The Last Will of Moira Leahy

by Therese Walsh

  “Clothes? Noel needed clothes? You’re kidding.”

  “Does this look like kidding?” He pointed to himself, his sober expression. “It is why his wallet was stealed from him—wearing blue jeans on Christmas.” He tsk-tsked.

  “But he just went for pastries!”

  “He knows now he must look his best for passeggiata.”

  I’d heard of passeggiata—when families went out to stroll the town in their finest clothes, confident they looked better than the neighbors.

  “You two will have not a euro left if you are not careful. ‘When in Rome’ does not come from nothing.” His hands flew; God only knew what they said. “You look like tourists.”

  “We are tourists.”

  “You look like … a red spot.”

  I scrunched my face to match his. “We look like pimples?”

  “Targets.” The word burst from him. “They will crush your grapes and make you wine if they see you are tourists!”

  I repressed a laugh. “Do we look that bad?”

  His eyebrows did a funny dance—up with one, down with the other and switch—as he scowled at my faded Bugs Bunny sweatshirt. I covered Bugs in a protective gesture with my right hand. Moira and I had bought two of these tops when we were fifteen. Oversized. Perfect. Obviously long lasting. Exactly identical. Our mother had hated them. But, okay, maybe I was underdressed.

  “All right, name a nice shop with reasonable prices.” I wasn’t tenured, after all. Yet.

  “Mariella’s shop is close. You give her my name and she will turn you …” He kissed his fingers.

  “And what if I don’t want to be—?” I made a rain shower of kissing sounds.

  “Passeggiata,” he repeated, a grave wisdom in his voice.

  I lifted my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’ll go, but I have a mystery to solve first. I don’t suppose ‘Il Sotto Abbasso’ means anything to you?”

  He looked around, lowered his voice. “It is secret place, in the underground.”

  “Harlem Nocturne” kicked in again.

  “What is it, exactly?” I asked.

  “A place to dance and drink and—”

  “A club?”

  “Yes, a club under the ground. It is, how you say, hot.”

  A club, huh. Sri Putra wanted me to go to a club? “I’d like to go there sometime, with Noel,” I said. “How do I get there?”

  “It is only open on Sunday night—tomorrow. It is good luck that Mama let me have the night off. I can take you two. You would not find it without me. But first you will visit Mariella,” he continued. “You cannot wear bunny man to Il Sotto Abbasso.”

  It was my turn to raise a brow. “I have some nice pants—”

  “We will dance.”

  “If you think I’m going to buy some sort of flowy skirt—”

  “Flowy? Like flow-in-the-dark?”

  I covered my mouth, but laughter burbled out.

  “Go to Mariella’s,” he said. “She will fix you.”

  “And you’re sure about the bunnies? Maybe just a little one?” I couldn’t help myself.

  He scowled. “No bunnies.”

  KEEPING NOEL’S ROBBERY and his sensible advice in mind, I left the blade in the safe in my closet, then made my way to Mariella’s. A saleswoman in a bronze-toned belted suit and pointy shoes approached as soon as I stepped through the door (Mariella herself, as it turned out). I needed an outfit, I explained. Pants and a top. For dancing.

  She threw me in a dressing room and poured me into something scandalous. Not a pant leg or cartoon character in sight. I couldn’t wear it.

  “The flower is in full bloom.” In piena fioritura. “You have nice breasts,” she said. “Why not show them off a little?” She sounded like Kit. Maybe that’s why I let her bully me into buying what I did.

  I was standing at the counter, my credit card still smoking in my hand, when I saw him. Turned away from me, but close by, lurking in a corner. Tall. Dark. Ageless as Romulus himself. I would’ve felt better about it with the keris in my bag, but I called his name anyhow.

  “Ermanno.”

  He turned, perplexed. This was not Ermanno’s face, but I thought, for a crazed second, that it still might’ve been him. Magia nera.

  The man smiled, asked if I’d mistaken him for someone. I was losing it.

