Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  They agreed on the outdoors, devouring the Chinese food on the steps of her apartment, Pete shirtless, Em in a short floral bathrobe. Neither of them gave a damn what late-night passersby thought about their half-dressed state, sitting in a surround of cardboard containers and fortune cookies.

  They crept back into the apartment, which was dark and quiet. Once inside her bedroom, they managed the narrow bed. Pete was too tall, but mercifully not too wide, and they made a nest of it. As she lay with her back to him, he got an up-close look at the tattoo he’d seen earlier. “That’s unusual,” he said, his fingertips gliding over a symbol he recognized, a cross with a looped top.

  “You like it or don’t?”

  “I like the symbol on you. I’ve seen it in my travels—ankh.”

  “It stands for life,” they said simultaneously.

  Em laughed. “Well, I’m glad you approve.”

  “What made you get it, especially in a place where you can’t really see it?” He kissed the edge of one shoulder, working his way down her back to the ancient Egyptian emblem. He swore it was warm under his lips.

  Em twisted around, facing him. “You know, I’m not sure. It just seemed like the right spot.” They settled deeper into the mattress, but Em popped back up. “Oh, the lights.”

  Faced with the prospect of sleep, Pete realized how distracted he’d been. “Em . . .” He kissed her shoulder again. “It would be better . . . smarter if I went back to the hotel. In the morn—”

  “No.” She rolled toward him in the tight spot. “You trusted me before—”

  “Yes, but this is different.” He glanced at his own shoulder. “You don’t understand—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I understand more than you think. Don’t go by the past. Go by what you’re truly feeling right now. If that’s fear for my safety, fine. But if it’s not . . .”

  In the soft glow of light, the sure look on her face gave Pete confidence. He did feel different from any other night when the lights went out. The past did not echo in his head. Gingerly—protectively—he tucked an arm around her. It truly did feel like in the hours to come, Peter St John would be in control.

  Em leaned over and shut off the string of globe lights. She yawned sleepily, her lack of trepidation marked. “You’re going to sleep well, Pete.”

  He was already drifting, too exhausted, too tempted by rest to reply. A strong sense of belonging dominated his more relaxed mind, grounding Pete to a narrow bed in a tiny room in New York City. Only one distant reflective thought tagged along. Pete wondered if, despite the trauma of Esme, Phineas Seaborn had found the same peace that suddenly, miraculously appeared to be a part of his world.

  FINAL ACT NEW YORK CITY JANUARY 1919

  He’d always despised January.

  It was the month his parents had left him in the bitter-cold front hall of the Children’s Aid Society. They gave their son away like the useless ash of a burn barrel.

  January.

  The month when a gang of ill-tempered, equally mistreated boys had locked him in a freezing, rat-filled outhouse.

  January.

  It’d been the month, a year ago, when Germans had taken advantage of disorganized British and Allied troops, shooting men like ducks in a Luna Park gallery, his division obliterated.

  January. No, he’d never had much luck with the start of a new year.

  Sitting on the deck of the battleship Florida, icy sleet hit Phin’s face. He fought off the foreboding feel of the January into which he now sailed.

  His mind wouldn’t relent. He’d noticed this since the war had gone dead; he wasn’t able to do much but relive the past. His brain couldn’t navigate out of it, though for certain the war had ended. Seventeen months of blood-soaked battles, he supposed there might be an aftereffect. He shifted uncomfortably. Beneath a wet wool blanket, Phin ran his hand over an internal knot in his stomach, the shrapnel a souvenir from the Battle of Somme. He’d barely spoken on the voyage back to the States, though he did huddle tighter into the men beside him, trying to draw warmth.

  His breath wafted like smoke on air, and Phin thought of two winters ago. How he and Hassan had nearly frozen to death in the butcher-shop shanty. Hassan. Phin had seen his friend briefly, not far outside Belleau Wood. Each was amazed to find the other alive, each gripped by the other’s tale. They’d excelled in a war where both surely should have perished. Phin closed his eyes and tried to picture the brave Indian, but he could only see gore—the gruesome, never-ending battles, slaughtered men and horses.

