Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  The buzz in Pete’s head overwhelmed him, a collision of sounds. The heat in the room swelled and a fresh wave of nausea pulsed. The girl’s glance fluttered cagily in his direction. Pete didn’t hear Esme, but he did recall her words: “If Paris is France, then Coney Island, between June and September, is the World.” The smell of gardenia cut through the musty bungalow, enough to make him hold his breath. It didn’t matter; it didn’t help. Smells attached to psychic phenomena came from the inside.

  He breathed, although his sense of hearing took the next hit. Pete heard bird wings—as if they fluttered furiously behind glass. And even more so than in the barn, he wanted to get out of the house. “Listen,” he said hurriedly, “lock up when you’re done. Key’s in the door. Just leave it behind the bush on the left. Can you do that?”

  She moved away from the saddle and the flutter of wings stopped. “I’m fairly certain I can lock a door.”

  “Good. Grace, do you have the car keys?”

  “Uh, no. You drove.”

  “Right.” Grace turned for the exit. Zeke’s niece stood between the saddle and bookcases. Her stare stayed with him as he headed for the door. “I, um . . . I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  The late-afternoon sun filtered past a dirty window, and Ailish Montague was caught in a singular beam. “Don’t we all?” She’d swung toward another bookcase, her long hair following a split second behind. Hues of pink and orange moved in slow motion, as if Pete had closed his eyes while staring into the sun. And for all his lives, in the here places and the there places Peter St John had encountered, he knew this action—the rushing wave of a girl’s hair—was a clear memory.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The Sound View Lodge wasn’t about amenities. Pete only noticed this much because Grace had done nothing but fill his ears between the car, front desk, and breezy catwalk that bordered the beachfront rooms. “It is the height of the season,” she said. “I was lucky to get this room. Last-minute cancellation.”

  She fiddled with a key and Pete turned to the beachy vista. She was right. The place was all about location, the sound roaring only feet away. Pearly puffs of gray clouds rolled out to the horizon, diving like Neptune’s spear into a whitecap sea.

  “Here. Let me try.” Pete basically manhandled the key into a corroded lock, and the door popped open. “There. Can we just go in?”

  Grace huffed at him, and they dragged their belongings inside a musty room that looked like it’d fallen out of the 1970s. Even the television was old-style, a fat, square box mounted to a post.

  “Jesus. You seriously are paying for location.”

  “I said I was sorry. If you want, we can try down the road, though everything in a sixty-mile radius is privately owned and booked for months.” Grace continued to poke at her phone, acting like Grace—a never-ending Google search, anticipating your next question, a click away from the right answer.

  “It’s fine. The room is an upgrade from where I spent most nights in recent history. Let it go, would—” The most troublesome thing in the room caught his eye: one double bed.

  Grace looked up from her phone, and the device smacked into her thigh. “Oh. When the desk clerk said ‘double,’ I just assumed he meant two double . . .”

  Pete assumed “no big deal” was the best course of action and dropped his duffel bag onto the bed. “We’re grown-ups, Grace. If I recall, there were plenty of nights we just slept together in a bed.”

  She didn’t move from her frozen pose. “And plenty we didn’t.”

  He suspected Grace viewed a double bed in a dumpy motel room as equal to the draw of a Venice suite. Pete attempted reverse psychology. “Just out of curiosity. Ol’, um . . .”

  “Andy,” she supplied, rolling her eyes.

  “Andy. How were . . . I mean, it’s a ridiculously personal question, but how was that part of your . . .”

  She folded her arms. “Adequate.” She hesitated. “He had other . . . strengths.”

  Perfect.

  “So he enjoyed long walks on the beach, reading the same book, and . . . hell, what was the other thing?” The remark earned another eye roll from Grace.

  “He liked planning a date now and again, sending flowers for no reason, cuddling by a fire. Making me feel . . . special.”

