The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

Chapter 14

14

Friday

My grandma Inge rests in a cemetery half an hour from my parents’ house. Mom visits regularly to share the tea. I was young when Grandma passed, and I don’t really have many memories of her. Just of the scent of lavender from her perfume. But she and Mom were close. Mom still likes to talk to her as if she were here.

“You explain the photos of you with the prince,” says Mom, arranging the bouquet of wildflowers I bought in the stone vase attached to the headstone. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

I sit on the grass beneath another clear blue California sky. Last night with Alistair shook me. I can’t even think about what comes next on my wish list. There are bruises from lack of sleep beneath my eyes. If lying awake making up imaginary conversations that will most likely never happen were an Olympic sport, I would be representing the country in no time. My state of mind is also evident from my outfit—safe and comfortable old clothes. Like the oversize hoodie from senior year. It’s seen me through it all: relationship breakups, series binges, and everything in between. But beneath my homely clothing, my legs and pits are freshly shaved, and every inch of me has been lotioned. “He’s not a prince. Though I don’t see that it’s anybody’s business what his parents’ relationship was exactly.”

“She’s talking about Alistair Lennox,” Mom explains to Grandma’s grave. “You remember the scandal. That poor boy. He was so young.” Then she turns to me. “Inge was a royalist. But she preferred the Danish royal family over the English, of course. She threw such a party for Margrethe’s coronation.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have any interest in royalty?”

“I don’t mind the occasional funeral or wedding. All the pomp and pageantry, the pretty dresses and hats.”

“Yeah, but the king always seems like such a miserable ass.”

Mom clicks her tongue. “And yet he’s still your friend’s father. Though, to be honest, I never liked the man either. I detested him for his behavior. For not publicly claiming Alistair as his son or acknowledging him in some way. It was obvious the boy was his. His affair with Lady Helena was common enough knowledge. They were pictured together in the gossip magazines all the time. Inge used to buy them. She lived and breathed all that nonsense. Said she bought them for the crosswords, but we all knew better. Of course, I told her they were trash and then read them when she wasn’t looking.”

I laugh.

“They caught him coming and going from her apartment at all hours of the day and night. And Alistair looked exactly like him when he was little. Though he grew out of that and started to take more after his mother’s side as he got older. But I don’t know how you could have a soul and treat a child that way. I can’t imagine what it does. To be rejected by your father and then hounded by the press.”

“I think it’d cause a whole heaping lot of trauma with a side order of trust issues,” I say. “Why didn’t the king acknowledge him, do you think?”

“The focus was supposed to be on him and his shiny new fiancée. How expensive and over-the-top their wedding would be. Their entire existence is about clinging to outdated traditions. I think they’re fighting a losing battle with the modern world, and that poor little boy got caught in the cross fire,” she says. “It always struck me as curious timing, though. How news of your friend’s existence was leaked at just that moment.”

“Yeah. I agree. They never did find out who did it. Or they never said publicly who did it.”

“But the king reaped what he sowed. It’s not like he and his missus look particularly happy when they’re together these days, do they?” she asks. “I don’t even think they share the same castle.”

“No, they don’t. Not according to the gossip sites, at least.”

Cemeteries are kind of cool. I can’t say that I’ve spent much time in one before. But in full daylight, they’re not so spooky. There are lots of trees, and apart from the occasional person visiting a loved one’s grave, it’s peaceful and quiet. I could get used to this. Guess we all do in the end.

“I hope you’ll come and visit me and tell me all the news when I’m dead,” I say without thinking.

Mom laughs. “I’ll be gone long before you and buried just over there.”

“You bought a plot?”

“Your father and I did a while back.”

“Huh.” I run the palm of my hand back and forth over a dandelion. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s not a secret.” She sits back on her haunches. “I might have been a little upset when your grandfather announced he wished to be buried next to his second wife. But I understand. Or I try to. It’s been a while since Mom passed, and he’s moved on with his life, but...”

“You don’t want to leave Grandma on her own.”

“No. Your father believes the spirit world doesn’t exist and there is no great beyond. But on the off chance there is, I hate the thought that she’s waiting. Hoping for someone who will never come.”

“Love sucks.”

“Sometimes,” she agrees. “But not all the time.”

“I don’t have any strong feelings on final resting places. Can they just throw me in with you?”

Mom smiles. “The more, the merrier.”

“Make sure they play ‘Someone You Loved’ by Lewis Capaldi at my funeral. That’ll get everyone crying for sure.”

Mom’s smile is bemused. “A very important consideration.”

“And don’t bake anything nice for them to eat at the wake either. The day should be one of complete and utter misery.”

“Got it,” says Mom. “I’ll give them stale sandwiches and that awful tasteless meat loaf your uncle insists on making. I gave him a spice rack for Christmas and everything. You would think he’d take a hint.”

I try to smile, but it slips straight off my face. Hard not to wonder if this is another last moment right here and now. A bit morbid that my final conversation with my mother might take place in a cemetery. But oh well. My father has this method of coping with difficult situations. He decides what the logical and rational worst scenario looks like and makes peace with it. He prepares himself for possible failure or whatever. (This inclination of his might explain where my own occasional pessimism stems from.) So, if the worst possible option is me dying and being buried here, is that so bad?

