Losing the Moon

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “Yeah, you already said he takes care of you. I didn’t realize you needed someone to take care of you. Was it that easy, in a year, to fall in love again?”

  “Do not do that—act like I left you and fell in love. I thought you were gone, really gone. I thought you’d left me. Until my parents died, it was the most horrible thing that I’d ever been through—thinking I’d been abandoned. And Phil wasn’t the most horrible anything. He was kind.”

  “And simple.”

  “Don’t confuse simple with kind.” Her lips were a tight thin line.

  “I’m sorry.” The warmth of the wine filled his chest, so he could tolerate Amy’s confession of love for another man.

  “Nick, there really is no reason to rehash this. To—”

  “I want to know. I want to fill in all those blank spaces where I imagined what you were doing.”

  “And you . . . what you were doing?”

  “I was in jail, Amy.”

  “No, after that. You married Eliza. You chose that. I wasn’t married yet.”

  “I was so livid, Amy.” He slammed his glass on the table. Red wine splashed over the rim. “I thought you ignored my telegrams, ran off with some new guy. I was not gonna come flying back to the States to have you tell me in person what a schmuck I was, how I screwed up by killing someone, how you were in love with someone else.”

  “So there you go. You found your comfort in Eliza. You married her.”

  “She did so much . . .”

  Amy held up her hand, swallowed the remainder of her wine. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Do you want to get something to eat? Oysters?”

  “No, I’m really not hungry now. I need to go back to the dorm. I have an early field trip . . . papers to grade. It’s getting late.”

  “Amy, I’m going to try to find the lawyer . . . ask him why he never sent the telegrams . . . never got through to you.”

  “Don’t go there. It won’t make any difference.”

  He leaned across the table. “Don’t you want to know why? Make some sense of this?”

  Amy closed her eyes. He wanted to lean forward and kiss the same eyelids he had once kissed goodbye in an airport.

  She opened her eyes. “I really do have to go.”

  “I’ll walk you back.”

  “Okay, yes, that’d be okay.”

  They walked in silence under waved cones of gaslight, through darker places where he reached for her back, to steady her, touch her. The click of her shoes echoed over cobblestones and concrete as they wove their way through the streets.

  Nick searched for something to say that was not desperate, begging. One more word, touch, promise. With each step he told himself just to be content that she was present, there, alive.

  They walked up the front steps of the dorm. The smell of jasmine overflowed the front porch of the dorm as a solid substance he imagined he could see. He inhaled. “Mmm.”

  “Jasmine,” she said and closed her eyes, leaned against a pillar. Now was not the time to reach for her. She opened her eyes and under the porch light he saw her face from twenty-five years ago: eager, pliable.

  “Thanks for coming tonight, Nick. I do feel better that we can talk—be friends. But you can’t just show up.” She turned to walk in the door.

  “I’ll see you next week, at the meeting?” He sounded desperate—as desperate as the night he had asked her out when he had a date with her roommate.

  She turned with the door open, light falling in a triangle across the floor. “I don’t know. They don’t really need me if this buckthorn thing works out.” She waved at him and looked like she might say something else, but she turned and went inside, shut the door.

  Nick walked to his truck, found the cooler from his morning fishing trip and dug out a lukewarm Heinekin. He popped the top and swallowed the warm amber fluid that he hoped would drown the fresh pain. The scars built over years and years of healing—or denial, he wasn’t sure which—were now open.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Amy held two pieces of good news close to her heart. She wanted to savor them and wait for the right moment to share them with her family. First was the discovery of the buckthorn and its possible island-saving import; second was the phone call from Carol Anne, who had said her husband had found out something about the buyer. Jack was home from college for the weekend, and tonight she would tell the entire family—include them, so they could all band together in celebration.

  She’d prepared the family’s favorite dinner—homemade fried chicken, mashed potatoes, greens and peach pie for dessert. A bottle of red wine sat sentinel in the middle of the table.

  Phil, Jack and Molly appeared at the table, preoccupied with their own thoughts of what the day had held, with their own activities and desires, so they didn’t notice the family’s traditional meal for birthdays, victorious tennis matches, anniversaries or excellent report cards. They all sat down at the table and Amy was warm, surrounded. Talk circled about school and tennis, of Phil’s work and their Christmas schedule. No one had yet noticed the obvious celebratory hint of the dinner.

  “Mom.” Jack put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “You know the Christmas open house you have every year?”

  “Yep. Invitations already printed. Why?”

  “Lisbeth . . . well, Lisbeth and I were wondering if you could invite her parents. She really wants them there and, well, they could take the place of the Stevensons, who never show up.”

  He was referring to Phil’s boss, and Phil disagreed this time. “No, buddy, this year they’ll come.”

  “Good.” Jack looked at his mother. “Can the Lowrys come, too?”

  “Sure,” she said, picking up the wine bottle and wanting to drink the entire contents at the thought. “No problem.” She was anxious to change the subject, to tell them her news.

