The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel

by Therese Walsh

  There, on a carved armchair, lay the straight keris whose bold oval pattern I'd last observed in a case at Time After Time. Jackpot, I thought, just before a reverberating crash sounded out in the other room.

  "Christ!" Noel said. "Are you the empu?"

  "Empu?" Deep sardonic laughter filled the air. "No. No. Non sono empu. Eppure, questo e il mio edifizio. Lei trapassa!"

  The landlord, not the empu. And yes, trapassa, we were trespassing.

  "Sorry, then. Scusi. We'll go." Though I doubted Noel had understood every word, he'd comprehended enough: time to leave.

  I crossed, tentatively, back into the room to find Noel restoring a tipped bronze gong. A man, tall and with a thick head of unruly black hair, stood beside him in a posture of intimidation, and when he turned his head, his eyes laser-focused on me. Handsome. Dark. Ageless as a Roman god.

  "Non bastano mai." A grimace formed around his lips. I noticed he gripped a small sledgehammer, that his fingers were tightening around it. "La velocita non basta mai. Non basta mai la buona sorte." Never enough speed, never enough luck.

  I spoke quickly in Italian, told him we were looking for Sri Putra, the empu.

  "Lei dovrebbe cercare me." His eyes tracked my body, my face, my bag. "Non lui. Me." You should be looking for me. Not him. Me.

  "What did he say? Translate." Noel's eyes fixed on the man whose words had confused me into silence, and his voice carried a rare edge when he spoke, made me think not much had been lost on him. "Do you speak English? Does Putra live here or doesn't he?"

  "He does," I said, thinking of the keris. "I just found--"

  "I understand your language." The Italian seemed to hover over Noel, though he was only an inch taller. "You do not know mine? That is too bad. Chi va dicendo che io non sono Putra?"

  "Who says you're not Putra?" I repeated his question for Noel's benefit, then answered it. "You said you weren't the empu."

  The man bowed grandly at the waist, tucking in one arm but lifting the other so high behind him that the sledge struck the gong and filled the room with a hollow peal. "It is true. I am no empu. Merely a man and a fool. Il tempo dira quant'e scemo. Il tempo dira quant'e bravo." Time will tell how big a fool. Time will tell how big a man.

  I didn't know what to say to that, was too busy trying to figure the guy out. Beautiful as Noel, but bizarre, a puzzle. He seemed to enjoy my confusion, smiling to reveal a line of straight, white teeth.

  "We're looking for Sri Putra," I repeated, handing him the empu's business card. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "Did you bring a keris?" he asked, his eyes brightening.

  "Yes!" I said. "All the way from America."

  The man tapped the card in his closed palm. When he opened his hand again, it was empty.

  "I'd like that back," I said.

  "Mi dispiace. It's gone." He showed me his sleeves.

  "Let's go, Maeve," Noel said, urging me toward the door. "We don't need it."

  True, but I still felt irritated as we returned to the musty hall.

  "Why not leave a message for him?" the man asked me, trailing behind us. "Yes, yes, you should. Leave an address where you can be found in Roma. I'm sure he will want to meet you. Certo che mi piacerebbe!"

  I turned away from him and his subtle innuendo--I know I would--as Noel found a pen. He wrote on the back of one of his business cards.

  About the keris from Betheny. Contact Maeve Leahy at

  "Not my cell. I forgot it." It probably wouldn't have worked overseas, anyway. "I'm staying at--"

  "We're staying at the same place."

  "Oh, good." I nodded, distracted, but still a question registered: Exactly how far would Kit go to play matchmaker? No. Even she wouldn't cross that line.

  When Noel finished writing, the Italian snatched the card from his hand and speared it over a nail on the door. Another paper fluttered to the ground.

  "Thanks for the help, friend," Noel said.

  The landlord genuflected in a way that seemed just as sarcastic while I stooped to pick up the dislodged piece of folded paper. My last name, Leahy, was scrawled on the front. I opened it--

  Visit Santa Maria in Cosmedin

  --then, before the Italian might see, stuffed the note into my pocket. Too fast. My luggage strap free-fell from my shoulder to the crook of my arm with bruising force.

