Look for Me by Moonlight

by Mary Downing Hahn

  “Of course you’re welcome,” I said quickly. “Very welcome. I’m glad you’re here. So’s Dad. Susan too. We’re all glad.” I stopped, afraid of saying too much.

  “Everyone but Todd,” Vincent said wryly. “He certainly isn’t enjoying my visit.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” I said. “It must be his cold or something. I hope he didn’t hurt your feelings.”

  Vincent smiled. “Children are such funny little creatures, more like pets than human beings, as unpredictable as cats in their likes and dislikes.”

  I glanced at Ebony. He sat on the windowsill, as tall and aloof as an Egyptian cat statue I’d seen in the Metropolitan Museum of Art catalog. No friendlier than Todd, he refused to have anything to do with our guest.

  Vincent raised his glass. The red wine glowed in the firelight. “Just so you don’t share your brother’s feelings, Cynda.”

  “I don’t share anything with Todd except my father,” I said, eager to clarify things. “I’m staying here while my mother’s in Italy with my stepfather.”

  “I thought as much,” Vincent said slowly.

  I stared at him, perplexed by the sympathy in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Instead of answering, Vincent picked up one of the puzzles my father collected and left lying around for guests to solve. It looked deceptively easy. All you had to do was separate four cleverly linked circles. I’d tried to take them apart before dinner and given up ten or fifteen minutes later, totally frustrated.

  Vincent’s long, slender fingers shifted the circles, twisted and rearranged them. In a few seconds, he held one aloft. “Shall I tell your fortune, Cynda?”

  I nodded, too fascinated to breathe, let alone speak.

  “This circle is you,” he said. Flourishing the other three, still joined, he added, “Jeff, Susan, and Todd.”

  Deftly he detached Dad’s circle and joined it to mine. “How you’d like it to be.” In a flash, he reunited Dad with Susan and Todd, leaving me unattached. “How it is.”

  Using circles instead of cards, Vincent had read my mind, unearthed my secrets. Speechless, I watched him remove another circle. He held up the two still joined. “Your mother and your stepfather.”

  We both stared silently at the circle lying on the table. My circle. Alone, unattached, easily forgotten.

  Vincent swiftly reassembled the puzzle. The only sound was the clink of silver circles. When he’d finished, he crossed the room and sat on the couch beside me. “Believe me, Cynda, I understand. I know how hard it is to be an outsider, alone and unhappy, misunderstood.” Resting his head against the back of the couch, he sighed and closed his eyes.

  This close to him, I was conscious of his smooth skin, his dark hair, his long fingers. He smelled of spices, sweet and aromatic. His sweater was cashmere, as thick and soft and strokeable as Ebony’s fur. He was beautiful, I thought, almost unearthly in his perfection. How could such a handsome man empathize so completely with my loneliness? Surely he had no end of friends and admirers.

  Vincent opened his eyes and gazed at me. In the silence, the fire whispered to the logs, consuming them softly, lovingly. For a moment, I thought he meant to kiss me, but the strange intimacy he’d created was destroyed by the sound of voices. Susan and Dad were coming downstairs.

  “I must go now, Cynda.” Vincent got to his feet quickly. “We’ll talk again.”

  I reached toward him, wishing he’d stay, but he didn’t turn back. Passing Dad and Susan in the hallway, he bid them a polite good night. Then, head erect, he climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness at the top.

  Dad and Susan looked at each other, puzzled perhaps by Vincent’s abrupt departure.

  “I guess the poor guy got tired of waiting for us to come back,” Dad said. “We had the devil of a time getting Todd to settle down and go to sleep.”

  Susan collapsed on the couch beside me. “I hope you and Vincent found something interesting to talk about while we were gone.”

  Without looking up from my book, I said, “He’s very nice.”

  Susan squeezed my hand. “Yes,” she agreed, “he is nice, but . . .”

