The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  And then there was the bookcase: glass-fronted with three tiers, and doors that locked with a tiny brass key. Lizzy bent down to peer through the glass. The books. As a girl, she’d been in awe of them, or at least of what they represented. All those Moon women—spinsters to the last—sitting by their fires night after night, scribbling secrets meant only for walkers of the Path. And now, like Moon Girl Farm, they belonged to her.

  She found the key right where Althea always kept it, in the drawer of her dressing table. There was a whiff of leather and old paper as she opened the door, and for a moment she caught herself holding her breath, like a child expecting to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Except there was no one left to scold her. She ran a finger down the row of ribbed spines, the leather cool against her fingertips, then dropped to her knees and slid the first book free.

  The Book of Sabine. The woman who had started it all.

  Lizzy turned the pages slowly. The ink had faded to a muted brown, the nib strokes spidery and fine, making them hard to decipher. The mix of English and French hardly helped. Not that she needed to read any of it. She knew it all by heart. Sabine’s betrayal by the man she loved, and her flight to avoid persecution. The struggle to survive in a strange land, with an infant daughter on her hip. Her edict that no Moon allow themselves to be enslaved by marriage, lest they be betrayed and the line ended. It was the stuff of family legend, told and retold down through the generations.

  She slid the volume back onto the shelf, running an eye over the others. So many Moons, each with a story to tell. Patrice, the first Moon girl born on US soil. Renée, the only Moon to have ever produced a son. The poor thing had lived only a handful of hours, unlike his twin sister, Dorothée, who had managed to thrive. Whispers about the boy’s death had persisted throughout Renée’s life. Sylvie, who’d scandalized the town by living openly and unabashedly with a woman named Rachel Conklin. Aurore, who had shocked the neighbors with her daily walks in the woods, wearing nothing but her shoes. Honoré, who after four stillborn girls had finally given birth to Althea at age forty-four. And of course, the most recent addition, The Book of Althea.

  They were all there—plus one more. Lizzy frowned at the final volume, not black like the others but a deep-wine calfskin, embossed with flowers and vines. She had never seen it before. Was it possible Rhanna had left a book behind after all? It would be just like her to break with tradition and use such a vividly colored book, one final gesture of defiance.

  What kinds of things might her mother have recorded? An apology, perhaps, for her reckless behavior and poor choices over the years? Lizzy doubted it. Remorse had never been Rhanna’s strong suit. Still, she was curious.

  She pulled the odd volume from the shelf and laid it in her lap. The book was thick and oddly lumpy, fastened with a small brass hasp. Lizzy flicked it open and folded back the cover, expecting to see her mother’s round, backward-slanting hand. Instead, she found a square of folded waxed paper tucked between the cover and first page. She teased open the folds, surprised to discover a carefully pressed sprig of rosemary. She blinked at it, then looked down at the open page and the tidy script running across the top—Althea’s script.

  Rosemary . . . for remembrance.

  My dearest girl,

  You must forgive me, dear Lizzy, for the secret I have kept. I had my reasons for not wanting you to know I was ill. I didn’t want you to come back because of me, because you felt some sense of duty. I made so many mistakes with your mother when she was young. I was determined to make her honor my path instead of her own, when I of all people should have known better. I never wanted to put that kind of burden on you. I wanted you to be free to spread your wings—and fly home only if that’s where your heart led you. If you’re reading this, perhaps it has.

  My Circle will close soon—as all Circles must—but there is time yet, and so I have picked up my pen. Because it is our way to teach, to reach back into history and pull out what should always be remembered. We must never forget who we are. How far we’ve come, and what we’ve had to endure at the hands of those who fear what they do not understand.

  You know Sabine’s story, that she came from France, alone, with a child in her belly, fleeing the authorities. But it wasn’t for any crime that they wanted her. It was for what she believed and the Path she walked. It wasn’t long after the burning times, and there were some—many in fact—who held tight to their superstitions. They were useful, you see, trotted out now and then, against women who dared to speak up, and claim what was rightfully theirs.

