Look for Me by Moonlight

by Mary Downing Hahn

  I peered through the glass, trying to see what Ebony saw. Snow fell thick and fast, obscuring most of the view, but I thought I heard the mutter of an engine. Slowly a sleek, silver car emerged from a veil of snow as white and pure as a bride’s.

  It was a terrible night to be out, far from shelter and alone. “Stop,” I whispered, taking pity on the driver. “Come in from the cold, stay with us.”

  The car hesitated as if the driver heard my invitation and wanted to accept, but drifts blocked the inn’s entrance, making it impossible. After a moment, the car’s headlights flashed off and on. Then I watched as its taillights vanished, glowing like red eyes in the swirling snow.

  An icy draft eddied around my ankles, but I stayed at the window, staring into the darkness. What sort of person ventured out on a night like this? Where was he going? As far as I knew, the road led to the sea and then followed the coast to Blue Port, a town even smaller than Ferrington.

  I took a deep, shivery breath and went back to bed. It made no sense, but I knew I’d see that car again. Maybe not tonight, maybe not till after the storm, but someday it would return to Underhill. That eerie certainty kept me awake for at least an hour, listening for the purr of the engine.

  It was still snowing when I woke up. By the time it stopped that afternoon, we’d gotten at least two feet, maybe three. The weather report called it the storm of the century, the worst in years. Fences and roads, hedges, bushes, and rocks—everything was buried except the trees.

  The blizzard’s ferocity made me doubt I’d really seen a car pass the inn. Nothing could have gotten through that snow. Yet the anticipation I’d felt last night persisted. The sleek, silver car would return. I sensed it coming the way some people sense thunderstorms or earthquakes.

  My strange mood made me nervous and restless. Impatient. Irritable. I accused Todd of cheating when we played Candyland. As bad-tempered as I, he knocked down a block castle I’d spent an hour building. I called him a spoiled brat, he pulled my hair. I threatened to slap him, he told Susan. She got cross and blamed everything on me.

  When Will showed up to plow and shovel, Dad ordered us to go outside. “I need some peace and quiet,” he shouted. “How can I finish this novel with all the noise you’re making?”

  When Todd began to cry, Dad must have realized how cross he’d sounded. Giving Todd a hug, he apologized to both of us. “I don’t know what got into me. I’ve been edgy all morning.”

  Todd was the first to recover. Pulling me toward the coat closet, he begged me to help him with his boots, his jacket zipper, and his mittens.

  By the time the two of us were ready to face the cold, Will had finished plowing and was hard at work shoveling the walk. The wind had reddened his nose and cheeks, making his eyes even bluer.

  Todd ran in circles around him, grabbing for the shovel. “Let me help,” he shouted. “I’m five now, I’m strong, I can do it!”

  Will stuck the shovel in a snowbank and grinned. “Too late, Todd. I’m already done.”

  “Let’s make angels then.” Todd dragged Will across the lawn and fell flat on his back, pulling Will down with him. “Come on, Cynda,” he shouted. “Make an angel next to mine. They can be brother and sister, just like you and me.”

  I’d been hanging back, too shy to join in Todd’s antics till someone invited me. Preferably Will. But he hadn’t really looked at me, hadn’t spoken to me either.

  Will saw me hesitating and jumped to his feet. I didn’t notice the snowball in his hand until he threatened to throw it. “You heard Todd,” he said, laughing. “Get over here, Cynda.”

  I didn’t want to repeat the mistake I’d made with the wolf game. Nor did I want to be hit with a snowball. Before Will had a chance to aim at me, I ran across the snow and flopped down beside Todd. Imitating him and Will, I swished my arms and legs to make the angel’s wings and skirt.

  We scrambled to our feet to admire the three angels. Todd grabbed my hand. “Aren’t they pretty, Cynda?”

  I stared at my half brother. His eyes were clear and blue, his cheeks were pink, his knit cap had fallen off to expose a tangle of blond curls. Except for his hair, he looked just like a picture of me taken on a snowy day when I was five. Mom and Dad had been married then, we’d lived in a big, old house in Albany, and I’d thought Dad was mine for keeps. Like Todd, I’d been trustful and happy, eager to please, eager to be loved.

