Losing the Moon

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “Yeah, well, sorta. I found her twenty messages on my cell phone. I tried to call her, but she’s probably on the way and she’s not answering her cell.”

  Molly laughed. “What, exactly, would one say in twenty messages?”

  “Obviously I’m exaggerating a little, but not much. She was really upset. I actually feel pretty bad. I guess her mom didn’t wait for her and she didn’t want to drive by herself in the dark and . . . she couldn’t find me.”

  Molly snorted. “She’s a grown girl. Surely, she can drive an hour and a half without help.”

  “She just didn’t know where anyone was . . . I don’t know. She sounded like she was crying pretty hard.”

  “Great. Nothing like a little girlfriend drama to start the party.” Molly slapped her brother on his shoulder.

  Eliza called from the parlor. “Amy?”

  “We’re back here . . . come on back.” Amy stepped into the light and motioned for Eliza to join them.

  Eliza stepped into the back hall, took a long sip of her wine and stared at the family as they all looked at each other. Amy spoke first, overlapping Jack.

  “Did you find Lisbeth?”

  “Did you reach Lisbeth?”

  Eliza looked to Amy, ignored Jack. “Yes, she’s on her way. She’s almost here—maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Good.” Jack exhaled. “I tried her cell phone, but she didn’t answer.”

  “She’s very upset. She said Jack didn’t answer his phone all day and she wanted him to come pick her up.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize it was turned off. I was Christmas shopping all day, then working in the yard with my dad to help get ready for the party.”

  Eliza looked at Jack now, and if ice could fly from her blue eyes, it would have happened right there, landing on the miniature ice-skaters, slicing them to ribbons. “Well, you can just tell her you’re sorry when she gets here.”

  “I will, ma’am. But what she sounded upset about on my phone messages was that you left without her.”

  The plummeting feeling in Amy’s stomach made her want to yelp, “No, Jack.” She loved him for his truthfulness, but at twenty years old he still had not learned when honesty was not the best policy. Confrontation was definitely not how she wanted to begin the Christmas party.

  “Where’s her dad?” Jack continued. “Where’s Mr. Lowry? Isn’t he coming? Could he have given her a ride?”

  “He got caught up at work. I don’t even know if he’s coming.”

  Silence fell as cold as the ice Amy imagined in Eliza’s eyes. Amy held up her hands and turned to Jack. “Okay, okay, guests will be here any minute. Where’s your father?”

  Where’s Mr. Lowry ?

  Molly pointed out the side door. “He went to find out why the side lights weren’t on.”

  “Excuse me, please.” Amy sidled to the side door, away from the clot of tension, opened the door and let the frigid air chill her.

  Where’s Mr. Lowry ?

  She took a deep breath just as she heard the doorbell ring. Let the fun begin.

  The crowd filled the house in a swarming body of warmth and Christmas memories. Friends old and new, relatives separated by three or four aunts and uncles, relatives who weren’t really relatives at all, but had somehow become aunt and uncle to Jack and Molly, all filled the house. Amy returned to the stereo to turn up the music being drowned out by laughter and the clank of dishes.

  Guests handed her bottles of wine in shimmering wine bags and Christmas ornaments wrapped in crinkled tissue, as offerings of gratitude. Friends arrived rubbing their hands up and down their arms and hugging, kissing. At an early hour, Amy had given out all the stockings she’d made; making them hadn’t just been an aimless adventure in busyness—everything would work out just fine.

  This year Phil’s boss, Mr. Stevenson, and his wife actually showed up at the front door, bearing a magnum of champagne and overwrought smiles; his smile was large by sheer volume, hers by collagen. Phil escorted them in and showed them through the house and the Stevensons mingled, talked and laughed for more than the three minutes Amy had expected them to stay. Yes, things were going beautifully.

  Fragile and puffy-faced, Lisbeth arrived before most of the guests and quickly disappeared upstairs on Jack’s arm. True to his word, Jack’s door stayed locked, but it was not the sounds his sister had predicted that emanated from his room. Amy only poked her head up once to hear sobs and muffled words coming from under the door.

