The Last One (The One Trilogy #1)

by Tawdra Kandle

  My niece dropped her fork to the plate with a clatter. She clutched at her throat and pretended to gag. “Poison ... beans ... killing ... me ... ’

  I rolled my eyes. She’d been on an anti-veggie kick for the last month. “Just eat them, Sarah Heartburn. No drama tonight.”

  She scowled at the four beans and then used her fork to push them into the small mound of mashed potatoes she hadn’t eaten yet. Before I could yell at her for trying to hide them, she scooped up the whole deal and put it in her mouth, chewed a few times and swallowed. “Done!”

  “Chickens are done, little girls are finished. Go scrape your plate and put it in the dishwasher, please.” Ali patted her back as she passed.

  I watched her skip over, dump crumbs into the trashcan and then slide her plate onto the bottom rack.

  “Do I have a little while before I have to get a bath? I want to draw some more.”

  Ali nodded. “Fifteen minutes, then I’ll be up to run it for you.”

  We finished eating in silence. Bridget had gone a long way to soothing my mad, but in the quiet, I started thinking about red hair and flashing eyes again.

  “So guess what?”

  I’d known my sister for twenty-six years, ever since the midwife had plopped her onto my four-year-old lap in our living room about twenty minutes after her birth. I knew that these three words were the opening to something she was nervous to tell me. She’d begun that way the day she’d told me she was marrying that loser, Craig Moss, and again when she was pregnant with Bridget. So the wave of dread that washed over me wasn’t an overreaction. I put down my fork and stared at her.

  “Just tell me. What did you do?”

  Ali rolled her eyes. “Talk about the drama. Why does it have to be something I did? Maybe I just have some gossip.’

  “Nah, if that were it, you’d start with, ‘Do you know what I heard?’”

  “Bite me.”

  “Nice talk for a mom. C’mon, just tell me whatever it is.”

  “I don’t know if I want to anymore. You came home in a lousy mood, and now you’re making fun of me.” She pushed her chair back and picked up her plate and the empty potato bowl.

  “Yeah, well, I had an annoying afternoon.”

  Ali glanced back at me, interest etched on her face. “What happened? I thought you just went in to pick up the spark plugs.”

  “I did. Never mind, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Did you and Boomer have a lover’s spat?” She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. My sister liked to tease me that the garage owner and I had a relationship that was closer than just friends, mostly because we could talk about cars for hours on end. Hey, girls had their hairdressers and guys had their mechanics. It all worked out.

  “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. Stop trying to stall me. What’s happening?” I finished my last bite of chicken and began to clear the rest of the table.

  “Well ... it all started when Bridget brought home that painting last month. Remember? The one with all the flowers?”

  “Yeah.” It had been the most colorful piece of paper I’d ever seen, heavy with paint, but somehow more defined than what I expected from a little girl in first grade.

  “I ran into Mrs. Norcross, her teacher, the next day. We started talking about how Bridge has a talent for drawing. And painting. She was saying that it killed her that the kids don’t get art in school any more, at least not beyond what she does with them.”

  “When did they stop having art class? What happened to ...” I wracked my brain. “What was her name? Mrs. Downey?”

  “Sam, Mrs. Downey was ancient when you had her, and that’s been twenty years. They had an art teacher in the elementary school until two years ago, and then they had to cut the program. Not enough money.”

  “Huh.” I rinsed off my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does, especially when you consider none of the sports programs were touched.”

  “Sports have value, too.” I thought about my football coach from high school. Coach Trank had been the first person to show up at the house the morning after my parents had been killed. He’d stayed by my side through all the terrible decisions I’d had to make over the next few days—caskets, burial plots and church services—and even now, though he was retired and lived in Arizona, he called me every few months just to check in.

  “Well, sure, but nobody’s trying to get rid of them. But they stop funding an entire program and not one of us blinks. That’s not cool.”

  “Isn’t there an art teacher in town who could teach Bridget?”

