Losing the Moon

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “You got it. What do you need?”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. A client just hired me to do her new home—”

  “How? You didn’t go back to Farley, did you?”

  “Nope—it’s a brand-new customer. Never used Farley—he can’t go after me. And—get this—this client was referred to me by one of Farley’s clients. Oh, if he only knew . . .” She looked up to the sky. “Anyway—it’s the Picker house on Fourth.”

  “The old neoclassical building on the corner?”

  Carol Anne smiled and stomped her foot. “You got it, darlin’.”

  “What a coup. That is awesome! I told you it would work out—I told you.” Tears filled Amy’s eyes. “What do you need from me?”

  “Well, it’s more than a little favor—they want to restore it to its original look. And I can’t really help them without my best friend.”

  “The entire house?”

  “Yes, and I promised them it would be authentic right down to the last banister.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll help. What, are you kidding?”

  “Okay, that took a lot of convincing.”

  “You know how much I love doing this. It’ll be perfect. You’ll make sure it looks good and I’ll make sure it’s accurate.”

  “Exactly.”

  Amy hugged her, then reached down for the papers. She opened the first folder and sighed at a picture of the front entryway. “This needs wrought iron.”

  “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Carol Anne said as a truck rumbled by. “Who is that?” She pointed to a dark blue van pulling up to the curb.

  “Darby Youth Foundation. I’m donating all those boxes in the hall.”

  Amy stood to wave at the large man who jumped down from the driver’s seat. She winced as the bruised rib on her left side sent out a searing pain, reminding her that all wounds take time to heal. She had to give Phil time. And she would.

  There was, as he said, nothing she could do.

  The man from the van stepped up to the porch. “Hello there. I’m Mr. Adams from the Darby Youth Foundation to pick up your donations.”

  She opened the front door and swept her hand across the boxes in the hall. “All this is yours.”

  “All these? You want me to take all these?” He leaned against a porch pillar.

  “Yes. The whole shebang.”

  “Looks like you’re moving.”

  “No, just cleaning out stuff I don’t need anymore.”

  The man hitched his fingers into the straps of his overalls. “Okay, then. This’ll take me a while.”

  “I’ll help you.” Amy picked up a box.

  Carol Anne grabbed another box. “I’ll help, too. Let’s get this stuff out of here.”

  Molly and Jack came down the stairs. Jack threw a bag over his shoulder and moved toward the van.

  Those who loved her still surrounded her, she realized. She was humbled.

  “Yeah,” Molly said. “Whatever it takes to get Mom to quit going through all my stuff. This is it, right, Mom?”

  “Whatever, Molly.” Amy laughed, walked toward the van with her box.

  When the entire load filled the back of the van, Mr. Adams, wiping his sweating neck with a bandanna, asked, “We done now?”

  “I think so,” Amy said. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I would. A nice glass of ice water would be great.”

  She walked into the house, kissed her children, hugged Carol Anne, and thanked them for helping. “I’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed a glass of ice water from the kitchen, then walked through the front hall to Mr. Adams. She glanced at the hall table with an empty space above it where a mirror used to hang. She cringed at the memory of Phil hurling the book into the mirror, of the diamond cross dangling from his fingers.

  She opened the top drawer of the table and stared at the necklace she had hastily thrown there. She lifted the chain and pendant, and then closed her fist around them. It was time, past time to give it away; she opened the front door and handed the water to Mr. Adams.

  He chugged the water and handed the glass back to her. “I’m sure the Foundation appreciates all these donations. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “There’s one more thing I want to give away.”

  She opened her fist and reached her hand out to Mr. Adams. “Here, take this, too.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Yes. Please take it.”

  “Are you sure you want to give that away? Really sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “Well, thank you. . . . Have a beautiful day.” Mr. Adams plucked the necklace from her fingers and walked down the front steps toward his truck.

  She turned back to the house. Phil stared at her through the screen door; he’d watched her give away the necklace. She hadn’t even heard him come home. He wiped his face with his hand and turned away. She didn’t call his name, didn’t reach for him, as there were times when he couldn’t face her desperate need for forgiveness and reconciliation.

  Carol Anne came out, hugged Amy goodbye. Amy sat back down on the swing and closed her eyes until the lowering sun slid behind the house and she shivered. She walked into the house to climb the stairs to her bedroom and grab a sweater.

  She stopped short at the bedroom doorway: Phil’s things. His blessed and scattered things: his ashtray with coins, pen and gum wrappers on the dresser, his comb on the highboy, his dirty shirt in the laundry pile, his book open with reading glasses hanging crooked on the bedside table.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and touched his book and glasses. A rustling noise came from the bathroom and she glanced up; Phil leaned against the door frame, stared at her.

  She lifted his glasses. “Your stuff.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Phil.” She started to cry, reach out her hand for him. But he didn’t move and her fingers found only air. She closed her hand into a fist and dropped it onto her lap.

  “You know—if you wanted me to listen, there were better ways to tell me than running off with Nick Lowry.”