  She knocked. Jack called out that he would be down shortly. When Amy informed him that it was rude to hide in his room during a Christmas party, she heard fresh wails from Lisbeth. She left them alone, so she could return to the warm throb of people below.

  Eliza appeared, misty and apparitional, throughout the evening. Whenever Amy found her at her elbow, she introduced Eliza to other guests, depositing Eliza with at least three separate groups, only to have her appear once again at Amy’s side.

  Reese, Revvy, Norah and Brenton spilled laughing into Amy’s home as wild and disarrayed as the cordgrass on Oystertip Island. Of course she’d invited them, but she hadn’t expected them to show up.

  “We just had to come and see where you live.” Revvy slapped her back.

  Brenton stood behind Norah, who was dressed in a long velvet broom skirt and white lace shirt; she was brilliant—a candle among their khakis and wrinkled attempts at dress shirts.

  “Well, thanks for coming. Make yourselves at home. The bar is in the drawing room.” Amy laughed, thinking how formal this must sound to them considering Brenton’s tent and Reese’s shack. “Oh, just come in,” she said.

  Revvy stepped forward. “Is Nick here yet?”

  Where’s Mr. Lowry?

  “Well, if he’s coming, he’s not here yet. His wife”—Amy pointed into the den—“is in there if you want to meet her.”

  “No, thanks,” said Reese. “Heard enough about her to not particularly want to meet her.”

  Norah pushed at his back. “That is not very polite, Reese.”

  Amy pretended she hadn’t heard him. “Norah, is there any news about the Heritage Trust?”

  “Well, they’re shut down until after the holidays, so we’ll just have to wait and see. They intimated that one plant might not be enough—so we’re still trying. Have you found anything new about the house?”

  “No, I’ve got to get into it to prove there’s something worth saving.”

  “We’ll do it,” Norah told Amy, touching her arm.

  Revvy chatted with Molly in the corner of the hall, and she giggled and blushed. Amy turned and the door opened again.

  Carol Anne entered, all light and good cheer in a bright red knee-length vintage dress, looking like a mirage deposited from a 1940s movie. She swirled in the front parlor. “Don’t I look fabulous?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She leaned over and kissed Amy on the cheek. Joe reached around Carol Anne and hugged her. “You look beautiful, Amy. Really.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’m glad you guys made it, even if you’re an hour late.”

  “There is no late in ‘open house,’ Amy.” Carol Anne took her coat off and opened the hall closet.

  “There is when I need you,” Amy said.

  Joe extracted himself from them with the excuse of finding Phil and a nice gin and tonic.

  Carol Anne looked around the foyer, peeked into the parlor. “Did he come?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, young lady. Is he here?”

  “No. But she is.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play coy with me.” Amy poked at Carol Anne. “Eliza and Lisbeth are both here.”

  “Well, where the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. So stop looking at me like that.”

  “He didn’t tell
you if he was coming?”

  Amy looked around, then whispered, “I don’t talk to him, Carol Anne. Stop.”

  She held up her hands. “Okay, okay. But what in the living Christmas carols are his wife and daughter doing here without him?”

  “Well, his wife is getting sloshed in my parlor, when she’s not following me around. His daughter is upstairs having some kind of emotional breakdown because Jack didn’t answer his cell phone all day and she ended up having to drive here by herself.”

  “Oh, poor little princess.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Now let’s mingle. The Stevensons showed up this year.”

  “That’s a good sign for Phil, isn’t it?”

  Where’s Mr. Lowry?

  “I guess so.”

  “How are you?” Amy asked.

  “Trying to get over Mr. Farley’s Christmas bonus.”

  “Which was?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Zip. He said we didn’t make enough this year. Nut-case.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. I haven’t even told Joe.”

  “He’ll be fine with it . . . just talk to him.”

