Moonlight Man

by Judy Griffith Gill

  “Not much. Not enough.” Jeanie smiled. “We couldn’t believe what we were hearing—or I couldn’t. Max thought there was something wrong when I came to a dead halt on the front porch and nearly dug my fingers into the bones of his wrist. He started to talk, and I just reached up and put my hand over his mouth and told him to listen, for God’s sake, just listen, that he was hearing a miracle! But then a little gust of wind came up, and he said miracle or no miracle, I was not standing out there to get chilled.”

  Her eyes shone with a silver glow as she looked at Sharon. “I was so happy to hear that music coming from your harp!” She clutched her sister’s hands in her own. “Don’t ever let anything stop you again. Promise me. Sell it under a pseudonym if you must, but keep doing it!”

  “I promise,” Sharon said, and explained that she was doing it for herself, that it wasn’t for sale under any name, just in case Ellis found out and managed to steal it.

  “But that means the public won’t have it,” said Jeanie sadly.

  “It doesn’t matter. I have it. We have it.” Then, getting to her feet, she glanced at the clock. “But since my livelihood comes from my job at the library, I’d better not be late.”

  “Hi.” The deep voice just behind her sent Sharon spinning around, nearly crashing into the cart of books she was shelving. “Got time for lunch today?”

  “You bet!” Her face shone with love and gladness, and he wished there was time to go home for lunch. What he wanted for lunch demanded privacy. Instead, when the head librarian came back from her own break, they made do with a corner booth near the back of the little cafe near the library.

  Crowding in next to her, he slid an arm around her waist and drew her tightly against his side. “Can I kiss you here?”

  Leaning her head back against his shoulder, she said, “You can kiss me anywhere.”

  When he came up for air, he murmured, “And how about ‘everywhere’?”

  She swallowed and inched away from him before she was tempted to disgrace herself in front of the young waitress who was approaching. “That,” she whispered, “comes later.”

  When they were alone again, she said, “You didn’t have to take off like that last night, Marc. You’d have been welcome to stay.”

  He gave that little half-shrug she found so charming, and quirked a crooked smile at her. “I didn’t want to intrude, and I didn’t know what you intended to tell your sister about us.”

  She looked him square in the eye. “I told her,” she said, “that we’re in love and sleeping together when we can do it discreetly.”

  He looked away from her, stirred his coffee, and then turned the spoon over and over in his fingers, like a baton twirler. Glancing up, his eyes shadowed by drawn brows, he said, “And she asked why we aren’t getting married.”

  Sharon nodded slowly. “More or less.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  This time, she shrugged and looked down at the table. “There wasn’t much I could tell her, was there? Except that …” She shrugged again.

  “Except that you haven’t been asked.”

  Still keeping her eyes downcast, she said quietly, “That’s right.”

  “How is she with a shotgun?”

  Sharon tilted her head back and gave him a long, hard look. “Jeanie is my sister,” she said, “not my father. And I’m not pregnant or in any danger of getting that way, so I don’t think talk of shotguns is appropriate. Besides, I am thirty-seven years old. I make my own decisions about my life.”

  When the waitress had served her chicken strips and his cheeseburger, he nibbled on a fry. “If that were a decision you were being asked to make, what do you think it would be?”

  “That’s an unfair question, Marc.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Yes. I guess it is.”

  He slid out of her side of the small booth and over to the other side, and ate his lunch in thoughtful silence.

  Then, locking his hand around her slender wrist, he leaned forward and said hoarsely, “If it were my decision to make, mine alone, then we’d be married right now. But it’s not, Sharon. I … oh, hell, this isn’t the time or the place, and there are things you need to know about me. Can you come over tonight? Right after work?”

  She looked at him, searching his pain-filled eyes. “Just tell me one thing, Marc. You said that your wife had died. Is that the truth?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you have another wife somewhere else?” His eyes widened in shock. “No! No, Sharon. I swear it. I have loved two women in my life. You are the second one. I never even thought about marrying again until I met you.”

