He found he now felt an underlying disrespect for his wife. No, he didn’t hate her. But he’d never understood the below-the-belly anger he felt for her; the best he’d been able to do was admit rage’s presence and ignore it. What had once been subtle, under the radar, was now obvious—he was now able to identify what caused his anger: her manipulation.
He, independent and strong Nick Lowry, had allowed his life to be controlled by guilt and obligation, always believing he owed Eliza something: his life, his job, his children, his home. But in reality he’d kept one thing—his heart. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been saving it for Amy.
Now it was too late. Look at her house, her family. She had forged a life from the raw materials of love, not obligation. The unsent, scribbled and desperate telegrams might change that, but . . . only maybe.
Nick circled the block again, then slowed in front of the house. His daughter and his wife were in the candlelit home. A woman in a silver dress came out the front door, hugged someone and began to light candles drowned by the wind. She stomped her feet on the porch floor: Amy. He recognized her temper, which came as a slow quiet boil, rising unnoticed, then spilling out in a quick spurt before disappearing.
He turned the corner. Had she seen his truck? It wasn’t until he had passed the quaint DARBY LIMITS sign on the two-lane road that he’d decided to come. He still wasn’t sure he would go into the party. There were better places to see her, easier places to show her, to tell her about the telegrams his wife had hidden.
His heart raced. He felt nauseous, not in control of his own emotions, unsure of his place in the world. Why couldn’t he run in and tell her he loved her, touch her face, carry her to the kitchen countertop and make love to her? Because of binding vows, propriety, rules and laws. What about desire and connection and destiny? What about those damn things?
Nick waged an internal war as he circled Amy’s block. So vows were made, families were formed. Could they be mistakes? Hell, they couldn’t be mistakes. Not if all of them were here, alive, breathing inside Amy’s home. Kids, lives—not mistakes. Did circumstances converge only to show him what he was missing, to make him laugh at his mistakes, then tell him to walk away—once again reminded of all he ever wanted?
He fingered the telegrams. Damn, damn, damn to hell all those other vows and promises offered under false pretenses, based on wrong assumptions. What was it his father used to say, through slurred words? Don’t assume: it makes an ass of you and me. That’s exactly what he was: an ass.
Once again, he played the “if only” game with himself. If only he had insisted on talking with Amy when her mother said she was out with her fiancé. If only he had come home before her wedding, instead of moving to Maine. But he’d drowned these instincts in his rage at Amy’s betrayal, and in Eliza’s soothing clucks of comfort and ease.
Now he was in another nightmare in which he saw Amy but she didn’t see or acknowledge him.
He parked the car on a side street, around the corner from the quaint house with the flickering lights, the coat-draped guests, the glassed-in sunroom and his wife’s car parked out front—the car her mother bought her, because the Volvo he gave her wasn’t good enough. Only a Mercedes would do for a daughter of the Sullivans, thank you very much.
He threw the gearshift into DRIVE and made another turn—he didn’t know how many total now—around the block. A slick black Lexus pulled out from a parking spot and left a lost-tooth gap next to the curb. He slid his truck into the space and looked up at the house; Amy opened the door, hugged a guest goodbye.
There she was: touchable and untouchable, present and lost, his and another’s.
Reese’s battered Jeep sat parked at the curb. Nick was surprised Reese had made the trip. He hoped the entire OWP group was inside. He smiled; so many things were bringing him and Amy together—it was inevitable.
He glanced down at his clothes. He’d been interrupted in the middle of dressing and had neglected to bring a coat. He stepped from the pickup truck and began to walk toward the house, stuffing the notes in his back pocket. It was freezing, the air a knife of wind where his shirt flapped out and exposed his waist. He stopped, tucked in his shirt and smoothed his hair back with his fingers. A couple emerged from the front door and leaned against each other, murmuring something he couldn’t hear. The woman laughed, threw back her head. They didn’t notice him and almost walked into him. He stepped aside, but the woman’s purse brushed his arm.
“Excuse me,” Nick said.
The woman looked up and stopped, released the man’s arm. She wore a long black coat, gloves, and a lipstick red scarf was wrapped around her neck and pulled over her head. She tilted her head: Carol Anne. He’d seen her at the tailgate party, but he hadn’t spoken to her. He almost told her that in an odd, ass-backward way he’d always been grateful to her: if she hadn’t asked him to the formal, he might not have found Amy again, or if he had, the moment might have passed, the destiny disintegrated.
“Carol Anne?” He held out his hand, which dangled in the air, purposeless, as she stared at him without reaching out her own.
“Nick.”
“Yes, yes. It’s good to see you.” He put his hand down.
“Oh, I wish I could say the same.”
“Wow. What Christmas cheer . . .” His warm feelings for her vanished in a surging flood of animosity.
“Nick . . . I’m sorry. You don’t need to go in there.”
The man whose hand she was holding stepped forward. “Do you know this man, honey?”
Carol Anne turned to the man, who was also in a long black coat. “This is Nick Lowry. I knew him in college. Old boyfriend of Amy’s.” She turned back to Nick. “This is my husband, Joe.”