Hmm. Yeah. That still sucks.

A shiver works down my spine as if the sun has disappeared and left me in shade. Only there are no clouds today. The sky is as clear and calm as it has ever been. And yet I feel cold suddenly, like maybe someone stepped on my grave.

“Mom, are you scared of dying?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Not really. The way I see it, we’re either stardust to be scattered across the universe and returned to nothing. Or we get to go on and be with the people we’ve loved and lost.”

“That’s a nice way to look at it.”

“Or worm food. There’s that too.”

I just frown.

“Whatever happens to us, wasting energy worrying won’t change a single thing,” she says. “We all have to die someday.”

Despite her making a solid point, my anxiety is still slowly mounting. I can feel it building beneath my skin. Talking about death probably isn’t helpful. Same goes for visiting graveyards. It’s nice to hang out with Mom, though. What I should do is focus on the upcoming sex fest with Alistair. A much brighter topic. But not one I will be sharing with my mother anytime soon.

“Are you going to tell your grandmother and me about the beard rash on your cheek that you didn’t quite manage to cover with concealer?” she asks like she’s reading my mind.

“Shit.” I carefully feel my face. There’s a definite tender patch. “Stupid stubble.”

“But they’re just friends,” she says to Inge. “Friends who kiss, apparently. He’s who you were with last night, right? Or have you met someone else?” Mom doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead telling Grandma’s grave, “Your granddaughter has not been slow about moving on from Josh.”

“Oof. Feel that judgment, Grandma?”

“I just think it wouldn’t hurt to take a while to think through what happened and work out what you want. Rushing into something new with someone different might not be the best course of action.”

She assumes I have time. But I am not getting into all that with her. Good Witch Willow can stay far away from this conversation. And she’s wrong about Alistair and me. We’re not soulmates. If we were, he would have offered me more than orgasms and good company. Not that there’s anything wrong with orgasms and good company. Given the time pressures with my possible upcoming death, it’s really all I have time for anyway.

“I’m not rushing into anything,” I say.

She gives me a long look.

“Believe what you want. But I’ve thought about what’s best and have decided we’re just going to stay friends, Mother.”

“She calls me Mother in that tone of voice when she gets irritated,” says Mom, resting her hand on top of the headstone. “Usually when I’m treading a little too close to the truth. You might recall I used to do a similar thing with you. But I used your name. Inge. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Inge. Stay out of my business, Inge. See? The tone of voice is the same. This is how you can tell that she’s mine.”

I snort. Such a genteel noise.

“Inge always knew what was right. Always had something to say about everything.” Mom’s smile is bittersweet. “Then you were gone, and I would love to have you back so you could stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong just one more time. But such is life. So...it seems like ‘just friends’ covers a lot of situations these days.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “You ever like someone too much?”

“Our hearts can be rampaging idiots at times,” says my very wise mother.

“Our loins aren’t any better.”

Mom laughs. “Loins. You’re not a cut of meat. But no, they’re generally worse. Are you going to be able to keep your heart and loins safe from this man?”

“I doubt it.” I lie down on the green grass beside Grandma’s grave. Just stretch out and close my eyes. Call it a practice run. “How did you know Dad was the one? I know you met him at a dance and dumped the loser you were with. But why him?”

“You’re going to get grass in your hair. And the loser I was with went on to play for the 49ers.” Mom was and is a proud blonde bombshell. She has definitely made people weak in the knees. “But I could talk to your father. He was so creative and knew such interesting things. I’d never met anyone quite like him. We used to talk for hours and hours on the phone. It drove Inge wild that I was tying up the line all the time.”

I just lie there, play dead, and listen.

“You need to challenge each other. Make each other want to be better. But you have to feel safe with each other too,” she says. “Does your prince do that for you?”

“I don’t know. But we’re not in the process of falling in love and making a commitment, so it doesn’t necessarily matter.”

Mom cocks her head. “You two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately. Are you sure about that? Have you asked him how he feels?”

“You don’t just ask someone how they feel.”

“Why not?”

“To answer your initial question, somewhere between ‘Sort of’ and ‘Hell no.’ Let’s settle on ‘It’s complicated.’”

“Lilah.” She clicks her tongue in displeasure. “Talk to the man. Don’t be afraid.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Given my decision to be more daring, not asking him directly how he feels about me does come across as cowardly. But he only just admitted to wanting to be more than friends. For a bang or two. Doesn’t that basically cover things?

“And for my final piece of advice—always try before you buy,” she says. “If you don’t work in bed, then sooner or later, you won’t work outside of it either.”

“Such scandalous advice.”

“I’m a realist.”

“You’re a realist?” I laugh. “Mother, you’re here to commune with the dead.”

She shrugs and smiles serenely. “People are complicated, honey. What can I say?”

Me: How do you feel about me? If you don’t mind sharing. Please use precise words.