  This was how it was for Sabine. Her lover was engaged to marry another. When he learned about the child, he denounced her, accusing her of unspeakable things. A warrant was sworn. They would not have burned her. Such things had ended by then. But they would have made a case against her, for indecency or thievery, or some other thing. And they would have arrested her—or worse. And so she fled and began again. She learned to do for herself and her child. Without a man, and without a care for the opinion of others, depending on her farm and her gifts to make her way in the world. And she passed on those gifts—her knowledge of herbs and healing—and made her place in the world helping others.

  That is who we are, Lizzy.

  Fighters. Mothers. Healers.

  There will always be those who are afraid, who will make up stories to cover their fear. They’ll point fingers and call names. And yes, they’ll lie. But we can’t let that change who we are, or dim the light that is in us.

  You were such a clever child, so bright and observant. You never missed a thing. And that nose of yours. You were special, gifted in a way your mother never was—in ways I never was, come to that. I knew it early on, could see it shining out of you long before you knew yourself. And then, when you began to suspect, you fought it. You wanted a life that looked like everyone else’s. Pony rides and Christmas trees, sleepovers with girlfriends. I can hardly blame you for that. Salem Creek isn’t an easy place to be different. And there’s nothing on earth quite so cruel as a child who’s discovered someone is uncomfortable in her skin. I don’t imagine your mother’s escapades helped matters either, always kicking up some fuss or other in hopes of drawing attention to herself. She never cared that it drew attention to you too. Attention you never wanted.

  You preferred being alone. You had your books and your oils and your perfumes. And you pretended it was enough. It wasn’t, though, and that was hard to see. You were so beautiful, but you were always hiding, trying to make yourself invisible.

  And then . . . those poor girls.

  It was an agony to know the people of this town thought me capable of such a thing. Murder. Why? What would I have to gain by taking the lives of two beautiful young girls? But there’s no reasoning with people once an idea takes root. The whispers caught fire, and that was that. But it was harder still to watch what all their talk did to you. Every day, I saw you pull away a little more, knowing there was nothing I could do. And then when your mother left, I saw how badly you wanted to go too, to be away from it all.

  I didn’t blame you—will never blame you—for leaving for school. You’ve grown into a special woman, just as I knew you would, living the life you’ve carved out for yourself. I’m so proud of you for that—for making your own way in the world.

  You’re like Sabine in that way. You have her will and her strength. I was not so strong when I was young. I fell in line and walked the path already paved for me, too timid to stray, to find a way to be both what I wanted and what was expected of me. I hadn’t your spirit back then, though I sometimes wish I had. So much becomes clear when looking over one’s shoulder. I have no regrets, or if I do, they’re few, and faded with time. But I understand now that there are an infinite number of paths in this life. Some are well traveled, others must be forged. But none should be walked with a guilty or bitter heart.

  Which is why I’ve written this second book—a Book of Remembrances—not for posterity, but for you, my Lizzy. So you wil
l remember how things were before it all went wrong—the happy times we shared when you were a child, the lessons I taught you, and your love of the land. Those things will always be your heritage. And so I ask you to read the remaining pages, but to do so slowly, as I taught you to do when you were young and hungry to know too much all at once. Absorb the words a little at a time, and hold them close. Then come back to the book when you are ready. Trust me in this, sweet girl. You will know when it’s time.

  A—

  FOUR

  July 18

  Lizzy swam up slowly from sleep, fully dressed beneath the softly worn quilt she must have pulled over herself during the night. She hadn’t bothered to change clothes, or even to go looking for sheets. She had simply curled up on the bare mattress with Althea’s book and started to read.

  The Book of Remembrances.

  Even now, after her death, Althea was still teaching, reminding her who she was and where she’d come from. But there had been one passage in particular that had struck her in a way she hadn’t expected. So much so that she’d gone back and read it over several times.