  Next to him on the ship was a tarp. Phin shifted the canvas covering to pet the sleek English saddle. Traveller, a steely draft horse, had taken a shell to his right flank, broken his cannon bone. Phin squeezed his eyes shut. For all the ravages of war, the memory of having put down his own horse was perhaps most excruciating. Phin had almost given up that day, and he closed his eyes again, imagining the person who’d kept him alive—Esme. His bearded chin shuddered.

  Phin hadn’t heard from her since before Armistice Day, when the war had stopped on paper. For another month, he and his last division hunted rogue Germans, who continued to fight regardless of peace. His final memory of war was putting his sword through the eye of a pinned enemy solider, one who screamed hysterically at him in German. Well, in such a moment, who wouldn’t? After the fact, another German, who’d surrendered in English, told Phin that’s what the dead soldier had been yelling: “Ich gabe auf!” “I give up!”

  He shivered at his actions—how killing the enemy could so seamlessly turn into killing a man. His mind carried the weight of a thousand dead soldiers. He forced his thoughts back to Esme. When Phin’s division was stationed in Aisne, he’d look anxiously for Maree, hoping she’d come with mail. The young farm girl, with her dark hair and shy smile, had been the timid sort, and Phin thought this was why she’d been so successful passing messages from division to division. When she brought personal mail, Maree would say in broken English, “Another love letter from Miss Moon, I think. Could I please see her photograph again?”

  Phin would produce the now-dirt-stained, bent image—a copy of the photo he’d taken at Luna Park. Esme posed on a chaise, flowers in her arm, a coy smile on her lips. The girl he loved, the girl he hoped still waited for him. Maree would gasp as if he’d shown her heaven, saying, “She looks like an angel.”

  An angel that, perhaps, had fled from his war-ravaged, earthbound self.

  The horn from the ship blasted Phin from his worries, and to his left he could just make out the Statue of Liberty. The ship turned right, toward the harbor. As it docked, Phin rose and searched the crowds for Esme. Of course, she didn’t know he was aboard this ship, and he tried to comfort himself with that.

  He made his way through the hordes of gushing wives and sweethearts, a duffel bag over his shoulder and the heavy saddle on his arm. But as Phin moved toward the Upper East Side, he knew the weightiest burden was on his mind. He was covered in more sweat than sleet by the time he passed by Forty-Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Mercifully, he came upon the Tribune’s main office. Inside, he was surprised to find his name a known thing, clippings of the photos he’d taken, images he’d drawn pinned to nearly every wall. Phin was stunned.

  Clive Baxter, one of the editors, moved faster than his printing presses. This was the same editor who’d been hesitant about giving Phin a shot at the ill Charlie Carlisle’s beat. Now Clive approached Phin with reverence, shaking his hand enthusiastically and offering him a job on the spot. “Pick your beat, Seaborn. The Tribune would be honored to have you on board.”

  Phin was startled by the fuss and thanked the editor vaguely, asking if he could store the saddle for a time. Clive said he’d guard the saddle like gold, suggesting that Phin could pose on it. Perhaps they could commandeer a city police officer’s horse, put Phin in uniform, and stage an entire scene for the war hero’s homecoming. “What war hero?” Phin asked. Clive slapped him on the back, saying he was glad to see many battles ha
d not ruffled Phin’s witty humor.

  Phin could not say how Clive Baxter recalled his name, never mind his humor, but he did accept the editor’s hospitality. Phin glanced back as he left the newspaper office. Employees were gathered around the saddle like it contained secret plans for a German assault. The greeting and scene were a puzzlement. But maybe it would all work out. A job. Yes. If Esme had second thoughts, surely a job at the Tribune would sway her.

  Phin approached the supper club, and his gut clenched harder than it had when riding into the Battle of Belleau Wood. More so than when he’d crawled on his belly through mortar fire in Saint-Mihiel, all to capture war through a lens. Foreboding came to fruition when he saw the club’s boarded windows, the hotel clearly defunct. He looked around the street. Many of the surrounding buildings looked the same, but some were business as usual. He supposed this was how postwar America looked—sleepily rising from a snowy drift, as opposed to cities abroad, now cavities in the earth.

  He crossed the street to where a tiny shoemaker’s shop was located. An Italian called Papi worked there and lived above it with his wife. On evenings when Phin waited for Esme to finish her show, he’d chat with the old man, who sat out front, smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey.