  My groan must've caught the stranger's attention. He stood erect, reached forward, and replaced the bag onto my shoulder with a lingering hand. "Be sure to come back again when you are less"--he looked at Noel--"carica." Burdened.

  Noel pushed the man's hand aside, took my bag. "Let's go." He trailed me down the hall, out onto the street. The flag snapped over our heads. "What an ass!" he said. "What did he say, at the end?"

  I was trying to figure out a diplomatic way of telling him when I noticed ... "Noel, where's your cab?" But it was gone, had left us--and Noel's bag on the stoop--in a cloud of Roman dust.

  IT WAS LOVE at first step--winding cobblestone streets, the scent of baked bread and sauce permeating the air. Never had a stereotype been so welcome. My stomach rumbled in time with our luggage wheels as we walked by a wall of homes and businesses--a hodgepodge collection of ancient architecture and newer structures, melding together to create a seamless passage of time. The weather was an unexpected pleasure. Though overcast, it had to have been about sixty degrees, reminiscent of a New York autumn or spring, and a vast improvement on the sleet I'd left behind.

  Noel stopped and my bag slid from his shoulder. "We've been here before."

  "I don't think so." I looked at the map.

  "I remember this shop and that marble bust in the window. And we've seen that tower, that church."

  Maybe they did look familiar.

  "You're reading the map, right?"

  I nodded, mentally crossing my fingers; I knew I'd been slacking off, making some guesses. I used to have a good nose for this sort of thing.

  He looked over my shoulder. "Where do we think we are?"

  I pointed to a dot that was a church and hoped for the best.

  "And where do we need to go?" he asked.

  I pointed at what I hoped was the vicinity of our hotel.

  "Let's turn around then." He hoisted my bag back onto his shoulder and grabbed for his wheeled one. "What did you pack, anyway? Rocks?"

  "Only a few," I said. "Look, I told you I'd carry that--or at least pull your bag along with mine. Which do you want?"

  "What I want is a bloody cab."

  We redirected ourselves. The slender paths were surprisingly free of cars, though motorbikes in every conceivable color zoomed all around us. My heart marked time with the city as I took in the scents, the sights, the sounds.

  We were following behind two women who were joking about the shape of their boss's derriere when we stepped before the same marble bust in the window.

  Noel dropped my bag again, his face sporting a thin trickle of sweat, and squinted at me. "Time to ask for directions."

  "Wow, I didn't think men did that."

  "Let's see. One of us speaks like a local," he said darkly, "and it isn't me."

  Right. Not the ideal time for jokes. I ducked into a nearby shop and learned our hotel was, in fact, just around the corner.

  "I thought so," Noel said when I told him.

  "Sure you did."

  And that time, I know I caught the edge of a smile.

  Out of Time

  Castine, Maine

  OCTOBER 2000

  Moira and Maeve are sixteen

  "Can you wash the dishes tonight, Moira?"

  Moira looked up from the table, where she had ostensibly been reading Jane Eyre but was in truth thinking about what she'd say later to Ian. "Sure, Mom," she said. "You look tired."

  Hair hung in her mother's face, and her cheeks were flushed. "It's been a hard day with Pops. No words." The fine lines around her eyes wrinkled in misery even as her jaw hardened, and Moira knew she'd work twice as hard tomor
row.

  "You should take a bath. That'll make you feel better."

  Her mother nodded and left the room. Moira closed her book.

  "I'll wash."

  Moira turned to find her sister standing near the stove. How long had she been there? "I'll do it," Moira said. "I told Mom I would."

  "You can dry."

  I don't want you here. Go away. The words almost spilled from her mouth, but she shored up her thoughts and retrieved a towel as Maeve filled the sink. It would be stupid to make her sister suspicious tonight. She would meet Ian in just over two hours, at midnight.

  Midnight. That had been when Cinderella's ruse fell apart. Moira shouldn't have chosen such a doomed hour. She should never have sent that note. Now she would have to face the consequences as her ruse fell apart, when she told Ian the truth.

  It's what she had to do.

