Moon Dance

by Mariah Stewart

  And what, she tried to recall as she took the back steps to her room on the inn's second floor, had been so important that she had felt compelled to take time off from dancing, anyway?

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, Georgia stripped off her sneakers and socks and padded in bare feet to the suitcase that sat open on a chair in the corner of the tidy room she had occupied since arriving a week earlier. She pushed aside the sweatshirt and dug beneath the clothes, her hands seeking smooth leather. There—there they were, right under a nightshirt. She pulled her worn pink ballet shoes from under the pile and sat down on the floor to put them on. The simple act of slipping them onto her feet calmed her the way a glass of wine might calm some, a long drag from a cigarette might soothe another. As familiar to her as her name, the slippers hugged her feet and seemed somehow to remind her of who she was.

  In one fluid motion she rose to her feet, heels together, legs stretched straight, her toes turned outward to form a straight line, in perfect First Position. She straightened her back, raised her chin, and curved her arms, raising them to the level of her chest. Exhaling, she slid into Second Position, opening her arms to the sides to form a gentle O. Then into Third, the heel of her right foot snug against the middle of her left, her right arm raised in a graceful arc. To Fourth, her right foot forward, parallel to her left, right arm over her head, left arm dropped back into First Position, and so into Fifth, her right foot close up to her left, the toes of each foot touching the heels of the other, her arms softly overhead. She pushed back the small table that stood inside the door and began the series of floor exercises she had practiced daily over the years; exercises to make her back limber, to stretch her legs, to develop her stomach muscles.

  Thirty minutes later, having finished what she considered to be a short round of stretches, Georgia sat in the middle of the floor and cried.

  She was still sitting there, feeling glum and purposeless, when Ally flew in after school. Seeing Georgia on the floor, her legs straight out in front of her, Ally saw all that a five-year-old would see.

  "Hey! You're wearing your pink ballet slippers! I have pink ballet slippers, too! I'll put them on"—the little girl flew back out through the door, her voice trailing excitedly down the hallway—"and we can dance!"

  Georgia smiled in spite of herself. How can one remain gloomy when a happy five-year-old wants to dance?

  "Do you take dancing lessons, Ally?" Georgia asked when her niece returned proudly sporting her prized pink ballet shoes.

  "No, not anymore." She shook her head. "Mrs. Carlson had a baby and stopped teaching."

  "Do you remember anything she taught you?"

  Ally sucked on the side of her top lip, trying to recall. She stared down at her feet, the toes of which were pointed in opposite directions, and said, "No."

  Georgia stood up and corrected Ally's feet, bringing the heels together gently. "This is First Position, Ally. Now, raise your arms like this… good, but a little more of a curve. Your hands should be leveled between your waist and your chest."

  Georgia took a step back and studied Ally's pose. "Very good. Now, do you remember Second Position?"

  "No." Ally shook her head.

  "Like this." Georgia showed her, mentally adding a few feet of length to that barre she had wished for earlier. "And this is Third…"

  "Aunt Georgia, you're a good teacher," Ally told her. "See, I remember First, Second, and Third." She slid from one position into the others with motions unskilled but determined, the light of pride in her eyes.

  How long ago that same light was first lit within me, Georgia reflected. When had it started to dim?

  The afternoon's earlier fear and uncertainty began to melt away, and a calm assurance began to return and spread through her. Having lost the total joy she had once found in ballet, stepping back now was the right thing to do. Georgia sorely missed her routine, missed her classes, missed the exercise, but she had not been wrong to leave the troupe. She would, temporarily, seek another direction. If it led her back onto the stage, fine. If it led her someplace else, well, that would be fine, too.

  For right now, she would dance with Ally. Later tonight she would seek out Gordon Chandler and ask him about his exploits. Tomorrow morning she would rise early and walk down to the beach to watch the sun rise over the ocean. Then she'd go for a long run. She'd run until her legs ached and sweated, and then she'd take her time walking back to the inn. She'd shower, have breakfast with her sister, and then she'd go back to Pumpkin Hill. All in all, tomorrow had all the makings of a very good day.

