Last Summer: A Novel

by Kerry Lonsdale

  As Kate ticked off the list of features, Ella wandered into the kitchen. Damien followed, his hand on her lower back. She traced her fingers along the veins of the marble countertop. The kitchen was three times the size of the nook she had in her Cole Valley apartment.

  “What do you think?” Damien asked Ella when Kate took a breath.

  “Can we afford this?” Ella earned a decent income, and Damien . . . well, she’d had to pick her jaw up from the floor after he disclosed his portfolio. Still, she worried. What if something happened to him? Ella had been able to financially handle the house she and her brother, Andrew, had inherited from their great-aunt Kathy, their dad’s aunt and the woman who’d raised him, and later Ella and Andrew, when she’d passed. The mortgage had long been paid off. Once Andrew graduated from high school, they’d sold off the house and used the income for their college tuitions. Andrew even used some of his inheritance to launch his first app.

  But this condo on Russian Hill where real estate values were well above five million? It was way out of a journalist’s price range.

  Damien cupped the back of her neck and pulled her in for a solid kiss on her lips. “Easily.”

  Kate’s phone trilled. She glanced at the screen. “I have to take this call. Look around. I’ll be a few.” She excused herself and left through the front door. Damien crossed the flat and locked the bolt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Buying us some time.” He grinned and took Ella’s hand, leading them back into the kitchen. She knew exactly what he was up to.

  “We’re doing this now?” Her gaze darted back to the front door. Despite her nervousness, her blood thrummed with anticipation.

  “Only way to tell if we like it here,” he said with a wink.

  She giggled. “I’m sure there are other ways.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  He smiled, sly and sexy. His hands glided up the sides of her thighs, lifting the hem of her skirt over her hips and then lifting her, effortlessly, onto the island. Her skin tightened with goose bumps, and a chill scampered across her body when her bare ass met the cool stone.

  He kissed her, wet and openmouthed. He tasted of watermelon and orange from the salad he’d eaten at lunch. His hand kneaded her breast.

  “Oh, my god, we’re seriously doing this.”

  Damien chuckled at Ella’s husky murmur against his lips, further spiking her arousal. Wasting no time, he pushed fully into her. They both gasped.

  “Yes,” he groaned into her ear. “We’re doing this. Right here, right now.” And then he moved, quick, short jerks of his hips.

  Sex in someone else’s kitchen, with the Realtor just outside the door. A daring move. Their coupling was hot and hurried. Ella grasped his shoulders and held on.

  “This is incredible. You’re incredible. Perfect,” he panted.

  They were perfect together. They needed each other, always needed, especially in this way.

  Damien bit her ear. “I love this about you, Ella Skye. You’ll let me fuck you anywhere.”

  She grinned saucily. “No, you’ll let me fuck you anywhere.”

  He laughed.

  Afterward, spent and winded, he assisted her down and straightened her skirt. He kissed her, lingering and sweet, and brushed aside the hair that had fallen over her face. A tender gesture. “I want this place to be ours,” he whispered. “At the end of the day, at the end of a hellish workweek, after we’ve spent weeks apart traveling, and after we argue. Hell, after everything. I want us to always come back here and find each other.”

  His words meant everything to her. They also meant more than he was letting on. She searched his face. He was hiding something from her or was afraid to tell her. Worried how she’d respond. She’d sensed this about him from the day they met. That was okay. She wouldn’t push him to talk. She trusted he would when he was ready.

  They heard Kate rattle the doorknob, then slide the key into the bolt. They shared a secret smile. The scent of them was overpowering. Kate would know what they’d just done. But Ella didn’t blush, and she didn’t try to hide behind Damien. She wasn’t embarrassed. She was in love. And they were going to buy this condo anyway, so what would Kate care?

