The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  But then, so much seemed incomprehensible after what she’d just read. She should say something, make him understand, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Andrew.” She reached for him, but he pulled away. “I was trying to make it easier.”

  “You thought this would be easier?”

  “Andrew . . . listen to me.”

  “I’ve been listening. I’ve heard everything you said. Every single time you said it. Did I hope you’d change your mind? Yeah. But I get it now. So I came to say goodbye.”

  She put a hand to his lips, cutting him off. “I’m staying, Andrew. I’m not going back to New York.”

  “You’re . . .” He grabbed both her hands, as if afraid she might run away. “But Rhanna said . . . What made you change your mind?”

  Lizzy smiled up at him. “Nine generations of Moon women, a dandelion—and you.”

  He frowned, clearly puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “The things you said—about me planning to slip out of town without saying goodbye, the part about the FOR SALE sign—it’s all true. That’s exactly what I was going to do. But this afternoon I was packing some of Althea’s things, and it hit me. I can’t walk away from what those women built, what they made, who they were, what they endured so that I could be here. They’re part of my story—and I’m part of theirs. I don’t think I understood that until today. They’re my legacy. Not this place—not the buildings or the land—the women.”

  “What about your job?”

  “I can make perfume here.”

  Andrew stared at her, his expression guarded. “You’re going to just walk away from your life in New York?”

  “I am. I’ve spent the last hour walking in the woods, trying to reconcile what I want with what I promised myself all those years ago, and here’s what I realized. My mother was right. I’m allowed to be happy, and this is my chance. You’re my chance. And the rest of it’s just crap. I’ll call Luc tomorrow and tell him he needs to find a new creative director.” She reached up to touch his face, inhaling the warm amber scent of him. “I want to write my story here, Andrew—with you, if you’ll still have me.”

  His arms went around her, his breath warm against her mouth as he pulled her close. “I love you, Elzibeth Moon. I loved you when I was eighteen, and I’ll love you when I’m eighty. Those are just the facts.”

  He kissed her then, his mouth achingly tender as it closed over hers. She had nearly walked away from this—from him. From everything they could have and be together, to return to what her grandmother called half a life. How could she have ever considered it? Althea had spoken of blank pages, reminding her that how her own pages eventually got filled was a choice only she could make. And now she had chosen.

  “I plan to hold you to that,” she whispered between kisses. “The part about loving me until I’m eighty, I mean.”

  He stepped back just a little, grinning down at her. “What happened to not being cut out for happily-ever-after?”

  Lizzy slid out of his arms, took his hand, and led him to the shade of Althea’s favorite willow tree. “This happened,” she said, picking up The Book of Remembrances from the bench and handing it to him.

  Andrew glanced at the handwritten page, then back at Lizzy. “This is the book you told me about, the one Althea left for you, with all the pressed flowers.”

  “It is,” she said, smiling softly. “Read the last page.”

  Gardenia . . . for secret love.

  Dear Lizzy,

  I was twenty-two when I met Peter Markey. We met at the fair one day when he nearly ran me over with a handcart. I thought he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. Dark haired and blue eyed, with a smile that made me go weak at the knees. He was there with his father, a photographer working one of those dress-up booths. He asked if he could buy me a cider. I knew my mother wouldn’t approve, and that I should say no, but I didn’t. The next day we met again. By day three, I was in love.

  We saw each other as often as we could. He lived in Somersworth, so it was hard. But we managed, sneaking off whenever we both had a free hour. We’d go to the pictures—that’s what we called it in those days—or dancing at this little place in Dover, where no one knew us. I told my mother I was with my friends, but she figured it out. I think she knew about the baby before I did. When I told her Peter wanted to marry me, she forbid it.

  She reminded me of Sabine’s story, and why our kind must never marry—because no man must ever be allowed to rob a Moon of her power. Our loyalty, she said, must be to our legacy and our land. And to our daughters, who must be raised to be strong, self-sufficient, and solitary. She told me that if I followed my heart, I would be betraying that legacy, that our line might be weakened, perhaps even lost—because of me.

  I broke it off, and never told Peter about the baby. If he had known I was pregnant, he would never have gone away. But he did go away. Two weeks later, I learned that he joined the marines and shipped off to Vietnam. I hurt him so badly, and he never knew why, never knew he had a little girl—or that her name was Rhanna. He was killed just before she was born.

  I’ve never spoken of him to anyone, but I’ve never forgotten. You’ll find a cigar box at the back of my closet, where I’ve kept a few small treasures from our time together. A photo he took of me the day we met. A beaded bracelet he gave me for my birthday. Ticket stubs from the first picture we ever saw together—Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner. And a lock of his hair, given in exchange for one of mine. It seems silly now, but that’s how it is when you’re young and in love. Perhaps I should have gotten rid of these things—Rhanna should have been remembrance enough—but I couldn’t bear to let them go.

