The Last Girl (Sand & Fog #7)

by Susan Ward

  “Not today, sweetheart. Soon. Okay?”

  She slumped but didn’t argue. “You’re kicking us out. That’s why you brought Mom in with you.”

  I stifled a laugh, because Krystal was with Mom trying to break free the younger girls from Chrissie. They didn’t want to go home. All the grandchildren loved my parents’ house. There was nothing not to love. Pool, theaters, beauty spas, and a backyard like a park, and Mom doting on them, protective and loving every second they were with her.

  A smile rose to my lips as I watched Krystal say her goodbye and try to herd the girls from the theater. “Call me later, Khloe,” my sister called back to me before she left.

  “I will. Say hi to Jake, and thanks for going with me today.”

  I waited until the door closed to approach Mom. She’d shut off the movie and busied herself clearing away the girls’ snacks and blankets, I was sure so as not to pounce on me. But I could feel her tension long before I reached her.

  I held out a glass of wine and she stared at it before taking it. “What’s this for?” Her anxiety was like a physical entity surrounding us.

  “Good news, Mom.” I gently sank down on the lounger next to her and tapped my glass against hers. “No progression. I can continue with the trial another year.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Her posture melted as the tension gushed from her. Her fingers tapped her mouth, a nervous gesture I knew well: the want to ask more and the fear to in this brief little span of happiness. “What else did Dr. Hern say?”

  “No negative effects from the treatment. None.”

  A whisper of a smile touched her lips.

  “I started another round of therapy today at the clinic. Dr. Hern thinks it’s necessary. No progression, Mom. But no improvement either.”

  After that, her smile didn’t fully materialize, but the ever-present determination in her eyes did. And that quickly, in our home always filled with it, hope wasn’t something that had a reason to dwell within these walls, and in truth only survived within my mother.

  I LET MY MOTHER GO to update Dad by herself and went to my bedroom to make the calls on my status to my siblings. The day had left me drained, and while it wasn’t fair not to be with my dad during this round of Khloe’s crisis, it took all I had left to forward the news to the rest of the family.

  After changing into my pj’s, I curled up in my bed for much needed sleep. The prior hours had passed in an endless series of highs, lows, and normal, landing me back in the state I’d grown accustomed to: thankful and merely existing.

  I was in no shape to see Damon, to deal with anything that stirred my emotions or taxed the meager function of my heart. Damon did both more than was safe.

  It was midnight when I woke and much to my dismay I couldn’t fall back to sleep. My stomach growled from missing two meals today and the walls of my room seemed to close in on me. I’d stirred from a peaceful sleep into being wide awake and restless.

  I considered calling Zane just to fight with him over what Damon had told me. I wasn’t angry with him—not significantly—and maybe if we cleared the air we could go back to being friends.

  For all Zane’s faults—damn, I still reeled from him making one of his stupid bets with Damon—there was a predictability to who he was that I liked. He was an excellent friend while we were home. We had fun together even within the limits of my life in Pacific Palisades. We knew each other well and during my months home he proved effective at keeping my scary dark moments from taking hold of me.

  Decision made to patch things up with Zane, I resolved to let a few days pass before I did it. It was better not to tackle anything contentious between us when it was fresh.

  Having a plan in place made me feel less restless as I left my room to find something to eat. The house was dark as I made my way down the hallway. My mom kept farmers’ hours, and for Dad to ever have a hope of being in bed with her, out of necessity he always went to his room promptly at ten with my mother. Only that’s what I thought...

  I switched on the lights in the kitchen to find my dad sitting alone in the family room, staring out the windows. “Hey, Dad, what’s going on? Why are you still awake?”

  His mesmerizing smile claimed his face as he turned to look at me. “Couldn’t sleep. What are you doing up?”

  “Hungry. I slept through dinner again.”

