The Last Girl (Sand & Fog #7)

by Susan Ward

  “You’re not going to change the folks. Don’t even try. And if you were a mother, you’d have a bit of understanding and sympathy for her. It’s not something she can shut off. Worrying about her kids. It’s a life sentence. Think of it from her perspective.”

  I slouched back against the pillows, irritated by my sister’s calm reminder of what I should do to better manage the situation on the home front while rubbing in my face something I won’t ever know. I would have liked to have pointed out that I already spent more time than I was sure was healthy considering the emotional impact on others as it related to me, though that wouldn’t get me any further with Krystal than it would my mother. Two peas in a pod.

  “When did Mom text you to palm off the chore of me?”

  “When you didn’t come from your cave to have dinner with the folks. It’s your first night home, Khloe. How could you do that? It was unkind, and you know it.”

  My temper flared, but I held back my angry words. I hadn’t intentionally missed dinner and would never do something so childishly hurtful to the folks. I stayed in my bedroom longer than I intended thanks to hours of sleeping and an endless stream of phone calls or texts from my family that needed to be answered.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and clutched the strands until they hurt. “I hate it when she’s upset with me and calls you to vent about it. Why couldn’t she knock on the door and confront me directly? If she’s annoyed with me she should say so. It’s not going to break me.”

  “She’s only trying not to stress you out. She vents to me because she can’t do it to you. Mom was under the impression you were hiding from her, that you’d had cross words on the patio and felt awful. Especially since you have a boyfriend or something at the house—”

  I shot straight up in my bed—boyfriend?

  “—and really, Khloe. Dragging home a guy the first night? She was very close-lipped about that part. Who is it? Zane?”

  “There you go, judging me. I don’t have a boyfriend here. Dad has one of his friends at the house. Mom gets everything wrong, you know that.”

  “Oh,” Krystal said on long breath and her voice lost some of its lecture steam. “Well, whoever he is, she’s upset you didn’t join them and thought it was because of her.”

  “It wasn’t because of her.”

  “Then hang up. Leave your cave and go be nice to Mom.”

  Leave my cave? I’d planned to until that moment Krystal let slip that my parents had invited Damon to stay after tea and there were better than even odds he was still in the house.

  I checked the clock. It was only half past seven. Cocktails and watching the sunset from the cliffs slot in the family schedule. If Damon ate supper with them, no way would Dad let him slip out before the daily p.m. ritual. Alan was an effusive and generous host with those he liked.

  Crud—why did my folks have to like Damon Saxe of all people? My mom never liked anyone and my dad was only a hair better.

  “You wouldn’t tell me to leave my bedroom if you knew how Mom was behaving.”

  Krystal erupted into gales of laughter. “I know from firsthand experience exactly how Mom is being. It won’t kill you to be nice for her sake.”

  Kill me? What an insensitive choice of words. And probably incorrect, because it just might since it puts me back into closer proximity with white-hot danger.

  I took a few minutes to try to figure a way out of doing as Krystal advised and couldn’t. “Okay, okay. I’ll plaster a smile on my face and go be polite.”

  “Good, Khloe. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I rolled my eyes at the way she managed me to avoid confrontation. See you in the morning—not a question, but a statement. “See you then, sis.”

  After clicking off the phone, I tossed it away, wishing I could stay in my bed until morning and knowing that I couldn’t. Krystal was right. I’d alarmed my mother enough for one day if Chrissie had raced to the phone first chance for moral support from my sister in dealing with me.

  Groaning, I climbed from bed to head for the door, then realized I was wearing cheetah-print pajamas. That might do for an evening alone with my folks, but never for cocktails with an HRH. Putting on the spit and polish to go be polite to my mother in front of a man I didn’t want to see wasn’t on the top of my list of things to do tonight.

  But I went into my closet anyway, stared at the long neat rows of garments hanging on all sides of me, and grudgingly pulled out a pair of cute white linen slacks to match my mother and a bright patterned turquoise flowing tank with a touch of silver bling on the spaghetti straps.

