Award-winning author, Kristin Hannah
creates her most spellbinding and
compelling novel yet. ..a passionate tale of obsession, redemption, and the magic of true love.
WAITING FOR THE MOON
She doesn't remember who she is or how she came to the mansion on the isolated Maine coast. Lost in a strange world filled with even stranger faces, Selena finds comfort in a man whose eyes reflect her own aloneness.
He is Ian Carrick, a brilliant physician turned recluse, hiding from life in the anonymity of this small sanctuary, haunted by a telepathic gift that has destroyed his desire to heal.
Selena comes to him, the only person he's ever met who is immune to his psychic powers. A mesmerizing innocent, she turns his life upside down, bringing light into the darkness and laughter into the silence. For her, he begins to believe in life again, to believe in himself. And then a mysterious figure from the past arrives, threatening to destroy their glorious love and the fantasy world they have created together...
U.S.$5.99/Canada$6.99
ISBN D-44cl-mTDcl-ci
By Kristin Hannah Published by Fawcett Books:
A HANDFUL OF HEAVEN
THE ENCHANTMENT
ONCE IN EVERY LIFE
IF YOU BELIEVE
WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES
WAITING FOR THE MOON
1
WAITING
FOR THE
MOON
Kristin Hannah
Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.
FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL . NEW YORK
To the best brother in the world, Kent. This one's for you.
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright � 1995 by Kristin Hannah
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-90426
ISBN 0-449-14909-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: November 1995
10 987654321
To Tom and Lori Adams, friends and hosts extraordinaire, who first told me about the Shakers.
And always, to Benjamin and Tucker.
Prologue
THE COAST OF MAINE, 1882
He was an old, old man, and he thought he'd seen it all. For seventy-one years he had fished these icy waters of the Atlantic, as had his father and his father before him. He'd braved the angry sea as it crashed and howled along his beloved coast, gone out in his small, flat-bottomed dory into the sleeping blue giant when the fog was so thick he couldn't see his own hands. But he'd never been afraid out here until today.
The woman scared him.
He glanced at her from beneath the snagged brim of his cap, trying to hide his interest. He needn't have bothered. She seemed to have forgotten his existence.
He tried to think of something to say to her, to this strange, fey beauty who sat like a silent Madonna in his rocking, scarred little boat, a dozen old lobster traps in need of paint clustered around her.
She sat slumped over, beaten somehow, her pale hands clasped against the rough brown wool of her cloak, her sad gaze fixed on the sharp line of the horizon.
Blue water slapped the dory, sprayed over the high sides, and puddled on the floor at her feet, but she didn't bother to move her scuffed boots out of the wet-
ness.
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2
He waited for her to say or do something. But she just sat there, staring, staring. Long, wavy strands of reddish brown hair whipped along her pale cheeks, caught on the fullness of her lower lip. The odd, nearly transparent white bonnet that hid her chignon fluttered with the breath of the wind.
"That's Purgatory," he said at last, pointing at the craggy, lonely crown of granite that pushed up from the sea, its cliffs ringed in the white foam of a pounding surf.
She nodded silently.
He maneuvered his small craft toward the island, his eyes narrowed against the bright sun. The island wavered and danced before his gaze, seeming one moment to disappear amidst the swelling tide of the sea, then to thrust up again like a proud fist. It was the last rampart of land, this place; beyond it, the Atlantic stretched into the distant horizon. As they neared the lonely island, the pounding hammer of the surf became louder. The swells crashed against the stone cliffs, sending spray higher, higher.
"I'll go around to the bay side, miss. 'Tis a quieter place to land."
"No," she said sharply, in a voice unexpectedly throaty and full. A barmaid's voice from an angel's face. "I'll get out on this side. It doesn't matter now."
"But, 'tis rough, miss�"
She turned to him then, and there was nothing sad or lonely or lost in her eyes now, there was simply determination. Cold and hard and uncompromising. "Shall I get out and swim, sir?"