  The alarm buzzed rudely in her ear the next morning, and Georgia fought the initial impulse of slapping it into silence. Knowing she had a goal that day, however, coerced her body from under the warm flannel sheets and cozy quilt and propelled her into her running clothes. The stillness of the small coastal town in this predawn hour wrapped around her, and she welcomed the sound of the surf hitting the beach as she walked across the sand. Wrapping the blanket around her as Laura had taught her to do, she sat down and soaked up the early morning sights and sounds. The majesty of the sunrise was shared with a stray gray-and-white cat that strolled down from the dimes with grand nonchalance, and an elderly fisherman who stood at the edge of the sea and tossed his line into the barely visible waves. Georgia sat back and just enjoyed.

  When the first thin fingers of sunlight had finished their upward stretch into the morning sky, Georgia stood and shook the sand from the blanket. She'd drop the old quilt off on the front porch of the inn, then run for thirty minutes, all according to plan. Glancing back at the horizon as she climbed the old wooden steps at the edge of the beach, she congratulated herself on having had the good sense to give herself these moments of wonder. She had begun to feel pretty bleak, and it had perked up her spirits tremendously.

  Georgia returned to the inn from her early morning run to find Laura pacing around the kitchen, the phone to her ear and a panicked look on her face.

  "Was anything damaged?" Laura asked of her caller, oblivious to Georgia's return. "Was any of the equipment stolen?"

  Georgia poured herself a glass of water, watching Laura with curious eyes.

  "There were two vintage John Deeres and a few attachments; a plow and cultivator. Not much else. Oh, thank goodness. I'm glad they're still there." Laura caught Georgia staring and placed her hand over the receiver to explain. "Some kids broke in to the barn at Pumpkin Hill—yes, yes, Chief Monroe. I'm here. Well, if the door was still locked, how did they get in?"

  Laura rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said, "I did that. I was there yesterday and I opened a window on the second floor. I forgot to close it before we left. How 'bout Matt's place? Did they get into the apartment? Oh, good. There's a blessing…"

  Appearing to calm slightly, Laura reached for the cup of coffee she'd left on the counter and lifted it to her lips to take a sip.

  "Yes, I know… I suppose you're right, Chief. It has been vacant for too long. I'd hoped that Matt would be back by now, but as you know he's still living in Shawsburg. No, I have no idea when he'll be able to move back." Laura sighed a long, low sigh of resignation. "You're right, of course. I'll write up an ad and call it in to the local paper there. Yes, I'll start looking right away. Thanks, Chief."

  Laura hung the phone back onto its base and turned to Georgia, saying, "One of the neighbors, on his way home from the night shift at the chicken processing plant on the other side of town, saw some lights on the second floor of the barn and called the police. They found a bunch of teenagers with a Ouija board and a few six-packs having a séance."

  "I guess you're lucky that's all they found."

  "Yes. We are. And as the chief just reminded me, we may not be as lucky the next time. If anyone had wondered about the status of that farm, now everyone will know for certain it's vacant—which is not a good thing."

  "Did he have any suggestions?"

  "Yes—that we find a tenant as soon as possible. He said with the place be
ing vacant for so long, it's a prime target for vandalism which, sometimes, he tells me, takes the form of arson. I don't know what we'd do if anything happened to Pumpkin Hill, Georgia. It's such a big part of my family…"

  Laura stood and stared out the window for a long minute, then reached for the phone. "I guess I better call Matt and see if he can drive out to the farm today to meet with the Chief to see if anything has been disturbed in the house. And I want to let him know that I'll be putting an ad in the paper for someone who's looking for a short-term lease."

  "What do you consider short term?" Georgia asked thoughtfully.

  "Six months to a year. Hi, Matt? I'm glad I caught you before you left for the clinic. Listen, I just got a call from Chief Monroe…"

  Georgia poured her coffee and went out through the back door. She inspected the wisteria for the first signs of green and, finding none, strolled down the path to the wide porch that wound around the front and sides of the inn. A handsome gray-haired man in an Irish knit sweater and a pair of tan corduroy slacks stood on the top steps looking in the direction of the beach.

  "Good morning," he called to her as she rounded the corner of the open porch.

