alan again. I don’t need one more thing to feel badly about.

  I brush the hair from my cheeks and realize I’m crying. Crap. It’s just all the uncertainty, but I can’t stand being girlie and weak.

  Grabbing my sunglasses from the dresser, I hurry out of the suite. I’m immediately stopped in the hallway.

  Graham Carson rises from the chair he sits in outside the door. “Going somewhere?”

  I groan. “Don’t give me crap. Not today. I’m not in the mood for it.”

  Graham does a fast once-over of me then frowns. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine. I just want to get out of here. Can you take me to the pool?”

  Graham nods. “Sure. Your wish is my command, Princess.” His eyes twinkle. “At least until they stop paying me.

  He grins, full dimples, and winks—he’s so sweet—but it’s not helping. I still feel lousy.

  I shove my glasses high on my nose instead of wearing them low, California-style, and march toward the elevator. I bounce against the wall as I wait for the doors to open.

  There is an immediate stir when I step out onto the rooftop patio. I wish everyone would just leave me alone. I make my way around bodies, tables, loungers and the pool, trying to find someplace to settle not too out in the open.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Linda Rowan sitting at a table with her trendy pack of gal pals from the tour, laughing and tossing down Bloody Marys, whooping it up even though it isn’t even noon yet.

  Nope, not joining that party. Linda has been no help in fixing my dismal circumstance with Bobby. She won’t even give me the details on why he dumped me—I still don’t know, not really, since it wasn’t bullshit and he hasn’t answered a text or taken a call since I left California—and darn if Linda isn’t tight-lipped about everything for the first time ever.

  We used to be close. I know he’s her son, and that first priority garbage is in play but, crap, she could toss me something without betraying Bobby to help me make sense of what happened.

  I move quickly past her and decide on the two vacant loungers across the pool out of view from her. I plop down and start taking the junk from my bag as Graham stretches out on the chaise beside me.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks. “Do you want me to order you something?”

  I shake my head, not looking at him, and start clicking away on my laptop.

  “You need to eat, Kaley,” he chides.

  “What? Are you a nanny, too, these days? First bodyguard and therapist, now nanny. So versatile. You’ll be in high demand in no time.”

  He grins. “I’m in high demand always, sweetheart.”

  I pucker my lips to keep from smiling but, damn, my cheeks are a little warm. Flirty and sexy today. He’s in a good mood.

  I’m not interested.

  But I’m not blind.

  And it is a prop to my wounded ego that this nice, very hot guy likes to verbally tease me.

  It’s undeniable.

  Graham is an all-out chick magnet and I’m starting to worry he’s more into me than he should be. In fairness, I do send him the wrong vibe sometimes, on purpose. It just feels good to have this great guy want me since my guy broke my heart.

  Not that I’m over Bobby or want anyone else.

  But there’s that static between Graham and me.

  It feels good. Nothing makes me feel good these days. It’s not wrong since I am flying solo now and it’s not unfair unless I cross the line into something I know I don’t really want.

  Ignoring the naughty comment, I continue to click away. “If you want breakfast just order it. And don’t try that lame ploy of getting what I like thinking I’ll pick at your plate. I’m not on some pathetic hunger strike to get my dad to bounce me from the tour and you don’t have to worry I’m going to waste away. I’m really not hungry today. Dillon must have been on duty last night because if you’d been in the chair outside my door you would know that I ordered room service last night at 4 a.m. and scarfed like a pig until morning.”

  He laughs and calls over a waiter. Good, his all-seeing eyes are occupied elsewhere and not on what I’m doing.

  I quickly access my e-mail. Nothing. Rapid click into Facebook. Usual crap on my page. Nothing on Bobby’s. Fuck, it’s like he’s gone off the grid and I don’t know what to make of that.

  X-ing out, I access my cloud and open the folder with the tour pictures and videos I’ve uploaded. It’s only raw footage. I haven’t done anything with it. I’m not sure that I want to.

  I set the laptop on the table between us and pull that thick bound set of pages from my tote that Mom tucked into my suitcase before leaving California—though why she did that is anybody’s guess.

  Long and Hard—The Biography of Alan Manzone.

  Tossing it aside after I found it, I told myself nope, not reading this, read the first page and now I can’t stop. It’s freakishly addictive, surprisingly insight-filled, and without a doubt not what I expected a biography about my dad to be.

  He’s led an interesting life; there’s no denying that.