  “I tried.”

  “You didn’t think I cared. You didn’t think I heard you.”

  “Yes—but that’s no excuse.”

  “You know, I’ve done everything I can to take care of you—to prove I love you. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m telling you now—it was something horrible of me—not you. I was afraid to tell you I felt ignored or extraneous, and I was scared to talk about how seeing Nick made me feel. It was horrible, and I wanted to be who you wanted me to be. And yes, I was afraid you wouldn’t hear me anyway.”

  “You could have tried.”

  “I know.” She dropped her face in her hands. “I know. I’m a coward.”

  “No, you’re not that at all.”

  For a second she expected his touch. Yet it did not come.

  “These”—he swept his hand across the room—“are just my things.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m here for all of us—for the family.”

  “You aren’t . . . here for me?” she asked.

  “Yes and no. I love you.” He exhaled a shaky breath. “I want . . . this. All of this. But these are just things. I’m still not sure how much of me is here yet.”

  She nodded again, bereft of any more explanations or arguments. She closed her eyes and listened to his familiar footsteps on the uneven pine floors as he walked out of their bedroom. When he was gone, she stood and walked to the dresser, ran her hands across his pocket change and pens, and wept.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Nick threw the trawler’s rope to Revvy on the dock and smiled. “Man, I don’t remember the last time I felt this good.”

  “I don’t know how. Damn, you haven’t slept since we started this
company six months ago. I don’t know what you’re runnin’ on—but I wish I had some.”

  “Lost time, buddy, lost time. And you don’t want any of that.”

  Revvy wrapped the rope around the cleat and looked up. “No, thank you. I’ll just keep the time I’ve got.”

  Nick stood and stretched his back, leaned into the wind. “I smell rain.”

  Revvy lifted his head. “Yeah, it’s in the air. Not many tourists want to head to the islands in the rain.”

  “Good. We can catch up on the research project.” Nick jumped onto the dock. “I’m out of here.”

  “Where you headed? Wanna grab some dinner?”

  Nick smiled; he’d worn this same goofy grin since the day he and Revvy had hung up the pine etched sign LOWRY LOWCOUNTRY and underneath in smaller letters: RESEARCH, EDUCATION AND WILDLIFE PRESERVATION. Even after he knew what to do, it still had taken months to get the business running and the lab set up.

  “No, man, I’m headed back to the lab—wanna check on the dropwort experiment.”

  “Take a break, Nick.”

  “Not now, Rev. Not now.”

  Nick understood what waited for him if he stopped and took a breath—the abyss he’d fallen into the first time he saw Amy again. He knew what he needed to do, what he wanted to do now—even if he couldn’t do it with the woman he most loved. His misspent life was not Eliza’s fault or Amy’s—it was his.

  He jumped into the cab of the pickup truck and headed for the dirt and shell driveway behind the tin-roofed lab he and Revvy had bought with every bit of money he’d saved. He’d made sure to set aside enough money for his boys and Lisbeth, for alimony and child support. He planned on spending as much time as possible with his kids.

  Eliza—well, he couldn’t fix her pain. He couldn’t love her the way she deserved—for who she was and not for what she did. She said she’d wait, and he’d held her and told her not to, but she had insisted she would. It wasn’t hard between them—but then again, it never had been hard, only empty.

  The hectic pace at which he now operated was a making up for lost time—doing everything he’d meant to do. Only he was to blame. It was he—not Eliza—who needed to pay for his sins. Thinking of all his missed chances and might-have-beens did him no good when he should be thinking about his new company, reconciling with his children.

  The pit in his gut reminded him that he’d forgotten to eat again. He pulled into the first place he saw: Heaven’s Deli. They had the sloppiest, most tender oyster sandwiches in town.

  He was still in his truck when the front door of the deli swung open and a woman walked out alone, carrying a sack and swinging it next to her leg. She had on a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt. A familiar ache of loss washed over him.

  Amy.

  A black cord hung around her neck with a single shell from Oystertip—a token of appreciation from the OWP. Norah had made one for each of them. His larger shell necklace was in the glove compartment right now.

  “Oh, Amy.” He groaned as he gripped the steering wheel.

  He could run after her again, feel the longing rush through him, but it would paralyze him. He would talk to her, see her, feel her; then he would wander through the maze of what he loved and needed but couldn’t have.

  He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. She wasn’t everything he loved and needed, no matter how she overshadowed the rest. He couldn’t get lost now—not just for Amy, but for himself.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Would the ache ever leave? Would he ever be able to breathe correctly when he saw her? To not weigh every action with her against the past and then the future?

  He lifted his head and she was gone. He looked behind him as she pulled out from her parking space. He wanted to share with her what he’d discovered about himself in the days he’d spent alone on Oystertip Island—that he was ashamed he’d never really loved his wife for who she was, and that Eliza had to be the one to tell him this. He wanted to tell Amy how one morning, in the soft, filtered light drifting through the live oak above him, he’d understood that even if he couldn’t be with the woman he was meant for, at least he could be the man he was meant to be. He’d have to keep these revelations to himself for now.