  Ali poured powdered soap into the detergent compartment of the dishwasher and closed it up with a click, pushing the start button. “Not that I know of. And even if there were, private lessons aren’t in our budget. You know that.”

  I winced. The family farm and food stand, plus rent for the land we’d leased out to neighboring farms, paid most of the bills and kept us fed, but extra money wasn’t something we ever had to worry about. I wished I could’ve afforded to give my sister and her daughter every advantage, but it wasn’t realistic. Not yet.

  “But no worries. Because I think I found the solution today.” Ali walked over to the desk, slid up the roll top, pulled out a glossy red brochure and handed it to me.

  “ArtCorps.” I flipped it over. “What is this, some kind of military school?”

  “No, silly.” She pointed to a list of bulleted points. “It’s a really cool volunteer program. Art students are sent into under-served communities to teach the kids. Right now, it’s new, and they’re just offering a summer course, but if it ends up taking off, Burton could apply for a year-round teacher.”

  “Okay.” I gave her back the brochure. “So do you have to apply? Or I guess the school does.”

  “Any member of the community can request a student artist. We had a meeting of the home and school association today, and we voted unanimously to apply.” She brought her thumb up to her mouth and bit the side of it, and instantly I was on guard. Biting her thumb was Ali’s tell. I didn’t have the whole story yet.

  “And ... ?” I prompted.

  She sighed and then spoke in one long sentence without coming up for a breath. “And the one condition is that room and board has to be covered by the community, meaning that the student artist has to live with someone in town for the summer. And I volunteered us.”

  I groaned. “Aw, Ali, why us? We don’t even live close to the school.”

  She pulled out one of the chairs from the table and sat down. “For two reasons. One, if someone didn’t volunteer, we couldn’t send in the application, and no one else was stepping up. Two, and this is key, if the art teacher lives with someone else, Bridget will get to learn in class, with other kids, and that’s great. But if the teacher lives here, with us ...” She smiled, wide and wicked. “Then Bridge gets the class and she has access to that teacher on off-hours. It’s like getting free private lessons.”

  “But a stranger living with us all summer?” I flipped a chair around and straddled it, leaning my hands on the back. “What if it’s someone ... weird?”

  “Sam, seriously. Why would you assume that? And the program is world-wide, so we could actually get a student from France or Spain ... wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  All I could picture was trying to talk to some Goth-looking chick who couldn’t understand me. “And just how are we suppose to communicate with an art student from France? Neither of us speaks anything but English. Georgia English.”

  “All the student volunteers are English-speaking. And maybe you’d learn something, too. Imagine that.”

  I pushed back the chair. “I don’t need to learn anything else. I’m fine like I am.”

  Ali sighed. “Okay, but are you all right with us doing this? I promise, I’ll try to make it so you’re not bothered. She—or he, you know, it could be a guy—can stay down here in Grandma’s room.” And then she pulled out the big guns, her l
ips curving into that huge winning smile that had been twisting me around her finger all our lives. “Think of what a great opportunity it’ll be for Bridget.”

  “Okay, okay.” I held out my hands, palms toward her. “Fine. I surrender. Pierre Le Pew can stay here all summer and enlighten the young minds of Burton.” I stood up and flicked her nose. “Just don’t expect me to wear a beret.”

  I’M A MUTTERER.

  Ever since I was a little kid, I muttered. According to my mom, when other toddlers were throwing temper tantrums, I was sitting in the corner, my arms folded over my chest, talking low to myself about the injustices of life. She swore it came from spending too much time with Sadie, the gray-haired dynamo who, along with her husband Mack, had worked in our family restaurant for generations. Sadie had a tendency to walk around wiping down tables, talking to herself. Since I’d hung out with her at the Rip Tide since I was a baby, it wasn’t surprising I’d picked up some of her bad habits.

  I muttered all the way from Boomer’s garage in the middle of Burton, down the empty country roads and into the rush-hour traffic of Savannah. And I was still at it when I stalked into our apartment and slammed the door behind me.