  Dressed, I went into the bathroom to try to do something with my hair, but I’d let it air dry and it was pointless. The long tresses were in tight curls, and anything short of a willingness to straighten meant I couldn’t touch them with a brush. Instead, I used a bit of rose-scented styling oil to neatly smooth and arrange them with my fingers.

  I would have preferred no makeup, but that wouldn’t do, especially since dark rings that contrasted shockingly with my paleness could be seen beneath my eyes whenever I didn’t wear concealer. It gave my youthful face a pinched and haggard look that I was sure when going natural made others wonder how old I was.

  Carefully, I applied the magical cosmetics my mother had found which were able to cover up what I wanted without ever giving my face the appearance of being heavily made-up. A touch of color and liner with mascara was enough to make my large blue eyes pop—in the right way—and a little bit of glossy red on my pouty lips finished my look.

  As for shoes, sorry, not even Damon could force me out of the custom of going shoeless while in the house in California. The Brits might have their traditions, but we had ours, and after all, he was a guest here.

  Prince Damon—the memory of my mother calling him that made me cringe. Mom wasn’t known for the art of polite manners; she was more a casual California anything goes if it goes with a smile kind of woman to everyone. Her changing herself, a time to faint moment, was further indication of how quickly she’d warmed to Damon.

  Even more shocking was that my dad didn’t call him Prince Damon, when he was a Brit and always appropriate in everything. If one were to guess by the manner of the men when they conversed, one would think my dad was the royal. Craziness. There’d been nothing but absolute craziness since Damon’s advent in my world.

  I did one last check of my appearance, made a face at myself in the mirror, debated downing a stiff drink from the minibar in my bedroom hidden from my mother, and marched toward the door determined to do better this round of Damon at chez Manzone.

  The house was eerily still when I stepped into the hallway. Silence felt different in an empty house than when my family was here and couldn’t be heard. Without life in the rooms, they supernaturally turned intimidating as if I could see the vastness of the house I was raised in instead of merely feeling it.

  I hurried toward the kitchen, hoping someone was there. Once there, I leaned against the doorframe and stared in.

  Lourdes, our housekeeper, was methodically wiping down the counter of the center island. She’d been with our family forever, was well into her late eighties, and though my mom had gone as far as to hire her two granddaughters to ‘help out,’ retirement wasn’t a notion our housekeeper grasped.

  If the phrase where there’s a will there’s way applied to anyone it was Lourdes. Her gnarled brown hands moved with competent slow strokes against the marble in the otherwise spotless kitchen. Her granddaughters were MIA during cleanup after the evening meal because the kitchen was her domain, and she wouldn’t relinquish control over it, not even to Señor Alan. When my dad was of a mind to cook he had to cook with Lourdes or not at all.

  An affectionate smile filled my face as I stepped into the room. My feet against the floor must have caused enough sound for her to hear because her face shot up and turned in my direction.

  “Chica. You are home. I have missed my beautiful girl. ¿Cómo está mi niña.”

>   “I’m well, Lourdes.” I stepped into her open arms for the hug she demanded. “I didn’t see you when I arrived with Mom from the airport. You must have been napping.”

  Leaning back, she closed her strong hands on my cheeks and made a face. “Bah. Who has time to nap? I was watching my shows with mis niñas while we folded the laundry.”

  I could feel my eyes sparkle at her. “Your shows, huh? That explains why Mom was allowed to make afternoon tea by herself.”

  She shook her head as her salt-and-pepper brows jerked upward. “She left a mess and did it wrong. Señora Chrissie should have come for me. Twenty years married to Señor Alan and she still does not know how to make a tea how he likes it. Did you see the sandwiches? Awful. Though your padre he eat and not say a word. He love that woman and I love him for it.”

  I choked back a laugh because otherwise Lourdes would have rebuked me with her eyes as us kids were never permitted to criticize our parents within her hearing, not even with a smirk over something she said.