  “And aside from those . . .” Pete scrunched his brow. “Hey, that’s four things.” She shrugged. “So aside from my many shortcomings, I assume Andy also didn’t carry ten times the baggage that could fit in that duffel bag.” Pete pointed to his. “He didn’t wake up at night, terrorized, on a return trip from another life. More to the point, I assume he never accidentally whacked you in the face, resulting in a black eye that had to be ever-so-carefully explained—”

  “Two days before my sister’s wedding.”

  “Right. Two days before her wedding.” He offered a sober look at the bed, the tight space. “Maybe we should think about that, Grace. You, alone here with me.” Pete didn’t trust himself, why should she?

  “Pete, that part doesn’t concern . . .” Her thought trailed off. “I managed to stay ahead of outbursts, any reentry into this life. Unless things are worse . . .”

  “They’re not any better.”

  “I can manage.”

  “Can you?” The reminder of having physically hurt Grace, even unintentionally, caused Pete to take a step back. “The back seat of the Audi is roomy. I’ll sleep in the car.”

  “You will not either. You’re exhausted and I’m still pretty quick on my feet.” She paused. “So, um . . . how often are you finding yourself . . . ?”

  “Beating the shit out of whatever is in my path?”

  She shrugged vaguely.

  “It’s part of the reason I live for my job. My mind is so war-weary, outbursts are infrequent, at least compared to when my mother and I are in the same house.”

  “Well, we left her three states behind. We’ll be fine.” As if demonstrating her resolve, Grace lobbed her suitcase onto the bed. She proceeded to open it, fishing out three separate cosmetics bags. “You insist your job helps. But do you ever consider the downside of that mentality?”

  “Meaning?”

  She slipped her hand beneath a stack of perfectly folded, layered clothes, placing them on the bed. Then she eyeballed him. “That you’re using modern-day wars to dodge the aftereffects of the violence you faced in another life. It’s a curious trade.” She headed to the bathroom, saying before she went inside, “If it were me, I’d wonder how long I could play that game before something blew up in my face.”

  While Grace put on a brave front and seemed prepared to dive back into her role of putting his needs first, Pete wasn’t as sure about the arrangement. He was younger when they cohabitated, too immature and screwed up to do anything but accept her willingness to put up with him. He left the room after Grace yelled from a running shower that the motel connected to a restaurant. Did Pete want to get something to eat? It was a standard Grace protocol: anything to keep the peace.

  Pete declined her suggestion. He wasn’t hungry; he needed to clear his head, collect his thoughts—or maybe drown them. It could be Grace had a point. Instead of food, he bought a few bottles of beer from a cooler they kept at the front desk and made his way down to the beach. Grace’s observation and a larger point continued to gnaw at Pete. He’d done enough reading, observed enough soldiers in this life and his last to grasp PTSD. He opened a beer and guzzled a mouthful.

  Pete focused on repetitive, rolling waves. It’d been some time since he’d stood on a beach in this part of the world. He did have good memories from a Connecticut beach—Rocky Neck. It was straight across the sound, a place that connected to his father’s youth. Levi and his half-brother, Brody, spent time there when they were boys, and his father enjoyed furthering the family tradition. Pete was certain Rocky Neck was one of a few places where Levi experienced only fond recollections of the brother he’d lost so long ago.

  When Pete was a tee
nager, he’d gone there on his own, positive a ghostly lifeguard’s presence wasn’t far away. He liked to think he heard Brody’s voice, though it never carried the clarity of a true specter. So more often than not, Pete labeled it wishful thinking: “Hang in there, Pete. I’m watching . . . wherever you are . . .” At times, he’d answered, even if it wasn’t real. Even if all he truly heard were waves and all he saw was the horizon.

  It was nearly dusk on this beach. The clouds had cleared and Pete built himself a small fire. A few yards away, a girl sat on a beach towel, the way he noticed girls did: one leg stretched out, her other leg bent at the knee, arms splayed wide behind her. She’d been sneaking peeks in his direction. When the waning sun made sunbathing a moot point, she gathered her things and strolled toward him.

  Really, a guy alone on a beach at dusk, throwing back beers? The small blaze in front of him should have read like a signal fire: “Be smart, keep moving.” For a moment, Pete imagined something even darker . . . what if he hit the same trigger that drove him to Esme’s murder—PTSD or plain crazy—dragging that persona into this life?