  But he hadn’t kept the dropwort plant and bald eagle’s nest he found on Oystertip to himself—he’d taken proof of both to the Heritage Program in one last desperate attempt to redeem his mistakes by saving the island.

  He grabbed his shell necklace from the glove compartment, clasped it tight in his fist, let the rough edges rub against his hand. He allowed the memory of Amy in the deserted house to wash over him one more time, glanced at the shell before placing it back in the glove compartment. He took a deep breath and jumped from the truck to grab an oyster sandwich, then headed to his lab to check on his research.

  For him, there were no second chances—only second choices.

  Epilogue

  Amy stood on the back porch of the Summerhill Home with her class behind her, their pencils scratching with the sound of dry leaves underfoot as they sketched the columns of the back porch. She stared out to the backyard gardens of the antebellum home, and as often happened in quieter moments of beauty, the memory of Nick washed over her. Over the past year and a half only time had forged whatever good could have come from what had happened with him.

  She’d been right about Oystertip—it must have called to Nick from its lush depths because while camping in his self-imposed isolation he’d found a dropwort—an endangered flowering plant—and a bald eagle’s nest. Both these discoveries were the final proof needed for a Heritage Trust from the Department of Natural Resources. After the article in the Darby Chronicle had come out, donations flagged for Oystertip had come pouring in. The land was now designated as a Heritage Preserve, and the Trust had purchased it from Mr. Farley.

  Amy’s love for preservation now had an outlet as she and Carol Anne worked together on historic homes, their clientele rising in both number and stature. They were doing what they loved—together; their energy poured where it was wanted and needed. The flow of clients increased every day, and Carol Anne was hiring more employees. Her clients signed waivers stating they came to her of their own free will and she didn’t take them from Mr. Farley, who lost most of his clients from the negative publicity over his plans to develop Oystertip. He was still ranting to whoever would listen about the evil ways of Carol Anne and Amy; he seemed to be tolerated in Darby as an amusing attraction.

  Jack was dating a darling blonde from a family Amy had never heard of. The day Molly graduated with honors and obtained a full tennis scholarship to Saxton University was one in an increasing number of days when Amy knew she understood her place in the world.

  She was still attempting to speak her truth to Phil, and her heartbeat had begun to return to the reliable rhythm she once knew—a scar over the softer places of regret, remorse and shame. Phil’s hard-won attempts at caring and listening were endearing, and at times amusing.

  She didn’t blame Phil for what happened between them—even in her worst moments she knew it was a weakness within her—but the pain allowed them to talk about what they thought was missing in their marriage and life, and what they could do about it because they loved each other—then and now.

  It was a long, circular journey that on her best days—like today—she was sure she could make, and on her worst, she was scared she wouldn’t be able to finish.

  Although there were moments when she wanted to know how Nick was, if he was all right, she hadn’t contacted him. She did see the advertisement for Lowry Lowcountry in the SCAD newspaper with an explanation of the research and education he provided, and she’d smiled. At least he was doing what he always said he would.

  Life’s rhythms had returned both at work and at home; she was content in this comfort. As her students worked on their sketches,
she leaned against a peeling pillar of the Summerhill Home and stared at five men clustered around a fading live oak, apparently evaluating its ability to withstand another day—or century.

  The late-morning sun poured, distilled, through a wrought-iron fence surrounding the yard, illuminating the dark bulk of a man bent over the base of the tree. The other men watched him pull back a layer of moss to expose a root, run his hand across it. The scene contained a sharp, cut-glass quality and this time she understood the preternatural clarity: the honed edges of the leaves, the waves of light seen in flowing air, the punctuated outline of the man’s body—clarity that came with her body’s recognition of Nick.

  Nick stood and, as if she’d called his name, turned and looked directly at her. She half-lifted her hand under what felt like an unnatural weight in the air. Nick moved toward her as if she’d crooked her finger and motioned for him. Maybe she had.

  He reached the bottom step of the porch and looked up at her; his hair was a thousand different colors in the sun. She walked down three concrete steps to the soft ground to join him. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and walked away from her class. He followed her until they stopped at the iron fence. She turned and stood underneath the shadow of a magnolia tree to face him.

  He reached his hand out, brushed the tips of her hair as if touching the outline of a painting, or just the frame; she didn’t move.

  “Amy.”

  “Hello, Nick.” Her voice was too loud, or maybe too soft.

  “How are you?”

  She waved toward the tree. “Trying to save . . . that tree?”

  “Yeah, the garden has . . .” He looked off to the group of men, then back at her. “Amy, how are you?”

  “Oh, Nick, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Busy. A lot of work.”

  “I saw . . . you started your own company. Research—” She started to cry and squeezed back the tears.

  “Yep, with Revvy.”

  She wanted to cry so badly, to reach for him and sob into his flannel shirt. “I’m proud of you.”