  I thought she’d say more about Vincent, but instead she asked if I’d mind fixing a pot of chamomile tea. Todd had worn her out, left her tense and worried. A cup of hot tea was just what she needed to relax.

  While I waited for the kettle to boil, I gazed out the window. An almost full moon shone down on the snowman, casting his inky black shadow on the white lawn and hiding his face. The wind plucked at his scarf. The moon slid behind a cloud, darkening the scene. When it emerged, I had the oddest sensation that the snowman had moved closer to the inn, taking tiny steps like a child playing a game.

  In the woods, the owl called three times. At the same moment, the wind rose, filling the air with a fine dust of blown snow that almost obscured the lonely figure. I turned away, afraid the snowman might be nearer when the wind dropped.

  9

  Several days passed, each like the one before. In the mornings I studied—or tried to—while Dad worked on his novel and Susan sewed. After lunch, it was back to the books for a couple of hours. In the late afternoon, I took care of Todd while Susan napped and Dad wrote. At six, we ate dinner. At seven, Todd went to bed. At eight, Vincent joined us for a glass of wine and an hour or so of conversation.

  Every night I hoped Todd would wake from a bad dream and yell for Dad and Susan, but he slept soundly, depriving me of a chance to be alone with Vincent. I had to content myself with being in the same room with him. From my perch on the couch, I listened to every word he said and stole looks at him as often as I dared. Sometimes he caught me watching him; sometimes I caught him watching me.

  Although I rarely had anything to say, Vincent made an effort to draw me into the conversation. Unlike Dad, he took my opinions seriously. He listened to me. He never laughed or teased me. If I made a mistake, he defended me, even when my error was as irrefutable as a misquoted poem or a blunder in grammar. He had a clever way of making Dad sound like a pedant when he corrected me.

  Vincent also noticed how often Susan asked me to do things for her. Fetch this, fetch that, make tea, clean up the dishes, put another log on the fire, let the cat in, let the cat out, answer the phone. When I returned from one of these chores, he’d catch my eye and smile sympathetically.

  One afternoon I took a walk to escape Todd’s endless requests to build block towers, play Candyland, help him with puzzles, read to him, and so on. Sometimes I enjoyed entertaining my brother, but he was so demanding. One game was never enough, neither was one book or one puzzle. More, more, more—it was exhausting.

  From the top of the cliff, I looked down uneasily, half expecting to see the dead girl’s body awash in the surf. But the ocean was empty Waves rolled toward shore, their sleek, green backs streaked with seaweed. A gust of wind ran its cold fingers through my hair and I turned away. It was a sad and lonely place, made more so by Mrs. Bigelow’s story.

  I walked cautiously down the path to the beach. Soothed by the rumble of the surf and the cries of gulls, I hiked along the shore for miles, enjoying the solitude and the freedom to think my own thoughts—mainly about Vincent.

  By the time I turned back, the sun had set, leaving a gash of red in the western sky. On the horizon, the sea merged with the dark clouds. The foam on the breaking waves glowed pink in the dull light.

  Just ahead, a barely discernible figure emerged from the mist. I was alone. Night was falling fast. The moon was already visible, small and shrouded, giving little light. The murdered girl came to mind again, and I was afraid. I shouldn’t have walked so far, shouldn’t have stopped so often to pick up shells and stones, should have remembered how short winter days are and how soon it gets dark.

  “Cynda, is that you?”

  “Vincent!” Weak-kneed with relief, I hurried toward him.

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” he asked. “It’s almost dark, you shoul
d be home. Susan is looking for you.”

  “She probably wants me to set the table,” I grumbled, “or keep Todd out of her hair.”

  Vincent agreed. “She demands a great deal from you.”

  I looked at him gratefully. Most adults would have taken up for Susan. “She’s pregnant,” they would have said. “She has a right to expect help.” But Vincent saw things from my point of view. Susan was taking advantage of me.

  We walked along in silence. The waves washed in and out, sucking at the sand. In the distance, well back from the cliffs, I could just make out the inn’s candles.