  The girl, oblivious to Pete’s demons, posed in front of him, propping sunglasses on her head. She was pretty—very pretty, blonde, a belly ring piercing the navel on her ironing-board stomach. She smiled, white teeth that gleamed even in the near dark.

  “I see you like dominant women. I’m all for that.”

  “What?” He twisted the top off a second beer.

  “Women who make the first move.” She shifted her tanned, toned shoulders.

  Her voice matched the rest of her, a slathering of sex on the beach. For a split second, Pete considered that route out of his funk—meaningless sex with a girl whose name he might learn afterward. It held potential for erasing his mood.

  She popped that bubble by saying, “I’m Simone.”

  When the girl kept talking, a man’s voice intruded. It pounded at the back of Pete’s brain. Forceful, demanding, authoritative. “For real?” Pete took another sip of beer. He peered up at her and the fading gray sky. “I swear I wasn’t going to touch her.”

  “What?” Simone shuffled backward through the sand.

  “Nothing.” He sipped more beer. Apparently, she perceived alcohol intake as an invite. She reclaimed the step and sank onto her knees, half an inch shy of spilling out of her tiny bikini top. Pete glanced, but in truth couldn’t have been less interested.

  “Listen,” she said, “do you want to . . .”

  Grace’s voice rose from the direction of the motel, calling Pete’s name. She slogged through the sand, spying the girl and the obvious. Grace picked up speed. In her arms was a cardboard carton, food smells wafting over sea air. She moved past the girl, flashing a smile at her.

  “Oh, honey,” she said to Pete, who almost spit the mouthful of beer. “I’m glad you found someone to keep you company while I nursed the twins to sleep. Mom is staying with them now so we can have our private clambake on the beach.” She held up the carton, brimming with fried fish and french fries, planting herself between Pete and the girl. “He’s the world’s best dad.” Grace batted her eyes at Simone. “Like he tells the congregation every Sunday, fatherhood was Jesus’s way of making him the man he wanted him to be.”

  The girl stood. “Right . . . of course.” She looked between the two of them, Pete still listening to the male voice connected to Simone. “Your husband was just going on about that . . . well, your kids,” Simone said.

  “Was he?” Grace replied. And now Pete was having a hard time focusing on the voice while suppressing laughter. There were things about Grace he did so admire. “Did he talk more about Sophia or little Jackson? They’re a handful!”

  Simone shot a coaxing “let me save your ass” glance in Pete’s direction. “Oh, definitely little Jackson.”

  “Is that right, sweetie?” she said to Pete. “Now, we’ve talked about playing favorites with the kids.” Grace leaned, bumping his arm in some gesture of marital solidarity, and continued in a bubbly tone that didn’t belong to her. “Well, if you don’t mind, the pastor and I don’t get much alone time. Pete’s so busy with his calling.”

  “Right, his calling. I, uh . . .” Simone turned for the motel. To Pete’s surprise, she spun back around. “You know, maybe this was divine intervention. It just so happens I’m an out-of-work nanny. Kind of stuck here for the rest of the summer. My last gig, it didn’t work out. You wouldn’t be in need of . . . help?” She raised a brow in Pete’s direction, her fingers fiddling with the belly ring.

  Grace started to reply, and Pete held up his hand. “Thanks.” He was done with the amusement. “We’re all set. MIL is the best. Travels everywhere with us. Nice meeting you, Simone.”

  She shrugged one bikini-strapped shoulder and turned for the motel.

  “Damn it,” he hissed. The voice wouldn’t relent. “Wait.” Simone turned back, her toothy smile directed at Pete’s supposed wife and the mother of his twins. “Your father.”

  “What about him?” Her smile and teeth vanished.

  “He has a message.”

  “Message?” Her expression grew befuddled. “My father’s been dead for three years.”

  “Yeah. Part of my calling—an ability to communicate between here and . . .” Pete turned his head toward the vast sound. “Do you want to hear what he has to say or not?”

