The Last Maharajan (Romantic Thriller/Women's Fiction)

OTHER BOOKS BY SUSAN WINGATE

FANTASY

Way of the Wild Wood

The Deer Effect
(Psychological Thriller)

Troubled in Paradise
(Young Adult Romantic Fantasy)

MYSTERIES

Detective Ink
(A box set of New York Mysteries)

Of the Law
(Hard-boiled)

WOMEN’S FICTION

Drowning

The Bobby's Diner Series
(Women’s Sleuth)

Sacrifice at Sea
(Book Three)

Hotter than Helen
(Book Two)

Bobby's Diner
(Book One)

NONFICTION

Tell Don’t Show: How to Successfully Break the Rules of Fiction

Learn more about Susan Wingate at:
www.susanwingate.com
and at Susan Wingate’s
Amazon.com
.

Critical Acclaim

"Labeling Susan Wingate as Chick Lit is akin to accusing Steven King of freelancing for Harlequin!

... a gritty little book, with outstanding characters and a plot that is so strange, I could actually see it happening in real life... written with panache... a great read and Wingate has done a fabulous job of both plot and character development... a book that has wide appeal... score 5 stars. I loved the plot, loved the characters, and ...can find no fault... and the story flows." -Simon Barrett

"The narrator’s voice is very genuine and compelling. Strong women are always appealing, and these are two very strong women. Wingate develops [the story] with a lovely, light touch... Wingate handles the narrative with such ease. [The reader is] drawn to her honesty.

Brava, Susan. - Phyllis Schieber is the author of “Willing Spirits” and “The Sinner’s Guide to Confession”

“Susan Wingate shows an understanding of human nature well beyond what is normally seen in a novel. She has a mastery of dialogue that I find refreshing–I felt as though I was right there, listening. It isn’t often I find dialogue so true-to-life. Between her mastery of dialogue and understanding of human nature, Susan Wingate held me captive... you will find yourself saying “Just one more chapter” over and over again. It is one of those rare books you won’t want to put down. I look forward to reading more of Ms. Wingate’s work.” – Joyce Anthony (author of “Storm” and blog mistress of Books & Authors blog)

"A breathtaking story that will fill you with joy and laughter... a great read for any book lover.” - A Review by Coffee Times Romance gives “Bobby’s Diner” a 4-cup review – An Outstanding Great Read!

"...Susan Wingate is probably the new Queen of the murder mystery. Her literary skills are masterful and her command of the human psyche is remarkable. Certainly I will be looking forward to more material out of this author in the future. -Cameron Cowan (BloggerNews Network)

"Just amazing detail and sense of personality... this is writing of the finest quality, advancing story and psychological sense of character." -Michael Collins (author of Keepers of Truth, Lost Souls, and Death of a Writer)

2015 Copyright © Susan Wingate THE LAST MAHARAJAN

2011, 2012, 2013 Copyright © Susan Wingate (previously published as award-winning novel, Drowning)

All rights reserved. First eBook edition, The Last Maharajan

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without special permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or real places are purely coincidental.

Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

Book Design and Editing by Roberts Press

Published by Roberts Press (an imprint of False Bay Books) at Kindle

www.robertsbookpress.com

Books are available for special promotions. For details email [email protected]

For mothers & daughters everywhere

Who may not always see

Eye-to-eye.

THE LAST MAHARAJAN

PROLOGUE – CHILD’S PLAY

I took my last breath
on a blistering hot day but it felt cool. The second my brother pushed me in, when my feet left the deck, I reacted – my body curving and twisting into correct formation and diving with my fingertips first into the sweet welcome contrast of the pool’s frigid water. Young bodies are like that – supple and quick to respond.

He didn’t get away with it. He didn’t win. See, I decided to play a trick on him for pushing me.

Each millimeter, every dry molecule of my skin became drenched as I dove beneath the surface, deep, deeper to the bottom. I stayed down longer than necessary and the funny thing was? It made me happy down there.

A beating drum pounded my chest with music

from the party above and voices sounding like Charlie Brown’s cartoon mother saying
wah wah wah
, swallowed up their words and muffled through a filter of water.

After deciding my time spent below had been long enough, I pushed off the scratchy surface of the pool but there were so many people floating, dog- paddling, coursing the length of the pool, re- surfacing, it reminded me of a fantastical dance, maybe one performed only in heaven, hanging over my head. But, I knew I could hold my breath a long time. We had breath-holding-contests in the shallow end of our pool, at home, all the time.