  “Do you ever wonder where the murdered girl’s body was found?” Vincent asked suddenly.

  I shivered and said nothing. The girl had been on my mind all afternoon. I didn’t want to think about her anymore. What I wanted now was romance. Maybe even a kiss. . . .

  I glanced at Vincent hopefully but he was gazing at the cliff tops and the sky beyond. Stars twinkled here and there, appearing one by one in rifts between the ragged clouds. “Some people believe evil lingers at the scene of a crime for years afterward,” he said slowly. “Perhaps forever.”

  “Don’t say any more, Vincent,” I whispered. “Please don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, coming closer. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Cynda.”

  Vincent took my hand and we walked on. “As you come to know me better,” he said, “you’ll discover I have a morbid streak which may not be to your liking.”

  I stared up at him, thrilled by his nearness and the touch of his hand. “I can’t imagine disliking anything about you, Vincent.”

  His grip tightened. “You’ve just met me, Cynda. You have no idea what sort of man I am.” He was smiling, teasing me, his voice full of humor.

  “That’s true,” I said, trying to match his bantering tone. “I don’t know where you were born, where you live, what sort of family you have. Why, I don’t even know how old you are.”

  “I’m older than you think,” Vincent said lightly.

  “You can’t be more than thirty.”

  He laughed. “Give or take a few centuries.”

  I laughed too, sharing the joke, and he gave my hand a squeeze.

  We’d come to the path leading to the cliff top. Vincent stopped walking and studied my face in the dim light. “Much as I enjoy your company, I suggest you go home before someone comes looking for you. I wouldn’t want your father to get the wrong idea about me.”

  Something dark and rich in his voice made my face burn, not with embarrassment but with pleasure. “Let’s walk a little farther,” I said. “I don’t want to go back to the inn yet.”

  “Believe me, I’d like to keep you with me.” Vincent spoke so softly I barely heard him as he slowly backed away.

  “Where are you going?” I reached out to stop him but he was already several feet distant, merging with the dark sea and sky.

  “I’ll walk for a while,” he said, “and think of you, Cynda.” With that, he vanished into the sea mist.

  I took a few hesitant steps after him but the wind was rising fast. Sand stung my face and eyes, and I turned onto the path, reluctant to let him go but warmed by his words.

  When I opened the kitchen door several minutes later, Susan was waiting for me. “Where have you been, Cynda?”

  “I went for a walk on the beach,” I said, avoiding her eyes. If she were anything like Mom, she’d guess I was hiding something.

  “You were gone for more than an hour,” Susan said. “I was worried.”

  She seemed willing to let the subject drop, so I apologized, but I couldn’t help being annoyed. I didn’t need Susan to play the part of my mother. She wasn’t old enough to tell me what to do or what not to do.

  Vincent returned while Todd and I were playing Candyland, but he slipped upstairs without saying more than hello.

  Todd made a face at Vincent’s back. “Did you see him when you were walking on the beach?”

  I moved my playing piece slowly and deliberately along the game’s curving path. “No,” I lied. “I didn’t see Vincent.”

  A few minutes later, Susan called me to the kitchen. “Can you take Vincent’s tray to him? I’ve just started another batch of hollandaise sauce. It will curdle if I leave it.”

  Unable to believe my good luck, I picked up the tray and climbed the stairs. The door opened before I’d even raised my hand to knock. “Come m,” Vincent said, “come in.”

  As I passed him, my shoulder brushed his arm. I tried to hold the tray steady, but the carafe tipped, spilling red wine on the white napkin, like drops of blood on snow.

  “Let me have that.” Vincent’s fingers touched mine as he took the tray. He carried it to a small table near the fire and set it down carefully beside a stack of paper, a pen, a bottle of ink, and a pile of books, testimony to his day’s work.