  “Then I’ll come over tonight. Max and Jeanie are taking the kids out for dinner and to a movie anyway, since it’s Friday. I was going to go, too, but I’ll just call and say I’ve made other plans.”

  “Okay.” He nodded once, got to his feet, and stood looking down at her. “Just remember, Sharon. I love you.”

  “I’ll remember,” she said, but doubted if he heard her. He had spun around and was gone.

  You can’t do this, he told himself, pacing back and forth across his small living room. You have to do it, another part of him argued.

  Do it, and you lose her.

  Don’t and you lose her.

  So, you lose either way, but wouldn’t it be better for her to remember you with some respect, for her to think of you as a man who was simply unable to make a decision, than a … Marc pounded his fist into the palm of his hand and continued pacing, knowing that no matter what he did, it could be exactly the wrong thing. She loves me. She’ll believe in me.

  He hated his own cowardice, telling himself that there were no guarantees in life and this whole situation had gone on too long. He was in no better shape than he’d been six years ago, a reeling drunk in the back alleys of Toronto.

  Then, his father had found him, dragged him out of there, pasted the broken pieces back together, and sent him out to find a soul to put inside the shell he’d become. He had found that soul, but it hadn’t been enough, not until Sharon had filled the emptiness and given the body and soul what they lacked—a heart. What kind of a man was he if he refused to tell her the truth because it was a risk?

  Wheeling around, taking the stairs two at a time, he chose a positive action over the negative ones he’d been taking. He had time to shower before Sharon got here. He didn’t want her to have to smell his gutless fear on him.

  Sharon knocked. There was no reply, although the lights were on and the drapes wide open. She knocked again then opened the door. From upstairs, there came the rushing sound of the shower, and she wandered around the living room, too nervous to sit. What could he have to tell her that was so terrible? When he’d left the cafe, his face had been so pale, she’d wondered whether he was safe behind the wheel. Her relief at seeing his camper parked where it belonged had gone to her head, making her dizzy, telling her exactly how much of her worry she had stuffed down where it wouldn’t be visible even to her. That was something she had learned to do a long time ago. Recently, though, she’d been unlearning it. With Marc’s help, and in the warmth of his loving care, she had been unlearning a good many lessons from the past.

  Her biggest fear now was that the future might be in jeopardy. What future? a little voice asked her. Have you ever been given any reason to hope for a future with Marc? She knew that even if she hadn’t, until today, she’d harbored a hope, a crazy, unquenchable hope that this relationship was the ultimate one.

  Her restless feet carried her into the little den Marc used as an office, and she turned the picture frame on his desk, finding a snapshot of herself that she hadn’t known about. When had he taken it? In the summer or fall, obviously, since she was wearing a sleeveless blouse and the tree behind her was in full leaf. A breeze had caught her hair, lifting it back from her face, and she was laughing at something, likely one of the kids. Six weeks ago, she’d have been horrified to know that her next-door neighbor was taking tel
ephoto pictures of her. Now, she smiled and set it back down again, loving him just a little bit more.

  At that moment, his fax machine came to life, startling her. She spun around and looked at it as the paper came flopping out into the basket.

  The fax was addressed to Jean-Marc St.-Clair, with a string of degrees after the name, and came from a law office somewhere in Toronto. The name Jean-Marc St.-Clair rang a distant bell, and she frowned. It was an unpleasant bell, and while she realized that the fax was not meant for her, she saw at once it was, however, about her! She read on:

  Ref. your client, Sharon Leslie:

  There is no record of Sharon Leslie ever having signed a power of attorney to Ellis Murcady or any other individual or organization. Therefore, we feel that his having copyrighted her material in his own name during the term of their marriage constitutes a fraud. After consultation with certain members of the music community, particularly staff at the Royal Conservatory where Ms. Leslie was trained, we further feel that a strong case can be made to show that past, and very possibly present, work credited to the current Mrs. Murcady is uniquely that of Ms. Leslie.

