The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel

by Therese Walsh

The question of what Sri Putra had intended for me here faded as harmony meshed with melody, as voices rose and fell, as soft tones gave way to boisterous ones.

  Christmas Eve. I'd nearly forgotten.

  Another song began, a lone bagpiper's reedy chant that droned solemnly outside of the church. These different concerts might have been cacophonous, yet they were not. Somehow, each remained rich and beautiful, and became all the more poignant for its place in the crosscurrent.

  Out of Time

  Castine, Maine

  OCTOBER 2000

  Moira and Maeve are sixteen

  Autumn took hold of Castine. The wind whipped, the leaves dropped, and the sea churned gray. Moira tried not to think about Maeve or their rift. She worked to keep her mind sealed. But though her time with Ian--full of kisses and whispers in the hammock at night--fed a yawning need within her, her deception cost.

  Her appetite abandoned her, and her head hurt more often than not. She dreamed of discovery. Once naked in a tree with the entire town and Ian below chanting, Witch, witch, witch. Once called out before the whole school, made to take up the saxophone, and blow through a broken mouthpiece until frogs leaped from the bell.

  One night she dreamed dogs and men with guns chased her. She ran all the way to a foreign sea to escape them, and swam until her muscles screamed agony. Somehow, Maeve's hands found her and lifted her up each time she thought she'd drown. But when Moira found a lone island and safety, Maeve didn't emerge beside her. Instead, her twin's body bobbed facedown in the deep, her head en-wreathed in sodden strands of flame.

  Moira shrieked when she woke to Maeve hovering over her.

  "Are you all right?" Maeve asked.

  "No, I'm not all right! You scared the crap out of me!"

  "It's your fault. You called my name."

  Moira wrestled with the covers. "I'm fine. Just go."

  "Why don't you tell me what you're doing? I know something's going on, you know."

  "Don't be a drama queen."

  "Well, I do feel a little like a queen lately." Maeve tipped her head. "I thought maybe I'd ask Ian on a date."

  Moira's chest felt thrust into her throat. "Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe he already has a girlfriend."

  "I don't know," Maeve said. "He seems to like me pretty well. At school or at The Breeze, he smiles at me in a way I don't see him do with other girls. That says something, right?"

  This couldn't be happening, Moira thought. It wasn't possible. Did Maeve know? Was she taunting her, or was she serious about making a play for Ian? "I thought you hated him!"

  "Everyone can change. Right, Moira?"

  It took a lot of effort, but Moira didn't swallow the pool of saliva in the back of her throat. "Don't do it. Mom wouldn't like it."

  "Oh, I think there are probably ways to sneak out if I had to. Mom doesn't need to know a thing. But I'd have to be careful about the moonlight. It reveals so much." Maeve's shrewd gaze pinned her, and Moira couldn't help but swallow then. "Tell me what you're doing," Maeve demanded. "Are you in trouble?"

  I've kidnapped you, and bound your mouth and wrists! Moira thought. Can't you feel the cuts on your skin? Stop me!

  But Moira's words, when they came, sounded calm and cold. "It's none of your business if I'm in trouble. Stay out of it and leave me alone. I might call for you in my dreams, but I don't need you. I'm fine without your help."

  The pain in Moira's stomach intensified when Maeve took her pillow and a blanket from her bed, and left the room without another word. This couldn't go on forever, yet she couldn't imagine its end. Couldn't bring herself to apologize for her words or actions, either. Not yet. Not with so much at stake.

  INTERMEZZO

  Visions of home danced relentlessly in my head on Christmas morning. Moira's music was back, too--the song about twinkling stars she'd always played on this day. I couldn't handle that. Good-bye, song, I thought, surprised and a little disappointed when it receded easily. A mild headache took its place.

  "Damn eling," I muttered, but I picked up the phone and dialed anyway.

  "We're not here right now. Leave a message and we'll get back to you," said my father's timeworn voice on the machine. I waited for the beep.

  "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas." That I miss you. Love you. Wish you were here. "Merry Christmas." It wasn't until after I hung up that I remembered it was 2:00 a.m. in Maine. Idiot.