For a moment, he couldn't respond.
She sighed and began gathering her skirts.
"No! Th-There's a slight cove to the starboard. I can manage a landing there, but 'twill be bumpy."
She laughed, a hollow, empty sound that frightened him. "It will not bother me, I assure you."
He drew his gaze away from her eyes and scanned
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the rocky shoreline. He knew from experience that he could manage a landing alongside one of the rain pools that gave the westernmost tip of the island a deceptive look of calm, but it wouldn't be easy. And it wouldn't be safe.
He shouldn't do it. Should tell her to go hang herself, he was the captain of this boat, such as it was.
He turned to tell her as much, met her gaze, and fell into her sadness. Fifty years of his life fell away in that look; suddenly he was a young man again, and he couldn't let her down.
"H-Hang on, miss," was all he said, then he focused his full concentration on beaching the dory.
The sea fought him, tried time and again to push him back, but the old man fought harder, repeatedly maneuvering his craft toward the rocky outcropping at the western edge of the island. For a split second, the water hesitated, drew back, and the boat surged forward. He heard the whining scrape of the wooden hull as it slid across the smooth granite and bounced to a stop.
The woman didn't move.
"Miss?"
Slowly, so slowly, she looked up, and he saw the tears she made no effort to hide. "I shall be damned," she said softly, her throaty voice catching on the curse.
Then, with a dancer's grace, she rose to her feet in the precariously balanced boat and stepped onto the firm curl of granite. For the first time, he noticed the small drawstring bag that hung from her pale wrist. She slid the purse from her arm and eased it open, withdrawing a handful of wrinkled dollars and a ring.
"Here," she said, shoving her fist toward him.
The money flapped in the breeze. He frowned. "You can pay me when we land safe on the mainland, miss. And anyway, that's far too much. . . ."
She looked beyond him and gave a small, involuntary shudder. Reluctantly he turned, followed her gaze with his eyes. She was looking at Dead Man's Bluff, a forty-
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five-foot concave cliff of stone. Then he looked
back at
her.
"If you don't take the money from me now, I shall open my fist and let it go."
He licked his chapped lips, completely at a loss.
"Fine."
He surged toward her fist and grabbed hold just as her fingers loosened. His old, gnarled hand closed around hers, and he felt the warm, damp heat of her flesh. And suddenly they were connected.
She drew her hand back sharply.
He slowly opened his hand. Atop the money was a plain, unadorned band of gold. " Tis a wedding ring," he said quietly, meeting her gaze.
The smile she flashed was thin and strained. "Those in the world would call it such."
He blinked, lost in the need to say something, anything, that would reach her. Nothing came to him except a soft plea. "Come back with me, miss."
"Do not worry overmuch about me, sir. Take your wife on holiday with the money, give her the ring as a token of love�that is, I believe, its purpose, after all." For a moment, her smile softened. "You have children,
yes?"
He nodded. "Three daughters in Portsmouth."
"Children." She said the word with a quiet, subtle reverence that tugged at his heart. "Go see them. Hold them ... tell them how much you love them."
Before he could think of anything to say, she drew back and pulled the misshapen hood around her head. "Good-bye."
Head held high, body stiff, she picked her way across the slick, rocky outcropping of stone toward the cliffs. He watched her get smaller and smaller, a pale, dark shadow against the bright sun, moving up the scrubby embankment and over the granite shelving, to the top of the island.
Frowning, he tented a hand across his forehead to cut
out the sun�s glare. He wondered briefly what she needed to see out there on that lonely point. She�d said she was an artist and merely wanted to see the view, but he didn�t believe her. For a second, he lost sight of her. Then, as if by magic, she reappeared, a slender slash of darkness against a deep blue sky, Her cape billowed out behind her, filled by the breeze.
She stepped closer to the edge of the rock.
And suddenly he knew what she was going to do. �Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,� he whispered.
