Share the Moon

by Sharon Struth

  “He asked me to leave him alone. I am. Wednesday night, though, the phone rang while I was taking a bath. Naturally neither of the kids picked up, but when I got out, caller ID showed his name. He didn’t leave a message.” The disappointment she’d felt then struck again. “Probably to say let’s call it quits before we ever really started. At least he had the decency not to leave that in a message.”

  “I’d have called him back.” Veronica’s deliberately raised eyebrows came across as smug.

  “Easy to say when you’re not the one being dumped.”

  “I doubt he’ll dump you.” Bernadette pushed aside her bangs and pursed her lips. “I caught the way he checked you out when he got to the studio. He’s hurt. Give him space.”

  “Hurt is mild. Try crushed. Betrayed. Devastated.”

  “Come on, Soph.” Bernadette shook her head. “You’re exaggerating. Sometimes men need to get over things.”

  Meg waved her hand. “Ooh, on another note, tell us about Trent. Is he still cute?”

  “Jeesh, Meg. You’re a married woman.” Veronica’s voice filled with disapproval.

  Meg tipped her head to the unmarried librarian. “Not everyone thinks life is a romance novel like you. Marriage doesn’t come with blinders.” Meg turned to Sophie. “Well? Still cute?”

  “You wouldn’t have been disappointed. He still has the slight bad-boy thing and he’s aged well.”

  Bernadette snorted. “He always acted too cool for us, hanging around with Jay and the older kids.”

  Meg’s face brightened as if she hadn’t heard a negative word. “Do you think he’d remember me?”

  Veronica patted Meg’s arm. “Honey, you had the crush. Not him.”

  “Yeah, but I saw him around town and he noticed me.”

  “Probably because you were ogling him,” Bernadette mumbled.

  “Very funny.” Meg recapped a bottle of salad dressing and returned it to the lazy Susan. “Remember the time at Sunny Side Up he said hello?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Meg tapped her chin as she thought. “Oh, maybe I was with my parents. It doesn’t matter.” She swiped a dismissive hand and smacked right into her wineglass. White wine rushed across the pine tabletop, cascading over the sides like a Chardonnay waterfall and landing on Veronica.

  Meg lifted the glass to stop the rest from creating more damage. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Accidents happen.” Veronica pressed a napkin against the edge to dam the liquid, already spilled on her white sweatshirt with a Crickle Creek Orchards emblem near the shoulder. “This belonged to an old boyfriend. No biggie.”

  Sophie ran into the kitchen and grabbed two dishtowels. “Here.” She tossed them to Meg.

  “At least it’s white wine. On Italian night, this would’ve been disastrous.” Meg dabbed at the small puddle on the tabletop. “Sometimes I think I was born without disposable thumbs.”

  Sophie was two steps from the counter and reaching for more paper towels, but stopped and turned around to the group while digesting Meg’s remark. The others stared at Meg, too.

  Bernadette finally said, “What?”

  “You know.” Meg wiggled her thumbs. “How our thumbs help us hold things…. And I spill a lot.”

  Veronica stifled a grin. “I think you mean opposable.”

  Meg’s brow furrowed. “Opposable?” Then she laughed. “Oh, right! Nobody has disposable body parts.”

  “Only Mr. Potato Head.” Veronica continued to dab the spilled wine.

  Sophie went to the kitchen and ripped off a long strand of paper towels just as the phone rang. The caller’s name, Jamieson, D. flashed.

  She reached for the handset and then reconsidered. Ever since she’d made the shift from neutral reporter to reporter with an interest in her subject, she’d been more conflicted than a juggler without opposable thumbs. Was she trying to pull off an impossible act?

  He was either calling to dump her or to make amends but, either way, maybe the time had come for her to sit in the driver’s seat of her life. Tomorrow she’d face Henry’s birthday, alone and not afraid. The idea gave her a boost of encouragement, a real sign she’d stepped into the final stages of grief. Then she’d finish the job Cliff had assigned her on the paper, without the distractions she’d faced since the start.