  My phone rang a short while later, and I surged for it. No one answered my greeting, though. Like the night before my father's arrival in Betheny, I sensed someone on the other end, waiting, listening. Breathing.

  "Mom? Dad?"

  The phone went dead; I left it off the hook.

  Christmas Day continued with a whimper. Noel had left a note under my door.

  Merry Christmas, sleepyhead. My caffeine addiction had less patience for you than I did, so I left to satisfy it. Will bring back something appropriately festive for breakfast.

  --N

  Maybe I should head to Trastevere before he got back. The empu had yet to reach out to me; I'd called the front desk frequently to check for messages. This, however, could be the perfect day to reach him. It seemed unlikely that empus would celebrate Christmas, and nearly everything that wasn't a church would be closed for the holiday.

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Putra would be home, and so that's how Noel found me upon his return--my feet stuffed into shoes and the keris in my hand.

  "No. It's Christmas," he said, easily reading my intent.

  "But--" I started, and he lifted a big white bag. The scent of warm pastry and coffee had me wavering on the threshold. "Later then. After breakfast."

  Without answering, Noel set up a little table for us near a window in his room. From the bag, he produced napkins, paper plates, and something wrapped in wax paper that left a sigh of powdered sugar in the air, dancing like dust motes.

  "I could use a little break," he said when we sat. "I didn't sleep well last night."

  "I'm sorry. I can go alone, though. I was planning on it."

  "What do you say we take it easy today? I know we're in Rome, I know you're anxious to see the empu. But it's Christmas. A rest day. Can't we have that?" Something showed briefly in his expression, made me swallow the leap-ready words on my tongue. Distress? Alarm?

  "Where did you go this morning? What happened?" I asked.

  "I went to the bakery and bought naughty things. And those are the only two questions you're allowed today."

  I caught a whiff of warm-cherry scent. "All right. Today, an intermezzo, but tomorrow it's back to Putra's. Tomorrow," I repeated firmly. "No matter what."

  "Tomorrow," he said, producing two Styrofoam cups bleeding coffee at the lip. "No matter what."

  I was only halfway through my tart when Moira's song surged in me again, and again I pushed it back. My headache worsened. My appetite disappeared. I pinched a piece of my pastry and watched as filling oozed out in a gruesome cherry death.

  "You all right?" Noel asked. I wasn't one to let confection go to waste, and he knew it.

  "Just feeling a little far-flung today."

  "Sorry. You know you didn't have to come here for that keris."

  "Well, I--"

  "You could've had it appraised by an expert in the States--"

  "But--"

  "--or sent it to Java and found a real empu."

  I pointed a cherry-coated finger at him. "Putra is a real empu. Besides, I can't put the keris in the mail. What if it's lost?" I asked, then licked my finger clean.

  He sighed as he deposited a small wrapped box with a looping red bow on the table before me.

  "What's this?"

  "A Maeve Leahy tactic. When things get tense, give a gift."

  "What a good student you are." I lifted the present, gave it a shake. "Could it be a tiny, rectangular panettone?"

  "No. Go on."

  I unwrapped the box, opened the lid. Made a sound, inarticulate. Draped over a
quilt of cotton lay a necklace coated with deep red gems.

  "They're garnets," he said.

  "Holy extravagance, Batman! Noel, I gave you paper!" If I'd been home, if he had, if I'd been prepared to see him, I would've given him something better than a blank book from an airport gift shop, surely, but nothing close to the level of gems.

  "I love my journal. I've been using it."

  "Really? Do tell." I leaned forward. So did he.

  "Tell me what you think," he said. "The Impotent Artist. Some poor guy holding a limp paintbrush."

  "Oh, uh-huh."

  Noel's smile vanished. "It's not ... me. I mean, I can ..."

  I looked down, around, anywhere but at Noel.

  He snorted first, and then we broke down into paroxysms of laughter. "Bloody hell." He wiped his eyes and stood. "Let's see that."

  I handed him the necklace. He moved behind me, and then the chain hung before my eyes and bounced twice on my chest.

  "Garnets are good for preventing nightmares. So says my grandfather--and the storekeeper in Paris."

  "Paris? You bought this before you knew about my nightmares?"