  "Well, good morning to you, sir." Georgia smiled and climbed the steps, happy to greet the very gentleman who had been the object of her unsuccessful search the night before. "Now, would you happen to be Mr. Chandler, the same Mr. Chandler who holds the record for Most Games of Candyland Lost to a Five-year-old in One Week?"

  "Ah, news travels quickly in a snail town, doesn't it?" He laughed good-naturedly. "And might you be the Aunt Georgia who managed somehow to beat this same five-year-old twice in one night?"

  "By luck, not by skill." Georgia grinned and took the outstretched hand he offered to her. "I'm Georgia Enright."

  "Gordon Chandler," he told her, "and I am in your debt."

  "How is that?"

  "If not for you, I might not have found this wonderful inn."

  "Well, it's pretty hard to miss. It's the only inn in Bishop's Cove."

  "True. But if I hadn't stopped for coffee the morning I met you on the beach, I might not have decided to move from Ocean City, where I'd been staying in a motel, to this much more amenable, infinitely more convenient lodging, with its nightly entertainment of board games and tales told by the locals. And, I might add, the food is superb."

  "Well, then, I'm glad we ran into each other on the beach. Have you been back to watch the sunrise?"

  "On several mornings," he replied, nodding. "Though I have to admit that I enjoy it a great deal more without that arctic blast that was blowing for a few days last week."

  "I couldn't agree more." Georgia shivered, recalling her first morning seated on the beach in the dark, so stark a comparison to the peace of that morning's more gentle dawn. "By the way, I saw you on CNN a few months ago. The debate with the archaeologist and the congressmen…"

  "Ah, yes. And a lively debate it was." Gordon Chandler's eyes began to twinkle.

  "I'm afraid I missed much of it, so I didn't fully understand the issues."

  "Oh, it's a complicated mess, that's for certain." He leaned back against the nearest porch column. "There's been a battle brewing for years between the salvagers—commercial treasure hunters—and the marine archaeologists."

  "I'm not sure I understand the difference." Georgia frowned.

  "As a general rule, a salvager seeks to recover sunken ships to sell off the artifacts he or she recovers for profit, whereas a marine archaeologist might want to recover that same vessel and its cargo intact to preserve it."

  "And you are which?"

  "Actually, I am a salvager, but I do like to think that I am a bit of a preservationist, as well. I have, in the past, sold off a limited amount of the artifacts I've found, but I've also donated a goodly portion of the bounty to interested historical groups."

  "It must be hard to recover your expenses if you're giving away your loot."

  Chandler laughed. "This isn't a business one enters solely to make money. Maybe at one time there might have been fortunes to be made. My grandfather and father both are perfect examples of that. But in nineteen eighty-seven the government enacted the Abandoned Shipwreck Act, which gives the coastal states the right to claim title to any ship found up to three miles offshore. These days, if you are lucky enough to locate a wreck with cargo worth pursuing, you can spend as much time negotiating to keep a portion of the artifacts as you do trying to bring it up."

  "Then why do it?"

  "Why breathe?" He grinned boyishly. "Why eat? Why sleep?"

  Smiling, she caught his drift.

  "I see," she said.

  "Besides, it isn't totally without financial benefit," he explained. "I negotiated the rights to the ship I'm searching for now when I helped the state of Maryland recover several Civil War cannons from the Chesapeake a few years back. So whatever I find out there"—he nodded toward the beach—"I get to keep. Plus, I get the movie and book rights."

  "My mother would be fascinated by this," Georgia told him. "She's a writer, and is always looking for interesting things to slip into her latest novel."

  "Oh? Would I know her books?"

  "Delia Enright."

  "Of course. You did say your name was Enright. I know your mother's work well. As a matter of fact, I met her all too briefly, a few years ago, at a booksellers convention in Boston. A lovely, lovely woman, I recall," he said thoughtfully.

  "She is, yes." Georgia drained the last bit of coffee from her cup. "If you're around in two weeks, you'll probably run into her. She's coming down to see Ally's school play."

  "Ally?" He seemed puzzled by the connection. "Oh, of course. Laura's daughter would be—"

  "Mother's granddaughter." Georgia nodded. "We're all planning on attending. The Bishop's Cove Kindergarten Spring Production is quite the thing, they tell me."