  It had four bedrooms. One for them, one for her office, and maybe, hopefully, two for kids. A boy who looked like Damien and a girl they could name after Grace, a childhood friend she’d lost too early. She visualized their children running down the long hallway, giggling, Damien chasing after them with threats of tickles and raspberry kisses, a big goofy grin on his face. But the visual vanished in an instant. Damien had been clear. He doesn’t want kids.

  If giving up the thought of having children meant she could be with Damien, she’d do it. She’d already lost so many loved ones. She didn’t want to lose one more. Damien was her life. And aside from Andrew, her only family.

  The rattling of keys whisks Ella back to the present. Damien holds open the door and she hesitates.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I was remembering the first time we saw our house. It’s . . . weird. I can recall explicit details from that day—what we did, what I was feeling. What I was thinking—but I can’t remember what happened two days ago.”

  “Dinner the night of the accident is the last thing you remember?” he asks suspiciously. “You swear you don’t remember anything else from that night?”

  “I swear.”

  He briefly closes his eyes and nods.

  She touches his cheek. The scratch of stubble tickles her palm. His clothes are clean today, but he still hasn’t shaved. Her eyes seek his. They dodge hers.

  “Damien,” she whispers, urging him to look at her. His gaze settles on her mouth. That’s as high as it’s gone since she woke late morning yesterday. He either looks at her mouth or someplace beyond her shoulders. Maybe he’s still in shock from her miscarriage. They must find their way back to each other. She won’t let this tragedy tear them apart.

  “I want to remember,” she says in earnest, then unexpectedly yawns. “Excuse me. The painkillers are kicking in.”

  “Let’s get you inside so you can rest,” Damien coaxes. He shuts and bolts the door and tosses his key ring. Various keys to their condo, their flat in London, and his offices; two thumb drives; and the fob to his BMW sedan clatter on the table.

  Ella shivers. “Why’s it so cold in here?”

  “I turned off the heat. I wasn’t home much.”

  “You stayed at the hospital with me the whole time?” The thought of Damien sleeping in the vinyl chair in the corner of her hospital room brought tears to her eyes. No wonder his clothes looked slept in yesterday.

  “For the most part. I was at the office last night.”

  “All night?”

  He nods. “I had to catch up on some work.”

  Understandable. She reaches for his hand. “Thank you for staying with me. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

  He nods, then takes her overnight bag to their bedroom.

  Ella adjusts the temperature on the thermostat to a tolerable seventy-two. The furnace rumbles and vents expand, pushing artificially warmed air through the condo.

  Putting on the wrap sweater that was hanging on the coatrack, she hugs her chest and crosses the condo’s open expanse to the wall of windows overlooking the bay and city below. She draws open the curtains, exposing November’s leaden sky. Low clouds hang over the bay, its waters rough and white-capped. Rain streaks the windows, muddling her view. Looking through the glass is like looking into the mirror. The outside world reflects her current mood. Gloomy and disoriented.

  Her incision itches and her hand involuntarily rests over the area. She still finds it hard to believe that she’d carried a baby for over five months. Lynn, her OB, referred to Ella’s loss as a miscarriage when she removed her staples before she was discharged. “Women miscarry for any number of reasons,” she had said. “They happen more often than you’d realize. Think of it as a minor
setback in your plans to start a family.” There’d been no complications with the pregnancy. She’s confident Ella will carry to term next time.

  Lynn was only trying to help Ella feel better, to ease her confusion. But Ella knew the truth. She’d asked Damien to look it up on his phone since hers had been damaged in the accident. Ella had carried for twenty-one weeks. It’s considered a miscarriage up to twenty weeks. Simon was stillborn.

  And that made the tragedy of losing him, then forgetting, that much worse.

  “Simon,” she whispered.

  Damien had suggested to say his name out loud. Maybe thinking of their son as often as possible will help her remember him.

  But why bother? She’d only feel the emptiness and worthlessness she’d read women experience. Ella had found the pamphlet discarded on the bedside table at the hospital: What to Expect in the Emotional Aftermath of a Miscarriage.

