“So you and Lisbeth can go at it without anybody seeing you?” Molly threw the pillow at him and ran back to her room, Jack chasing her.
Amy sighed, dropped the pine needles to the carpet and strolled slowly down the steps; her legs felt like yarn unraveling. How had she thought that no one, absolutely no one, would notice what she was going through? How could she have assumed this mess with Nick could occur in a bubble, that backlash would not shake her world?
She had considered the ancient desire that was rumbling deep within her to be her own personal struggle. But as though she were tied to her family by more than blood, by an invisible sinew as well, they, too, sensed that struggle. Jack and Lisbeth were quarreling. Jack thought his mother . . .
She walked into the bedroom and found Phil waiting for her.
“Do you like this shirt or this one?” He held up what looked like two identical shirts.
“They’re the same, Phil.”
“No, one is navy and one is dark blue.”
“They are the same.”
“Which one, of the same shirt, do you like better?”
She rolled her eyes. “The one on the right.”
“The dark blue it is.”
“I thought that was the navy one.”
“It might be.” He leaned across the space between them and kissed her. “Thanks for the fashion advice. What’re you wearing tonight?”
“I bought a new dress.”
“Can’t wait to see you in it.” He walked toward the bathroom, humming “Jingle Bells” as he moved.
The music—it’s what she’d meant to do before she heard her children—the music and now a much-needed glass of wine.
She went downstairs and pulled the Christmas CDs from their labeled box. She laid them across the floor and picked her ten favorites and arranged them in the CD changer. She pushed the RANDOM button and started the stereo, then checked that each speaker button was pushed to ON for each room in the house, from the dining room to the kitchen. Garth Brooks began to sing about the most wonderful time of the year . . . caroling out in the snow . . . and Amy walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of wine.
Celia looked up and squinted. “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds.” “Something wrong?”
“I thought you were going to get dressed.”
Amy looked down at her robe, her fuzzy red Santa-hat slippers. “Whoops, I was.” She looked up at Celia. “You don’t think this is a very nice outfit?”
“If you want it to be a well talked-about party, why yes, I do.”
“No, I just need a glass of wine—white—then I’m finally off to dress.”
What she really wanted was for her legs to tighten beneath her; she couldn’t walk around all night with the sturdiness of a tumbling toddler.
She picked up the glass of wine and walked back to her bedroom, placed the wine on the bedside table next to their wedding photo in its silver frame. In her closet, she pulled both dresses from the rack and laid them on the bed and stared at them, decided instantly that the silver dress was the more appropriate: sexier in its simplicity.
She sat on the bed and untied her robe, looked down at her flattened stomach. She really had lost a lot of weight these past few weeks; food held little appeal. Sleep was what she craved, yet she couldn’t find much of that either.
Phil came into the room and stood in front of her. “Whatcha thinkin’?”
She looked up at her husband. “Can’t decide what to wear.”
“Well, I know how to take your mind off it.”
“Oh, you do?”
He looked down at her; she grasped her opened robe. He smiled, and pushed the robe off her shoulders. It fell to the bed, covering the black dress. He pushed her, gently, onto her back. She rested on top of the robe and whispered, “Will you put that silver dress over my vanity chair?”
Phil reached for the dress without ever looking away from her. He placed the dress on the chair behind him and bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes and tasted the familiar kiss of her husband, of comfort. She reached behind his neck and pulled him closer. She mumbled, “Did you lock the door?”
“Yes.” He slid his hand down to open the robe at the bottom, then pulled it away from her body.
“Hmm,” she whispered into his neck. She buried her head in his shoulder, let him transport her where he wanted to go. She was the willing and pliable one underneath. No effort on her part was needed this time, and she floated in their lovemaking, letting his hands and mouth wander where they pleased while she basked in the comfort of familiar intimacy.
He snapped at her white silk underwear and she lifted her hips, the most motion she’d made since he touched her, then let him slip them off, let them slide to the floor. She wrapped her legs around him, let his feet, still on the floor, steady both of them.
She reached in her wandering mind, far below, for some sort of reaction, something beyond comfort, something that moved toward strength and desire, but found only an odd wondering if she’d laid out all the silver for Celia to polish, or if she could return the black dress she was now lying on top of, or if the red roses would open before the guests arrived.
As Phil shuddered, she unwrapped her legs and he rolled, then collapsed next to her.
She turned to her side, stared at his face. A slow guilt passed over her in the form of a deep sadness. She reached over and traced his chin, his unshaven cheeks.
“I’m sorry you don’t understand why I can’t help you with your project,” he said.
She looked away. “I don’t.”
“I know. And I’m sorry, but I love you.”
“I love you, too. And, no, I don’t understand why you can’t help, but I don’t understand a lot of things right now.” He wouldn’t pursue this subject; he probably hadn’t even heard her.
He brushed the hair from her forehead. “Well, we have a party to give, guests coming.” He stood and stretched.
“Yes,” Amy said. “Guests coming.” She sat up and shivered.