She brought her hands to her throat, and in seconds the cape was free, twisting and dropping through the sky, buffeted by the wind before it landed in a bubbled heap on the turbulent surface of the water. Then it was gone.
"Miss!" he screamed with all his might, but it was useless. The wind erased his feeble, old man's voice, swallowed it as easily as the sea had taken her cloak. She moved closer to the edge and ripped off her silly white cap, tossing it into the air. Her hair tumbled down, whipped out behind her. And she jumped.
Horror washed through him in a wave so cold, so all-encompassing, that for a second he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.
She wanted to die. The truth hit him like a cold, hard slap . . . and he had helped her do it.
He jerked around and tore for the dory, diving in. Pain shot up his knees as he hit the plank seat and yanked his oars into place. Furiously he rowed into the surf and spun the long, narrow craft around. Two old lobster traps slid into one another with a thumping scrape and plopped into the water, sinking. Cold water smacked the side of the boat, splashed his face, stung
his eyes.
"I'm coming, miss," he yelled. With strong, sure strokes, he powered through the two-foot swells,
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searching frantically until he saw her. A dark shadow on the surface of the water.
He fought the tide and forced the dory forward. She lay there, facedown, floating on the swell like a broken doll. He flung the oars into the center of the boat and twisted around, reaching down into the icy, swirling water. He grabbed a handful of her hair, wrapping the long, wet mass around his knuckles. Breathing deeply, gathering his old man's strength, he pulled her into the boat.
She lay as if dead, her hair and throat veined with slimy, yellow-green kelp, her arms limp and flung out from her body.
Gently he peeled the curtain of hair and seaweed from her face. Oh, Jesus . . .
A roiling knot of nausea clutched his gut. Her beautiful face was unrecognizable. Blood trickled from her left ear, puddling beneath her head in a bright red pool. It was horribly red next to the pale blue-whiteness of her skin. The whole left side of her face was bruised and bloodied and scraped, as if she'd hit a submerged rock with her head.
With shaking hands, he leaned down to her, listened for the whisper of her breath.
She was breathing. Shallowly, desperately, but it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. She gagged and spit up seawater.
He let out a huge sigh of relief. Moving slightly, he twisted around and slipped a hand behind her head, positioning her more securely on the plank seat. She gagged, her body spasming slightly at the movement.
When he drew his hand back, it was covered in blood.
His whole body started to shake. He wrenched off his shirt and tied it around her head as tightly as he could manage to stem the bleeding.
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"What now?" he cried to God, to the sea, to himself.
What now?
Old Doc Mather couldn't handle a case like this.
Who could? Her skull was cracked and she was probably going to die. No one could save her ... no one could make this crazy, beautiful woman whole again.
Crazy-
The word was a gift from the God he'd prayed to for
seventy-one years.
He knew where she belonged.
Chapter One
Dr. Ian Carrick removed his small, wire-rimmed spectacles and set them down on the desk. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he let out an exhausted sigh. Sheets and sheets of expensive paper covered with inky scribblings lay sprawled in front of him and on the floor, heaped in disorderly piles. His microscope sat at his elbow, hunched over like an old man, the slides in readiness beside it.
He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his scotch, glancing down at the mess of papers before him. The title blurred before his tired eyes. Blood refusion in the treatment of carbonic oxide poisoning. "Fascinating," he said bitterly. He didn't know why he bothered. No one in New York cared what he had to say anymore. His last paper on the causes of puerperal septicemia had been largely ignored by everyone except his friend Dr. Halstead.
He grabbed his glass and got to his feet. Paper scattered beneath his feet, skidded out of the way as he moved away from the desk. At the window he paused, glanced outside at the storm gathering force along his forbidding, rocky stretch of coastline.
Wind and rain hammered the roof, shook the old windows of the house, and moaned through cracks in the siding. Misshapen shrubs and spindly pines curled
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FOR THE
15
around the perima by the bluish light He threw the why rain hit his face, blui was the shifting darki of the moon. Wind > against his cheek in a w against the rocks, soakev creep along the shoreline.