  “Hey.” Laura glanced over her shoulder from the stove, where she was stir-frying something that smelled delicious. “You get the car back okay?”

  “Hmph.” I threw my handbag onto the sofa and flopped down next to it. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “What’s the matter?” She leaned her elbows on the counter and frowned at me. “Was Boomer a creep? Did he over-charge you?”

  “No, and no. The price was more than reasonable, and he seemed like a good guy.” I scowled and jiggled my leg up and down, all my pent-up frustration waiting to burst out. “I ran into your hero while I was there.”

  “My hero? Who ... oh, Sam? That’s funny, that you ran into him. Isn’t he nice?”

  “No, nice is not the word I’d use for him. He was a jerk.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

  “He called me immature and irresponsible. He said I wasn’t a good friend to you. What did you tell him about me? I felt like he was ready to string me up and brand me with a scarlet D.”

  “D?” Her forehead wrinkled.

  “Yeah, for drunkard. He said I was an idiot and that I put you in danger and ... I don’t know, there was more.” I sniffed. Now that my mad was subsiding, the hurt feelings were making themselves known.

  “Megs, I promise, I never said anything. I mean, he knew you were wasted because you were passed out in the front seat. But I never said anything else. Just that maybe you’d had a little too much rum. I wasn’t upset about it.” She rounded the breakfast bar and sat down next to me on the sofa. “C’mon, you know I’d never complain about being your designated driver. You’ve done it for me enough.”

  “That’s what I said. God, Lo, he was so mean. I’ve never had anyone who I just met hate me like that.”

  “Yeah, it usually takes at least a month.” Laura elbowed me in the ribs, and I couldn’t help a tiny smile.

  “Whatever, bitch.” I closed my eyes, drew in a long, deep breath and then let it out in a whoosh. “Okay. I am officially letting it go, forgetting about him. Tell me what you’re making over there. It smells yummy.”

  “Veggie stir-fry. You sit still, I’ll bring it over.”

  I didn’t have to be told twice not to move. My temper was legendary among friends and family, but after the worst hit me, I was drained.

  “I’d offer you a glass of wine, but we all know what a lush you are. If I give you something to drink, you might go off and be irresponsible and immature again.”

  “That’s me. Don’t forget thoughtless. And idiotic.”

  Laura set down our food on the coffee table, and we ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “You’re brooding.” Laura laid her chopsticks across the plate. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

  I lifted one shoulder. “It just took me by surprise, I think. I was kind of happy to see him when he walked in, you know? To say thank you for his help, and then he just jumped all over me.”

  “Or maybe you wish he had. Jumped you, I mean.”

  I screwed up my face. “What are you talking about? I don’t even know him.”

  “Yeah, but what he said really bothers you. Meggie, I’ve heard people say horrible things about you right to your face. Nothing ever fazes you. You blow it off, or you laugh. Or both. But for some reason, what this stranger spouted off got under your skin. Don’t you wonder why?”

  “Are you saying it stung because there’s truth in it? Is this an intervention? Shouldn’t there be a sign?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’re not an alcoholic. I’m just saying maybe it’s not so much what he said but that it was Sam saying it.”

  “Why should it?”

  She smiled and raised one eyebrow. “Maybe he matters. Maybe you had some kind of ... instant connection. You know, like with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail. Even though he was obnoxious, she was drawn to him.”

  I shook my head. “Lo, give it up. This is real life, not a movie, and I wasn’t drawn to him. He’s the equivalent of a grouchy old man, only he’s not old. At least, not that old. And besides ...” I remembered his parting words to me. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back to that dinky little town.”

  IF I THOUGHT ABOUT Sam Reynolds at all over the next month, it was only a fleeting memory, some little stab of hurt pride as I fell asleep at night. Laura and I were both busy with finals and end-of-the-term projects, and some days we hardly saw each other. Sleep became a scarce commodity as I pulled more than one all-nighter at the studio.