  I was not so strong when I was young. I fell in line and walked the path already paved for me, too timid to stray, to find a way to be both what I wanted and what was expected of me. I hadn’t your spirit back then, though I sometimes wish I had.

  Had she imagined the tinge of regret? A wistfulness for something lost or left undone? It was hard to imagine Althea wanting anything more than the life she had. She always seemed to be right where she belonged, in love with her work and the bright, sprawling fields of Moon Girl Farm. And yet her reference to falling in line seemed to hint at a disappointment of some kind. And there was the mention of a bitter heart, though that was easier to explain. If being branded a murderer and losing everything you held precious wasn’t cause for a bitter heart, Lizzy didn’t know what was.

  The book sat on the nightstand. Lizzy laid a hand on the cover, wondering what else Althea had to say. The temptation to keep reading last night had been almost overpowering, but she had been urged to absorb the words a little at a time, and hold them close. And because it was the last request her grandmother would ever make of her, she would honor it.

  She went to the door and peered out into the hall. There was no sign of Evvie, but she did find a folded pair of soft green corduroys, a white cotton blouse, and a pair of battered lace-up boots. She smiled as she ran a hand over the scuffed boots, strangely glad to see them, like old friends she’d left behind but not quite forgotten. She had to admit, it would feel good to lose the heels and office attire for a few days.

  After a quick shower, she made her way downstairs. Evvie was seated at the table, scanning the morning’s copy of the Chronicle through a pair of bright-blue drugstore readers. She twitched the corner of her paper down as Lizzy entered the kitchen, giving her outfit a quick once-over.

  “Better,” she said flatly. “Like you belong here.”

  “Thanks. Is there coffee, by any chance?”

  “Just tea,” Evvie said, retreating behind her paper. “And a plate of eggs in the oven.”

  Lizzy didn’t have the heart to tell Evvie she usually skipped breakfast. Or that she didn’t function particularly well without her morning coffee. She pulled the plate from the oven, eyeing the mound of scrambled eggs and home fries with dismay. It was more food than she was used to eating in a day, let alone for breakfast.

  Evvie eyed her with raised brows. “You don’t eat eggs?”

  “No, I do. I just don’t usually eat breakfast. And this is a lot of breakfast.”

  “Hmmm.” Evvie looked her up and down again. “Could do with a bit of meat on your bones, if you ask me. Don’t they feed you in New York?”

  Lizzy let the remark pass, opting to change the subject as she sat down with her plate. “Tell me your story, Evvie. How you met my grandmother and ended up living here.”

  Evvie plucked the readers from the end of her nose and laid them on the table. “My bees.”

  “Bees?”

  “Look out the window.”

  Lizzy craned her neck to peer out the back window. It took a few seconds, but eventually she spotted a trio of pastel-hued boxes to the left of Althea’s greenhouse. Apiaries, she believed they were called. “You raise bees?”

  “Don’t raise ’em. Just look after ’em. I make jewelry too. Bracelets mostly.”

  Lizzy nodded, trying to imagine what taking care of bees might entail, then realized Evvie hadn’t actually answered the question. “What have bees got to do with my grandmother?”

  Evvie pushed back from the table, crossed to the stove, and put the kettle on. “My sister,” she said, pulling a mug from the cupboard. “Can’t remember why now, but she was up here a few years back and stumbled onto your gran’s shop. When she came home, it was all she could talk about, the kinds of things she made and how special it all was—how special she was. So I wrote to her about putting some of my honey in her shop, and she said yes. After that, we wrote back and forth.” She paused, smiling wistfully. “That woman loved a good letter.”

  Lizzy smiled too. “Yes, she did.”

  Evvie reached for the kettle as it began to whistle. When she had finished brewing the tea, she carried two mugs back to the table and produced a small jar of honey from her apron pocket. “Moon Girl Farm Honey,” she said proudly. “From right out back.”