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t eat them, then.”

  “What?” Her face clouded with concern. “Mi niña has not eaten since she’s been home?”

  I grimaced. “Cookies and a Diet Coke. Does that count?”

  Lourdes groaned and moved toward the warming oven. “You eat. Señora Chrissie fixed you a plate after dinner and I do not care if your fancy novio is waiting with your father. You eat first.”

  Novio—boyfriend again. While I napped, in between panic calls to Krystal, Mom must have found time to gossip with Lourdes about Damon. “He’s not my novio. He’s Dad’s friend.”

  The plate was set in front of my stool at the breakfast bar and she tilted her head with only one brow raised this round. “You think I’m an old lady and I don’t see things.”

  “No, I think you’re a mature woman and you see everything. You’re just poking at me because you missed me.”

  Lourdes chortled. “You are right. I have missed my Khloe. Eat.”

  She snatched the silver lid off the plate to reveal a mountain of food. It smelled delicious and it was all my favorites. Chicken mole on a bed of sautéed vegetables with Lourdes’s special rice. “Is there flan?”

  “Sí, but you cannot have it until you eat.”

  I pouted. “If I eat all this I won’t have room for flan.”

  “You are too thin. You eat every bite.” And with that, a fork was shoved my way.

  While I picked at my food, I chatted with Lourdes to get caught up on what had been going on with my family while I was away. Lourdes was the one-stop shop for family gossip and was more likely to be accurate and informative than my mother was.

  “So Ethan still hasn’t made up his mind to marry Avery? Not even with them having a child due next year?”

  Lourdes’s eyes went wide, forewarning me there was much about my brother’s relationship she found troubling. “It is the other way around. Avery will not marry Ethan. Stubborn girl. She thinks marriage is not good for love. You can’t talk sense to that girl. She doesn’t listen.”

  I had to bite my lip not to laugh at that one. “Avery knows her own mind. She’s very independent.”

  “Independent and pregnant.” Lourdes stared at the ceiling as if begging for strength. “He love her. She love him. They make baby. No marriage. You call it what you want. I call it nonsense. You kids, you are nothing but nonsense.”

  “Times have changed, Lourdes. Not everyone gets married anymore.”

  Her index finger became an arrow toward me. “Times don’t change for Catholics. You kids are Catholica, no?”

  I nodded.

  “You marry to make baby or if you make baby you get married. That is what God says. That is what Señora Chrissie and Señor Alan did. A little slow. But they fix it. Good Catholics. God forgives.”

  “Dad’s an atheist.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If tu madre is Catholic, it is a Catholic family.”

  Lourdes had an answer for everything. Smiling, I pushed away my plate only partially finished. “That was delicious, but I can’t eat another bite. I don’t even have room now for flan.”

  Lourdes examined my plate and nodded approvingly. “I hid you some in our special hiding place in the fridge. Don’t tell Señora Chrissie I did that. She would not even let me make your plate and measured everything according to that silly app on her phone then told me no flan for Khloe tonight. Flan will not hurt you. It is good for you.”

  I shook my head with disbelief. “I won’t tell.” I came around the breakfast bar to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Lourdes.”

  I almost left the kitchen, then decided to fix my own cocktail to take to the cliffs, not trusting that Chrissie wasn’t in the mindset to wrestle me over the martinis next. I loved my mother, but her food patrolling while I was home was getting old. First the vegan diet, followed by the whole raw organic food nightmare. Then the kinetic rigmarole. And I really didn’t know what she was doing with her darn phone app because it didn’t make sense to send me Oreos for the flight then take away my flan. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter because I ate the way I wanted to while traveling with my friends, and if there was a difference I sure as heck didn’t feel it.