  Even the hospital staff couldn’t get it right.

  Try again, Lynn had encouraged.

  Ever since she and her best friend Grace played “house” as kids, Ella’s wanted a baby. A part of her thought she could eventually change Damien’s mind. At some point, she must have. Damien seems like he was ready to welcome Simon and is devastated they’ve lost him.

  Maybe they can try again.

  But first things first. She needs to warm up.

  Ella goes to the kitchen and finds her favorite mug, a teacup-shaped ceramic with a hand-painted floral design she’d picked up at Anthropologie. She searches for the stainless steel coffee filter, yanking open cabinet doors. A sharp pain radiates up her forearm and she cries out.

  Damien comes up beside her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t find the filter,” she says, close to tears. She holds her injured wrist close to her chest.

  He opens the dishwasher and pulls out the filter.

  The one place she didn’t look. She gestures for it.

  “I got it.” He sets the filter atop her mug.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against his deltoid. He tenses under her weight. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Fine.” He drops a scoop of ground coffee into the filter and fills the kettle with water, setting it on the stovetop to boil. He watches it.

  “You know what they say about a watched pot,” she teases.

  “Humph.” A short laugh, but he doesn’t take his attention off the pot.

  “Did I do something to upset you?”

  He glances at her. “No, why?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know, except we’ve hardly spoken since I woke up yesterday. You can barely look at me.”

  “Sorry. I’m just tired.” He pats her shoulder in reassurance.

  Ella does not feel reassured.

  He can’t look at her and he’s hardly touched her. But she needs to touch him.

  She runs a hand down his spine, smoothing the creases in his shirt, relishing the solid plane of his back. She lingers over his tapered waist. It feels like months since they’ve been intimate. Maybe it has been, for all she knows. All she wants is for him to look at her. To see her and how scared she is.

  Once again, his muscles go rigid at her touch. Ella sighs, letting her arm fall. She moves to the other side of the kitchen and watches him wait for the water to boil. She should ask him about the accident. How did it happen? Where? Were other people involved?

  Oh, god.

  What if she was at fault and injured or, worse, killed someone?

  No, the police would have been waiting for her, right?

  But she had killed someone. Their son.

  Her chest clenches and a heavy sadness falls over her.

  “Damien,” she says in a thin whisper as hot tears flood her eyes. She waits for him to look her way, and when he does, her face crumples. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  He frowns. “For what?”

  “I killed our baby.” Tears fall.

  Damien’s expression softens. “No. No, no, no.” He crosses the kitchen and gathers her in his arms. “It was an accident.” He cups the back of her neck and presses his lips to her forehead. “A horrible accident.”

  “I wish I remembered.” She coils her arms around his waist and tucks her head under his chin and whispers, “I’m scared.”

  “Me too. But we’ll get through this. I promise.”

  Damien leans his cheek on the top of her head and draws his arms around her, careful not to hold her too close because of her fresh scar. For a long moment they stand there like that, arms wrapped around each other, gently swaying. She listens to the rain pelt the window. His heart thumps under her ear, and slowly, her limbs grow heavy and the steady rocking lulls Ella toward sleep.

  The kettle whistles and Ella startles.

  Damien kisses her head, then turns to the stove. He slowly pours the water over the ground coffee in a swirl motion. The grounds bloom like a balloon and the water steadily drips into the mug.

  Ella yawns and bundles her sweater tighter. “How’d the accident happen?”

  He adds cream to her coffee and gives her the mug. “Some guy in a truck T-boned you at Jones and Filbert. Pushed your Range Rover head-on into a telephone post.”

  She gasps. She knows that intersection. Drives it almost every day. “Was he heading toward the bay?”

  He nods. “He claims his brakes failed. The police are investigating.”

  That section of Jones Street has one of the steepest grades in the city. With the downhill momentum, he would have slammed into her hard. She mentions this to Damien.