  Suddenly I wanted to keep Todd safe, I wanted him to stay happy. I wanted him to love me, I wanted to love him. Fighting an urge to cry, I said, “They’re the prettiest angels I ever saw, Toddy.”

  He laughed and turned to Will. “Now for the snowman!”

  Will winked at me. “Yes, sir!” he said. “When Captain Jupiter speaks, we underlings must obey.”

  We worked on the snowman for more than an hour. By the time we were finished, he was over six feet tall and very dapper in an old fedora and a plaid scarf. Will had given him a melancholy face and Todd had cajoled Dad into contributing a pipe and a worn-out pair of shoes. The snowman looked capable of strolling off to Ferrington for a cup of coffee at the diner or coming to the inn for a night’s lodging.

  Just before sunset, Susan called us inside for hot chocolate and fresh-baked peanut butter cookies. Will and I raced each other to the door, laughing and shoving like kids. Todd ran after us and flung himself at me, knocking me into a snow-covered bush. Will hauled me out, and, still laughing, we burst into the warm kitchen.

  Shedding layers of coats, gloves, scarves, and hats, we set our snow-filled boots near the wood stove to dry and gathered around the table. My toes and fingers throbbed with cold, my teeth ached, even my forehead hurt, but I was having too much fun to care. For once, I seemed to be saying and doing the right things. I didn’t feel tense or anxious, I wasn’t worried about anything. I was actually happy.

  When nothing was left of the cookies but crumbs, Todd handed Will a pencil and a piece of paper. “Draw Captain Jupiter killing a wolf,” he said. “Show the wolf dead. Make the snow red with his blood.”

  Will glanced at me. “Where does Todd get his ideas?”

  “Have you ever read any of my father’s mysteries?”

  He grinned. “I guess it runs in the family.”

  Todd nudged Will’s hand. “Shut up and draw,” he said. “Captain Jupiter commands you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will picked up the pencil and began. Todd watched closely, offering suggestions. I don’t know what I’d expected-cartoon figures maybe, stiff and stylized the way boys often draw, but Will brought Captain Jupiter to life. His cape swung as he stood over the dead wolf, gripping a sword in both hands, his face grim and determined.

  I leaned close to watch Will add background details—bare trees, snow, the full moon. “I wish I could draw like that.”

  He looked up, his face inches from mine, and smiled as if I’d genuinely pleased him. “Drawing’s the only thing I’m good at,” he said. “It’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

  Signing his name with a grand flourish, Will leaned back in his chair. He was wearing a patterned sweater, knitted in shades of blue that complimented his eyes. Mrs. Bigelow’s handiwork, I thought. Thick and soft, it had the kind of texture you wanted to touch.

  “Draw another one,” Todd said.

  “Next time,” Will said, getting to his feet. “It’s past six. Grandmother worries if I’m late.”

  Todd followed him to the door, begging him to come back soon, making him promise to draw more pictures. “A shark, a dinosaur, a dragon—Captain Jupiter can kill them all.”

  Before he escaped, Will grinned at me. “Maybe I’ll draw something for you, too, Cynda.”

  The minute the door shut, Todd ran to the window and watched Will drive away. When the last rumble of the truck’s engine faded into the night, he turned to me. “Look at our snowman, Cynda. He’s so lonesome out there. I wish he could come inside with us.”

  I peered over Todd’s shoulder. The snowman’s hat shadowed
his face, giving him a slightly sinister appearance. “I think he likes the cold, Toddy. It’s where he belongs.”

  Todd leaned against me. “But we belong in here, Cynda, where it’s all warm and nice and dinner’s cooking.”

  I gave him a quick, shy hug. It was one of those moments you wish you could save forever. The kind of memory you can warm your hands with later when things go wrong.

  6

  At dinner, my good mood leaked away like air from a tired balloon. I grew increasingly nervous, anxious, worried. Even though Dad’s stuffed flounder was delicious, I couldn’t eat more than a mouthful or two. If anyone had spoken harshly to me, I would have cried.

  Todd was edgy too. He wiggled and whined. Let his nose run without wiping it. Sneezed without covering his mouth. Played with his food and said he wasn’t hungry. When he called me a dummy, Dad turned to him crossly. “What have I told you about that word? No one’s dumb, son. No one’s a dummy.”

  Susan nodded in agreement. “Eat your dinner, Todd.”