My heart began to race harder from excitement when I noticed the overload of vibrant swim suits, bodies, and legs – the water saturated with color and movement. I felt like I wanted to stay down there forever and the thick thump in my heart continued. Siphoning down, as I sat on the pool’s floor, the muffled drumming of music and disguised chatter above me and people, adults and kids alike playing, laughing, living was mesmerizing!

That’s when the trick turned on me.

I sort of remember slipping away when that man lifted me up through the water. Then, I saw mother standing beside me, then in front of me as I stood behind her or to the right or left and above her, whichever my new eyes took me. She crumbled. Slumped, over my body that way and cried but it didn’t make me sad. It didn’t make me feel anything. I just watched. I just watched.

I had been taunting my brother terribly. He was making eyes at a girl there. I jeered and chanted at him, “Two little love birds sittin’ in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

He yelled for me to stop but I wouldn’t and mocked him over and again with my silly song. He turned to me with a raised hand and his face turned beet red. Frozen, waiting for his hand to connect, my eyes got wide--wider than wide. My mouth shut tight waiting for the inevitable slap but then I could see his hand only threatened. He smirked slightly so I said to him, “Why don’t you marry her?”

That’s when he pushed me. I screamed and giggled and went under. I could see from below that he walked off in the direction of the girl. The water blanketed me. I swam deeper but stopped midway to watch him as he walked to the end of the pool toward the girl. She was sun-bathing on the diving board and he stood over her and placed his hands on his hips then he stuck out one hand for her to shake. When she took it, I spun like a mermaid and dove deeper to the floor. Even down there I smelled the tart burn of chlorine inside my nose.

People jumped in above me. Everything turned into a kaleidoscope of bodies, a ballet. My head began to pound from the pressure. But I stayed just a little longer, five more seconds, I kept saying to myself, just five more seconds.

At home, we used to blow out all of our air to make our bodies sink, so we could sit on the bottom of the pool. What little air was left in my lungs (having performed this stunt many times before), I figured it would be fine. I sat on the drain and watched the show above me. I wasn’t down all that long, three minutes, maybe four. That’s all.

You know? We’re allowed few memories from our time spent on earth. My memories are of the moments before I died, those wavy twinkles, when I was exuberant with joy and of my brother and sister, my mother and father.

I felt doze-y and wanted to come up but the effort of merely standing squeezed my chest. I tried to push off the bottom but rose only a few inches. I had no float! The air was depleted from me and the pool was far deeper than any other I had ever swum in. I tried to rise but realized I might be in for some trouble. I tried to climb a wall but gravity’s hands kept holding me down. And, my young arms couldn’t reach the ladder when I stretched out, and I stretched.

Energy trickled out of me. My neck and arms ached as though I were carrying an elephant. I tried once more to reach the ladder and it was at that point my body took over. It jerked in odd movements as if I owned it no longer. As my body twisted my legs and arms flailed. My lungs surrendered and I took in my first deep breath. I swallowed too. The water flowed in so easily through my nose, then in past my throat, finally filling my chest. My body convulsed again searching for air and finding none. Once again I sucked in water, swallowed more, and for a mere second I felt fear and, then, all my fear was gone.

I watched my body float aimlessly. It coasted for seconds, with my face pointed toward the floor. It floated like this until the man grabbed me and swam up, lifting me out of the pool.

That was the last time they held one of those big parties, those Maharajans, because of me, because I taunted my brother. It’s a shame really.

They’ll never understand how happy those last few moments for me were. They’ll never understand how beautiful it was to hear people's laughter and singing, to see all those bodies and colors above me, dancing, and living! Through my water lens.

"Dying is something we human beings do continuously, not just at the end of our physical lives on this earth." – Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

CHAPTER ONE

Why would she lie? Why now, knowing she was going to die?

Somehow Belle's words felt contrived, forced. Euly Winger had been calling her mother Belle since around the age of fourteen. When Belle showed signs that Euly could treat her as an equal.

Her mother's words rung like an indictment, allowing a wisp of a notion making Euly recoil from something that happened long ago, evoking a lingering emotion in Euly, a dreamy memory, caught somewhere between the dead and the living and equally unattainable to conjure.

