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  Flame

  The Sandstone Affair

  Part 3

  by

  Priscilla West

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Copyright © 2013

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: This work contains scenes of graphic sexual nature and it is written for adults only(18+). All characters depicted in this story are over 18 years of age.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 1

  “I have to go,” I say to Mark, trembling from the sudden shock. Looking around for my purse, I stop just long enough to see my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I look ghastly. I don’t have time to deal with that now.

  “What’s going on? Where are you going? I need you to keep me informed about what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not on my way to get arrested or anything,” I respond with biting sarcasm. I don’t know what makes me want to treat him so badly. I just know I need to get out of here now. “It’s my father. He’s in ICU. He’s had some sort of crash or stroke or something. I don’t know. They moved him from the Cancer Treatment Center to Mount Sinai. He…well…he’s….”

  “Shhh,” Mark puts his arm around me, knowing I can’t say the words out loud yet. I drink his comfort like warm tea for a moment and then go stiff in his embrace. I cannot let myself be weak. Not now.

  “I’m fine. It’s fine. I just need to get there.”

  “Do you want me to take you? I would be happy to get you some —”

  “No. I don’t need your help. I just need to go!”

  I walk straight out the door, closing it with a bang. I’m so afraid he is going to call down to the doorman or catch me coming out of the parking garage, I actually run to the car. It isn’t until I’m on the highway that I catch my breath and realize I just made a scene for no reason other than my total fear of being vulnerable in front of Mark. After all we have been through – the job, the arrest, the love, the sex – I have displayed every possible emotion in front of that man and still I ran from him. I just had to be the “strong one”.

  “Daddy’s strong girl,” I say out loud, stuck behind a bread truck in a traffic jam. I hate being stuck in this car with nothing but my thoughts. I’m losing Dad. I feel it, and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s never been a secret I was a “daddy’s girl” and I have always been closer to him. Dad’s so accepting, laid-back, and sure. He always had a plan and knew what to say.

  Mom was the uptight one. Everything had to be perfect, pristine and correct for her. She had everything she loved in life, and there was always that edge of unhappiness or emptiness in her. I never knew why, really. She kept everything to herself. Somehow, I always loved being with Dad, and yet, I realize now - I ended up so much like my mom. I remember swimming lessons. No matter how well I did, or how fast I went, Mom would always suggest I try harder, do better, or beat my last time. Dad would always say “I’m proud of you, honey” and let it go at that.

  My dad, always so proud of me – his strong little girl – and what I am I doing while he is slipping away? I’m having sex in a pool while my life’s work crumbles around me and falls into the hands of none other than Valerie James. I don’t know how he would feel about the whole sex thing. Even when I was engaged to Greg and we were living together my dad pretended I was still a virgin. But I know what he would say if I told him about Valerie James ending up with Lynx and everything I worked to achieve.

  “You started it,” he would say shaking his head. He says it every time my rivalry with Valerie is the topic of conversation. “You started the fight with her, honey, and one of these days she might just finish it.”

  Slowly the cars in front of me begin to lurch forward. It’s not fast enough for me to make much progress or even need to pay attention to the road, but as we say in New York – at least we’re moving. Oh, Daddy. I think you might be right this time. I think she is going to finish it, and finish me in the process.

  I met Valerie my senior year in college. I was a lead editor on the paper, and won a number of awards for investigative reporting and writing in college competitions. Dr. Louden, my advisor, said the journalism staff voted me “most likely to win a Pulitzer.” Then he told me the worst thing he could have ever said.

  “You’re the most talented journalist we’ve had here since Valerie James, and a close second to her too!”

  Close second? Close second? I wasn’t going to be second to anyone. Of course, it didn’t help that a few months later Valerie was invited to be a guest lecturer for one of our classes. She was the youngest assistant editor at Ladies World and was supposed to be giving us tips on what journalism was like in the “real world.”

  “It’s important to remember when you get out into reality that in college you write what you want to write, out there you must write what the reader wants to read,” she said. Everyone in class could only see her success. I saw challenge.

  “Wouldn’t you call that ‘catering to the masses’?” I asked pointedly.

  “I would call it good business, Miss…um…”

  “Sharp, Julia Sharp, Miss James. You might have read my work, I won the Hearst Journalism Award for Investigative Reporting this year with an expose on school charter programs.”

  “Nope, can’t say I’ve seen it,” Valerie responded blithely. “But I’m a professional editor now, not a student, so I read what I get paid to read.”