  His black eyes grew intense. “That’s getting to be a habit, isn’t it? Is there some issue I don’t know about?” What he thought of that was in his gaze, even though I’d purposely not inquired about Damon’s whereabouts after entering the kitchen. Dad never missed the things about people you couldn’t see, and Mom never saw things that showed clear in front of her face.

  I shrugged. “None that I can think of other than a switch in time zones.” I continued toward the warming oven, hoping to find a plate ready and waiting for me.

  “Your mum told me your news that you’re still in the trial. Did everything else go well today?” Of course, he was second-guessing if I’d told Mom everything.

  “It was fine. Immunotherapy’s no biggie. You know that, Dad.” He knew that from firsthand experience. Back in the day, Dr. Hern had cured my dad of lymphoma with a brand new not-yet-FDA-approved drug that didn’t have the gruesome effects of traditional chemo. That’s how Dr. Hern landed in our family emergency Rolodex and how my dad knew to move heaven and earth when the chemo wasn’t working to get me into the FDA-not-approved clinical trial at Hern’s clinic. Dad, through his wealth and vast contacts, had prolonged my life when without the experimental treatments I wouldn’t have lasted long after my first year of fighting my illness.

  But Dad’s personal history with cancer was also why he blamed himself for my sarcoma, though everyone including a large collection of doctors had told him the two forms weren’t related and most probably not hereditary. I suspected it was ‘probably’ that kept alive and well Dad’s guilt over me, when I never wanted him ever ripping himself up over anything to do with me.

  I turned with my plate in hand, then went to a drawer for a fork. “This looks good. I’m sorry I missed it earlier when it was first served.”

  “It was a spectacular dinner”—one brow inched slightly up—“and you were missed.”

  No way was I going to ask my dad what he meant by that. “What a shame.” I smiled and settled on the arm of his chair, my feet on his thighs and my plate balanced on my knees. With his hand he began to gently rub and squeeze my ankles.

  “No swelling,” he remarked blandly.

  “Not today.” The result of my poorly working heart was often swollen ankles and feet. “But don’t stop. That feels wonderful. My ankles hurt like I was on my feet much longer than I was.”

  “That’s the therapy.”

  “Yes, but I’m not complaining. It could be worse.”

  Something flashed in my dad’s eyes, quickly vanishing, and I felt awful for having said that. I poked at the roasted duck with plums that I was sure my father had prepared. “This is delicious. I love it when you cook. So fancy schmancy everything you make. You even did my plate tonight.”

  Alan laughed. “How can you tell?”

  “You don’t ration the carbs the way Mom does.”

  He wanted to laugh again but wouldn’t out of loyalty to my mother. “There’s plenty more—carbs and everything—if you want more. There’s even lemon posset with berries hidden somewhere by Lourdes waiting for you.”

  I giggled. “How did you know that Lourdes hides me treats when Mom doesn’t have a clue?”

  “I know everything, always,” he said theatrically, his eyes glowing. It was a silly moment between us, but I tensed from it. What was he implying?

  I poked him playfully with my foot. “You better not.”

  “I’m glad I do.” He eased his leg out from under my feet and rose. He kissed my curls. “It’s off to bed with me. I just waited up to have dinner with you.”

  My smile flashed wide. “I’m glad you did. I like our quiet, privat
e talks late in the night, Dad.”

  “Yes, quiet talks late in the night. I remember them well with your mum,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Damon didn’t come in with me from the patio after brandy. I’m reasonably confident he’s waiting for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AFTER DAD’S PARTING he’s waiting, bypassing Damon on the patio didn’t seem possible. It’d be another impolite Khloe move and, more troubling, my dad would know I’d done it.

  Even with everything that had happened today, which should have fully claimed all my thoughts, I’d been thinking of him nonstop and dreading seeing him since I woke.

  I was aware I needed to cut off whatever he was trying to do by following me to California, but I couldn’t steel myself against my astonishment over all he’d done just to get to meet me. It was the most flattering thing any guy had ever done because of me, but I couldn’t justify encouraging him; potentially leading him—unfairly—onto the short street that went nowhere which was me.