  I apologized to the stranger, grabbed my stuff, and left before I changed my mind again.

  Out of Time

  Castine, Maine

  LATE OCTOBER 2000

  Moira and Maeve are sixteen

  The lighthouse became Moira’s favorite place to meet Ian, though there was nothing light about it; it’d been defunct for as long as she could recall. Still, he always brought a flashlight, and they walked up together, kissing, laughing, ducking when a car door slammed nearby.

  One Saturday they met earlier than usual, the sun just shy of a spectacular sunset. They found a secluded nook on the side of a hill, with a scatter of crisp leaves they covered with a blanket, and then they sat and watched the sky.

  “They think I’m seeing a movie with Ann,” Moira explained when Ian asked how she’d managed the early getaway.

  “Ann Houghton? She’s as boring as your sister.”

  He laughed as Moira hid her hurt. Next time she’d lie about a girl more exciting than bookish Ann. It was so hard to constantly remember how Maeve would do things. It was exhausting.

  “Come here, Maeve,” he said, and her stomach tipped as it always did at the sound of her twin’s name. She moved until they were face-to-face, thinking he wanted a kiss. Then all at once he laughed and grabbed her, turned her so she sat on his lap.

  The first time she’d felt his arousal, it frightened her. But boys couldn’t help things like that when they kissed girls. It was natural, harmless. At least that’s what Ian said when he’d seen the look on her face. She didn’t mind it at all now. In fact, she knew she could give him a little pleasure, and herself, by sinking into him when he pressed against her.

  “Play a song for me.” He tucked his hand beneath her shirt and stroked her belly.

  “Ian.”

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he said, stretching his free arm out before her. “C’mon. Play for me.”

  “You think I pack a saxophone in my hip pocket?” she asked with forced levity.

  “I’d love to be your saxophone, have your hands all over me and your mouth on mine all of the time.” He made a deep noise that sounded like he’d just eaten a spoonful of caramel.

  Moira swallowed hard. Twice. “You would?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, and nuzzled his face into her neck. “C’mon, one song. Unless you’re not who I think you are.” She went stock-still. “Maybe that’s a recording I hear from inside your house and not you at all.”

  “Right.” Her breath felt shallow and sharp. “Or maybe I’m really my sister?”

  “She could never be you.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not like you.”

  “We’re twins. Exactly the same genetically.”

  He dropped his arm. “Which just proves there’s a lot more to a person than genes. You’ve got balls. You’ve always had them. That’s why you won’t be stuck here for the rest of your life.”

  He looked seaward with the same longing she’d seen in him before—when he stared at the enormous ship stationed in the Penobscot, where trainees from all over the country came for education in ship handling. She felt his restless desire for more in a hundred ways. He and Maeve were so alike that way.

  “You can leave, too,” Moira said. “Join the Maritime Academy. You can travel all—”

  “Not if my old man has his way with my life.”

  She stared where he did, at the black water and its dusky golden highlights. “I think you can make anything happen if you believe in it. You can convince your father and become a merchant marine. And Moira has a lot more to offer than you’re giving her credit for,” she couldn’t h
elp adding. “She’s had different opportunities than … than I have. She plays the piano very well and—”

  Ian feigned a yawn. “Sorry, I’m sure you love her and all that, but I can’t stand the piano.”

  “She knows Liszt.”

  “What’s Liszt?”

  “The composer, Franz Liszt. He’s difficult to master.”

  “Yeah? From what I’ve heard she hasn’t mastered him yet.”

  Moira couldn’t hide her splintered expression that time.

  “I like you,” he said. “You’re the one who’s fun to be with. I don’t want you to be your sister. C’mon. Play me.”

  Moira put her cold fingers on Ian’s arm, moved them around a little.

  “That’s not a song,” he said. “That’s a fidget.”