Nick held out his hand and this time the other person was polite enough to grab it. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“Same at ya,” Nick answered. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Well, I’m freezing and my family is waiting inside, so I’d better go. Good to see you, Carol Anne.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, glanced at her husband. “You know what, honey? I forgot my purse. Do you mind going back in with me?”
Joe flicked at the purse hanging off her shoulder. “It’s right here, babe.”
“Well, I have to go to the bathroom. Do you want to wait in the cold, or come back in with me?”
Her husband rolled his eyes at Nick, as if to say, Women, and Nick laughed. But he knew why Carol Anne had the sudden urge to powder her upturned nose. She considered herself Amy’s protector, the shield between her and some shattered morality.
As Nick walked up to the front porch, his pulse in his throat quickened. He rang the doorbell and Molly opened the door with a hostess smile on her face. He was struck by how much she looked like Amy—as if someone had drawn Amy’s outline and then replaced the nose, mouth and eyes from a different cutout pattern.
“Hi, Molly.”
“Hello, sir.” Her smile lifted to show straight white teeth. She was a cute girl—Amy’s girl. “Mrs. Lowry is looking for you.”
Carol Anne and Joe came up behind him, politely waiting for the conversation to end as Nick walked into the house.
“Aunt Carol Anne, did you forget something?” Molly asked.
“No, sweetie, just need to use the ladies’ room before I leave.” Carol Anne and her husband stepped into the foyer.
Molly shut the door. “It’s freezing out. Feels like it’s gonna snow or something. Argh. It never snows on a school day, just the holidays.” Molly turned back to Nick. “I think Mrs. Lowry and Lisbeth are in the living room. That’s where I last saw them.”
“Thanks, darlin’. Which way is the living room?” Nick glanced around the house; he wanted to be alone in the house, absorb it in small sips, not in one big gulp while others watched. He wanted to taste the details of her surroundings, going down warm and full of her.
Molly pointed down the hall. “In there.”
Nick followed the hall that opened into the living room, weaving his way through a thin crowd. He didn’t see any of the other people; they were faceless suits and dresses blocking the path to his destination.
He stood at the entryway to the living room, glancing around at the old plaster walls, framed landscapes hanging from immaculate hooks on the crown molding. “One does not puncture plaster walls with nails,” Amy had once told him. The fireplace, big enough to hold half a cord of wood, roared with fire, heat.
Over the fireplace hung a twenty-by-twenty painting of Amy’s two children-—toddlers on the beach bending over a shell or a wave; one could not see what the children were looking at, as they were the focus of the picture.
The furniture was spread into what his wife called “conversation triangles” and he wondered if the living room was usually set up this way, or had been rearranged for the party. Small silver trays lay around the room with spaces where food had been removed. Napkins with wet rings or crumpled with leftover cocktail sauce were scattered haphazardly on tables.
The windows reflected the candles and minimal lamp-light like an abstract painting of stars, warped and misplaced on a grid of windowpanes. He scanned the crowd.
Someone touched his elbow. He turned.
“Daddy.” Lisbeth threw her arms around his neck.
“Honey, I’m sorry I’m late. Work and all.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. Mom looks kinda lost, wandering around the party without anyone to talk to.”
Nick looked at his beautiful daughter, whose face was chiseled with the finest features of her aristocratic Sullivan ancestors. Her cheeks were red, not from heat or cold, but from what he affectionately called her “cry spots.” He knew the signs in his daughter, had witnessed them since she was two years old—a crying jag of immeasurable length had ensued and he, thank God, had missed it. He loved her, but the endless tears drove him insane.
“What happened, darlin’?”
“Nothing . . . why?”
“Don’t give me that baloney. I know all the signs. . . . What happened? Did your mother say something, do something?”
“Oh, Daddy, it was all just a huge mix-up. I’m fine, really. I thought Mom was driving me to the party. She thought Jack was. Jack thought she was. I couldn’t find either of them, or you . . . and I just sorta freaked out a little. It’s okay now. Really.”
“Well, you look beautiful. Is your mom around anywhere?”
“Wandering . . . Does she know you don’t have a tie on?”
Nick looked down. “Didn’t know it was so formal.”
“Jeez, Daddy, Mom has on a formal full-length thing.”
A squat woman in a white uniform walked by with a tray full of champagne glasses, which she held above her shoulder. The tray reached to Nick’s chest. He grabbed two flutes; his daughter held out her hand.
“Ah, you’re not old enough yet,” he said.
“Dad, give me a break. I will be in one week.”
He glanced around the room and handed the drink to his daughter. “Don’t tell your mom.”
Lisbeth pouted out her lower lip. “Not that she’d notice. She’s grabbed one too many of these herself.”
“Great. Just great,” Nick mumbled as he looked toward the swinging door that obviously led to the kitchen, the door fluttering like a defective heart valve. He guzzled his champagne.
He had resumed his search when Revvy caught him by the arm. “Hey, Nick. We’ve been lookin’ for ya.”
“Hey, man. Did all of you come—waste all that gas to drive from Savannah?”