  Krystal was right. I was painfully obvious in some ways, though most of those around me couldn’t see it. Paris was my talisman, to keep me honest with whoever I was involved with. There was a reason the last stop in Europe was always the Hotel Brittany on its short street that went nowhere lined by trees vibrant with turning color. Ending our travels at the beginning of autumn, the vividness that preceded winter, the season of dying and the evitable death to follow.

  My private goodbye to my friends even if they didn’t understand it and my own Chrissie-like homage to the brief span of happiness I knew when I was with them. Life wasn’t real when I was in Europe; it was tormentingly so when I was home. And I was forever grateful to my wandering circus because with them I was nothing more, or less, than any other girl.

  It was irony in my annual marker of another year survived, knowing once I was home all things for me could change quickly, that Damon had entered my world. At the end of a chapter and not the start of one.

  Yielding to the inevitable, I got off my dad’s chair and went to the kitchen for a brandy. I stepped out onto the patio, startled to find Damon sitting on the rim of the pool, legs in dangling over the edge and amber eyes fixed on the blue waterfall in front him. My heart stuttered in my chest, and he’d not even looked at me yet.

  He was in deep thought, otherwise he would have heard the French door click closed, and I held back for the rare treat of getting to look at Damon without him knowing it.

  The smile on my face came of its own will from how he was dressed and the recollection of how regal he’d looked in Paris in his impeccable gray suit. Tonight it was knee-length baggy shorts like my dad wore and a basic t-shirt that hung loosely on his body. There was writing across his chest that I couldn’t read, a slogan of some kind, but I could tell it wasn’t a designer shirt. He’d slummed down to fit in with chez Manzone again. But what did I know? Even royals probably weren’t royals always. No, Damon was regal even like this...

  “Khloe.”

  His voice made me jump the way one does when they’ve been caught doing something, and I wondered how long he’d been aware I was studying him. Quite a while, if his eyes were any indication. And what was shining back at me made me tremble.

  “Don’t.” I held up my hand to him.

  His amber gaze sharpened. “What?”

  “Look at me that way. I can’t stay if you keep doing it.”

  He angled his body so I could see his face fully. “I can’t stop it. Every time I close my eyes, I see you, and each time I open them and you’re there—”

  “Stop, Damon. Please.”

  He kicked the water with his foot, an impatient gesture. There was a faint apologetic flash in his eyes before his face turned unreadable. “You left the house early. I wondered about that. You were gone a long time. Did you have a good day?”

  I shrugged and padded across the patio toward him. “It was good. I have fun when I’m out with my sister.”

  He nodded. “Ah—Krystal. I got a chance to meet her earlier. Lovely girl.”

  The way he said lovely girl sounded like my dad. He’d opened the door into the safety of a topic not about us, and laughing, I settled on the edge of the pool beside him.

  “I saw her dance once,” he remarked blandly.

  I straightened in surprise. “You did? When?”

  “The New York opening of Fiona. She was brilliant. Captivating from the moment she took the stage. Her retirement was a great loss to the ballet.”

  I took a sip of my brandy, then settled my chin on my upturned palm. “I remember that performance. My entire family was there.” I frowned. “I don’t remember you there. I would think it would have caused a stir in the theater and Krystal would have rambled on about it incessantly. But my sister never mentioned it.”

  “You wouldn’t have remembered me,” he remarked, and as I inquiringly lifted a brow, he smiled. “I wasn’t there in an official capacity. I sat in what Americans would call the cheap seats. In and out of the theater before anyone knew I was there.”

  My laughter flowed effortlessly. There was Damon being alluringly charming again. “Why would you do that? Krystal would have loved a royal introduction.”

  “That’s precisely why I didn’t do it. It was your sister’s night, not mine. I’d have only muddled it up for her.”

  I pouted. “I don’t think Krystal would have thought that.”

  “It was better for all concerned that way.”

  All concerned... There was something melancholy and heavy to him. “What did you do all day with my dad?”