  He lifted the lid covering his dinner plate and pierced the steak with his fork. When the juices ran out, he smiled. “Extra rare, just as I requested. Please give my compliments to the chef.”

  Nervously I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, not sure if I should stay or leave. “Do you want anything else?” I asked, dunking he might like more pepper, a sauce, something I could fetch for him.

  Vincent raised his head and gazed at me. His eyes lingered on my lips and then moved to my breasts. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

  The air thickened with the smell of burning logs and melting candle wax, of steak and cloves. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the wind. My heart pounded, jackhammering against my ribs like a wild thing.

  Vincent smiled as if he heard every beat of my heart, but when I took a step closer, he shook his head. “You mustn’t keep your family waiting.”

  Vincent came down later for his glass of wine, and he and Dad got into a discussion of politics, a subject I knew little about. While they talked, Susan sewed and I leafed through an anthology of poetry. From time to time, I glanced at Vincent. More than once I caught him staring at me, his eyes dark with promises that made my heart beat faster.

  The conversation went on and on, as relentless as the wind buffeting the inn. Occasionally Susan made a remark, but no one asked for my opinion. My eyelids grew heavy, and my head nodded; the words on the page jumbled, made no sense. When I woke up, the fire had burned low, Dad and Susan were asleep, and Vincent was sitting beside me, smiling as if my confusion amused him.

  “I’m afraid my discourse on European economic problems put everyone to sleep,” he said apologetically.

  Taking my poetry book, he turned the pages slowly as if he were looking for something. The paper rustled like silk. “The Highwayman,’” he said, stopping at last. Without taking his eyes from mine, he began to recite:

  The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

  The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

  And the highwayman came riding—

  Riding—riding—

  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

  Vincent paused. “How familiar it sounds. An old inn on a cold moonlit night, a lover seeking ‘the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.’”

  Closing the book soundlessly, he threw his head back and sighed. “What a girl Bess was. Can you imagine loving a man enough to die for him?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, staring at his face. “I’d do anything for the person I loved.”

  “It’s one thing to sit by the fire and speak of dying for love,” Vincent said, “but to do it, actually to die-No, Cynda, I don’t think many girls would. Not willingly.”

  He reached out to caress my cheek. His fingers were cool, his touch light, but his eyes were dark. “So pretty,” he whispered, “so sweet, so trusting—what a dear girl you are, Cynda. I fear I could fall in love with you.”
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br />   Leaning closer, he brushed my lips with his. Before I had a chance to speak or move, he got to his feet and crossed the room as silently as Ebony. He’d no sooner settled himself in his chair than Dad and Susan woke up and smiled sheepishly at each other.

  Susan looked at the clock. “Goodness, it’s not quite ten. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy.”

  “You’ve had a long day,” Vincent said sympathetically. “While Jeff and I indulge ourselves with our writing, you cook and care for everyone. I don’t know how you do so much—and do it so magnificently.”

  Obviously flattered, Susan shrugged and said it was nothing, anyone could do what she did, but Vincent insisted she was a marvel. He praised the inn’s decor, the beautiful objects in the living room, her sewing projects. I would have been jealous had he not smiled at me occasionally as if we shared a joke at Susan’s expense.

  When Vincent finally ran out of compliments, Dad suggested a game of Scrabble. We cleared a space on a small table near the fire and crowded around the board. I was so close to Vincent our knees touched, our shoulders bumped, our fingers brushed against each other’s. It was impossible for me to concentrate on the game. After two rounds, I was clearly losing, but I didn’t care. Being near Vincent was all I wanted.

  When the clock struck eleven, Susan yawned and stretched. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m too tired to spell my own name.”

  She rose to leave but Dad stopped her. “Look, Susie. We’ve made a sentence.” Pointing at the words zigzagging across the board, he read aloud, “Ill come to thee by moonlight.”

  Except for “moonlight,” the words were parts of other, longer words—a syllable here, a letter there, snaking from one square to another; up, down, and across, a secret message for us to find.