Moon Spinners

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The club manager’s smile slipped back into place, her savvy control over the awkward situation evident. It came as no surprise to Nell when Annabelle Palazola’s eldest child became manager of the yacht club. She had brains and common sense as well as beauty.

  When Alphonso walked back into the dining room a short while later, he didn’t glance at his niece. Instead, he scanned the room, looking over groups of diners, people moving about the festive room greeting friends and neighbors.

  The band in the corner began to play another set.

  Finally his gaze settled on a quiet seating area in the corner. Sophia sat on the couch with Mayor Stan Hanson, Beatrice Scaglia— a longtime council member—and several other civic leaders. The mayor’s body was hunched forward, his face serious. Across from him, Sophia’s hands moved with her words—definite, decisive movements, pausing occasionally as if to pull out the proper English word to match her Spanish expression. From where Nell sat, Sophia was winning the argument, whatever it might be about.

  Alphonso stood still for a moment, watching the exchange. Then he nodded to a waiter to bring him a drink refill and disappeared through the French doors.

  Nell turned back to the table as Cass asked Gracie if she had known her mother, Julianne Santos, was back in town.

  Gracie shook her head. “I never do. You know that better than anyone, Cass.”

  Birdie ran her fingers through her short silver bob. “I’ve known your mother for a long time. I watched her grow up. She’s not a bad person.”

  “Good or bad, Julianne Santos will never win the mother of the year award,” Cass said.

  Nell couldn’t blame Cass for her sharp words. She’d grown up with Gracie and had seen too much to empathize with Julianne. Since she was a teenager, Julianne Santos had lived on the edge, disappearing on a moment’s notice for parts unknown, returning weeks or months later when she ran out of money. On one of the returns, she brought Gracie with her—but soon left again, leaving Gracie behind. Nell had always hoped those stories were exaggerated, but no one had ever refuted them. Gracie’s childhood hadn’t been an easy one.

  Her uncle married late by Sea Harbor standards, and when Alphonso finally brought Sophia home to the big house on Ravenswood Road, Julianne’s visits became even less frequent. She and Sophia were like fire and ice. And that was putting it nicely, Cass had said.

  It was unspoken, but understood, that with Julianne gone, her brother, Alphonso, would raise her daughter.

  And he did.

  “I’m fine,” Gracie said to everyone. “This isn’t new. Just Julianne’s way of saying hi.”

  Ben appeared then, as if on cue, carrying a tray of tall narrow glasses with sprigs of fresh mint sticking out the top.

  “Uncle Ben to the rescue.” Izzy took two of the glasses from the tray and handed Gracie a fresh drink. “The bartender may have failed martini school, but he makes a mean mojito.”

  “The best,” Ben said. “And when we’re finished, I am going to challenge the lot of you to outdo me on the dance floor.”

  Nell laughed and pushed back her chair, planting a quick kiss on Ben’s cheek. “I can’t compete with Ben on the dance floor,” she said. “What I need is some ocean air.”

  “I’m right behind you, Nell. If I had even one of those Cuban drinks you’d be scooping me off the floor.” Birdie pushed herself up from the table.

  “Birdie.” Ben looked up. “Didn’t you tell me Izzy was driving you over tonight?”

  Birdie turned and glared at her friend, her white brows nearly touching each other. “Are you checking up on me, Ben Endicott? Shame on you! I told you I’d drive at night only when necessary.”

  Ben laughed. “Of course not. But I saw your big Lincoln drive into the parking lot a while ago. I was curious.”

  “I’d never attempt that windy road in the Lincoln—not if I thought you’d find out about it anyway. Izzy and I had a pleasant drive over together in her car, thank you very much.”

  “Hmm,” Ben said. “Could Harold have come by?”

  “No. He’s home with a broken ankle and not driving these days. You must have seen someone else. Possibly you should be wearing your glasses more often, my dear Ben.” She smiled at him sweetly and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  Ben looked properly chastised. “Sorry, Birdie. I should know better than to doubt you.”

  “Yes, you should,” Birdie said, and turned to follow Nell to the terrace doors, her silky kimono wrap billowing about her.