  “Papi,” Phin said, going into the shop. The old man turned from a grinding wheel. On sight, he dropped the boot he’d been repairing, hurrying around to greet Phin. Again, it seemed he’d transformed from ruffian to war hero. Phin quickly accepted the accolades and pressed the old man for information about the supper club.

  “They closed it all months ago, the club and hotel. With blackouts and curfews, there were no customers to booze it up and be entertained.” He smiled a toothless grin. “As it was, we’ve lived on bread and cheese, used candles at night. But things are settling down. Soon life will be the same. The club is not like shoes. It takes longer for people to need a party for no reason.”

  “The girl who lived there—Esme.” Phin pointed as if the building were difficult to see. The old man’s face was confused, wrinkle over wrinkle. “Esmerelda Moon,” Phin said louder. “She sang at the supper club before moving on to the Palace.”

  “Yes . . . yes.” Papi tapped grease-covered fingers to his head. “The pretty girl with the calla-lily hair.”

  Phin recalled the window boxes the shoemaker’s wife kept out front. There were, indeed, peach-drenched lilies, the color of Esme’s hair. “Her. Have you seen her?”

  He frowned, shaking his head of thick white hair. “No. Not in months. I didn’t know she’d moved on to the Palace.” He laughed, gripping his hand around Phin’s arm. “But if she did, this seems like a right thing—for a war hero to end up with a songstress who performs on New York’s grandest stage.”

  “When was the last time you saw anybody at the supper club, coming or going?”

  “Oh, a while now. Once it closed and they let all the help go . . . well, on occasion I see young Hupp. I think he comes to check the property.”

  “Hupp. He hasn’t been gone like me, shipped overseas?”

  “Heir to the Hupp fortune? Overseas?” He laughed. “For a savvy warrior, I see you still need to learn a thing or two about life. Young Hupp never left the country. I heard he was sent to our nation’s capital, but even that was corto. He’s been back in the city for months. Like I said—”

  “Thank you, Papi.” Phin sprinted from the shoemaker’s shop, dodging heavy traffic. Motor vehicles had doubled since he’d been gone. Horns honked as a car swerved. The driver yelled obscenities, and Phin was glad to know “war hero” did not glow from him like a lighted sandwich board. At the front entrance to the supper club, he pulled hard at the handle, but the door was heavy and the lock solid.

  Where was she? Why had Esme stopped writing? He’d resisted, but Phin had to entertain the obvious: she’d thrown him over for the sure life that Benjamin Hupp offered. Why the hell hadn’t he insisted on a marriage before he left? A fifteen-minute city hall ceremony; that’s all it would have taken. No. He’d been too proud—he refused to have Esme marry a pauper who’d likely die in a war.

  Phin had almost gone to Oscar before he left. If he’d known the man had felt more than contempt for him, Phin might have. But he’d been of the mind that Oscar believed Esme could do better than a boy whose own parents didn’t want him, street scruff who lived in a dirt-floor shanty on the poorer side of Hell’s Kitchen.

  Oscar. During last winter and before this one, Esme wrote about Oscar heading to New Orleans. That she’d been lonely and how much she was dreading another cold season. She heard talk of peace on the city streets and she hoped this was true. She hoped Phin would be back before spring. “I am, Esme. I am,” he said like a prayer.

  On the steps of the supper club, Phin tore through his duffel bag, coming up with a pile of letters bound by string, if not his heart. He broke the twine and riffled through, finding the last one, dated September 1918—she’d mentioned Oscar’s plans for the coming winter but nothing firm. Oscar and his motor truck could be anywhere, with or without Esme. He fanned out the letters. A single postcard stuck out. In France, the postcard had made him smile again and again: in a trench during the Battle of Lys, and another, the Battle of the Selle, with Phin tucked under a tarp in the pouring rain of Hamel, where dead American soldiers were piled up not twenty feet away.

  It’d taken three days for a wagon to arrive. The smell of the dead was so ripe and stomach turning that Phin held the postcard to his nose, the strong scent of gardenias surviving. He paused now, brushing his fingers over the tranquil bay scene, reading Esme’s short note: “When I spent two weeks on this beach, I didn’t dream of you then. E.M.”