  Settling back in my chair, I resume the chapter I was reading before going to sleep. I’m halfway through it when movement beside me causes me to lift my nose from the pages.

  Shit, I forgot to log off the laptop and Graham is invading my private shit
again. My tour photos and videos are freakishly addictive for him.

  I arch a brow. “Did I say you could look at my stuff?”

  “Nope, but I never ask since this is my laptop and we had an agreement. I see all. Know all. Or I take the laptop back.”

  I grimace. Such a control freak, and it’s so humiliating that Chrissie refused to let me leave the house with my own technology, no data or international airtime for my phone, reducing me to beg and wheedle a computer from Graham.

  Even though he imposed rules, he was cool to let me borrow it when I’m pretty sure he knows he’s not supposed to, so I shouldn’t complain.

  I shift my gaze away from him. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not doing anything wrong. Jeez, why doesn’t everyone lighten up? Is it really necessary for all of you to keep making me feel bad about what I did?”

  Graham’s features soften sympathetically. “I’m not worried. And I’m not trying to make you feel badly. Has it ever occurred to you that I might just like looking at your work? You have an incredible eye.”

  I flush over the compliment. “It’s uncut, unedited. I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

  “Well, you should.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He leans over and turns the book in my hand. “What are you reading?”

  “The publisher galley of my dad’s biography.”

  His face brightens up. “Really? Your dad did a tell-all? I bet that’s one page-turner of a story. I definitely would like to cuddle up with that one when you’re through.”

  Cuddle up with that one—gag me—weird joke, not even close to funny that time, sweetheart.

  Crinkling my nose, I hide the book from his gaze, flattening it against my chest. “It’s not really like that. It’s not a tell-all. I don’t know what to call it, but it is interesting. And don’t mention to my dad that I have it. I don’t think he knows. My mom slipped it into my bag before I left the ’Sades.”

  “I won’t say a word,” he assures me. His eyes begin to twinkle. “Not if you let me have it once you’re through.”

  I smile. “You’re obnoxious. Do you know that?”

  “I’m a fan. What can I say?”

  Making a face at him, I shove the galley back into my bag.

  Breakfast arrives, he signs the bill, and then sits back and fills two cups of coffee.

  He slides one close to me.

  I rest my coffee cup against my lower lip, watching Graham clicking through my photos as he eats his breakfast, and I lapse back into silence, feeling melancholy again.

  Graham knows everything; security always knows everything. Why don’t I just ask him? It can’t be any worse knowing the truth than it is the suspicions and worry. If I’ve irreparably broken my parents’ marriage, hiding from it won’t change a thing.

  I lower my gaze, since I can’t say this looking at him. “Is my dad messing around on this tour with Jen? He comes in late every night. He hasn’t called my mom since we left. Not once. Is Alan seeing someone and planning on divorcing my mother?”

  Graham’s features instantly alter; expertly inscrutable.

  Oh fuck.

  I set down my coffee. “Don’t give me that blank look. I’m not a child and I just want to know the truth because the waiting for everything to come apart is excruciating. Especially since it’s my fault. I can’t take it anymore. I just need to know how badly I fucked this up for them. Security knows where my dad goes and what he does 24/7. You know more about him than I do. I’d really appreciate it if you’d just talk straight to me.”

  Before I finish that nifty little speech, everything inside me is bouncing around like a ping-pong ball and I can feel I’m all glassy-eyed with threatening tears.

  Graham purses his lips as if debating what he should say. “If he were, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

  I lean toward him, anxious. “Are you saying he’s not?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” he says on a semi-growl. “Kaley, I can’t talk about this. Not what your dad does, who he sees or where he goes. We all sign nondisclosure agreements. I’ve given my word, personally and legally, not to talk to anyone about what I see and hear. That means not even to you.”

  I cross my arms. “Don’t pull that with me. I’m not just anyone. I’m his daughter.”

  His cheek twitches. “The NDA applies even to you.”

  We square off with our eyes and I can see that not answering me isn’t easy for him—it restores his status with me, but doesn’t help anything.

  He breaks eye contact first, leans back in his chair, exhales loudly and runs his fingers through his hair.

  “I can see how much pain you’re in all the time, Kaley,” he says slowly. “I hate seeing you hurt and worried and thinking badly of yourself. I’m not just your bodyguard. I think of us as friends, and I would answer every question you asked me if I could.”

  Oh shoot, now I want to cry. I hug my legs, lay my cheek on my knees, and close my eyes, hoping to will the tears away. I can feel him watching me.