  Nell knew Ben wasn’t convinced, and as soon as she and Birdie were out of view, he’d walk outside and check again. Birdie’s Lincoln Town Car was hard to miss.

  “It was getting a tad warm in there,” Birdie said as they stepped out onto the cool terrace. She took a deep breath and tipped her chin up to catch a breeze.

  “Julianne Santos’ arrival didn’t help cool it off.” Nell sat down on a stone bench near the railing of the softly lit terrace. In the distance, the sound of waves lapping against the shore mixed with the dance music coming from inside. Above, the enormous moon bathed the stone terrace in a soft glow.

  “I almost didn’t recognize Julianne. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  “And she often changes her look. Sometimes red hair, sometimes platinum. I haven’t seen her next door for a while, though the Santos house is so hidden from view I can’t really see much.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “I remember Julianne when she was a teenager. She was always in one kind of trouble or another. Running off with men she barely knew. I used to think it was because her parents were gone so much. She had to work extra hard to get any attention. These days I rarely see her.”

  “Sophia would be a formidable sister-in-law.”

  “But a decent aunt to Gracie.”

  “And driving Ella Sampson to church every day while Harold’s laid up is a sweet thing do.”

  Birdie agreed. “Ella enjoys it. I think it’s good for her and Harold to have their moments apart, though Harold is not happy that Ella has someone other than himself to talk to.”

  Birdie sighed, then went on.

  “They’ve been arguing day and night. Two of the gentlest, most wonderful people on earth, and suddenly they are at each other at every turn. If Harold says something is black, Ella says it’s white. They’re a mess.”

  “Maybe Harold is just frustrated that he can’t be off fishing or fixing lawn mowers or pruning trees. That bum ankle probably gets him down.”

  Birdie nodded, but Nell could tell she wasn’t convinced. “Well, this too will pass.” She patted Birdie’s hand.

  “Yes it will.” They both fell silent then, the way old friends do, a comfortable respite from talk, each alone in thought.

  The sounds of laughter and light chatter floated over the terrace as small groups drifted out for fresh air and after-dinner drinks. Nell spotted Alphonso standing alone a short distance away, his palms flat on the stone railing. Collecting himself, Nell supposed. He looked slightly disheveled, his tie askew from the altercation with his sister. It was an unnatural look for him.

  A group of guests moved across the terrace, headed for the steps leading down to the beach, and Alphonso disappeared from Nell’s view. When the space cleared, a waitress was walking his way with a tray in her hands.

  “Mr. Santos?” Nell heard her say. “The manager sent this out, compliments of the house.” She handed Alphonso a crystal glass.

  Nell watched Alphonso’s face soften, appraising the beautiful young woman, his eyes roaming over her full figure. She responded with a slow, flirtatious smile, then turned and walked back into the club, her tray empty and her practiced walk attracting attention.

  Alphonso took a slow drink, watching her walk away. Once she disappeared inside the club, his pensive look returned.

  “Alphonso has had better nights,” Birdie said, looking in that direction.

  “Gracie, too.”

  A shadow fell between the two
women and Alphonso. It was Sophia, car keys dangling from her long fingers. She stood straight and regal, her elegant form a shapely silhouette against the low terrace lights. Her voice carried over to Nell and Birdie on the breeze.

  “Your hermana . . . she is gone?”

  “Yes. My sister won’t be back. Not tonight, at least.”

  Sophia stood close to Alphonso for a moment longer, looking at her husband but not speaking.

  “I saw you talking to the mayor. The beach access?” he asked.

  “Yes. The mayor is a stubborn man. But the land is mine, Alphonso. The access will remain closed. The neighbors will have to find another road. Another beach.” She lifted her hand again, the keys catching the light of the moon. “I am leaving you now. I have an important day ahead. Save time for me, my husband. We will have things we need to discuss. Good night, mi amor.”

  Sophia touched his cheek lightly with two fingers, her eyes locking onto his. Then she turned and walked back into the yacht club, her lacy wrap draped over her arm, her head held high, and a weary smile easing the lines of her face.