  "Must be fate. A Maeve Leahyesque mannequin wore it just a toss from where I stayed. I had to have it. And now, let's see."

  He turned me around. I studied his eyes as he studied me. "Well?"

  "Much better than the mannequin." He reached forward and trailed his fingers over gems near my collarbone.

  Avventura, something in me whispered.

  "I love it, thank you," I said. Was that my voice, sounding all breathless? "You shouldn't have." And a cliche. God.

  I had a hard time keeping the smile off my face that morning, even though my headache didn't improve. Noel made an educated guess about the pain when he caught me with my head thrown back in a chair, rubbing my temples.

  He grabbed his coat. "I'll run out. There has to be an open pharmacy somewhere. People get sick on holidays all the time."

  "Don't bother," I said. "Drugs won't touch it."

  "I'll pick up lunch, too. Maybe you're hungry," he said, patting the coat with his hands before throwing it down again. I sat up, watched with a growing suspicion as he looked under the bed, behind the table. I stood beside him as he opened drawer after drawer of his desk and dresser. I spied a blue-gray check, pajamas maybe.

  "You lost your wallet," I said as he checked his coat for the third time. "When's the last time you had it?"

  "The tarts."

  "And you came right back?"

  He cursed. "I walked through a crowd of artists, kids, beggars. One of them knocked into me."

  "Stolen?"

  "Must be. Shit." He tallied his losses as church bells tolled in the distance. "Credit cards, traveler's checks, euros, photographs, the key to my place in Paris. I'll have to call Ellen."

  "Ellen?"

  "I'm renting part of her house."

  "You have your own place?" I sat on the bed, dizzy. "How long are you planning to stay?"

  "I don't know." He opened a drawer, pulled out a piece of paper and pen, started writing. "Oh, a debit card, too."

  "Noel," I said, louder. "Are you staying in Paris indefinitely?"

  "What?" he said, then, "I don't know. Paris is the best. Amazing antiques, wine, interesting people. Ellen's great." A noise came from my throat, part grunt, part growl. He seemed oblivious. "No one ever stole my wallet in Paris, and everyone seems to know a little English."

  "I thought the French hated Americans," I argued.

  "Oh, they do, but one of the benefits to being homeschooled by an Englishman is I can pass as a Brit when I want," he said with a thickened accent. "The French hate the English just slightly less than the Americans. And I can always tell someone to bugger off."

  God, I loved that accent.

  "So, this Ellen--Ellen, the great," I said, unable to help myself. "She's the reason you're staying in Paris?"

  He cocked his head, and then he had the audacity to laugh. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're jealous!"

  I tightened my lips, which only made him laugh harder.

  "Maeve Leahy, jealous? Of Ellen Dubois?"

  "I'm not."

  "Come on, make my day. I've been robbed, after all, and it is Christmas." He hunched his back, took on a conspiratorial whisper. "Be just a little jealous."

  "No."

  "C'mon." He winked.

  "Maybe just a little."

  His grin widened. "Pinch me, I'm dreaming."

  And because he sounded cocky, I reached across the table, aimed for his arm, and obliged his request.

  "Hey, ow."

  "I'm not jealous-jealous," I said.

  "Good." He rubbed his arm. "Because she's eighty-three. Though I'll admit she looks cute in her running shorts."

  "You're horrible."

  Ink swept over the page as he made notes about who to call, steps he'd have to take. I wandered into my room and lounged on the settee, traced my necklace, and thought of eighty-three-year-old Ellen, who'd been born a few generations too late.

  "Feeling better?" he asked, looking at me from the doorway.

  I thought about it, nodded; my headache was gone.

  "Thought so. What's that song?"

  Only then did I hear the melody sprung from my throat--hummed notes that carried an air of joviality, of Parisian necklaces, cherry tarts, and handsome men. "I don't know," I said. "Too merry? Not postrobbery enough?"

  "Nah, it's nice," he said. "What is it?"

  "I don't know. I'm making it up as I go."

  His eyes honed in on something beyond me. "Maeve."

  "Hmm?"

  "Your phone's off the hook. What--"

  "It's nothing," I said. "Just didn't want to talk to anyone today." A small fib, but worth it. The query on his face smoothed over.