  Deception made her feel like an outsider in her own skin and made her stomach ache--as did the question of how to explain it all now that she'd sent the invitation. She'd considered just not showing up, letting the note become an anomaly. But what if Ian asked Maeve about it? If he showed her the note, Maeve would recognize the writing, so much like her own, as Moira's. That would be the worst. No, tempting as it was to forget everything, she had to come clean. Maybe things would work out. Prince Charming found the right sister eventually, despite her threadbare appearance. Moira would tell Ian how she felt, and maybe he'd see she was as good as Maeve, even if she was less outgoing.

  Maeve shut off the water and leaned against the counter. "What's going on?"

  "Stop it," Moira said. She could feel Maeve's attempt to probe her thoughts.

  "Why do you block all the time now?"

  Moira didn't know how to answer that. She stared at the sill, at the young dieffenbachia she'd started in a pot. "I just want my thoughts to stay private. Are you going to wash or not?"

  "Daddy told me, you know."

  Moira's head snapped back around. "Told you what?"

  "That you asked Mom for sax lessons," Maeve said, watching her closely. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to learn?"

  "Because I knew it wouldn't matter. You won't teach me."

  "Why won't I? Besides, you're as good on the piano as--"

  "Are you deaf? Maybe if I'd had a chance with the sax I could've been as good as you, but we'll never know, will we?" Moira yanked a string from the towel's fringed edge as Maeve cocked her head.

  "Why do you act like you have no choice? If you want to learn, then learn. Who says you can't? If you want me to help, ask. Or have Ben Freeman teach you."

  "As you already know, Mom won't let me learn."

  "What are you, five?"

  Moira flung the towel and accidentally hit her young plant. The dieffenbachia landed in the sink. She pulled it out as quickly as she could, but the soil--what remained of it--glistened with suds. "Happy now?" she snapped, then marched away.

  Maeve followed her to the living room. "What's wrong with you? Why won't you just ask me for help if you want it?"

  "You can't teach, Maeve. You never could. Besides, if there's not enough room for me inside your shadow, then there's not enough room inside your spotlight, either." A bitter tang rose in Moira's throat, shame over her own resentment.

  "What's that supposed to mean? Are you jealous? I never thought you cared about--"

  "Shut up, Maeve. Leave me alone and stay out of my mind!"

  Moira left her there and walked back to the kitchen, but when she heard Maeve run up the stairs, her eyes burned with injustice and regret. She'd never felt such dissonance with her sister. It tipped the world upside down, made everything wrong-footed. But Moira couldn't afford to think about that just now.

  She washed and dried the dishes alone, then sat on the couch. No clock had ever moved so slowly; it had to be broken. Could it really be just after eleven? How would she ever live through another hour? Maybe time would move faster under the stars. She pulled on her jacket and shoes, then went outside, careful not to let the back door slam behind her.

  "Maeve!"

  Ian's voice. Moira froze; she wasn't ready for this. Why had she thought she'd be ready for this? Somehow she heard him speak again over the surge of blood in her ears.

  "Here," he said.

  Something moved in front of her as she tried to adjust to the darkness. All at once she felt his hand on her cheek and his lips on her mouth, soft and pliant. She let out a soft Oh of surprise, then wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back until brightness permeated her shut eyelids.

  Light from Poppy's room streamed out at them.

  "I have to go," she whispered.

  "Come back later," he said and grabbed her hand.

  She shook her head. "I can't."

  "Tomorrow then. At eleven. Everyone's asleep by then."

  It would give her time. Time to think and decide. She touched her hand to her lips and nodded.

  Back inside, she shrugged off her jacket, and heard a creak of wood. Her mother stood at the top of the stairs, frowning down at her. Moira expected questions about the hour, why her feet were covered in shoes--shoes that felt light, made of magic glass--but that's not what she heard.

  "I need to change Poppy's sheets. Can you help?"

  Moira nodded and looked at the clock. It's not midnight yet, she thought. It's not midnight.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EROSION

  The hotel appeared welcoming from the outside, with a sandstone exterior, birdbath, and porch, and little tables set on a cobblestone drive. It was as convivial within: wood floors, bold prints, and urns full of fresh flowers, and a fireplace to rival Garrick's in an expansive entry.