  She bunched up the paper towels and headed back to the table, ignoring the phone’s ring.

  Meg took the paper towels. “Aren’t you going to answer? Maybe it’s Duncan.”

  “Nope. Just a telemarketer.”

  Sophie resisted the urge to run into the kitchen and answer. All her reasons to avoid him seemed reasonable, but was reason always the best choice?

  Chapter 24

  Duncan shifted in the king-size bed to a cool spot between the sheets and hoped to fall back to sleep. Still on California time, he’d suffered a restless night, mostly thinking about Sophie. He opened his eyes and squinted at the daylight breaking through the window, now realizing he’d left the heavy gold-striped curtains open when he’d gone to bed at midnight.

  He should have left her a message during the midweek call, but his tongue twisted into a knot while the answering machine gave instructions and he’d quickly hung up. Apologies in messages were awkward. He’d hoped to catch her home last night when he called. Was she avoiding him? He pictured her staring at the caller ID and sneering at the phone. After his unreasonable exit after the show, he couldn’t blame her.

  Visions of their bowling alley kiss provoked him. Why hadn’t he accepted her explanation for what happened? How many times with Elizabeth had he refused to listen to reason?

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the high ceiling. Was he incapable of truly loving a woman? Jesus, even his boat’s name had been a joke. What did he know about true love? Sailing had captured his heart. Swept away by the breezes, put in the hands of nature, yet with tools to control the outcome. Love with another person, though, couldn’t be controlled. Yet when Sophie entered a room, his pulse raced out of control. Funny thing, though. He didn’t care.

  He rolled on his side and checked the clock. 8:16. He got out of bed and took a quick shower. After tossing on jeans and a sweatshirt, he went downstairs.

  “Morning.” He stuck his head in the family room where Patrick and a few friends who’d stayed for a sleepover sat on their sleeping bags and played a video game. “You guys want breakfast?”

  Patrick paused the game and gave Duncan a funny look. “Since when do you cook?”

  “I learned some skills in my single days. Right now, I figured I’d run into town for donuts.”

  “Helen’s about to make us chocolate chip pancakes. But thanks.” Patrick returned to his task.

  Duncan patted his pants pocket and realized he’d left his cell phone in the bedroom. Persistence always paid off and he wasn’t done trying to reach Sophie. He sprinted back up the stairs and grabbed the phone and his wallet off a dark-stained highboy dresser.

  “Dad. Got a sec?” Patrick stood at the doorway, worry lines creasing his dimly freckled face.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Um, Matt told me something the other day. I figured you should know. Maybe you already do.”

  “What?”

  “Did you know he used to have an older brother?”

  “No.” An uncomfortable sensation twirled in his gut. Perhaps he didn’t know as much as he thought about Sophie. “Used to?”

  Patrick blinked a few times then nodded. “He died.”

  He paused, trying to recall if she’d ever once alluded to such a horrible loss. No, she definitely hadn’t. “How old was he?”

  “I think around eighteen.”

  He steadied himself against the despair every parent thinks of when they hear such horrible news, a step shy of imagining it had happened to their child. “Do you know when?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Matt said he was in elementary school when it
happened.”

  “That’s so sad. Did Matt say how?”

  “He drowned. In the lake.” Patrick almost whispered. His shoulders drooped and his eyes dulled with the same look Duncan had seen so many times as his wife’s condition worsened.

  Pieces suddenly fell into place. Little comments Sophie had made here and there. The wave of sadness so obvious after certain subjects came up.

  How could he have been so insensitive?

  He wanted to grab his son and hold him tight but respected the teenage space Patrick had requested as of late.

  A roar of laughter downstairs made Patrick glance out the door. “One other thing. Matt told me how his mom would be alone this weekend and kind of sad. Guess today’s his brother’s birthday. Well, the day he would’ve had one.” Patrick chewed his lower lip. “Their family usually visits the place he died on days like this, some garden in his memory. I feel bad for them.”