  “I’m not sure what you . . .” Air sucked into her toned, tan frame. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not about this part,” he said dully. “Isaiah—”

  “How do you know his name?”

  Pete smiled. “Names are the least of it, but an interesting question. They never really tell me . . .” He glanced at Grace. “It’s just there, with them. Also happens to be one of my favorite books in the Bible.” He said this part more soberly, and Grace widened her eyes at the remark. “Your father admits you had a . . . contentious relationship.” Pete slipped in one word to take the place of the more combative adjectives being thrust at him. Clearly, father-daughter battles had been a staple of their relationship. “Just like when he was alive, he only wants good things for you. He said he’s sorry he never got that across . . .” Pete listened harder as the voice softened. “Isaiah . . . Ike says it’s why he left the box of Sweethearts candy that afternoon. It was a peace offering, but it turned out to be his message.”

  “Message?”

  “He’s not sure you got it. Not yet.”

  “Sweethearts . . . candy?”

  Pete nodded, the visual so clear, the pink-and-red box sitting on her white dresser.

  “How could you possibly know . . .” She tilted her blonde head at him. “The candy was there when we came home from the hospital that night. My dad, it was very sudden, a heart attack. I always wondered about the candy.”

  “You’re right to wonder. He left them on your dresser before going to work.” Pete watched a sand castle being claimed by the sea. “People don’t see the trigger. What prompts them to do something they ordinarily wouldn’t. At the time, your dad didn’t know it was his last day . . . here.” He gathered a handful of sand and let it slide through his fingers. “The candy . . . the sentiment, turned out to be his message.” He listened harder. “Something about you being his sweetheart.”

  “This isn’t possible . . .” Her tone lost any hint of a come-on. “When I was little, when things were good, he used to say that to me.”

  “So that’s his message. The heart. Don’t be so fast to give yours away—to strangers on a beach . . . or maybe . . .” Pete cleared his throat. “The last dad whose kids you were supposed to be taking care of. Ike says it’s not about him being right or wrong anymore. But he doesn’t want you to make a mistake you can’t recover from.”

  Night had claimed the dusky sky, and Pete guessed he appeared a freakish vision lit by a flame. As anticipated, the girl didn’t respond, pressing painted fingernails to her lips. She only kicked up sand as she bolted for the motel. Pete called after her, “‘So
is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire . . .’” Simone kept running and Pete remained largely unimpressed with his ability to deliver positive messages of closure.

  “Did Isaiah say that too?” Grace asked.

  “In a way. It’s Isaiah, chapter 55, verse 11.” He stretched his long arms back and planted them in the sand. “Seemed a shame to waste the shot of religion, especially after you so perfectly set the stage.”

  “Been studying the Bible, have you? I’ve never known you to be much for Bible-based religion.”

  With the girl gone, as well as her father, Pete settled into the surrounding noises—the wallop and whoosh of ocean waves, the crackle of the fire he’d built, the grounding sound of Grace’s voice. “About a year ago, I spent some time in South Africa. A colony of Jesuit priests was doing missionary work in Mozambique. Food aid mostly. PressCorp sent me on an extended shoot. I spent serious time with one priest in particular. We clicked. I was curious if traditional religion held any answers for me.”

  “Did it?”

  He hesitated, downing more of the beer. It was a complicated answer—enough so that he’d studied religion under the priest’s tutelage. Pete had even considered remaining in their lair, gifts and burdens hidden among a cloistered, dedicated life. “It made me feel . . . safe. The concept of faith and a deity being ultimately responsible for whatever gifts I have.” He leaned forward and stretched his hands to the flame, close enough to remind Pete of his humanness. “The knowledge eased some burden. But my true struggles never left me.” He balled his hands tight, drawing them away from the flames. “I prayed for an answer, definitely absolution from my past. Well, you know . . . my other past.” He paused, struck again by the notion of the ways violence invaded this life. “None of it came to fruition.” Pete hummed under his breath, looking in the direction the girl had run. “Hell, maybe Simone will benefit. What ails her might be cured by a good come-to-Jesus meeting.” He smiled at Grace. “Not so much for me.”