  The class chuckled politely and waited for her to go with the rest of her golden “how to” tips. But her superior attitude and over-use of the word professional was like waving the red cape in front of the bull. So, of course, I charged at her.

  “Really? You only do what you get paid to do? That doesn’t sound like journalism to me. It sounds more like prostitution.” The class gasped and Dr. Louden started walking toward the front of the room.

  “Excuse me? Did you just call me a prostitute, Miss Sharp? I will have you know I am both an accomplished writer and editor of a national magazine.”

  “Pffft, Ladies World,” I responded. “That’s not even journalism. Recipes and articles about stars and their pets, self-help tips for depressed housewives and gardening stories? The day is going to come when a smart women’s magazine that showcases real news comes along and wipes Ladies World off the rack.”

  “I doubt you’ll see that day, Miss Sharp. Because you’ll be working at Walmart which is the only place I can imagine would hire someone as rude as you,” she said, red in the face and furious. Dr. Louden intervened.

  “I can see we’ve gotten off track. Let’s take a five minute break and when we come back Miss James will talk about portfolios and what today’s publishers are looking for,” he said waving everyone out of the room. I stayed to talk with her more, but Dr. Louden motioned for me to go to his office.

  “We do not treat one of the most successful alumni of the school like THAT!” He sneered as he sat behind the desk with me standing there like a chastised child.

  “She works for a bloated, old-school kitchen rag. What could she possibly have that I would even care about?”

  “Oh my dear,” Dr. Louden laughed in a sinister way I’d never heard before. “You
may not like her style but she has more connections in this city than you have words in your vocabulary. I hope you like writing for the Oklahoma Shopper Express because when she’s done with you – they will be the only place that will take you.”

  Poor Dad. I railed and screamed and carried on about Valerie James every time I was denied a job. I talked about how corrupt the system was, how unfair life could be, how I was being oppressed because I was so much more talented than she had ever been. Every time I got told no, Dad would listen, and nod and say, “You started it.”

  Dr. Louden was wrong about me ending up writing ads at the Oklahoma Shopper’s Express. Even they wouldn’t hire me. So I did the only thing that I could do. I started the magazine that would wipe Ladies World off the racks. If only Valerie James hadn’t played dirty, Lynx would have been that magazine in only a few more years.

  I finally end up at the hospital and a volunteer guides me to my dad’s room. The nurse catches me right before I enter. She talks to me to prepare me mentally to see Dad in this condition.

  “He is heavily sedated and requires the breathing tube but is off the ventilator. He slips and out of consciousness,” she explains.

  “When will he be fully awake and alert again?” I ask hopefully. She looks down at the floor and bites her bottom lip. As an ICU nurse I’m sure she has said this stuff a hundred times but she genuinely looks like she cares.

  “He may never,” she says softly. “The treatment center has done all they can, and this last embolism has weakened him past where we may be able to bring him back. He can understand you sometimes, but he is going to be out of it more than in from this point forward.”

  “But you can still save him, right? He can turn the corner, can’t he?” I know I’m badgering her to tell me what I want to hear – what I need to hear.

  “I don’t know,” she says solemnly. “His eyes are open now, so why don’t you go in and spend some time with him while he’s awake.”

  “I…ah…I don’t know what to say,” I confess. She reaches out and puts a compassionate hand on my arm.

  “Tell him you’re here. Tell him you love him,” she says softly. “The best thing you can do with people is tell them you love them.”

  Even with her counsel, it’s hard walking into the room and seeing my dad this way. He looks so much smaller than I ever remember him being, withered and pale. The lights are dim and the machines hooked up to him glow eerily with patterns and numbers I will never understand.

  “Dad,” I say loudly as I take his hand in mine. It seems smaller than I recall. His eyes open about halfway and he gets a slight smile. “Dad, it’s Julia. I’m here, Dad. I’m here.”

  He squeezes my hand. He knows. After a few minutes his eyes close and breathing shallows to a steady even puff. I keep talking to him, remember old times, good times, how much he loved mom, and how much he means to me. The numbers don’t change, and I figure he’s out for a while.

  “There’s something I need you to know,” I say. “I started seeing Mark. I know you always liked him. To be honest, I wanted to like him too, but I guess I was still hurt from Greg. I see now that Mark is totally different. He’s smart and strong. He isn’t really impressed with me, at all. He challenges me. I guess that’s why I was so afraid of getting too close to him.”

  I stop for a moment, and check the machine again. No change. Finally I’ve found the one person I can share this with who won’t be able to judge me or talk me out of what I’m doing.