Chapter Twenty-one
Nick stood in the closet doorway, where he could see Eliza’s reflection in her vanity mirror. She leaned forward, wiped below her eyes, brushed upward against her eyebrows, then lifted tweezers from her flowered makeup bag to pluck one stray hair from the outside line of her perfectly arched brows. Can’t have anything out of place now, can we? Eliza was a beautiful woman, not much different from the beautiful girl he’d married. She was what people called “well-preserved,” as she should be, considering all the time and money she spent on herself.
She did draw attention—she and her family. He was lucky, men told him. Watching her was almost like observing a stranger. Then, as if a fist had been shoved into his stomach, he realized he really didn’t know her at all. He bent over with the force of this knowledge, with the intensity of wondering to whom he was married. She had loved him well these years, loved him in spite of himself, taken care of their life, their children; but he didn’t know her, and he wasn’t sure he loved her.
This thought, this truth, came so clearly to him, he wondered why the words had never formed in his mind even before Amy had reentered his life. Amy had been a force beneath everything he felt, but had not been fully present until now.
He and Eliza had never discussed Amy after he left the jail. The day he was released, he’d asked Mr. Carreira, one more time, if he had heard from Amy. “Nick,” the lawyer said, “I think you need to let this go.”
“No,” Nick had replied, knowing Amy was coming, still coming.
The damn lawyer had looked up, staring everywhere but at Nick. “Eliza did a little research, found out she is engaged to some hometown boy.”
The anguish that had entered him then had been more cutting than the broken ribs and horrific nights spent listening to cockroaches crawl around in his bed. Right there, in the dank jail cell, he’d turned the grief and longing into rage and decided he
would never speak to or think about Amy Malone again. He would hate her for the rest of his life for betraying him when he needed her most.
The day he’d walked out into the blazing sun, into the heat of freedom, Eliza had been standing under a banana tree, her blond hair reflecting the light. She’d been a mirage of the American beach girl. She was waiting only for him.
Eliza’s joy at seeing him was so complete that she had cried the minute he touched her. He had only seen her once in the year he was in jail: the morning of his so-called arraignment. Yet he knew she’d been working behind the scenes all along, that she was the reason he now stood free. The school had left him to what they considered his due. His mother was too damaged by his drunken father to tolerate even the slightest problem. Over his years of drinking and verbal abuse, always followed by repentance, his father had robbed her of all her inner strength. Despite her love for Nick, she could never have helped him.
His mother was as grateful to Eliza and her family as he was. Remembering now what Eliza had done for him, what she had sacrificed, sent a tendril of tenderness through him.
He leaned against the closet door and stared at their bedroom, painted bland oatmeal and decorated with pastel accents, as if nothing could be allowed to break into color, into anything inappropriate. Eliza leaned closer to the mirror and applied liner to her lips. Focused on this task, she still hadn’t noticed him watching her. She looked no different than the woman who’d once leaned against the tree, her arms, mouth and body waiting for him. She looked up now and saw him; she smiled.
“What?” she asked. “Don’t you like the gown?”
She was dressed for the Reynoldses Christmas party. They’d been invited through the children, and since they only lived an hour and a half away, Eliza hadn’t thought it proper to decline. Somehow in the last few months they’d been able to avoid all contact with the couple, yet this time Lisbeth had formed tears in her eyes, which always made Nick and Eliza say yes. Lisbeth said it was important, very important that they come. So here they were getting ready to go to the Reynoldses—as a family. Nick couldn’t get over the small thrill of being able to see where Amy lived, how she lived, what her house looked like, the part of her that had become a mother and wife.
Eliza repeated her question. “You don’t like it, do you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. I’m sorry. I’m off somewhere else. . . . This job in Beaufort is exhausting. They—”
“I know.” She stood from the dressing table. “And you’re helping with that island thing, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but that was just one trip.”
“With Amy.”
“Yes, Eliza, it’s her committee.
“Are you sure you want to go to this party?” She slid toward him, then touched his face. “We don’t have to go.” She wore a silver silk taffeta gown, lace covering the skirt like frosting.
“Lisbeth said it was important.”
“God, I hope they don’t announce an engagement, or pinning, or something god-awful like that.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Eliza tilted her head. “You hadn’t?” She dropped her hand from his face.
“No.”
“Well, I have. And I hope it’s not true. Lisbeth is only a junior. She has so much more to see . . . do. She has to finish school and—”
“Ah, how quickly we forget. You married me when you were still finishing college.”
“That was different. Extenuating circumstances, should we say? Plus, I finished all my credits and graduated.” She laughed and kissed his cheek, ran her finger across the stubble on his chin. “Aren’t you going to shave tonight?”
He rubbed his hand across his cheek. “No, I’m not shaving. Why was it so different for us? What if Lisbeth is really in love?”
“Don’t defend this. You know why it was different. I was . . . it was true love with us—not what they have. Not some college infatuation and toss in the sheets. We were in a situation that made us grow up very, very fast. It was different and you know it.”