  Duncan put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks for telling me. You okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” Patrick started to turn away then stopped. “Oh, yeah, the garden for Matt’s brother is on the land you’re buying.”

  The words crashed in his ears like shattering glass. “Are you sure?”

  Patrick nodded and the copper curls of his messy hair bobbed. “The land you want is near that big rock, right?”

  Putticaw Rock sat on an easement through the Tates’ land, but Duncan had never really checked that area of the property. “Yes. The memorial must only be near the land. I’m sure the sellers would’ve told me otherwise.”

  “Matt said it’s there.” His son shrugged and headed out of the room.

  “Pat.”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Sometimes Dads need a hug from their sons.”

  Duncan stepped close and wrapped the tall boy in his arms. Tears pooled along his lids. Tears for Sophie. Tears for missing his own kids growing up. Tears over the pain of loss. After a minute, he gave him an extra squeeze then let go.

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call Matt’s mom.”

  Duncan returned to his room and shut the door. He tried Sophie’s house. Again, no answer.

  How had this slipped past his radar? He clenched his fist. Never had he felt so manipulated by a seller. He had one stop to make before he tried to find Sophie.

  * * * *

  Snow crunched beneath Sophie’s tires as she parked in the familiar wooded clearing off Lake Shore Road and stepped from the car. This morning’s air carried the raw, crisp bite of a fresh picked apple. A small rotting sign, announcing “Putticaw Rock,” plunked securely into the ground, had been there for as long as she could remember.

  Her emotions right now were as tender as a baby lamb, but nothing would keep her from this visit.

  A car flew past her on the well-traveled road and sent a chilly gust her way. She zipped the black fleece jacket to her chin, grabbed a pashmina scarf from the front seat, and draped it over her head, crisscrossing the long ends over each shoulder like a Russian babushka. A search for gloves revealed nothing. She must’ve left them at home.

  A faded arrow pointed to a snow-trodden path toward the historic rock. She walked along the trail surrounded by lifeless shrubbery and trees. Like every other corner of this small town, each season revealed a different brushstroke of its beauty and the winter nakedness revealed secrets hidden when everything was in bloom.

  The night Henry died the boys had come through here. His car had been parked in the same lot she’d used today. The memory rolled onto her chest like a boulder. She ignored the pressure and kept walking to the clearing, where the view opened to a gray ceiling of gentle clouds.

  Whenever she reached this spot, the panoramic view of Blue Moon Lake always jumped up and stole her breath. She stood still and took in the view. Peaked hills surrounding the lake were neutral and brown with patches of bright white snow everywhere else, including the frozen water.

  In her younger days, Sophie often stood in this spot and pretended to be a queen overlooking her kingdom. A kingdom lost in battle, not a poker game. Dreams that a fictional army would retrieve her father’s land sometimes kept her entertained. Some days her fantasy included a horse carrying a handsome knight to aid her struggle.

  What an ironic twist. The one thing close to a handsome knight turned out to be the force keeping her from the land.

  At the ridge of the hillside in front of her was the sloping span of land leading to Henry’s garden. Her mind said, “move” but her feet stayed put. This birthday trip would have been easier with Tia and Matt by her side. Her last visit here was in early October, when she added a plaque to the memorial. She didn’t tell anybody about the visit, for fear they’d think she couldn’t cope. She could cope, but wanted to leave a message. She closed her eyes, pictured the black zinc square with silver lettering, now buried beneath the snow.

  “Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”― E.E. Cummings.

  A familiar weight bore down on Sophie’s chest, but she opened her eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Another visitor had already left footsteps imprinted in the snow, leading right to the ridge. Time to move forward and face the gardens alone.

  * * * *

  Duncan stood in the Tates’ foyer with Otis and bit the inside of his cheek to check his anger. Only once before in the course of buying properties had Duncan been misled. A property in Jamaica where he’d learned, a day before the closing, there had been a history of fires related to an old land dispute going back centuries. He’d immediately backed out of the deal.