  Lizzy accepted the jar, stirring a spoonful into her mug as Evvie settled back into her chair. “You were telling me how you got to the farm.”

  “Two years ago, she invited me for a visit.” She paused, shrugging as she spooned a hefty dollop of honey into her own mug. “I never went back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Baton Rouge.”

  “But the accent—it’s not just Southern. There’s something else.”

  “Kréyol la lwizyàn,” Evvie pronounced over the rim of her mug. “Creole. My mama’s people came from the West Indies.”

  “Do you still have family there? In Baton Rouge, I mean.”

  Evvie shook her head. “Not anymore. My sister remarried. Moved to Texas, of all places. Then my husband passed. Wasn’t much reason to stay after that.” Her face darkened briefly, and she looked away. “So here I am with my bees and my beads, getting on with what time I have left. And you—why are you here? The real reason. Last night you said there were some personal things you wanted to take care of, but I expect there’s more to it than that.”

  Lizzy looked at her barely touched breakfast. She’d been hoping to keep her plans to herself awhile longer, until she had a firmer grip on the logistics, but under the circumstances that didn’t seem fair. Evvie deserved to know what was coming, so she could make plans.

  “I’m here to put the farm on the market,” she said quietly. “I’m going to sell it.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “It isn’t about the money, Evvie. There’s just no reason for me to hold on to it. I know what Althea wanted, but what would I do with a farm?”

  “Same as she did. Grow things. Make things. Help folks.”

  “I already have a job—one I worked hard to earn—and it’s in New York.”

  Evvie folded her hands on the table, lips pursed, as if deliberating what to say next. “Your gran told me about you,” she said finally. “How you were something special. She couldn’t stop bragging about you—not just your gifts, but who you were and what you’d made of yourself. You had a dream, and you chased it. She was proud of you for that, even if it did mean leaving her. She knew you had some things to work out, but she never lost faith that you would work them out one day. And that you’d be back.”

  Lizzy set down her mug, determined to make herself clear. “Yes, I’m back, but not the way you mean. There’s nothing for me here.”

  Evvie grunted, a sound Lizzy was starting to recognize as skepticism. “You came all this way just to stick a sign in the ground, and then scurry back to New York?”

  Lizzy didn’t li
ke the word scurry, but couldn’t argue with the premise of the question. “Yes. Mostly.”

  “You have someone there?”

  “Have someone?”

  “Someone,” Evvie repeated. “Someone who makes you soup when you’re sick, holds your hand when you’re sad. Someone who means something.”

  Lizzy considered lying, but knew better than to think she could get anything past Evvie. “No. I don’t have anyone who fixes me soup.”

  But then that was the deal she’d struck with herself. No one to fix her soup also meant no one to ask awkward questions about her family, or wanting things she wasn’t free to give. No strings. No hassles. No baring her soul. She’d never learned the art of opening up to another person. Alone was what she’d learned instead, and what she’d gotten good at. Alone was safe.

  “I’m too busy for a relationship right now,” she told Evvie evenly.

  Evvie responded with another grunt.

  The gesture irked Lizzy. “I know you and Althea were friends,” she said, pushing back her plate. “But there are things you don’t understand about the Moons. We’re not like other people. We don’t do the whole love-and-marriage thing.”

  “That right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I don’t expect you to understand—”

  Evvie stood, collecting Lizzy’s abandoned plate. “I understand more than you think. I also hear what you’re not saying—that this is none of my business.”

  “No,” Lizzy shot back. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying there are things you don’t know. Things we don’t talk about.”

  Evvie clamped her lips tight, swallowing whatever she’d been about to say. “How long you planning to stay?”

  Lizzy was both surprised and relieved that Evvie had changed the subject. She’d already said more than she should about the Moons. “I don’t know yet. A week, maybe. I thought I’d walk the property this morning and get a feel for what needs to be done before I can list with a Realtor.”