  “I have an idea,” Graham says and I open my eyes. “How I can answer you without answering you so I don’t breach my NDA.”

  He grabs the laptop and clicks on something, and angles the screen between us. He’s opened a video.

  “Do you know why your dad is so mesmerizing when he’s on stage?”

  I sit up, shaking my head.

  “He’s totally, nakedly exposed, emotionally and spiritually, the second he gets near a microphone. All of him openly revealed for everyone to see. Who he is, the man he rarely shows, and he is an amazing man. Never doubt that, sweetheart.”

  I study him, not sure where he’s going with this.

  He hits play and concert footage I shot two weeks ago starts.

  “He’s never done this cover before on stage. He just started closing the show with this song this leg of the tour. I know it’s from back in the day, but it gave me chills the first time I heard him sing it. So much of him out there for everyone to see in six minutes on stage. Do you know the song? The lyrics?”

  I nod. Scorpions, “Still Loving You.”

  “Have you ever truly listened to him when he sings it?”

  Frustrated, not seeing the point in this, I roll my eyes. “Of course. About gazillion times since we’ve been on the road. I shot that video. Yes, I’ve listened to him sing it.”

  Graham’s eyes sharpen. “But have you heard him?”

  My eyes flash.

  He lets out a frustrated groan and stands. “Give me your hands, Kaley. Up. Up. Up.”

  I make a face. “Up. Up. Up.”

  But I stand anyway and before I know what he’s doing I’m folded against his chest with his powerful arms surrounding me.

  I try to step back. “What are you doing? Jeez, Graham, everyone is staring at us. I don’t need the press writing more wrong stories or people inventing new gossip about me.”

  “Forget them. I’m answering you the only way I can, sweetie. Close your eyes, empty your mind, let go of everything and really hear your dad when he sings.”

  He starts moving me gently as if we’re dancing. This is so humiliating. His cheek presses against my head and, oh crap, he’s singing along.

  His lips move in my hair. “You know the words. Don’t just hear them. Sing them like I am. Feel them the way he feels them. He’s telling you so much, sweetheart, things he will never say directly, and you can’t hear him.”

  We move and we’re singing, and then he eases back, holding my face in his palms, his eyes intense as they fix on mine. “I will be there. I will be there.”

  He takes me back against him and I hide my face against his chest, hearing him sing now and again as he moves me slowly in the tight cocoon of his body.

  I hadn’t really listened to my dad.

  Graham’s right.

  It’s like being drawn into a whirlpool and feeling all things Alan Manzone. You just have to want to hear it to hear him. A splattering of t
ears trickles down my cheeks because I know why Graham did this, but beyond what this tells me about how Alan feels about Mom, what I hear most is how much my father hurts and I know—though not completely—I caused a lot of it.

  “Everything is going to be all right, Kaley,” Graham whispers, his lips moving in my hair close to my ear. “I’m still loving you. Does that sound like a man thinking about walking out on his marriage? And does that sound like a father unable to forgive his daughter? He’s not going to let go of either of you, not ever. He loves you both.”

  The tears give way like a tidal wave.

  I let them drain from me.

  He slowly caresses my back.

  “It’s all right, Kaley. Let it out. Their marriage is not your weight to carry. Put it down and walk away. That’s the best thing you can do for your family.”

  * * *

  Sydney, Australia, three days later

  I sit in the hotel room with my head on the table, using my arm as a pillow, surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and pretending to do homework.

  This is so freaking stupid. It’s like study hall. I don’t need group educational hour à la Mrs. Barton, with her sitting in the chair making sure we don’t talk or goof off. I’m freaking eighteen years old.

  Krystal copies my posture, facing me, in that time-for-a-covert-sister-conversation way. “How did you get access to the Internet?” she asks suspiciously.

  I give her the wide-eyed innocent stare.

  Her eyes grow intense. “I hacked into your cloud. You’ve been uploading things. Pictures. Videos. All kinds of stuff.”

  Oh fuck.

  “Krystal, how could you hack into my private junk? That is such a violation of the sister rules.”

  “Really? You’re asking me that? And how was pretty easy. I cracked your password in like a half second.”

  Inwardly, I groan.

  “You’re not going to tell Alan on me are you?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head.

  I smile.

  “What computer have you been using?” she asks.

  “Sometimes yours, but Graham lent me one about a week ago. It’s hidden in my suitcase.”