“You think what they have is infatuation, a toss in the sheets?”
“Dear God, I hope it’s not a toss in the sheets.”
“Then who’s in the sheets?”
“I just meant that . . . it . . . you and I weren’t that. We passed through fire to get to the other side.” She kissed him, opened her mouth against his as a peace offering.
He closed his eyes. He knew who she was talking about, mixing and melding Lisbeth and Jack with him and Amy; she was implying that he and Amy were a college infatuation, a toss in the sheets. It was the first time in many years that they had even come close to discussing what had happened in Costa Rica, to what had brought them together. He grasped at the chance.
“Do you remember the lawyer from then?” he asked.
“Mr. Carreira?”
“See, you could always say his name. I could never even pronounce it.”
Eliza smiled. “Yes, he told me that.”
“Do you know what ever happened to him?”
“I have no idea. And I don’t care. He let you walk out the door to me, and that is all I care about. Why do you want to know?”
Her face closed in. He wanted to stop; he didn’t want to bring this subject into the room, into their life, but there was a rising force stronger than he was, and he had to know.
“There were . . . some telegrams I asked him to send that he never sent. I was just curious. I wanted to ask him about them.”
His previous brittle attempts at controlling the subject of Amy caused Eliza to give way; she seemed to actually cave in upon herself as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her dress fell around her like a thick taffeta accordion.
“No.”
“What?”
She didn’t look up. “Twenty-five years later.”
He could not see her face, but he knew from the shake of her shoulders, her back, that she was crying.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Twenty-five years later I thought it was safe. I thought you wouldn’t know . . . or at least if you did know, that you wouldn’t care.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How . . . ?” She looked up with a thin line between her eyebrows hardened as when she was fully concentrating on a puzzle or family problem. “How do you know these specific telegrams were not delivered?”
He saw his mistake now; the casual question had just brought Amy into the room. How could he have believed he could wonder about this, could ask this question about the lawyer and telegrams, without repercussions? But he’d gone this far; he needed to know the answer.
He sat down next to his wife, folded his hand over hers. “Okay. I asked Amy why she never responded to some telegrams I sent her. She said she never got them. I was wondering—curious, that’s all—why she never received them, or why he never sent them.”
“When did you find the time to ask her this?” Eliza pulled her hand away, stood up and stepped aside to glare at him. “At the lake, on some island? Just a casual question over a game of Scrabble, or in the middle of trying to save an old house?” She turned her back to him, then seemed to change her mind. She turned as tears ran through her freshly applied face powder.
“You’ve never let this go. I prayed and prayed that somehow you’d let this go. That you’d given up wondering, that the anger and impatience I’ve seen grow in you all these years had nothing to do with her not coming . . . nothing to do with her at all, but that it was all about what you went through there, in jail. Twenty-five years later I’d actually convinced myself this was true. When I figured out who she was, I thought it was a test from God. I thought it was a sign to prove to us that it was over, that we’d survived her memory, her perfect almighty memory.”
Nick lurched toward her to stop her words, her pain. She held up her hand and he remained still as sh
e continued. “I fell in love with you in Costa Rica, and have never stopped—not once—loving you the same way, and you still want to know about her, about what she thought then.” Spittle landed on her lip. “I loved you even when you came out of jail an angrier man. I loved you then, love you now.”
She wiped below her eyes with a rapid movement, as if the tears betrayed her in the same way he did.
“When you asked her if she received the telegrams, did you tell her everything? About jail, the accident?”
“Yes.”
“I know you didn’t tell her everything. You wouldn’t want her to know all of it.”
“Eliza . . . stop.”
“You asked her. You actually asked her about the telegrams.”
“Yes.” His voice seemed to come from the other side of the room, the other side of his life.
“Haven’t you had a good enough life to stop wondering? But you know, this is a betrayal I deserve.” Eliza stomped toward the door.
“What do you mean?” he called after her.
She didn’t answer as her dress swished in silver folds down the hallway. He thought of Carol Anne and the skirt she wore to the formal when he met Amy again; every thought these days was a link in a chain that ended with Amy. There was nothing he could do to stop returning to her—not that he tried very hard.
He heard a slam, wood against wood. He jumped up and ran to the hall, where muffled rap music emanated from Alex’s room. The attic ladder fell from the gaped opening of the attic and landed on the cream carpet; pink insulation tumbled out to mar the vacuumed surface.
“What the hell are you doing?” He grabbed the end of Eliza’s dress as she stepped onto the ladder.
“Let go of me. I’m going to finally end this wondering of yours, this endless fascination with what ever happened to the adorable Amy.”
“Stop.” All of a sudden he didn’t want to know; having Amy around right now was enough.
Eliza pulled at the waistline of her dress and Nick found himself with a handful of silver lace. She didn’t even notice the ripped dress—that alone set off an alarm in his head. He needed to stop this—now.
Losing the Moon Page 18