  In private consultations, several justices, including your esteemed father, have given their opinion that Ms. Leslie would have just cause to bring suit against her former spouse and have every expectation of winning such a suit, regaining the royalties lost to her. Naturally, whatever she might compose at this time can certainly be copyright by her with no fear of Mr. Murcady’s being able to claim the work or any proceeds from it.

  It ended with kind, personal regards and a scrawled set of initials.

  Sharon stared at the paper for several seconds, dimly aware that the shower had shut off upstairs. Could this be true? Could she win back what Ellis had stolen? And even if that weren’t possible, was her name really her own, her present work her personal property? She picked the paper up and gazed at it again. That was what it said. She couldn’t be misinterpreting it, could she? Still holding it, she turned to go upstairs to Marc. He would know! He was a lawyer and—

  She came to an abrupt halt as the knowledge slammed into her. He was the lawyer who had requested this information. He was, of course, Jean-Marc St.-Clair. As she gazed at the name the distant unease was replaced by a flood of memory. Mentally, she deleted his beard, shortened his hair, deducted several inches of muscular shoulder development gained over six years of manual labor, and she had it.

  My God! Jean-Marc St.-Clair was a man who had been accused of murdering his own wife and child, then was let go for lack of evidence!

  She clenched her fingers on the fax, staring at the name, feeling again the horror she had felt at the time, remembering how bitterly aware she had been of the notorious case of the fine, upstanding crown prosecutor accused of such a heinous crime, the swirling controversy, the innuendo, the shock and disgust when he was set free. It had meant more to her than to most people because of the precarious position she was in herself. Why hadn’t she recognized him? Now that she knew, she could see him as he’d looked six years ago, clean-shaven, neatly dressed, face drawn with weariness or grief—or possibly fear. She had followed the story as it unfolded, watching it on the news, reading it in the daily papers, and then, suddenly, it was all over.

  Case dismissed at the preliminary hearing because of lack of evidence.

  She had, she told herself, not expected anything different. Men could beat their wives and get away with it. It happened every day. That she knew all too well.

  She wasn’t the only one horrified by that abrupt summation of the case. The rumors began to run rampant; there were editorials that hinted slyly and suggested artfully that justice had not been done.

  The accused was an officer of the court. His father, two brothers, and one sister carried on the tradition of the old, prestigious family law firm, of which he had been a member before accepting the position of crown prosecutor. His grandfather was a retired supreme court justice. One of his uncles was a senator. The St.-Clair family was solid establishment, wealthy and well-known. Was it any wonder, asked people on the streets, that he had been released for “lack of evidence”? Evidence against a man such as Jean-Marc St.-Clair could easily be suppressed. An ordinary man would have gotten life. A wealthy St.-Clair got off.

  And this, she knew, as sickness rose up to choke her, was what Marc was going to tell her about.

  “No,” she whispered, unaware that she had crumpled the paper in her hands. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know!” As she grabbed up the coat she had left on the brass hall stand, the ball of paper fell to the floor. Without seeing it, without seeing anything, she let herself out of his house, closing the door as quietly as she had opened it.

  If he was innocent, why didn’t he tell her long ago? she wondered. If he was innocent, why did he run as he clearly had? Why hadn’t he stayed and fought the innuendo? Instead, he’d become a wanderer, drifting around the world, afraid to go home again, afraid to face up to his accusers because … Because in spite of the findings of the court, the rumors were true? If he hadn’t done it, who had? No other killer had ever been found!

  Sharon reached into her coat pocket and grabbed her keys, tore open her car door, and flung herself behind the wheel, jamming the ignition key in and starting the engine. She backed out of his drive recklessly, swung onto the street, and laid rubber half the way down the block of her nice, quiet residential neighborhood.

  Marc jerked open the door and stared after her, wondering what in the hell was going on. Then he stooped and picked up the crumpled piece of paper from the floor.