  She closed her eyes against a blurred and watery vision, and played for him. The fleshy notes she touched were for piano, but she held herself as if she played the sax; and the song was Liszt’s Liebesträume, notturno No. 3, a piece about love, holding onto it for as long as you’re able—for lost love is wretched. She doubted Ian would ever appreciate it.

  “You’re amazing,” he said when she stopped. “The most amazing girl in the world. Let’s go all the way.”

  She turned to look him in the eye. The sun cast long orange fingers over his cheekbones and made a mask of his face. He pressed himself against her again, clasped her to him.

  “I hope it’s not too soon, but I need a real girlfriend. I’m a man, you know, not a boy anymore.”

  “But—”

  “You thought I was a virgin?” He smiled.

  Moira nodded. “Who—?”

  “If you’re not ready,” he said, “then maybe we’re not.”

  “You mean you’d break up with me?”

  “Break up from what? You won’t even hold my hand in the hall.” His gaze grabbed at her; it hurt. “Maybe that’s the game, huh, Maeve?”

  “There’s no game.”

  “You want to keep me at a distance. Other girls wouldn’t.”

  Moira thought of Paula, the day Ian had been with her without his shirt. And then she thought of her sister. Maeve, she knew, wouldn’t think so much. She’d live in the moment, let passion decide. Moira wanted to believe she had passion, too.

  Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart!

  “Can I think about it?”

  Ian wrapped a finger around the saxophone stone necklace and pulled her close, then kissed her until her body hummed with possibility.

  “Just don’t think about it for too long,” he said, as breathless as she was. “You’ll love sex, Maeve. You’ll be a natural. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DECLENSION

  When I arrived back at the hotel, I carried four bags of clothes and quite a bit more debt. I changed into one of my new outfits—a pair of gray trousers and a tangerine-toned silk blouse Mariella said made my eyes look elettrizzante. She’d somehow noticed my hair as well, my roots. Why have you taken away your color? You are young. Be beautiful. But in this, I was resolved; I bought a blue hat and stuck it on my head.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Noel said after he stepped through my door a little later.

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “How did it go today?”

  “Remind me never to take the bus again.”

  “That good?”

  “Better. And I’m sure my wallet’s history. Working with the law was a challenge, even with Giovanni’s help, but at least I learned a lot about passeggiata.”

  “Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Silly. Effing insane. Whatever.”

  “Where’d he send you?”

  “A leather shop. Do you want lunch?”

  My mouth fell open, and then I laughed so hard that I sent myself into a coughing fit. “I’d pay to see you in leather pants! Seriously, oh, my God—”

  “Go on. Murder my self-respect.”

  I gasped for breath. “It’s just so not you. Noel Ryan in leather pants, riding a Harley.”

  “We’re in Rome. How about a Vespa?”

  I laughed harder.

  “First, I didn’t buy any pants. Second, I did own a motorcycle once. Third, I’m hungry, so let’s go.” He tossed my coat to me, a curveball I barely caught.

  “What? When did you have a bike?”

  “Oh, you know, when I was a pain in the ass adolescent, around the time I grew my hair long. The girls loved long hair.”

  “Did they?”

  “Definitely,” he said, and winked at me. His hair was still on the long side, sleek and dark like mink. “But it wasn’t something my grandfather thought was appropriate for life at the shop. I exploded. Told him I didn’t want to run the bloody shop my entire life. I wasn’t his son, why did he care what my hair looked like?”

  “Wow.” I found the whole scene hard to imagine—arguments between two of the most gentle men I’d ever met.

  “He gave me the bike the next day. I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I took it anyway. I just wanted the choice to be mine, you know—stay or go.” He shrugged. “Things got better after that. Truth was, I did want to be his son. I was just pissed I wasn’t.”

  I nodded. Moira and I had struggled just as hard over our identity. Identities, rather; my mother made sure they were separate. Skirts and books and gardening and piano for Moira. Jeans and comic books and football and saxophone for me. How different things might’ve been for us if we’d had a Garrick in our lives to offer what we didn’t know we craved—freedom of choice. Especially Moira. Especially her.