  “I’ve given him parts of myself. First it was just my body, but I think my heart may not be far behind. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I might actually be changing. Somehow, I think he might be healing me. I fight him, of course. But less and less. And I’m feeling more and more solid.”

  I check the machine again, no change. His eyes still closed, his breathing even. Then a shadow crosses his bed. It’s Mark.

  “How long have you been there?” I jump up. Oh my god! Did he just hear that?

  “I just got here,” Mark shrugs. “I was worried about you, and your father.” Despite what I said to my father, Mark’s surprise appearance instantly makes me put my defenses up.

  “Well, you need to go,” I hiss at him. “How dare you show up here? I told you I didn’t need you! Do you think my Dad needs to find out right now about our profane agreement? Aren’t patient files confidential? How did you even know to come here?”

  “I’m a rich man,” Mark says, rolling his eyes, “in a city that runs on money. It’s not hard for me to learn things. This is also not the first time I’ve visited your Dad, as you’re well aware. I doubt he will find anything profane in my presence here.”

  He’s right. Dad always did like him, and Mark was the one that helped to transfer Dad to Glenvale after all. He had as much a right to visit Dad as I had.

  “I’m sorry, Mark,” I’m acting like a harpy when the truth is I just don’t want him to know how deeply he’s affecting me. I’m just not ready to give him that yet. “I’m just overwhelmed, you know.”

  “I understand. I’ll wait in the waiting room for you. Take as long as you want.”

  “You don’t have to wait, I don’t need you.” I say without much conviction.

  “Says you,” Mark walks away leaving me alone with Dad.

  I feel Dad’s hand squeezing mine and look down to see him smiling again.

  “Julia,” he whispers. I lean to hear him. “I’m so glad.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “I’m glad you finally found a man worth you.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you,” my father says.

  His head leans back and eyes close once more. I wait for a while but he doesn’t stir again.

  Mark’s in the waiting room fussing with his cell phone when I walk out. I want him to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay. My vision blurs at the thought of sharing my pain with him, but I turn away and wipe my eyes.

  I quickly dart across the hall and take the side elevator out. Hopefully by the time he realizes I’ve left, I’ll be home in bed and he will get the hint that this part of my life, my pain, is off limits.

  Chapter 2

  Walking down the hall to my apartment door, I feel the weight of the past few days fold around me like a straight-jacket. Not just the relationship, the magazine, the arrest or my dad – but a combination of everything drains me. I look up to see a person standing by my door. I don’t bother calling the police or security. I know that shape, in darkness or light. It’s Mark.

  “How dare you follow me here,” I seethe, expecting him to withdraw or wither or apologize.

  He just smiles, “Follow you? I didn’t follow you. I beat you here! I need to get you a better map of the city.”

  “You need to leave me the hell alone,” I strike back. “I gave you my body and my compliance, not the title to my life like some cheap ass car you bought on a second hand lot.”

  “Julia, that’s not fair,” he says sternly. “There is not one thing about you or your life that is ‘cheap ass’ or ‘second hand’.”

  “Well I sure feel wrecked.”

  “Let’s go inside and talk this out.” Ever rational, Mark has no idea he’s just stepped onto the rollercoaster ride from hell.

  “I’m not letting you inside – my life, my body or my apartment. Take your map and your money and your shining armor and get the fuck away from my door before I call the cops.” I reach out and push his shoulder, tempting him. I don’t know if I want him to fight me, hug me, or push me back. I just want something to happen.

  “The way you’re acting, it’s you the cops would be taking into custody. Want that to happen again? Are you starting to like the feeling of zip ties, because I can bring some over if you like them.” His sarcasm cuts through me. Whatever I’m trying to manipulate him into being or doing, it’s not going to happen.

  I glance at his face, his jaw firmly set, clearly ready for the argument he expects fr
om me. But I don’t have the energy to fight anymore, not him, not now.

  “Just go, please.” I say half-heartedly.

  “Yes,” he says with a sigh. “Let’s both just go. Inside. Because I have some things to tell you and I’m not really sure you want your neighbors to hear any more than they already have.”

  I nod and let him in. He looks around my place and I realize I haven’t been home or cleaning very much. My table is covered with Paul Fries legal documents and notes. Two blouses and a bra hang over the back of my couch and an empty bottle of wine sits on the coffee table. If I had any sense at all I’d be mortified. But right now I’m so tired I barely care at all.

  “Well, have a seat.” I point the couch. He walks over, picks up my bra, folds it and places it neatly on the coffee table. He does the same with my blouses and then pats the cushion beside him.