  “I will. I will.” Carol Anne looped her arm through Amy’s and they grabbed glasses from Celia, who slid by with a platter of full champagne flutes. They clinked glasses and smiled. Ah, all was well, it really was.

  Bill and Mrs. Stevenson—damn Amy couldn’t remember the woman’s first name—came and grabbed her elbow. “Thank you for having us to your party. You have a lovely home.”

  “Well, thank you for coming. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves.”

  Revvy appeared at Amy’s side, leaned across her and spoke to Mr. Stevenson. “You in charge of Stevenson and Sons?”

  Mr. Stevenson lifted his head like a peacock just asked to show his feathers. “Yes, young man, I am.”

  “Well, did you know you have a client who is trying to ruin a national treasure, a nature preserve full of endangered plants and animals, not to mention a historic pre-Civil War home?”

  The floor seemed to shift beneath Amy—if only it would open up and take her.

  “Revvy, not here.” Amy grasped his hand, pulled him away from the Stevensons and into the parlor.

  “What? You don’t care about it now in front of all your highfalutin friends?”

  “Revvy,” she whispered. “They know how I feel but that is my husband’s boss. You can’t just get in his face like that.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the Stevensons standing in the same spot, watching her like disapproving parents. The mixing of her two worlds was not going well.

  “Revvy, let me talk to them.”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Reynolds. It’s your house.”

  Disappointment filled his voice, the letdown that she was not quite as cool as he’d thought when she’d brought Nick Lowry on board.

  She walked back to the Stevensons and apologized for Revvy.

  “No problem, sweetie,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “Young people are just very passionate about their causes and they don’t always know all the facts.”

  Amy squelched her speech about how they did know all the facts and it was not simply a cause, but an actual island. “Well, I hope you’re having a good time,” she said instead.

  “I met your sweet daughter at the front door, but I have not yet met your son. Is he around? I see his pictures,” Mrs. Stevenson said.

  “Oh, he’s upstairs. He’ll be down shortly. I’ll introduce you to him.” Complete frustration rose within her, and she directed the feeling toward Lisbeth. What was she doing keeping Jack up there all night?

  Amy excused herself and climbed the stairs, determined to end this stupid fight and bring her son down to the crowd.

  She knocked on the door. “Jack? Are you still in there?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Hon, you need to come down and help your sister with the coats, mingle. . . . Mrs. Stevenson wants to meet you.” Amy leaned her forehead on the door frame as she spoke.

  “I’m coming.” Then there was something she didn’t understand as Lisbeth’s sniffles and nose blowing camouflaged Jack’s words.

  “What?” Amy called through the door.

  “I’m coming . . . in a minute, Mom.”

  “Now, Nick, now.”

  The door flew open. Jack stood with his tie undone, brow furrowed. “What did you just say?”

  “I said to come now. This is rude.” She didn’t care what Lisbeth thought of her intrusion. This was ridiculous.

  “No, what did you just call me?”

  “I didn’t call you anything. I told you to come down now.”

  “No, you called me Nick.”

  “I did not.”

  Lisbeth appeared in the door, her face still beautiful beneath the red eyes and swollen nose. Her blue eyes, even liquid with tears, were extraordinary.

  Lisbeth spoke through a tissue. “You did. You called him Nick—my dad.”

  “Jack, Nick, they must sound the same. I did not. Now come on down to the party.” She couldn’t have said that—was her internal confusion turning external? Please, no. She softened her voice, lowered her eyes in what she hoped was a demure look of pleading, not the bitch mom.

  Lisbeth spoke. “Is my dad here yet?”

  “Not that I know of.” She turned from them. “But your mom is still here. Y’all come on and join the party.”

  Amy didn’t turn to see if they’d obeyed her. She didn’t want to look at Lisbeth’s face, or Jack’s accusing eyes. Nick. Had she really said that? She wasn’t even sure. No, she couldn’t have.

  Their footsteps followed her down the stairs—good.