  "Well, then, I'll just have to see if I can beg a ticket."

  "We'd be delighted to have you join us. And I'm sure Mother will be delighted to see you again." Georgia smiled. And if she isn't, we'll take her somewhere and have her head examined. "Well, I think I'll go in and see if there's anything I can help Laura with this morning. It was fun talking with you. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

  "We will if you're planning on staying at the inn for a while. Or do you live here with Ally and Laura?"

  "Oh, no. No. I'm just here for a visit."

  "I hope it's been a pleasant one."

  "It has been. Thank you," Georgia said as she opened the big front door and slipped through it.

  She strolled across the oriental rug in the lobby and poked her head into the kitchen. Laura was biting her lip and tapping her fingers on the counter.

  "Oh, Georgia," her face brightened. "You were going out to Pumpkin Hill today anyway for preserves. Would you mind going through the house to make certain that there was no break-in there as well? I really don't want to postpone the meeting with my mother's doctor. Matt said he'd try to reschedule some appointments if he could, but he couldn't make any promises, and Chief Monroe wanted us to check out the house as soon as possible to see if anything's been disturbed. You were there just yesterday, so you'd know right away if anyone's been in there."

  "I don't mind at all." Georgia leaned on the wide wooden molding that framed the kitchen door. "As a matter of fact, I'm on my way up to shower. I'll leave as soon as I'm dressed."

  "Wonderful. I'll tell the Chief that you'll meet him out there. Thank you."

  "I'm happy to help." Georgia took the steps two at a time, grateful to be able to do this small thing for Laura, who had so much on her own plate: the running of the inn, an ill mother, and the full-time job of being a single parent.

  Georgia wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Laura's husband. Whenever she had inquired, Laura changed the subject without acknowledgment. As Georgia climbed the steps she reflected on the fact that there were no photos of the man anywhere, as far as she had seen, nor
had Ally ever mentioned her father. I don't even know what his name is, she pondered as she closed her bedroom door behind her and stripped off her running clothes. Not his first name anyway. Harmon is his last name. Georgia had seen Ally's kindergarten report with the name Allison Hope Bishop-Harmon across the top.

  Maybe this Harmon fellow had abandoned them; slipped away and disappeared so that he wouldn't have to pay alimony and child support. Or maybe, Georgia thought more charitably, he had died. An accident, perhaps, or an illness. Curious though she was, Georgia could not bring herself to press for information concerning a subject that her sister obviously did not care to discuss. She'd asked Zoey, who had no more information but as much curiosity as Georgia herself had. She'd asked Delia, who'd been quite vague on the subject, making a comment to the effect that if and when Laura wanted to talk about it, she would, but for the life of her, Georgia couldn't understand Laura's reluctance. It appeared that Laura's husband—Ally's father—would just have to remain a mystery until such time as Laura felt inclined to enlighten her.

  At the very least, it would have to wait until Georgia returned from her trip to Pumpkin Hill.

  It was a relatively short, and definitely easy drive to the small country town of O'Hearn, really just two turns once you left Bishop's Cove, Georgia realized. It was less than thirty minutes from the inn to the farmhouse that sat just outside the town limits, and she turned slowly into the drive and parked alongside the house, near the fenced-in garden. Chief Monroe must not have arrived, she surmised, there being no patrol car in sight. Jiggling the keys, she swung out of the Jeep and headed for the back door, then turned back to the garden fence. Something looked different this morning. What was it?

  The latchless gate, which Laura had closed the day before, had been pushed open, probably, Georgia thought, by the wind. She began to pull the gate closed, then stopped and stared at the garden that lay within the old fence. Someone had obviously paid a visit between yesterday afternoon and this morning. Here and there plants were half pushed from the ground, and the tall stalks that had stood dried and tall just the day before, now lay broken on the dirt. Fresh grooves cut into the earth at random angles, and the remains of last summer's root crop, halfeaten, were strewn messily about. The whole effect was that of hungry vandals having come through the night before to plunder. Georgia stood with her hands on her hips, wondering why someone would do such a thing.