  His face transformed into its usual good-natured handsomeness. “We conversed mostly. Alan is brilliant to talk to. An excellent source of advice and wisdom. And we swapped stories. He’s comfortable to be around, your dad.”

  “I think so. Though hardly anyone outside the family feels that way. Most people are intimidated by Alan.”

  I began to disturb the water with my toes.

  “But I’m not outside the family, Khloe.”

  I grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. I’m not even close to asking my father about it.”

  “Is it really that troubling for you?” He laughed when I nodded. “Why? It’s not like we’re cousins or anything. It’s no reason for us not to carry on however we wish to.”

  However we wish to...I only got a split second to realize I was leaning into him as if in invitation for a kiss before he pulled me closer and sealed his mouth over mine. I melted at the feel of it. I wanted to kiss him every time I saw him. I wanted the way he made me feel. I wanted moments of wonderful as much as any girl.

  It took a few seconds to pull myself from the clouds, back to safety again. I jerked away from him. “You really need to stop doing that.”

  “Then you need to be clearer with your body language.”

  I flushed. “How’s this for clear? Nothing’s changed since Paris. I’m not interested in you.”

  He stared at me, perplexed, and I closed my lids against his searching gaze. “Is the thought of me so impossible you’re not willing to entertain it?”

  Stuffy arrogance back in place. I wanted to laugh as a bulwark against what I was feeling for him but didn’t. “Yes. Very impossible.”

  “May I inquire as to why?”

  I opened my blue eyes wide and met his gaze directly. “Because you say things like willing to entertain and inquire.”

  Amusement warmed his eyes. “Ah. I’d forgotten you’re a stickler for phrasing.”

  “Not especially.” I smiled.

  “Like hell you’re not. I remember Paris well.” I breathed through the delight of him saying that and waited for the follow up. I could tell by the pucker in his chestnut brows it was coming. “I like you, Khloe. What I should make of it I haven’t decided yet—”

  “Haven’t decided yet?” I spoke over him, outraged. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, Damon.”

  “I confessed that I like you. What’s arrogant a
bout that?”

  “Everything,” I responded, loud and dramatic.

  He looked adorably flustered and agitated. “Well, if one isn’t allowed to state they like you, how does one start a relationship with you?”

  Third person again—inwardly I rolled my eyes. “They don’t. I decide. I made that abundantly clear in Paris.”

  “You didn’t know me then,” he muttered, annoyed.

  I tilted my head and stared at him, challenging. “I don’t know you now.”

  “You would if you let me get on with it.”

  I eased my feet from the water and stood. It was time to flee Damon. I liked him too much.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, alarmed.

  I paused halfway across the patio. “To bed.”

  “Why do you run off in the middle of every conversation? We’re not done.”

  I continued toward the door. At my back, he asked, “You do date, don’t you?”

  I didn’t dare to look back at him. “Yes, Damon, I do. But only in certain circumstances.”

  “Certain circumstances?” he grumbled, confused. “Am I allowed to inquire what circumstances?”

  My hand was on the door handle. I could hear the water ripple and sensed he was standing. “Are you shutting me out because you’re polyamorous?”

  Polyamorous? Jeez, Louise, was that what he thought of me? “How dare you ask me that, Damon? I’m not polyamorous.”

  “What’s the issue, then?” His voice thundered as if I was driving him to distraction.

  “Has it ever occurred to you I just may not like you?”

  His gaze met mine direct and steady. “No, Khloe. That’s not it.”

  I remained calm, though my insides were twirling. “If you’re going to ignore everything I say, then there’s no reason for us to see each other again. Have a nice life, Damon.”

  He laughed and took a confident step toward me. “God, you’re a maddening girl. Do you always say one thing while doing the opposite?”

  “How so?” My face flushed.

  “You continued to argue with me on the patio,” he said shrewdly. “You didn’t tell me to bugger off. That, Khloe, is the start of a relationship. Not the sign of a girl who’s not interested.”