  He remembered a different letter, one where Esme spoke of Cora. She hadn’t gone with Oscar last winter; she was no longer rooming at the supper club’s hotel. But Esme’s explanation was vague, and Phin had had his suspicions about Cora. He stuffed the letter back in the duffel bag and took off toward Brooklyn.

  In January, Coney Island was not the World. It was an amusement park of ghosts. The plaster forest of minarets that lined Luna Park was boarded up and abandoned, lifeless. It was strange to see the pounded dirt paths, where people walked elbow to elbow in June, so empty. Phin kept moving. Only one thing operated in Coney Island this time of year, and he aimed for the ornamental elephant on the horizon. He flipped up his collar against a blustery wind and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. An occasional man scurried past, his hat pulled tight over his ears. If the men hurrying away hoped not to be seen, the Elephant Hotel announced their departure, the pink beast popping loudly against a gray winter sky.

  Phin had been inside once. Old mates from his Hell’s Kitchen squalor had insisted. They’d been tossed out almost upon entry—not enough money between them for one good whore. He’d been silently relieved. Pushing through the entrance now, Phin thought of the dirty louts—Archie, Ralph, Angus, and Floyd. Dead, every last one. Recollections of war and even its gutter rats walloped Phin’s brain. So it caught him off guard when he saw Cora, her narrow face painted up enough to make her position obvious. Spying Phin, Cora leaped from the man’s lap on which she sat and scurried toward a room veiled in beads. In a few strides, Phin caught up to her, grabbing her by the arm. “Long time no see, Cora.”

  She spun around and eyed him with new brazenness.

  “I take it the war hasn’t kept you from earning a living.”

  The manager was on them immediately, and Phin was quick to offer payment for an hour of her time. With cash in hand, the manager had no ear for Cora’s objections, and Phin insisted they go to talk wherever it was she did her business. In a room just large enough for a bed covered in dirty sheets, Cora claimed no knowledge of Esmerelda’s whereabouts. The two had grown distant, Cora said. She suggested that Phin be grateful not to find Esmerelda turning tricks in the room next door to hers. Phin had never struck a woman, and he came within an open-palm inch of Cora’s face. The way she cowered stopped him. He apologized, st
aring at his trembling hand.

  The exchange leveled and she became more forthcoming. It turned out that Cora, the juggler, had about the same amount of skill in the arts of the human flesh. Clientele had slipped in recent months. Last fall, Benjamin Hupp had offered her money to quit coming around the supper club, cease communication with Esme. She’d taken the cash and asked no questions. “I assumed Esmerelda came to her senses.” She gave Phin a long once-over. “Surely she’s agreed to marry Hupp. Do you find it that surprising?”

  Beyond this confession and question, Cora insisted she knew nothing else. She did, however, have one piece of helpful news: last fall, Oscar had only gone as far as Atlantic City. All the venues closed in January and he’d just returned to New York. They’d avoided one another at the Elephant Hotel only a few nights before. Phin dashed for the exit, but not before hearing Cora’s parting words hit his ears, “You’re a fool, Phineas Seaborn. A girl would be worse than a ninny to turn down the likes of Hupp. If you feel what you claim, let Esmerelda go. Help a girl out of a hard life, not into one.”

  He’d reached the edge of Coney Island when Cora’s warning gave him pause. Phin’s icy-cold cheeks stung and so did the thought. He shook his head. As if I should take advice from a girl who sleeps with her own bad choices . . .

  He hitched a wagon ride, heading toward the Flatlands of Brooklyn. Cora had told him about a rooming house on its edge; she guessed Oscar had gone there. “Oh, he’d squat right back in those Flatlands if he could. If he and the boys wouldn’t freeze their balls off. Oscar likes feeling as if he’s the king of his kind, and that’s hard to do in a rented room.”

  After the wagon turned north, Phin had a few miles to walk, and he marched across unmarred earth. He brushed at his eyes. In this open space, he saw endless bodies and body parts. The stench of rot held firm to his nose—trench foot, gangrene, and dysentery. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t stop the screams railing through his head, men crying out for their mothers and wives. Shell shock. He’d seen it plenty in soldiers, after battles. But Phin hadn’t imagined it would follow a man back across an ocean. The visions walked with him, and he saw himself photographing shredded men, all certain to die at his feet.