Alistair: I’m not texting about that. Let’s meet later.

Me: OK

Alistair: Was about to call. Where are you?

Me: Heading home.

Alistair: Today has gotten hectic. Can you pick something up for me and bring it over tonight?

Me: Sure. Where from?

Alistair: Not far. I’ll send you the address.

Me: OK

Alistair: It needs to be right now.

Me: Yes, sir.

Alistair: I like the sound of that.

Me: It was meant to be read in a sarcastic tone of voice. You’re doing it wrong.

Rodeo Drive is packed with tourists and pretty people. The luxury department store he sends me to is shiny beyond belief. I tend not to step foot in such places for various reasons. The top one being funds. However, it makes sense Alistair would shop here. The personal stylist area is on the top floor behind an expanse of frosted glass, and the woman at the reception desk is not impressed with me. I can tell from the slow once-over she gives me from head to toe. From my worn sneakers to my baggy light blue jeans with a rip in one knee and the oversize faded hoodie. I’m wearing it with the hood up because I am almost certain there’s still some grass in my hair.

“My name is Lilah Goodluck. I’m here to pick up something for Alistair Lennox,” I say without a smile. Being polite has its limits, and sometimes you have to give to get.

Her demeanor instantly changes. A brilliant smile is plastered on her face as she leads me toward a room at the back. “Of course. We’ve been expecting you. This way, please. Can I get you a coffee or water or perhaps a glass of wine or bubbly?”

“No. Thanks.”

She holds the door open for me. Inside is an even more extravagant room. It is white with gold touches from the potted orchids to the giant gilt-framed mirrors and small crystal chandelier. A changing area waits behind some curtains, and several racks of clothing hang nearby. And lounging on a velvet chaise longue with a laptop is the man himself. The one who did the kissing. At the sight of me, Alistair rises and crosses the room. I could watch him do this forever, just striding toward me in his dapper black suit. He shouldn’t still have this strong an effect on me. But he does.

“There you are,” he says with a brief smile.

“Ali, what’s going on? I thought we were meeting tonight.”

“Why do you have grass in your hair?” he asks, picking out one piece and then another. We have reached the preening each other stage, apparently. It’s a pity I don’t hate it. Not even a little.

“I was lying on the ground beside my grandmother’s grave practicing being dead and chatting with my mom.”

He nods like this makes total sense. Then he pushes back my hood. “This is hideous, Lilah. Take it off. Why are you hiding beneath this thing?”

“It’s my emotional-support hoodie. Leave it alone.” I slap at his hands. “Did they teach you how to be bossy in that castle in Scotland you grew up in?”

“No. I learned that at boarding school. They were do-or-die climates, packed to the rafters with obnoxious rich little shits. But if you projected strength, they usually left you alone.”

All I can do is stare. The man just gave me actual private information about his life. Without me pushing and prodding. He just answered a question in a reasonable manner like a normal person. Amazing.

His gaze is amused. “Better shut your mouth before you catch another insect.”

My lips slam shut. Then open again. “Why do I keep seeing you in suits? I thought tech bros wore sneakers?”

“It depends on who I’m meeting with. Some people expect the suit, given who I am and all. It helps to facilitate certain situations.”

“Huh.”

“Lilah, I’d like you to meet Carolina,” he says, stepping aside.

“Hello, Lilah,” says a woman in a white pantsuit. No wonder I didn’t notice her. She blends perfectly with the decor. That and I am a little overwhelmed. And this perfectly coiffed woman with a golden tan saw us bickering over my old sweats with plant life in my hair. Wonderful.

“Hello,” I say with an awkward-as-fuck smile.

Alistair retrieves his wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. And from this he extracts his black Amex. “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“I know the line is something about salespeople only being nice to credit cards. But I think you’ll find Carolina to be friendly and helpful,” he says. “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be over there if you need me.”

“Wait. We’re doing the Pretty Woman thing? Now? For real?”

“Yes,” he says. “You’re a little slow today. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

“I had a lot on my mind.” I take the card and look it over with interest and no small amount of excitement. “Wow. Okay. What’s my limit?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Ali,” I say with no small amount of awe, “you do realize, if you put me in this situation and give me your credit card, I am going to do some damage? There will be no polite pair of shoes and a dress. I will live out my dream to the fullest. You know this, right?”

“Do your worst, Leannan.” He sits once more on the fancy couch. “I dare you.”

Huh.

I know what leannan means. The Gaelic word is in plenty of romance novels and TV shows. However, there’s no need to lose my shit over him saying it to me. He’s just playing, after all. This moment, though—this particular addition to the wish list—it’s perfect. Or almost perfect. “What you’re supposed to say is, do you have anything in this shop as beautiful as she is?”

“Asking questions I already know the answer to is a waste of time.” He doesn’t even look up from his laptop. Just takes out his cell, makes a call, and starts arguing with Gael, by the sound of things.

“Lilah,” says Carolina. “Can I show you some outfits?”

It turns out it’s hard to speak with your heart stuck in your throat. I smile and nod and hand over his credit card.