  To keep peace during sunset, I took a colored crystal glass from the cabinet, dropped in some ice, and filled it fifty-fifty with vodka and cranberry juice. Unless Mom tasted it, she wouldn’t know there was booze in it. Lourdes was right. Nonsense ran amok at times with my family. As unlikely as it was, my dad was often the only sane one among us.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IT WAS A LONG WALK from the house to the cliffs, and I debated running to my room to grab my silver wrap. The temperature on the coast often dropped quickly, and it was hard to tell what sort of evening it’d be—chilly or comfortably cool—by looking through a window. October was always such a crapshoot after dark, and just because I couldn’t see fog didn’t mean it wasn’t rolling in.

  Realizing I was only looking for excuses to delay the inevitable, I took a full swallow of my drink, opened one of the French doors, and told myself get on with it. The sun had dipped in the horizon and at most cocktail hour would last only another thirty minutes, the end of another day paid homage to by my mother, and her want then to return to the house would be my avenue of escape from Damon.

  Beyond the pool area, our property was a maze of walkways through lush green grass and shrouded by massive oaks, eucalyptus, and sycamore trees that ran the side ten-foot-high wall line of our property. Privacy via nature, my dad called it, but through the center of our yard my mother would allow no trees planted because she wanted a view of the ocean from every room in the house.

  Once out from under the tables’ umbrellas and awning above the furniture on the pavement, all that was left blocking my view in any direction was the mini privacy fence that had been built so that Dillon’s family wouldn’t have to always be in the line of sight of ours.

  Where the lawn started was my favorite part of our home. It was a simple, cheery space speckled with seating areas surrounding fountains or birdbaths. It was expansive enough for a tennis court, but there wasn’t one. It could have easily accommodated more than one guesthouse, but it didn’t. Even landscaped it held the pureness and comfortable quiet of nature.

  Halfway to my parents, I stopped and stared, drawn to the beauty of the sky. When there was a smattering of clouds there was nothing more spectacular on earth than sunset over the Pacific. With the vivid oranges and reds of a clear night, the billowy patches above cast brilliant tones of purple, pink, and blue across the heavens. It was my favorite time of day, though my mom’s was the dawn.

  I approached the group on the white-cushioned loungers facing the beach, and Mom turned and waved when she saw me.

  “There’s our girl,” she announced, enthusiastically gesturing me over to her chaise. She patted the space beside her. “Sit with me, Khloe. We can keep each other warm.”

  Warm? It was a cool night, but not so much it was uncom
fortable. It was then I noted there were only three loungers on the cliffs, and I felt a pinch in my heart for my mother. No one had sent for an extra one, indication that she hadn’t thought I’d join them tonight, when it was my practice at home never to miss the dawn or the sunset with my family.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I dropped a kiss atop my mother’s head because I wanted her to know everything was good between us. “Lourdes insisted I eat dinner before I joined you. Thank you for making me a plate, Mom. Sorry I missed supper. I slept longer than I thought I would, but I’m glad I haven’t completely missed the sunset.”

  Chrissie beamed, but it was the smile in her eyes that captivated and shamed me. She was so easy to please, and it hurt that I couldn’t always keep her magnificent blue orbs shining exactly that way. “I’m glad you ate. I’m glad you made it. Now sit.”

  Laughing, instead of taking the seat she offered I dropped down beside my dad, surprising him.

  “I got to visit with Mom all the way from the airport,” I explained, answering the unspoken question in his black eyes. “You, I’ve hardly had any time with. I hope you don’t mind my crowding you.”

  “Never, sunshine.” He quickly wrapped an arm around me and lay his cheek against my head.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted. Everyone can go back to talking about whatever you were discussing.”

  That earned me a smile from my father. “Damon was just regaling us with his exploits in Botswana.”

  Damon laughed. “Hardly exploits. And I’m sure my stories would only bore your daughter.”

  “No, never,” my mom assured him quickly. “As far as I know, Khloe’s never been to Africa, and your stories are wonderful, Damon.”

  Damon now, even from my mother. The man knew how to put on a charm offensive, I’d give him that. I could feel the amusement and affection radiated by both my parents for him.