  Alphonso stared after her, his look so electric that Nell and Birdie looked away. They felt like intruders, eavesdroppers, witnessing an intensely private moment, one they were not meant to see.

  It was the sound of a Scotch glass, flung against the stone floor, that caused Nell and Birdie to look back. He stood alone, surrounded by crystal splinters. As he turned back to the sea, their eyes met, and it was only then that Birdie and Nell saw the look of total anguish in Alphonso Santos’ eyes.

  Chapter 4

  The white moon hung so low above Devil’s Cove that Sam Perry was sure if he reached up, he could touch it. His first night dive, and as the dive guide had promised, it was a perfect one.

  He pulled himself from the black water and waded over to the rickety dock on which the divers had stashed their gear bags. He slipped his diving mask to the top of his head, hoisted his tank onto the dock surface, and braced his elbows against the edge. The moon was eerie in its brightness. It had an iridescent glow, not the usual milky haze of lazy summer nights. Sam played with the ring of his underwater camera—recently focused on moon snails and lumpfish and lobsters disappearing into nests of wavy seaweed. He tilted the lens upward, focusing on the sky.

  The wet suit was a slippery second skin, and the photographer’s elbow slid along the plank. He steadied it, then looked up again into the night sky, his eyes shifting from the pinpoint light of stars to the mysterious moon.

  A movement on the rocky cliff above the diving beach distracted Sam for a second. At first he thought it was a falling star. But the lights moving erratically along the upper terrain, bouncing in the darkness, told him differently.

  Sam frowned, instinctively moving the lens of his camera from the sky to the cliff, following the lights.

  It was a car, and it was going too fast for the curvy road that outlined the high ledge. Devil’s Cove had hosted its share of accidents, teenagers out for joyrides and grazing the granite boulders that bordered the lookout area, or a driver with a few drinks in him, screeching to a stop just before the land took a downward turn. But mostly people were careful along Devil’s Cove Road, warned by the slow-down signs that lit up when car lights hit the neon paint.

  Sam called to the other divers who were surfacing in the water behind him. Wordlessly, they focused on the dancing headlights. Sam lifted his camera again and adjusted the telephoto lens to pull the image closer.

  “Slow down, you crazy fool,” someone murmured behind him.

  Then, as if sensing an audience, the two beams of light turned abruptly toward the ocean. Sam squinted, blinded momentarily as he stared into the looming headlights.

  In the next instant, the car was airborne, sailing in front of the moon like a toy, its small shape a stark silhouette against the glow.

  As if at a tennis match, the divers’ heads moved as one, following the trajectory of the car. Helpless, they stared in awful amazement at a bright red car flying through the sky like a comet, then hurtling to the rocky shore below.

  Chapter 5

  Nell had fallen asleep that night as soon as her head hit the pillow, unaware that five miles away, a group of divers would get little sleep at all.

  The next morning Ben teased her that she was half-asleep on their way home from the party. “Even those police sirens didn’t get a rise out of you. Why didn’t you sleep in today? It’s Saturday—no board meetings, no grant writing classes to give.”

  Ben’s words of advice were hollow ones. He knew Nell hadn’t slept past seven since she was a college student pulling all-night cramming sessions. And that matched his own habits just fine. He liked being the first one up, around five or so, as was his habit. And then he liked watching Nell walk down the back stairs and into the kitchen, her hair still tousled or sometimes damp and wavy from a shower, her lazy gaze moving over him like sunlight.

  He fell in love all over again, every time he saw her come down those steps, he had told her once.

  “Was sleeping in what you had in mind when you woke me a while ago?” she asked with a playful lift to her brows.

  “You got me there.” Ben coughed in mock embarrassment and opened the refrigerator. He took out the half-and-half and Nell’s scone mix, ready to be dropped on pans and placed in the oven.

  “I wonder what those sirens were about last night,” she said, picking up a spoon and stirring the mix. She dropped spoonfuls of batter onto the cookie sheet and wiped a dollop of batter from her finger. “I dreamed about them, I think.” Nell forced her mind back to her sleeping hours. “Sirens frighten me. They can signal lives changing in an instant.”