  So there it is. I’ve told you all of it. I should have told Rhanna. He was her father, after all. But she was always so distant. And then you came along. By the time you were old enough, I wondered if it even mattered. I’ve been ashamed for so long. Not because I’d been ready to break faith with all the Moons before me, but because I did break faith with Peter—and with myself. I broke a good man’s heart—a man I loved—for the sake of someone else’s beliefs. I let someone else write my story.

  Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how things might have been if I’d followed my heart instead of the rules. We’ve been taught that to love is to give ourselves away. But that’s wrong. We lose nothing when we love. It’s only in refusing to love that we pay, and lose the most precious part of ourselves. That’s why we’ve come—to love. Because that’s all there is. It’s all love—and it’s all magick.

  I’m tired now, and my Circle has drawn to its close. I must lay down my pen. But I leave you with these last words. Love, my Lizzy. Love wherever it may lead, and write your story. Write it with your whole heart, and give it a happy ending.

  A—

  EPILOGUE

  January 24

  Lizzy smiled as she switched on the lamp and sat down at Althea’s writing desk, warmed by the faces peering out at her from the collection of silver frames scattered over the polished surface. A candid shot of Rhanna at work on one of her sketches, her hair fastened geisha style with a pair of paintbrushes. A black and white of Althea at twenty-two, clutching an enormous stuffed poodle—the kind won at fair booths by lovestruck young men. A grinning Peter Markey, Althea’s lost love and the man Lizzy now thought of as her grandfather, boyishly handsome with his Brylcreemed wave of dark hair. And the most recent addition, taken on her own wedding day, her hair woven with a chain of wildflowers, her smile radiant as she slid the ring onto Andrew’s finger.

  She had borrowed an embroidered hankie from Evvie, and carried her grandmother’s cherished copy of Rumi’s The Book of Love, as her something blue. Althea hadn’t lived long enough to see her married, but the mingled scents of lavender and bergamot had filled the air as they spoke their vows on that sunny afternoon.

  A distant hammering broke the quiet: Andrew working
in the new drying barn. It would be finished by spring, and then a new mural would appear. Moonflowers this time, Rhanna had decided, with lots of stars and indigo sky as their backdrop.

  The landscape of Moon Girl Farm was already changing, reinventing itself for the next generation. Salem Creek was changing too. A pair of commemorative benches had appeared in the park last fall, anonymous gifts to the town of Salem Creek, complete with neat bronze plaques. The first honored the memories of Heather and Darcy Gilman. The second, inscribed with the words HARM NONE, was dedicated to the life and good works of Althea Moon. Eight years ago, the names Gilman and Moon had become inextricably linked, but at long last the whispers were over.

  Lizzy lifted her pen, then paused to peer out the window. The sun had been down for hours, the winter sky a velvety, unbroken black. It was the first new moon of the new year, the sacred space between waxing and waning, between nothingness and becoming. It felt right, somehow, to begin it tonight, at the beginning of the moon’s birthing cycle. She smiled softly as she turned back the cover of the journal, blank for so long, and began to write.

  The Book of Elzibeth

  My sweetest baby girl,

  When I was very young, I asked your great-grandmother—her name was Althea—what we were. Her answer was a kind of fairy tale, the kind with magick potions and powerful queens, because it was all I could understand at the time. She promised to tell me more when I was old enough to grasp it. But by then, I no longer wanted any part of that fairy tale. I had become afraid of myself, afraid of my own power, and I tried to run away. And then, when Althea died, I came home. Not just to the farm, but to myself.

  A wise woman—the woman who will be your aunt Evvie when you arrive this spring—once told me that home isn’t where you live, it’s who you are. I know now just how true that is. Your grandmother, Rhanna, knows it too. She taught me to forgive, to open my heart to all that has been, and all that can be. And so, today, I begin this book, for you, my dearest daughter—the next Moon girl.

  There are a hundred names for what we are—and all of them are wrong. Because we’re not one thing. We’re many things. Each endowed by Spirit with a gift that is ours and ours alone. That gift is the work we’re meant to do in the world, the blessing we’re meant to be to others. It starts searching for us the moment we’re born, and when it finds us we know, because we hear its call with our heart. Sharing that calling with others is our gift back to Spirit.

  The Circle is complete.

  We need no church, no graven image, no rules scratched on stone tablets or ancient scrolls. No sacred ritual or initiation is required to become what we already are—bits of god and stardust held together by divine breath and pure love.

  That, my dearest daughter, is what I want you to know when you arrive. You are not here to work magick—you ARE magick.

  L—

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Most writers will tell you that some books are more challenging to write than others. Some enter the world with seeming ease—a few twinges and it’s done—while others come breach, doubling us over in their struggle to be born. They make us question our abilities and say naughty words. But these are the books that stretch us as writers. As people too, I suppose. Perhaps because from the moment of conception, we have such high hopes for them. We know what we want our words to convey, what we want the book to stand for. And anything else feels like failing.

  And so begin the birth pangs—the wailings and moanings, the whimpers of exhaustion. But if we’re very, very lucky, we don’t go through it alone. There are people—wonderful, talented, amazing people—who are there from first twinkle to last push, who hold our hands until the panic and sweating are over. For me, those hand-holders are:

  Nalini Akolekar and the entire team at Spencerhill Associates, who took on a rookie writer eight years ago and taught her how to be an author. Gratitude doesn’t begin to express it.