  He smoothed it out, read it, and sat down hard in a chair. Burying his face in his hands, he groaned. “Sharon, oh, Sharon,” he whispered after a few minutes, tilting his head back and staring blindly at the ceiling. “Why couldn’t you have believed in me, love? Why did you have to be like everyone else? We aren’t strangers! You know me! Why couldn’t you wait and hear what I had to say?”

  But he knew the answer to that. He’d known it all along: Sharon had no reason to trust and every reason not to. Wearily, he got to his feet and went upstairs.

  It was time, he knew, to move on.

  “What am I doing?” Sharon asked herself just under an hour later. She was miles away from home, far up the highway, heading north and still going. She slowed, pulled over to the side, and leaned her head against the wheel. “I ran. I panicked and I ran.” Presently, she drove on again, found a place to turn around, and headed back. What had she done with the fax she’d read? She frowned, trying to remember, but all she could recall were the words, the name that suddenly triggered a memory, those dreadful feelings of fear and betrayal. She thought she’d probably put it back in the basket where it had appeared. She must have. So Marc wouldn’t know she’d been there. He wouldn’t know she’d read it, realized who he was, and fled because of that.

  She felt sick again, but this time because she had let the past overshadow the present. She knew Marc. She loved him and trusted him implicitly. He was not Ellis. He did not hit women and children. He had not killed his wife and son. The lack of evidence against him surely proved that. The fact that no one else had ever been charged meant simply that no suspect had ever been found. It had likely been one of those weird, random killings with no motive other than thrill seeking. She remembered that there had been some talk of devil-worship cults, or secret initiations, all nebulous, all completely unprovable just as the charges against Marc had been.

  A glance at her dashboard clock showed her it was long past the time when he’d been expecting her. She’d got off work early, but not that early. What must he be thinking? He’d be frantic, wondering where she was. By now he’d have called the police, all the hospitals, likely gone out and searched himself. She glanced at her speedometer and took her foot off the gas. Getting ticketed for speeding would only slow her down. Should she stop and phone him? Yes. Of course!

  Pulling into the next service station, she listened to his phone ring a
nd ring and ring. He wasn’t home. Poor Marc. He was out looking for her, as anxious as she would be if he had failed to show up for an important appointment at the right time. What was she going to tell him to excuse her lateness? She sighed. The truth, of course. He deserved that from her. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d have to do it.

  It seemed to take forever to get home, and when she did, his truck wasn’t there. She went to his house to see if he’d left a message, but the door was locked.

  On her own back door she found what she’d been looking for, and tore the sealed envelope open eagerly, wondering why he’d bothered to seal it. Leaning against the door, she stared at the words, turning the paper so the porch light shone on the page, trying to make sense of some very plain words, words that kept blurring before her eyes. No. No. She was reading it all wrong. That wasn’t what it said. It wasn’t! It wasn’t! It wasn’t!

  Chapter Ten

  ONLY … TIME PROVED THAT IT WAS. Marc was gone. It wouldn’t have taken him long to pack. As befitted a drifter, a man ready to wander away at moment’s notice, he’d had very little that wouldn’t fit into his camper.

  The next week, a For Sale sign appeared on the lawn next door, and by that time the cat, which he had never named, had made the transition to being fed at Sharon’s house, sleeping curled in a small box just inside the basement window.

  “You have to do something, Sharon.” Jeanie, who was visiting with Max for the weekend, paced around the living room. She stopped at the side of her sister’s shrouded harp and glared at it. It hadn’t been uncovered in weeks.

  “I know,” Sharon said evenly. “I’ve been doing it. I’m … getting over him. It’s not going to be easy, and it won’t happen overnight, but there’s nothing else I can do that I haven’t done already. Ads in every daily paper in every major city in North America haven’t brought a response. I’ve been in touch with the law office in Toronto that sent the fax. They either don’t know where he is, or won’t tell me. It’s been over a month. If he wanted to get in touch, he would. He knows where I am, Jeanie.”