  I stirred from my musings to find Noel excavating me with his gaze. I suggested pizza, and we headed for the elevators.

  “Let’s try a club tomorrow night,” he said as he pushed the button to the lobby. “Giovanni said he’d take us, even got his mother to give him the night off. It’s underground—sounds interesting. You up for it?”

  “Yeah, it’s intriguing,” I said. “The idea to go to Il Sotto Abbasso came from me, actually.”

  Silence, then, “You’ve been to Putra’s, haven’t you?”

  How had he known? He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, exactly like mine; “Visit Il Sotto Abbasso,” it read. We spoke over each other.

  “You didn’t tell me about a note with my name on it?”

  “You went back after what happened with that landlord?”

  “Yes.” I hardened my jaw. “And he’s not the landlord, smarty; he’s the landlady’s son—and Sri Putra’s brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “Half brother. Ermanno’s weird, granted, but—”

  “You know his name? Did you talk to him? Did—”

  “Stop! It doesn’t matter!” My fingers made ten exclamation points between us. “You’re missing the point.”

  “No, you are. The note you found—let me see it.”

  “Why, starting a collection?”

  The elevator stopped. The door opened. Neither of us moved.

  He spoke intensely. “There are things you don’t know, Maeve, things I’ve learned about that guy—”

  “You mean his love of black magic?” I laughed humorlessly when he reared back. “This response from the man who doesn’t believe in myths!”

  “I don’t,” he said. “But you shouldn’t go anywhere near that guy alone. He’s a whack job. He could be dangerous.”

  “I’ve done plenty of things in my life alone, Noel. I’ve faced danger. Whatever delusion you have that I’m a weakling woman is wrong. I won’t let you lie to me.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “Not telling the truth then. Dissembling. Whatever you want to call it. That note was meant for me. This is my journey.”

  “Then why am I here?” The door closed again.

  “How many times have you gone back there?” I asked.

  “A few. How many times have you gone by y
ourself?”

  “Just once. Today.”

  Noel continued looking at me like I’d let him down. I hated feeling like a scolded child; it made me angry. “Any other notes with my name on them? Did you take anything else?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but then he pulled a slip of paper from his other pocket. I took it.

  Visit Villa Borghese

  “Any more?”

  “No,” he said, with just as much snap. He punched a button and the doors reopened. I matched him step for step when he strode out.

  “I’m not the bad guy here,” I said.

  “Guess that means I am. I’ll stop trying to protect you.”

  “Jesus, God, there’s no reason to protect me! Do I seem like some fragile little wisp of a girl to you? Nothing I own is pink! I didn’t even own a purse before today!”

  We rounded the bend, the front desk in sight. Giovanni waved to us.

  “I tried to ring you in your room,” he told Noel. “A thing rimarchevole has happened. Your wallet has been returned. It was left by someone unanimously.”

  “How—?” Noel took the bag Giovanni held out to him, and pulled out a wallet.

  “Yours?”

  He opened it. “Christ. It really is mine.” He dumped the bag’s contents on the counter: traveler’s checks, cards, a key, and several golden coins fell out; yellow, blue, red, and gray euro notes drifted to the floor. “Unbelievable,” he said. “What the bloody hell?”

  Within the rubble, I spied a picture of Garrick snoozing in a chair at Time After Time, his glasses teetering on his nose. “What a great shot,” I said, pointing to it, trying to put the bad feelings behind us.

  My words triggered something in Noel. He pulled the photo from the rubble with unseeing eyes, then began searching through the pile with new vigor. Bills scattered across the counter. Business cards fell to the floor. I asked what he was looking for, if I could help, but he ignored me. Finally, he stopped.

  “He stole it,” he said in a voice that struck me as dangerously calm, placid as the water in the eye of a storm.

  “What? Who?”

  “Your photograph—the one I took last year at the maple festival. It’s gone. That bastard.”