  When I did see Laura, I could tell that she was walking around in a state of nerves and excitement. Brian was supposed to come back stateside at the end of May, and they’d planned for Laura to spend the summer living near his new assignment in North Carolina. Brian had to stay in the barracks on base, but Laura was sharing an apartment with one of his buddy’s girlfriends who lived there year-around. I knew she was counting the days until his return, even though she was nervous.

  “We haven’t seen each other in over a year.” She was sitting on our living room floor, laying out a chronological drawing project that was due the next day. “What if I’m not the person he expects to see when he gets back? What if we’ve both grown too far apart?”

  “Lo, get real. You talk to him once a week, you email all the time ... and I’ve never seen anything like the two of you. No, that’s not true.” I rolled to my side on the sofa, where I’d collapsed after a particularly grueling final exam. “My mom and dad were like that. When my mom came into a room, everything stopped for my dad. He only saw her, and it was the same for her with him. That’s going to be you and Brian. Forever.”

  She looked up at me, and I saw the understanding shining in her eyes. “Oh, sweetie, that’s about the most wonderful thing you could say to me. Thank you. I know it’s going to be okay. I’m just—” She put her hands to her cheeks. “You know, a bundle of nerves. Once I know Brian’s back here, on American soil, I’ll feel better. I can’t relax until then.”

  “Then we’ll just keep thinking about that. Just a few more weeks, right?” I grinned at her and pushed to sit up. “God almighty, I’m exhausted. That test wiped me out.” I reached for the coffee table to pick up my tablet. “I’m going to check my email real quick and then go to bed. I’m beat.”

  “I’ll be up for a while finishing this. Luckily, I can sleep late tomorrow morning.”

  I opened up my mail program and scanned the inbox. Junk, spam, a picture of my nephew DJ—I opened it fast and smiled at his sweet chubby face. More junk, something from ArtCorps—

  “Laura!” I jumped to my feet. “From ArtCorps! It’s my assignment for the summer.”

  She turned to look up at me. “What did you get? Arizona? New Mexico? Ooooh, SoCal?”


  “I don’t know, I haven’t looked yet. I’m almost too scared. I’ve been so excited about this. What if I get, like, the mid-west? Or Alaska? I don’t think I’m cut out to be an Inuit.”

  “Open it! Come on, inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath, pressed my hand to my fluttering heart and touched the message. My eyes skimmed down the page as I read the high points aloud. “Congratulations, happy to have you on board this project ... report June first, transportation ... supplies ...” My voice trailed off as I read the final paragraph.

  “No way. No. Fucking. Way.”

  “What? Tell me. Alaska?”

  I fell back onto the couch, dropping the tablet onto the cushion next to me. “Someone hates me. Maybe God. Maybe fate or whatever’s out there. I can’t fucking believe this.”

  “Meghan Hawthorne, tell me. Or I’ll come up there and smack it out of you.”

  I lifted my head and stared down at her. “You’re not going to believe it even when I tell you. Or maybe you will.” I swallowed hard and let my head drop to the sofa cushion. “ArtCorps has assigned me to Burton. Burton, Georgia.”

  Laura didn’t move. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way ...”

  Without another word, I handed her the tablet and watched her read the email. When she finished, she laid the tablet on the coffee table and gazed at me. “No fucking way. Well ...” She sat back on her heels. “At least you know the town has a decent bar, a place to dance and a trustworthy mechanic.”

  I flipped her the bird.

  “Nice. Can you ask them to change it? Switch you? Maybe they made a mistake.”

  I shook my head. “I can ask, but it won’t happen. When I signed up, I agreed that I’d work wherever they assigned me.”

  “You have to admit, this is weird. I mean, you’ve never been to Burton the whole time we’ve been in school here. Then we just happen to go to a bar, your car just happens to break down there ... and lo and behold, your assignment for the summer is that same town.”