Revvy laughed. “Yeah, thought we owed it to Mrs. Reynolds to show up—seein’ that she’s done so much for us—you know, bringing you and all.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Well, Brenton and Norah snuck off somewhere. I’m sure Mrs. Reynolds does not want to know where. And Revvy is off flirting with her daughter. Sure she doesn’t wanna know about that, either.”
“No, I’m sure she doesn’t.” Nick laughed. “Have you seen Mrs. Reynolds?”
“Yeah, she’s around here somewhere, all dressed up, serving food and stuff. Wouldn’t have recognized her at school all dolled up like that.”
Nick punched the side of Revvy’s arm. “I wouldn’t be ogling the teacher now.”
“No ogling. Just an observation. I did meet your wife, though. Think she might have been a little confused by how I knew you—or else she’s a little sloshed.”
Nick groaned. “I hope she’s just confused.”
“Hey, man, I really think this buckthorn thing will save the island.”
“We’ll see. It’s always a toss of the dice. I wish we had just one more thing—”
“Maybe we can get Reese to take us out there again.”
“Yeah, let’s see what happens with this. Then we’ll ask.” Revvy grabbed Nick’s arm and pointed to a stout man in a shiny suit with a red tie. “See that dude?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the owner, or CEO or whatever, of Stevenson and Sons. The guy who Mr. Reynolds works for—”
“Stay away from him, Rev.”
“Well, I think I might have goofed up a little, pissed Mrs. Reynolds off.”
“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”
“Just told him his client is ruining a national treasure.”
“Man, there’s a place for that.”
“Yeah, that’s what Mrs. Reynolds said.”
“Rev, go have a good time. Get a free beer.”
Nick caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his right eye. He turned as Amy backed out of the kitchen, her hands underneath a tray of something he thought was called pigs-in-a-blanket—the ever-present party food.
He absorbed her beauty in the few moments he was permitted to stare unobserved. Her hair fell on bare shoulders, save for the thin straps that somehow held up the remainder of what looked to him like a luxurious nightgown, an outfit she should only wear in private. His legs felt loose, as though his knees had somehow dissolved, leaving him without the ability to move. “Want.” He couldn’t find another word, much less a coherent sentence, as she turned and saw him.
She froze; the closing door flapped again and smacked her on the bottom. She fumbled the tray, dropped it. Food flew onto her blue-and-yellow flowered carpet. He still couldn’t move. What a fool he must look like standing there, with his champagne glass in midair, his mouth open while the hostess spilled her food all over the carpet.
There were quick movements from guests on couches and chairs, cursing from the maid who came out of the kitchen, and laughter from Amy—all of which covered his complete and utter stupidity in standing like a frozen statue.
He recovered and placed his empty champagne glass on a table. He reached the scattered food in time to pick up only one squashed sausage, the job already accomplished by Amy and much faster, obviously more agile guests.
As he crouched down on the carpet, he found himself staring at her face-to-face.
“Hi, Nick.”
“Hey, Ame.”
“I’m smooth, aren’t I? The perfect Christmas hostess.” She picked up the last piece of food and stood, looked down at him.
He stood up and held out the crumpled appetizer. “I don’t like these things, anyway.”
She smiled. Thank God, she smiled. “Neither do I. I always wonder who actually eats them, but they’re always gone.”
He held up his hands. “I know it was not me.”
She looked around the room. “I think Eliza and Lisbeth are looking for you. Plus the entire OWP, who are only here to see you.”
“I’m sorry I’m so late. . . . I need to talk to you.”
She smiled, but it was not a smile as much as a nervous shake of her lower lip against her teeth. “Shoot,�
�� she said.
Nick looked around the room, which had resumed its previous rhythm. “Not here, outside maybe—is there somewhere?”
“If this is about Oystertip, I can’t discuss it tonight. Rev already embarrassed the hell out of me with Phil’s boss, Phil is pissed and I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”
“No, this is about us.”
“No way, Nick. Please don’t do this. This is my house, my Christmas party.”
He leaned closer, used all his willpower not to touch her.
“It’s about the telegrams.”
Amy glanced around the room, waved at someone he didn’t turn to see, as it didn’t matter at all to him who else was there.
“Please just mingle, Nick. Have a glass of wine. Come meet my friends.” She spoke through clenched teeth.
The door behind them opened. He wanted to carry her to another room, outside, another house—damn—another state where he could pull the papers from his pocket; someplace where a door did not open.
Carol Anne, like the ghost of Christmas protection, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Ame, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She glared at Nick.
Amy reached up, touched her throat. “I thought you left, late for Joe’s company party.”
“Yeah, he’s gonna kill me, but I just couldn’t tear myself away.” She looped her arm in Amy’s and began to guide her down the hall.
Nick followed them into the parlor. His wife sat in a chair in the corner, alone, sipping oh so quaintly from a glass of white wine.
Carol Anne turned to him. “Oh, look, there’s your wife. Weren’t you looking for her?”
Nick hoped his piercing glare at Carol Anne communicated the signal he intended: Go away.
Eliza spotted him, but seemed to register him in slow motion. She stood and grabbed the side of the chair, smiled and swayed more than walked toward them.
They were in a corner, up against the open French doors that led into the room. Eliza wobbled over and stood in front of them.
Losing the Moon Page 21