  Otis raised his brows. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jamieson?”

  “I need to talk to you and your brother.”

  Otis yelled for Elmer. “I’m surprised to see you so early. Must be important.”

  Elmer shuffled down the hallway from the kitchen.

  “Yes, it is.” Duncan nodded at Elmer. “I’ve learned some facts about your property. Facts you neglected to disclose when we negotiated the purchase.”

  Elmer glanced at his brother, but Otis only massaged the tip of his long beard and stared at Duncan with the energy of a stone wall.

  “Did Sophie Shaw’s son die on this land?”

  “Yeah.” Behind Otis’ bearded jawline a muscle flexed. “So?”

  “So? Is that all you have to say?” Duncan harnessed his struggling anger. He’d dealt with ruthless businessmen in his day, but this guy should work on Wall Street. “There’s a memorial garden for him on this property?”

  “Yes.” Otis shrugged. “Look, if you end up buying the land, you’re under no obligation to keep—”

  “Otis!” Elmer snapped, sharper than Duncan had ever heard from the quieter of the two brothers. His long face drooped and the whites of his eyes glistened. “The entire town mourned Sophie’s loss. Her son worked at our farm several summers. A nice boy. I agreed to let the community put up the memorial and wanted her family to come and go as they pleased. If things work in your favor on this purchase, I hope you’ll do the same.”

  “Why wasn’t I told about this when we first talked?”

  “I wanted to.” Elmer glanced at his brother.

  Otis snarled. “I always said that garden was a mistake.” He glared at his brother. “See. Now Mr. Jamieson’s having second thoughts.” His angry glower focused on Duncan. “Her loss has nothing to do with this purchase.”

  Duncan leaned close, and spoke through the tightness of a clenched jaw. “This is about dealing with people in good faith. Something you didn’t do.”

  Otis jutted his chin. “What about Trent? I thought you wanted this property for him.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” Duncan turned to Elmer. “I heard she visits the garden on her son’s birthday?”

  Elmer spoke with a slight crack to his voice. “She’ll be there today.”

  “How can I get
there?”

  Elmer gave Duncan directions. One step from leaving, he paused and stared at Otis, who had listened to the last part of the conversation in silence, wearing a bitter scowl. “I’m on the fence with this deal, Otis. Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

  He cleared his throat. “Not a thing.”

  Duncan glanced at Elmer, who pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at the wood floor.

  Duncan suspected both men weren’t telling him something, but right now the urgency to speak with Sophie made him reach for the knob and leave. At the bottom step, he turned around to ask one more question. Elmer’s worried gaze stared back at him as Otis slammed shut the door with the thud of a gavel.

  * * * *

  Sophie stared at the beautiful memorial gardens planted for Henry, located to the right of the large boulder and on the cusp of the Tates’ land. First started by friends from church, others in the community later joined and assisted in planting the assorted shrubbery, flowers, and trees circling the place where the EMS crew found Henry’s body that horrible night.

  When planting first began, Sophie refused to visit. Their gesture unearthed more than the dirt. It unearthed her pain. Pain she’d struggled with every waking second. A few months later, though, she’d agreed to see what they’d done.

  Bernadette had shown her around the gardens with a caring arm slung around Sophie’s shoulders. She’d shared how the circular design came from the Native American belief that circles represented the sun, the moon, the seasons, and the cycle of life from death to rebirth. She’d pointed to the yews, planted to give year-round green and tulips and daffodils to represent the spirit reborn and give some spring color. Summer would bring black-eyed Susans, planted for their colors of gold and black, the high school colors and a reminder to visitors that Henry loved his school, a place he’d shared friendships and a love of music. Today a black-capped chickadee, frightened by a fat squirrel, disappeared into a simple wooden birdhouse on a pole in the center of the garden. On sterile winter days like today, she was happy for the signs of life. A reminder that even in the bleakest of times, life still went on.