  "Buon giorno!" said the clerk, a twentysomething man with short curly black hair. A large wreath with a frosting of white lights adorned the wall behind him.

  "Buon giorno! La signora Maeve Leahy e il signor Ryan," I said, and he immediately responded with "Welcome to Roma!"--in English.

  "I am Giovanni Benedetto Chioli." He slapped his hand over the breast of his red hotel jacket. "Please tell me if you find something not to your liking. I am here, as you Americans say, twenty-four over seven." He leaned close, whispered, "My mama is the boss."

  "Grazie, Signor Chioli--"

  "No, please. You speak English, and I will get my practice." I smiled. So much for applying my Italian. "And it is Giovanni. Your pleasure is my greatest wish." He managed to sound sincere when he said this, and to include both Noel and me in his pledge. He set a key on the counter along with a big purple box wrapped with a bow. "Panettone," he said. "For a happy Christmas."

  "Thank you." I accepted the key and the panettone--an Italian brandied bread full of raisins and nuts--then moved aside as Noel stepped up to the counter.

  "Si? I mean, yes?"

  I leaned forward.

  "I'd also like to check in," Noel said.

  "I thought--" The clerk looked down at a computer screen, hit buttons. "There is just one room in order. Are you not--?"

  "I knew it!" I practically shouted. "Kit did this. I'll kill her." Noel stared at me blankly. "I'm sorry," I told the clerk, who wore a similarly bemused expression. "We'll need two rooms, if you have them."

  "Mi dispiace!" He set a silver box on the counter this time. "For you," he said, motioning to Noel. "I will fix it. You can ... sit."

  He moved with a lithe grace around to the front of the counter, then waved for us to follow. We did--into a small room with a bar in the corner and several tables, each topped with a red flowered cloth and miniature lamp. He said something I didn't catch to the man behind the bar, then turned back to us and set a generous plate of bread, oil, and olives on a table. "You will relax and have wine. It is on the ... how do you say?"

  "On the house?"

  He smiled widely. "Si! And you would like rooms that join? Is that, ah, good?"

  "That would be perfect," I said, and Giovanni gave a brisk nod and left. I dropped my bag, set my panettone on the table,
and sat, but Noel remained standing with his silver box. "Leg cramp? Come on, sit."

  He did. Uncomfortable seconds passed.

  "I'm sorry about all that," I started. "Kit made the arrangements. I would never--"

  "I know, Maeve."

  There it was again--that tension. But Noel knew that wasn't what we were, it wasn't what we were, it wasn't.

  "You said I could help you. What can I do for you?" he asked, and I felt no closer to him than a stranger who'd jingled the bells on the front door of Time After Time.

  "You're mad at me, aren't you? My little adventure took you from far more important things. I'm sorry."

  "No, it's--" He pushed his hands through his hair on a long inhale. "I'm tired. I'm hungry." Exhale. He grabbed a hunk of bread, dredged it through a pool of herbed oil, and took a bite.

  I looked at my watch: one o'clock. Fatigue must've eclipsed my hunger, and I hadn't even considered his. Now I noticed the dull sheen of exhaustion in his eyes and that his cheeks, chin, and upper lip were roughed with dark pine-needle stubble. How many hours had he traveled on a rail to get to me? What had he been through before he'd trekked with me, lost, carrying my bag? And all I could focus on was a piece of metal.

  We ate in silence, as a soap opera played out on a small-screen TV in the corner. I doubt Noel understood much, but then again, some things defied translation. I studied my hands when a half-clothed couple began making love on a kitchen table.

  "All right," he said, pushing aside the plate. "Let's see your keris."

  "That's okay. You don't have to--"

  "Maeve, come on. I'm here. Ready, willing. Able."

  I glanced up, but the show had gone to commercial.

  I burrowed into my bag, handed Noel the keris. And then I sat back and watched as he focused his keen eyes on the sheath. As he traced intricacies with his fingers. As the little mark, his thinking line, formed between his brows. God, I'd missed that. I'd missed him. I wanted the tension between us to go away. I wanted normal back.

  "I know you took this to the shop," he said. "What did my grandfather have to say?"