  “Witnesses report him running multiple stop signs.” Damien tucks an errant cluster of hair behind Ella’s ear and cradles her jaw. He looks at her, finally meeting her eyes for the first time. “It wasn’t your fault, El.”

  She nods but finds it hard to believe him. Not because she doesn’t trust he’s telling her the truth. More because she feels guilty. She’s the one who got into the car and drove through the intersection. Why hadn’t she seen that truck coming?

  “The police will want a statement from me.”

  “They already took it.”

  “I guess that’s a good thing, since I forgot what happened.” She isn’t trying to be funny, but the corner of Damien’s mouth lifts. She answers with a weak smile.

  Damien retreats, putting space between them. He blinks a few times, then looks toward the window. He presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

  “What is it?” Ella asks.

  “I was just thinking about when the hospital called that night. I got there as fast as I could, but you were already in surgery. Placental abruption, that’s what the doctor told me. You were bleeding and they couldn’t detect Simon’s heartbeat. By the time they let me see you—” He stops abruptly and looks around, unfocused. There’s a tic in his jaw. “I’m going to shower. You should rest. Davie will be here in a few hours. She’s bringing dinner.”

  And with that, he leaves. It feels like a dismissal, something she’d never expect from him.

  The husband who brought her home from the hospital is not acting like the one she knew last week. Or even the man she met and tumbled into love with during their first night together.

  Then again, with so many holes in her head, she isn’t the same woman either.

  CHAPTER 4

  Four Years Ago

  Ella met Damien Russell on a cool February evening in Las Vegas. She’d recognized him immediately when he walked up to Lobby Bar at the ARIA Resort & Casino, where she and her best friend from college, Davie Mayer, were spending a long-overdue girls’ weekend.

  There was a magnetic vibe about Damien that summoned attention. She wasn’t the only woman captivated by his striking good looks. Heads turned. Eyes trailed him to the bar. Tall and athletic with dark-walnut hair and stormy eyes, Damien was apotheotic. Quite simply, he wasn’t the type of man Ella would let sleep on her couch. He belonged in her bed, assuming she got the chance to have him there.

  Davie,
golden-blonde hair shimmering as she turned to see what caught Ella’s attention, groaned suggestively. “Wow. Who’s that?”

  “Damien Russell. He’s the CEO and founder of Phantom Defense Networks, a private cybersecurity firm out of San Francisco.”

  “Oooh. He’s hot, and he’s local.”

  “I read an article in Forbes last year that he’s some sort of master business strategist. His intellect is off the charts.”

  “Hot and smart? I call bullshit. Men like him don’t exist, unless they’re already married. Is he?”

  Ella shook her head. “Divorced, I think. But listen to this. He used to work for his dad, Clyde Russell. Have you heard of him? He owns CyberSeal.”

  “Didn’t they recently go public? I think I read something about that in the Chronicle.”

  “Right. Damien was on track to take over the company after his father retired, but he suddenly up and quit five years ago.”

  Davie plucked an olive from her martini. “Why?”

  “No one knows exactly. But he immediately launched his own cybersecurity company. It’s speculated that he’d been working on plans while still working for his dad and that he intentionally positioned his firm as a direct competitor.”

  “Obviously Clyde Russell never retired. Took his company public instead,” Davie finished for her, chewing on the olive. “Talk about family drama.”

  “Seriously.”

  Damien had graced plenty of magazine covers, his face splashed across the internet since CyberSeal went public, much to Clyde’s consternation, Ella was sure. She could visualize him poring over a pile of magazines with his son’s image, media coverage that should have been reserved for his company.

  But where’s the drama in that? Drama sold, and so did Damien’s face. Plus, Damien had been silent, which only made the media more frenzied for answers. What is Damien’s opinion of his father taking the company public? Does he plan to do the same with PDN?

  Not a single reporter had yet been able to get his real story. What a coup it would be for Luxe Avenue if she did.