  She slid the pans into the oven.

  “It was probably just some kids joyriding around Devil’s Cove. The police chief told me his men are clamping down on teenage shenanigans before summer gets into full swing and someone gets hurt.” Ben unrolled the Sea Harbor Gazette and spread it out on the kitchen island. “Whatever the ruckus was, it was too late, probably, to make the paper.”

  But Ben was wrong. It hadn’t been too late to make the paper. And—as Nell had predicted—it meant lives would be changed in an instant.

  Nearly filling the top half of the newspaper was a photo of Alphonso Santos’ red Ferrari, smashed like a used soup can against the rocks of Devil’s Cove. It didn’t need identification; even wrecked and lying on the shore, it was a car that everyone in Sea Harbor knew.

  Before Nell could react, the sound of tires and slamming car doors announced that they had company. As she stared at the photo, Nell suspected whoever was coming wasn’t coming for blueberry scones.

  Sam and Izzy came through the front door and across the family room to the kitchen island. Both wore running shorts and damp T-shirts. Izzy’s hair was a multicolored tangle of waves, held together haphazardly by a bright blue scrunchie. The scent of sea air followed them across the room.

  Izzy held a copy of the morning paper in her hand.

  “Can you believe this? Sam was right there. He saw this happen.” Her enormous brown eyes filled her face as she looked from Nell and Ben to Sam, and then back again.

  Nell pushed her reading glasses to the top of her head. “This is awful. We saw Alphonso shortly before we left—out on the patio. He was upset about something, maybe that scene with his sister.”

  Sam spoke up. “It wasn’t Alphonso who was driving, Nell.” Nell looked at him, not understanding, and then she and Ben stared again at the newspaper, reading for the first time the two-inch headline that stretched across the page.

  MRS. ALPHONSO SANTOS

  DIES IN CRASH ON DEVIL’S COVE

  “Sophia?” Nell’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “We were coming up from a dive. The car crashed to the shore, right at the edge of the water on that jagged pile of boulders the kids like to climb on. We thought it was Alphonso, too, and ran over to see if by any miracle we could pull him out of the tangled metal. Right away we saw
it was a woman, but we didn’t know it was his wife—it was hard to tell.” His voice dropped.

  “Did Alphonso survive?” Ben didn’t want to hear the answer. No one could have survived that crash.

  “There wasn’t anyone else in the car. She was alone.”

  Of course. The scene on the patio came back to Nell—Sophia holding up the keys and her cryptic message: I’m leaving you, Alphonso.

  When she had repeated it to Ben on the ride home, he said it could have meant anything. Leaving him alone on the terrace. Leaving him to get a drink. Leaving him to go home.

  It was the logical explanation, Nell admitted, in spite of Alphonso’s odd reaction. Ben was right. She was leaving to go home. Alone.

  “She was weaving all across the road,” Sam went on. “And then the car spun off the road and over the edge. One of the guys thought the driver had to be drunk, it was that kind of driving.”

  But Sophia rarely drank. And she had been as steady as a trapeze artist when she walked out onto the terrace the night before.

  Last night. It was only hours ago that Sophia had stopped by their table to say hello, elegant as always. She’d given Gracie a hug—brief, in an urgent manner, Nell remembered. “Does Gracie know?”

  Izzy nodded. “Cass and Pete are going with her to Alphonso’s,” Izzy said.

  “Alphonso must be devastated. And Gracie’s mother?”

  “No one seems to know where she is. But—”

  Izzy’s words dropped off, interrupted by the front screen door opening and closing. Birdie walked across the room, her sneakers silent on the floor and her face flushed from the bike ride across town. She pressed one hand to her chest to catch her breath, then walked over to the island. “Clearly this wasn’t a day to stop at Coffee’s, my original destination.”

  “I suppose the news is all over town?” Nell said.

  Ben looked up at the kitchen clock. Nine o’clock. “I suspect that’s so.” He handed Birdie a glass of water.

  “It’s an awful thing. Such a shame for poor Alphonso.”