  He scowled at his flounder. “Why did you put this icky lumpy junk on it? You know I like mine plain.”

  Susan sighed and began to clear the table. “Somebody’s awfully cranky,” she murmured as she took Todd’s plate. “Maybe we need to go to bed early.”

  Todd jutted his lip out, but before he could protest, the doorbell chimed.

  Susan stared at Dad. “Who on earth can that be?”

  Dad got to his feet, and Todd ran after him, shouting, “Maybe it’s Will!”

  Susan looked at me wearily. “Please get him, Cynda. He’s been sniffling since he came inside. I don’t want him in a draft.”

  I ran into the hall, eager to see who’d come calling. Like Todd, I hoped it was Will. If he came over in the evening, he might invite me to a movie. Maybe we’d go on a moonlight sled ride, maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

  But it wasn’t Will. A stranger stood on the porch. The light shone full on his face, shadowing his eyes but accentuating his pale skin and high cheekbones. Sparkles of windblown snow clung to his dark hair and black overcoat. Even though he was at least thirty, he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen, the sort you stop and stare at in disbelief.

  “I noticed the candles in your windows,” he said. “Am I correct in assuming your inn has a vacancy?”

  His voice was deep and rich, colored with a faint accent. British, I thought. With that accent, anything he said, even the tritest phrase, would sound beautiful and fresh and new, as if no one had ever spoken it before.

  “Come in, come in.” Dad stood back, gesturing graciously. “We have six empty rooms to choose from.”

  The man glanced at me and I nodded in dumb agreement. It was a cold night, and he was welcome. He stepped over the threshold, bringing the wintry night inside with him.

  Susan hurried down the hall. “For heaven’s sake, close the door, Jeff. Can’t you feel the draft?”

  “Susan, this is Mister—”

  “Morthanos,” the stranger said softly. “Vincent Morthanos.”

  Dad shook Mr. Morthanos’s hand. “I’m Jeff Bennett. This is my wife Susan, my son Todd, my daughter Cynda.”

  Mr. Morthanos nodded to each of us, but his eyes lingered on me. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he murmured, extending his hand to Susan, then to me.

  His fingers were cold, his grip strong. When he released my hand, I edged closer to Dad, uncertain of my emotions. I wanted to run and hide, yet I wanted to come closer. It was like meeting a movie star I’d adored for years—only I’d never seen Mr. Morthanos before.

  Struck dumb, I watched him turn his dark eyes on Todd. “Did you and your big sister build the handsome snowman on the lawn?”

  Instead of answering, Todd scowled at Mr. Morthanos. Shrinking from the hand touching his curls, he ran to the kitchen.

  “Todd’s coming down with a cold,” Susan apologized. “I’m afraid it’s made him a little out of sorts tonight.”

  Mr. Morthanos shrugged as if he were accustomed to cranky children. “I quite understand.”

  “Once Todd’s feeling better, you won’t be able to get rid of him,” Dad said. “He’ll be pestering you to read stories or play in the snow-just ask Cynda.”

  Mr. Morthanos favored me with a charming smile and followed Dad up the stairs to the second floor. Even after they disappeared, I lingered in the hall, listening to the murmur of their voices.

  “Mr. Morthanos,” I whispered, “Vincent Morthanos.” The sound of his name was dark and sweet in my mouth, richer than the richest chocolate.

  When Susan called me, I went to the kitchen like someone in a dream, unaware of anything but Mr. Morthanos’s footsteps overhead.

  Todd looked up from the picture he was coloring. “Cynda, tell Mommy Mr. Morthanos can’t stay here. I hate him. Don’t you hate him too?”

  His outburst took me by surprise. “We don’t even know Mr. Morthanos. Why should we hate him?”

  Todd made a face. “His fingers are as cold as ice.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Susan said. “It must be twenty below tonight.”

  Rebuked by his mother’s frown, Todd lowered his head. In the silence, pellets of windblown snow whispered against the windowpane.

  I patted Todd’s shoulder, hoping to cheer him up. “Mr. Morthanos loves our snowman.”

  “He just said that to make me like him.” Todd scowled. “Which I don’t and won’t no matter what he says or does. You mustn’t like him either, Cynda!”

  Susan sighed. “That’s the way it is, Cynda. Todd either loves you or hates you. With him there’s no in-between.”