  Molly punched her brother on the side of the arm. “Are these gonna be our in-laws?’”

  “Not yet.” Jack smiled and shoved a pile of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

  “Well, then.” Molly swept her hands over the table. “This dinner must be because you’re here.”

  Ah, so Molly had noticed.

  “No,” Amy said. “Well, a little. I’m celebrating Jack being home for the weekend, but I also have some good news.” She looked at Phil; he scooted his chair closer to the table. She wanted him to ask, just ask.

  “What is it?” Phil asked.

  She poured wine into his glass and leaned back, savoring the suspense. “Well, it seems that we may have found an endangered plant on the island that can possibly get us a Heritage Trust—and even better, I heard from Joe today that there’s a way to find out the name of the buyer.”

  Phil leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. She should’ve felt the trembles of regret already rolling toward her—and she might have if she weren’t so prepared to have Phil join her in celebration, if she hadn’t been so geared up for the expectation of his joy and willingness to help her.

  She plowed on. “If we can get the name of the buyer, we can go to him, put the heat on through media and—” Phil held up his hand; she stopped, and her heart sank—he didn’t want to hear her news.

  “Amy.” He closed his eyes.

  “Listen—the best part is that you can help me. We can do this together. Joe found out that the wealthy buyer has a numbered account through Stevenson and Sons—his funds are through your company.”

  “I know.” He opened his eyes and looked across the table at the wall, not at her.

  “You know what?”

  “That he has his funding through my company.”

  The table tilted.

  Molly cut her steak. “Wow, Dad, now you can tell us who it is.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  �
�How long have you known about the buyer?” Amy whispered, her disappointment becoming nausea.

  “Since the beginning. It’s client privilege. There is no way I could give you his name, even if I knew it, which I don’t.”

  “You could find out. I know you could find out.”

  “Yes, I could, but I won’t. Didn’t you hear me? It’s client privilege. There’s a reason he has a number and not a name.”

  “Yeah, so he can ruin a natural treasure.” She stood up.

  “No, it’s so he doesn’t have TV crews at his door, his name smeared for wanting to build a vacation home. That’s why.”

  “If he knew—if we could tell him how precious the island and house are, then maybe he’d stop.”

  “I just can’t.”

  She turned away. “What am I going to tell the OWP and Nick? I already told them you’d help—I was sure you would. . . .”

  “What does Nick have to do with it?”

  “Remember I told you he’s helping us—he went with us out to the island. He’s the one who found the endangered plant.”

  “No, you did not tell me that.”

  “Yes, I did. I told you after I cut my finger. I told you all about the trip and—”

  “I remember the trip. I don’t remember Nick.”

  “That’s because you never listen to me.”

  Molly and Jack looked at each other and quietly got up from the table. Amy couldn’t remember if she and Phil had ever had a disagreement in front of the kids.

  “Okay, that would be an exaggeration. Let’s be rational here.”

  She did not want to be rational. “What do you want me to tell them? That my husband won’t help us?”

  “Why don’t you tell them that I won’t sacrifice client privilege? Honey, you understand, don’t you? You agree, right?”

  She had always carefully padded her words with Phil to avoid fighting—but now she spoke exactly what she meant to say. “No, I do not agree.”

  She couldn’t look at him when she said it. She stood and began to walk out of the room, but turned as she reached the door. She spoke to the back of his head. “I thought there was a way for us to . . . do this together. For you to help. For us to—”

  Phil turned around and stared at her. “I don’t ask you to help me with my job.”

  “What?” An uncharacteristic yelp came from the well of her disappointment. “Ask me to help you with your job? No, you just ask me to do everything else, so you can do your job. This . . . this I wanted us to do together.”

  “Amy, calm down. Don’t I take care of everything for you?”

  “It’s not just about taking care of everything, Phil. This time it’s about caring about what I care about.”

  She pushed the swinging door and marched into the living room. She wasn’t sure where to go, other than her office. She’d told the OWP the good news already—how she’d found out where the buyer’s accounts were, how she’d deliver the precious information. Now she had to call them and tell them—tell Nick that her husband was unwilling to help.

  She sat down at her desk and dropped her head onto the mahogany. Her heart ached with the once-rising hope that plummeted, too quickly, to discontent.

  Chapter Twenty

  The house smelled of pine and cedar. Green boughs hung from the banister, the fireplace, each doorway. Ribbons Amy had made for the art festival, then bought back, hung from every available knob or bend in the home. Candlelight flickered in uneven patterns on the walls. A nativity scene was on the hall table, surrounded by real hay. Because baby Jesus had gone missing at least four Christmases ago, a peanut with eyes and a nose in black marker lay in the cradle. Only two of the three wise men had surfaced this year; they both bowed to the peanut.

  Extravagant Christmas decorations filled the halls and rooms of Amy’s home for the annual open house. She’d found a beautiful pattern for Christmas stockings and pulled out her sewing machine to copy them. She’d made too many—there were enough stockings for eleven children and some pets hung around the house. She would offer them as party favors tonight to those who brought gifts.