  As she reached the bottom step, Eliza appeared from the side door to the sunroom, Amy’s office. Amy had shut the door before the party, even tied a red satin ribbon across the glass doorknobs to prevent anyone from entering. It was an off-limits room during a party.

  “You lost?” Amy asked.

  Eliza glanced up, started at the sight of Jack, Lisbeth and Amy on the stairs.

  “No, no. . . just looking for a bathroom.”

  “Down the hall to the left.” Amy swept her hand down the banister as she came to the foyer.

  Eliza looked up at Lisbeth. “You all right, sweetie?”

  “Sure.” She reached for Jack’s hand. “We came down to . . . what was it, mingle?”

  Amy turned to say something to Lisbeth, something she was sure she would later regret, but Mr. Winters from next door stood waving goodbye at the front door.

  “Excuse me, please.” Amy walked to her neighbor and thanked him for coming, retrieved his coat, then opened the front door. She walked out with him and stood under the porch light away from Lisbeth and her endless tears, away from the party and guests. She waved goodbye; a few of the candles, in red tin buckets with Christmas tree cutouts, had blown out. She closed the door behind her and reached under the porch swing for the matches. She lit a match and began to ignite the three candles as the frigid air cut through any white wine, champagne haze that might have had a chance to settle over her mind.

  She glanced up at the sound of a passing car. A white Dodge pickup truck turned the corner. No. Stop. She shook her head and turned back to the house. The din of the party sounded like a muffled recording. The cold sliced through her bare arms like small needles. A flare of fire hit her finger, the same damn finger with the Band-Aid on it from the knife cut.

  “Damn, damn, damn.” She dropped the match, stomped on it. “Damn you, Nick Lowry. Damn you and your telegrams and forest preservation and damn your neurotic, whiny daughter.” She stepped on the match one more unneeded time and looked around. Had anyone heard her? Had she said all that out loud?

  She began to sit down on the swing before she
remembered her silk dress and the distinct possibility of bird doo or some other treat of nature that might be on the swing. She kicked at the screen door and opened it.

  Phil stood on the other side of the door. “Amy, come in the house. What’re you doing?”

  “Some of the candles blew out.”

  He ran his hand up and down her arm. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve done it.”

  “Phil, for God’s sake, I can light a few candles.”

  “Yes, Amy, you can. Now go drink a glass of champagne with Carol Anne and have a good time.”

  “I am having a good time. Did you talk to the Stevensons?”

  “Yeah, seems your friends got ahold of Bill about the island. Could you please tell them there are better places than our Christmas party to accost Mr. Stevenson?”

  “They didn’t accost him, Phil. It was Revvy, and he just asked him a question. I already told him to drop it.”

  “I didn’t even know you invited them.”

  She took a deep breath. “I told you I did.”

  “Oh.” He looked away and waved at someone she couldn’t see. “I wish you hadn’t told them about the buyer at my company. That was information they just didn’t need.”

  “I’m sorry, Phil. I told them before you told me about the client privilege. I’m sorry. Now go have fun.”

  “I am having fun,” he said, but his mouth was straight and his chin set.

  She kissed her husband on the cheek, then turned to take his advice: find Carol Anne and have another glass of champagne.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Candles flickered in buckets on the railing of Amy’s front porch. Cars lined the street on both sides and a few people arrived while other guests trickled out. Icicle lights hung from the eaves. A small holly bush at the bottom of the stairs flashed with colored bulbs; oversize Christmas balls hung from the branches.

  Each time Nick drove by the house, he noticed these details one by one. He held one hand on the wheel, the other on the disintegrating notes of legal paper he’d once scribbled on for Mr. Carreira to translate into telegrams. Mr. Lawyer had obviously given this menial task to the cute college girl helping him free Nick Lowry. Eliza had then apparently used her manipulative powers of persuasion to convince both Mr. Carreira and Nick that she was the perfect one, the helpful one, the goddess of freedom from jail; she would take care of everything.