  Jodi Davis Warshaw, my wonderful editor, and the entire Lake Union/APub team, for the tremendous support and careful shepherding of my book babies, with a special shout-out to the art department for this gorgeous cover!

  Charlotte Herscher, my developmental editor, who always knows how to pull the best from my characters, and who is an absolute joy to work with. I couldn’t have asked for a better creative partner. And finally, to Paul, my amazing copy editor, whose keen eye and attention to detail make me look far smarter than I am. Always a pleasure, sir.

  The members of my wonderful and ever-expanding author community, who blow me away every day with their talent, wisdom, and unfailing generosity. I’m limited to a collective thank-you here, because your names and kindnesses are too many to list.

  The book bloggers, reader page owners, and reviewers—you know who you are and how much you are loved. For your voices and your support, I’m more grateful than I can say.

  Patricia Crawford, a.k.a. Mom. For believing in me when my confidence is down around my ankles, and for reminding me always to remember who I am and where I came from.

  Tom Kelley—husband, life coach, beta reader, masseur, and the best hand-holder any wife could ask for. You taught me what happily-ever-after truly looks like. Thank you for every single minute of every single day.

  And of course—my cherished readers. You’re my tribe, my village, my book family, and I’m continuously humbled by the time you take to read and reach out. Thank you, thank you for sitting on my shoulder every day as I write.

  LAVENDER & LEMON SUGAR SCRUB

  2 1/2 cups granulated sugar (white or raw)

  1/4 cup coconut oil (olive oil or almond oil will also work)

  6–8 drops lemon essential oil

  6–8 drops lavender essential oil

  Freshly grated zest from 1 lemon (optional)

  Measure the sugar into a mixing bowl and set aside.

  Measure the coconut oil into a microwave-safe bowl. Heat until melted (30 seconds).

  Pour the coconut oil into the sugar. Mix until well combined. Add in the lemon and lavender oils.

  If desired, zest the rind of 1 lemon and add to the mixture. Stir to combine.

  Additional sugar may be added to thicken the mixture to the desired consistency.

  SILKY BEDTIME BATH TEA

  1/4 cup dry milk powder

  1/4 cup organic oats

  1/3 cup Epsom salts

  1/3 cup Dead Sea salt

  1/2 cup dried lavender buds

  1/2 cup dried chamomile flowers

  5–10 drops lavender essential oil

  1 tablespoon coconut oil

  Mason jar

  Muslin drawstring bags

  (All ingredients are available at Amazon.com or other herb supply dealers.)

  Mix all the ingredients in a large mixing bowl until well combined.

  Spoon into a mason jar (or other airtight container) for storage.

  To use, fill a muslin bag and pull the drawstring tight. Add to bathwater. Rinse the bag well and allow to dry for future use.

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  Rhanna’s revelation about her own gift helps Lizzy understand her mother’s experiences, and paves the way for reconciliation between mother and daughter. Has there ever been a time in your own life when some bit of information coming to light has helped heal a long-standing rift?

  One of the key themes of the book deals with the importance of owning our own story rather than living by someone else’s rules. To live our truths without apology. In what ways has society tried to impose its own rules on women over the years? Do you believe it’s still happening today? If so, in what ways?

  What do you think Lizzy needed to learn about herself and her place in the world before she could make the shift from a “safe” relationship to one that required her to let down her guard and let herself be vulnerable?

  Another theme running through the book is that of vocation, a personal calling instilled in us by a higher power, or by our higher self. Althea referred to it as the thing we’re meant to do in the wor
ld. Do you believe we each have a personal calling?

  In the last line of the book, Lizzy tells her unborn daughter that she is not coming into the world to work magick, but to be the magick. What do you think she meant? What does everyday magick look like?

  In one of Althea’s journal entries, she tells Lizzy that hate is always rooted in fear. Do you believe this is true? Can you give examples?

  In our patriarchal society, legacy is often thought of in masculine terms. Property passed from father to son. Lineage followed through the male bloodline. But the Moon legacy is passed from mother to daughter, its traditions traced through story and the written word. In your own family, would you say it’s the men or the women who are the true guardians of your family legacy and traditions? In what ways does this manifest?

  There are references throughout the book about being invisible, making ourselves small, and not bothering anyone. Can you identify with these kinds of thoughts, and if so, how and why do you think we manifest these feelings in our everyday lives?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Lisa Aube

  Barbara Davis spent more than a decade as an executive in the jewelry business before leaving the corporate world to pursue her lifelong passion for writing. She is the author of When Never Comes, Summer at Hideaway Key, The Wishing Tide, The Secrets She Carried, and Love, Alice. A Jersey girl raised in the south, Barbara now lives in Rochester, New Hampshire, with her husband, Tom, and their beloved ginger cat, Simon. She’s currently working on her next book. Visit her at www.barbaradavis-author.com.