  She checked the house one more time. God, she loved it. She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and almost knocked over white-aproned Celia, the maid who came once a month and also assisted with entertaining.

  Amy hugged Celia. “We all set?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay, I’m going to get dressed. I’ll be out shortly to check on things.” Nervous energy thrummed through her body. Thanksgiving had gone smoothly, as long as she didn’t talk about Oystertip and as long as she stayed away in both word and deed from the subject of Nick Lowry. But now the Christmas party was here and certain things couldn’t be avoided.

  She walked toward her room, then bent to pick up a fallen ivy leaf from the candle display and slide it back on the table. Phil vacuumed the sitting room—one last sweep before the guests arrived. She tried not to think about the guests—the Lowry guests specifically.

  Well, she would just think about which dress to wear. She’d bought two gowns, right after Jack had informed her of the added guests—right after Phil had informed her he would do nothing to help her find out the name of the buyer. One dress was black, cutting in a V between her breasts without being cut too low, then tapering down to thin, sheer panels at the bottom. It was slit up the side, and she’d bought black strappy sandals, a little higher than she usually wore, to go with it.

  The other dress was silver: silk, long, demure. There was nothing sheer about it, yet there might as well have been, the way it hugged her body from top to ankle.

  She decided to check on the kids before she began the slow and painful process of makeup and hair. It didn’t matter what she did to her hair; it would wave around her shoulders by midevening.

  At the top of the stairs she stopped; she’d forgotten to turn on the music. She turned on her slippered feet, stepped down the creaking stairs to choose CDs for the stereo before she checked on Jack’s and Molly’s progress in getting ready for the party. She hoped they’d at least taken showers. Murmurs came from Molly’s bedroom at the top of the landing; Amy paused.

  The warmth of her children’s voices, of having them both home, felt like a lit ember in her middle. She stopped just to listen, to know they were near. They were talking about Lisbeth; Jack was complaining—something about Lisbeth’s clinginess, her overwhelming need to know where he was all the time.

  Amy smiled and crept up one more step. Molly was giving her high school advice.

  “Ooh, don’t you hate that? Calling on the cell phone every five minutes because they can’t find you?”

  “Yeah, and then you have to pretend you were out-of-area or that your cell phone went dead, you know?” Jack answered.

  Molly laughed. Amy frowned. Jack and Lisbeth were having problems.

  The conversation reached a lull and Amy moved to enter Molly’s room. Jack’s voice caused her to freeze; she crouched down.

  “Hey, Molly, did you know Mom and Nick, Lisbeth’s dad, used to date in college?”

  “No. That’s kinda weird.”

  “Yeah, a little. If I tell you something, will you promise not to get all freaked out on me?”

  “What? You think I’m gonna freak out that Mom once dated someone besides Dad? Give me a break—”

  “No, not that, snot breath.”

  Amy smiled at Jack’s loving, yet disgusting nickname for Molly. He had called her that since she was four years old and had a runny nose for a solid week.

  “Lisbeth’s best friend, Sarah, is in Mom’s class at SCAD.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Lisbeth brought Sarah home to stay at their house over Thanksgiving. I guess this girl’s family moved or something. Anyway, she came to spend Thanksgiving with the Lowrys. After she met Mr. Lowry, she told Lisbeth that a man who looks ju
st like him was at SCAD one night—with her teacher.”

  “And . . . ? I guess I’m missing the point here.”

  “Do you think Mom was with Mr. Lowry?”

  “Oh, gross, Jack. No way. You heard Mom tell Dad that he’s helping with the island thing. That’s all. She would never . . . that is just not in her to do. That is so . . . beneath her. No way.” Molly’s voice was firm, loud.

  “All kids want to think their parents would never—”

  “Well, Mom wouldn’t. It’s just not . . . in her to do.”

  “You’re right. I mean, I didn’t see anything weird about them at the lake or anything, did you?”

  “Absolutely not. Mom is like totally in love with Dad. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Well, they’re coming tonight and I just didn’t want it to be weird or anything.”

  “If you’re so sick of Lisbeth, why did you invite her whole family? You gonna ask for her hand or something?”

  Amy heard the loud thwack of a pillow.

  “Ow,” Molly yelled. They both came running out of the bedroom, Molly with a pillow in hand, Jack with his arms over his head—an expanded, stretched-out version of them when they were two and four years old, wrestling and screaming, but not really wanting any help. They stopped short when they saw Amy squatting on the top step. They looked at each other, then at her.

  “What’re you doing, Mom?” Jack asked.

  “Picking up the fallen needles from the pine garland.” She lifted a handful of needles, proving her point, then stepped to the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “Mom, please, it’s just a Christmas party, not a visit from the president.”

  “Ah, you never know who’ll show up at an open house.”

  “You better not let anyone upstairs in my room,” Molly said.

  “You know how people sneak around,” Amy said. “You better at least make sure your bed is made.”

  “I’m locking my door.” Jack walked toward his room.