  "Why talk when you can hum, right?" he said.

  My eyes stung a bit as I matched his smile and started up again, consciously this time, welcoming my new-old gift back, unwrapping its song, inviting it to stay awhile.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DARK NOTES

  Sunshine streamed through the window the next morning,-and a melody played itself in my head. The hummed bit I'd made up the day before had evolved into something more complex. I didn't shut it down, just left it to whatever sustenance it might find within me. What a relief that these sounds were not piano. They weren't sax, either. Just pure tone, the way it used to be. I couldn't think what it meant, to be rejoined with this long-gone part of myself, but I felt more refreshed than I had in years and my blood seemed to fizz, effervescent, a restless brew in my veins.

  I plotted my day. I'd have to call Kit and tell her just how fine I was and that Noel was back to his old self. But before that, I wanted to explore. And before that, I meant to find Sri Putra. I had my persuasive speech prepared for Noel but didn't need it in the end. He'd stuck a note under my door.

  I have to deal with my bloody wallet this morning, but I'll be back to hunt empus with you after lunch. Be my date? p.s. If you go out, you may want to put your keris in the safe.

  Noel was humoring me, I knew; he'd hate having to dedicate any part of what remained of his day to my keris obsession. So I'd spare him and go by myself.

  I showered and dressed, and eventually slunk over to the mirror for a cursory check. It was still impossible to see anything but her in the looking glass, even after draining my color and hacking my strands. I spied a hint of red roots, then tousled my hair to hide them. That fix would have to wait.

  Traffic or no traffic, I would have avventura today.

  WALKING THROUGH ROME with a weapon in hand sounded like a ticket to trouble, so I did something I'd never done before. I bought a purse--a big one, with room enough for the kern. I probably should've just tucked the blade down a pant leg and secured it with a shoelace, Alvilda-style. Whatever, at least now I could tote it around without drawing attention to myself, and, I thought wryly, I'd have some defense against pickpockets.

&n
bsp; Though I knew it worked out on paper, I still impressed myself when I located Sri Putra's place. I'd nearly forgotten about the sledge-wielding landlord until I stepped through the door and saw him walking up the stairs.

  "You're back," he said, stopping to tip his head. "Unencumbered."

  Three things happened in close succession.

  I gasped as a static charge radiated through my bag-wielding arm, raising gooseflesh all over my body.

  The Italian bolted down the stairs. "It will always be a struggle for you!" he said. "Why not let me have it? I can care for such things."

  "Wha--What are you talking about?" I leaned away, took a step, but he followed each movement, inch for inch.

  "Don't be alarmed. You have the keris with you, yes? I know why you fear it!"

  "I don't fear it!"

  "You should, it is too much for you." So close now I could smell his breath, a strong, sweet mint. "Let me take it. I will even buy it. It will be very fair."

  "I don't want to sell it! Back off--"

  "Why not be reasonable? Let me see it." His fingers had somehow slithered inside my purse.

  That's when the third thing happened, just as I yanked my arm back, a hundred blue curses crystallizing on my tongue: A woman walked into the apartment building behind me, carrying groceries. She was old, weathered as a Castinian, but with sharp Italian eyes that spied the man's hand resettling on my purse.

  "Cosa sta facendo?" she asked him. What are you doing?

  He lifted both hands in the air, took a step away from me. "Sto cercando d'aiutare la signora." Just helping the lady.

  "I don't need help," I retorted, tucking the purse tightly beneath my arm again. It no longer tingled.

  "Ah." He nodded. "We will see."

  "No," I said. "We won't."

  He smiled at me, then addressed the woman. "Now, Mrs. Fiori," he said in Italian. "Don't work yourself up again, remember your heart. You know I wouldn't harm a hair on her head, anymore than I would harm a hair on yours."

  Pears tumbled out onto the peeling linoleum when she dropped her bag. Chuckling, the landlord disappeared up the steps. She stared after him, her olive flesh pallid; maybe she did have a heart condition. I retrieved her pears, some with torn skins, and stuffed them back inside the bag, then offered to help carry her groceries.