It was the kind of night that used to encourage him to jump on his horse and ride row ... or cajole a lady im . .-�*"�'''
The kind of night that used to fire his soul and fuel his energy and make him think he was a god.
He drew back, closing the window, wishing to hell he had another bottle of scotch. Anything to end the cursed
loneliness . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned heavily against the wall. Draining the cheap glass, he let it slip through his fingers, heard it hit the hardwood floor with a satisfying crash. Running a hand through his hair, he stared out at the shifting sea, watched the painted tips of the waves break against the black rock of his beach.
Once, he'd never been alone. Memories of that life were becoming hazy, dulled by the dark isolation of his existence now, but he could still recall that he'd been in constant motion, talking, laughing, drinking, making love. He remembered that life as a staccato series of images�rich clothing, Bacc
arat crystal, naked flesh. He'd moved from elegant party to glittering ball with the jerky, fleeting motion of a butterfly, desperately seeking something he could never name. Always in the limelight, always the center of attention. So rarely alone. He'd thought then that he was urbane, sophisticated, bored by everything save the all-consuming passion of his medicine. But he'd been wrong.
Hell, he hadn't even known what boredom was in
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those halcyon days, or what horror was, even though he'd looked at death every day for years. He hadn't understood horror or regret until the day his life ended in a spray of blood and betrayal and dishonor. If he'd known then what he knew now .. .
A knock at the door saved him from his dark thoughts.
He straightened, pushed away from the wall. "Come in."
The door opened slowly, just a crack at first. "Dr. Carrick?"
He rolled his eyes. "No, it's Mr. Hyde."
"Yes .. . right, sir." The door eased open, and his plump, gray-haired housekeeper waddled into his sanctuary, bearing a tray of steaming food. The familiar smell of baked beans and ham wafted in with her. She squinted, moved slowly forward. " 'Tis rather dark in here, Doctor."
"Yes, Edith, it is."
"Of course, you like it that way."
"Yes, Edith, I do."
She bustled into the room, her tray held like an offering. As she reached the desk, her foot caught on the edge of the Oriental carpet and she was flung forward. Without thinking, Ian reached out for her, grabbed her fleshy arm.
He knew it was a mistake instantly. His hands seemed to burst into flames at the touch. He staggered and snatched his arm back, but it was too late.
The vision hit him hard. Edith yanking a half-empty bottle of whiskey from her husband's gnarled fingers .. . her screeching shout, "Get that whore out of our bed." The bitter, wrenching sound of her sobs . . .
As if from far away, he heard her quiet gasp. The tray clattered onto his desk, sugary brown sauce dripped over the braided silver rim and bled onto a piece of paper.
And then the pictures were gone. "Damn it," Ian
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hissed, fisting his hands to stop the ssating heat in his fingertips faded.
Poor Edith looked as if she might retch, Doctor. I stumbled ... I didn't mean ... spun in a rustling twirl of heavy fabric and the
door, slamming it shut behind her.
Ian closed his eyes and sagged forward. A dull, thudding pain beat at the base of his skull, deepening with each shallow breath he took.
How long could he go on? he wondered for the millionth time. How long could a man exist, closeted away in a murky darkness, touching no one, never being touched?
That first year after the "accident," he thought he'd go mad with it, thought the damned psychic ability would simply swallow him whole and he would fade away.
Nothing so dramatic had happened, however, and after a while he'd stopped expecting it to, stopped expecting anything at all. He'd simply gone on, living, breathing, sleeping, eating.
Pretending .. .
He had died on a Sunday. The Sabbath.
When Ian looked back on it now�which he did with morbid regularity�he remembered that it had been such an ordinary day. So damned ordinary. Sunny and bright, the air crisp with the coming of winter.
Waiting for the Moon Page 1