What was it her mother said? The exact phrase, the exact placement of words, the first one and then the next, that stirred in her such a strong reaction?

“He’s your brother.” Was it that simple? No, she had added the word "probably" and, with emphasis. Euly remembered how, when Belle spoke, her breath leached out a rancid, metallic odor grown from all the intravenous drugs pumping into her, drugs keeping her alive.

Her veins looked larger against her pale mottled alabaster skin, accenting the clear plastic lines stabbed into her arms, covered by white paper tape to hide where the needles had been inserted.

No. That's not what she said. Belle's exact phrase was, “He’s probably your brother.” There it was. And Euly's mind roller-coastered back to a spot, an exact time, location, and age--the way the scent of mown grass takes you back in a specific point in your history, to your childhood.

Belle had said it as if to sentence her father, yet again, for their divorce. A divorce that happened so many years ago, a lifetime really, that Euly wondered how it could still bother her mother. But it did.

She stared into her cup dunking her teabag as she tried to put the pieces of yesterday's conversation back in order and wondering if her mother had tasted the hate drooling off of her tongue.

Belle's year-old diagnosis felt like a slap across Euly’s face--a swift year that blew by like a fleeting Santa Ana. And, what made it worse? The doctors now gave Belle less than a month. If that.

CHAPTER TWO

Under the quiet blanket of early morning, visions of the past reeled up in foggy fragments from some dusty pigeonhole in Euly's mind. On mornings like these she allowed ghosts to float in and summon up distant scenes. This morning’s scene, from some forty years before, was one she’d pressed into a scrapbook – a dried-out rose of a vague history she’d long ago ironed and stowed away, banished, for her own sanity--dragged at her. The corpse, resurrected, felt like a cement block with an anchor chain linking them together, attached to her ankle holding her under water, and keeping her from reaching the surface for air.

Euly sat snugged into an arm of the den’s fleecy sofa. In both hands, she hugged her first cup of tea, her ritual. She often sat this way, in the dark of the morning, since she’d moved to the small northwest island, when dull hours hid her and the sun hadn’t fully burned through the veil of the waning night.

With a spotlight shining on those living inside the bell jar of her island, Euly existed under the finite walls of a snow globe--that maddening sense of claustrophobia. With waters licking the entire surround of the small lone island and no bridges to connect people who lived there to humanity on the mainland and travel only by boat or plane, Euly felt trapped.

But, why it mattered to her anymore, she wasn’t sure since she rarely left. She landed on the tiny islet ten years ago in 1997 when she ran away from the city and her ex-husband. The trade-off had good and bad points. It too came with skeletons.

Like the bungalow outside calling to her. Now, merely a place set aside for houseguests, the cottage stood alone and empty. A stark contrast from before when it was filled with life, art and music, tangled together in a gorge of magic--Belle's home before her exile to the hospice.

Now, only a husk remained--a locust shell--as Belle Masada spent her final days deposited in a place, a terminus, for the sick and dying.

These days the cottage sat dark and barren on their property like stagnant water reminding Euly that time was not in her mother’s favor.

With her legs crooked to her chest, Euly kept her feet warm by pulling on the knobby pair of woolen socks she’d left on the ottoman the night before. While she sat in the corner of the sofa next to the red-hot fireplace she remembered, not too long ago the fireplace would’ve needed a cedar log and stoking but now a simple remote controller kept the gas on and a fire glowing hot.

She gazed into the flame and seemed to melt into the moment with her dog and cat nestled close by.

Outside, birds beckoned to each other in a scurry within the woods. She turned her head from the glow and gazed through the French door’s mullioned window to see if she could spot the noisy culprits but the gunmetal gray morning made silhouettes tarnish into colorless shards when she tried to focus her eyes. She noticed how birds of the northwest, seemed fewer in number than in Phoenix.

Three years after the break-up of her first marriage, she’d remarried Geoff Winger. Euly wondered why she had done it. She wondered about it the day of their wedding and now, five years later, their relationship suffered all on its own.

Fearing the marriage would crumble, Geoff had planned for them a stay in Lebanon the coming spring. A gesture to her background, she supposed.

Considering the vacation caused Euly hope and concern all at the same time. The trip, intended to spark some renewed sense of romance, zigzagged between euphoria and dread for her. She loved to say she was traveling to the land of her family’s roots but, in the quiet of the morning like now, a dense numbing that hobbled her.