  Turning to Todd, she said, “Mr. Morthanos will be here for one night. Surely you can put up with him that long.”

  But Susan was wrong. When Dad came downstairs, he told us Mr. Morthanos had chosen a room and planned to stay with us for at least a month, maybe longer.

  I was thrilled at the prospect of having such a fascinating guest, but Todd howled in protest.

  Susan looked at Dad, clearly surprised. “What’s the man going to do with himself all day? Every thing’s closed for the winter, the roads are bad and will probably get worse if we have more snow—”

  “Don’t worry,” Dad interrupted. “All Vincent wants is peace and quiet, time to read and study and work on a book.” He smiled. “Poor Susie—it looks like you have two writers in the house now.”

  “Winter’s my chance to take it easy,” Susan persisted. “To work on my sewing. Now I’ll have a stranger underfoot all day, wanting meals and—”

  Dad interrupted again. “We need the money, Susan. The way this book is going, I may never get the second half of my advance. And don’t forget who’s coming.” He smiled and patted Susan’s stomach.

  Susan sighed. “A couple of nights would be fine, but a month or more . . .” Leaving her sentence unfinished, she turned to Todd, who was kicking the table leg and whining about Mr. Morthanos. “Bedtime,” she said firmly.

  When she and Todd left, I asked Dad about Mr. Morthanos’s book. “Does he write poetry or stories or what?”

  Dad looked up from the pipe he was lighting. “I believe he’s trying to get a volume of poetry together. It sounds as if he’s been working on it for years.”

  Poetry—how perfect. It was just what I imagined Mr. Morthanos writing. Unlike Dad, he wouldn’t depend on a word processor or even a typewriter. He’d use a fountain pen with a fine, gold point. Sepia ink on ivory parchment, the land calligraphers buy. His handwriting would swirl gracefully across the page.

  When Susan came downstairs, she suggested inviting Mr. Morthanos to join us for a glass of wine by the fire. “If he’s going to be here a long time, we might as well get acquainted.”

  While Dad puttered with the refreshments, Susan asked if I’d mind running up to Mr. Morthanos’s room. “He’s chosen the one at the end of the hall. I’d go myself but I’m just too tired to climb the steps more than once tonight.”

  I left the kitchen eagerly b
ut halfway up the stairs my courage failed. Suppose Mr. Morthanos refused the invitation? Maybe he’d come here to be alone. He might not want to socialize.

  In the hall below, I heard the tinkle of glasses. Dad was carrying a tray to the living room. Before he could look up and see me, I tiptoed to Mr. Morthanos’s door, took a deep breath, and forced myself to knock, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear me.

  Mr. Morthanos opened the door as if he’d been expecting me. Behind him, a single candle burned on the desk, its quivering flame reflected in the window pane. In a pool of light, I saw a sheet of paper and a pen—the very scene I’d imagined, aglow in the shadows like an old painting.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morthanos, but we thought you might like to come down for a glass of wine by the fire.” My voice came out as high and squeaky as a child’s, and I blushed with embarrassment.

  “You needn’t be so formal, Cynda. Please call me Vincent.” He smiled, freeing me to take a small breath. “Tell your parents I’ll be happy to join them. I hope to become one of the family during my stay.”

  He lingered in the doorway, watching me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to be ten years older, pretty and sure of myself and as worldly as he.

  Vincent smiled again. “Thank you for the invitation, Cynda.”

  I backed away uncertainly and tripped on the untied lace of my shoe. Humiliated, I turned and fled. What must Vincent Morthanos think of me? Why was I so shy, so clumsy? Why hadn’t I at least tied my shoe before I’d gone upstairs?

  7

  By the time Vincent joined us, I’d managed to calm down, but I was still embarrassed about tripping on my shoelace. From across the room, I watched him make himself comfortable in an old armchair. His black sweater and jeans merged with the shadows, but his delicately boned face seemed to float against the darkness like a study in chiaroscuro.

  While the adults sipped their wine and talked, I tried to read, but Vincent’s presence distracted me. I was conscious of the creak of his chair, the rustle of his clothing, the sound of his voice. A remark about the environment, a comment on the political situation in Europe, a question concerning Dad’s writing—every word Vincent spoke fascinated me, but I didn’t have the courage to do more than listen. What could I say that he’d find interesting?