Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  Her hesitation equaled his. “I surely noticed you weren’t on hand.” The afternoon crowd continued to filter out, squeezing them into a tight corner. She nodded and waved to a few patrons, all of them complimenting her performance. Esmerelda was mindful of Oscar’s warning and literally kept her eyes on Benjamin. “You mentioned the war. Has your number come up?”

  “It’s been delayed, but only for a short time. I suspect I’ll be in the thick of it soon.” His dimples vanished. “Would that bother you, Esmerelda, if I were sent to the front line?”

  “Of course. I don’t want to see any of our boys in a war, much less on the front line.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m praying for all of you.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that.”

  Silence, marked by the rest of the buzzing lobby, grew. “I was wondering.” There was no way to proceed without at least returning his smile. “Weeks ago, you mentioned billing at the Palace. Would that still be a possibility?”

  “The Palace?” His dark eyebrows encroached on one another as if he didn’t recall the offer. Benjamin’s gaze moved over her and the white, beaded gown she wore. He’d insisted on the gown, explaining that the demureness of white better suited the ladies’ groups that attended afternoon shows. He’d been openly bedazzled the first time Esmerelda had performed wearing it.

  Esmerelda didn’t care to agree with Benjamin, but she could not argue. It was a beautiful gown. It had the most exquisite fitted bodice and long organza sleeves, the tight cuff connecting to a finger loop on each hand, pearly beads delicately threaded to connect gown to fingertips. Clearly, the gown was on his mind too.

  “I simply knew that dress was made for you. Naturally, you look fetching in everything, but that gown in particular. I do so . . . love you in it.”

  She nearly changed her mind. Benjamin’s words wafted uncomfortably into her ears, made her breath rattle. Oscar and the boys were heading off in the truck for New Orleans that evening. She had time to catch them. He’d booked dates that would take them right through the coldest months. Surely he could squeeze a singer onto the bill. But Esmerelda couldn’t do it; she couldn’t go that far away. Mail was so erratic. What if Phin returned and she was nowhere to be found?

  “The Palace,” Benjamin was saying.

  His dimples materialized again. She reasoned it out: a man with such sweet dimples couldn’t have an unkind heart.

  “You hadn’t mentioned it. It interests you?”

  “It does. I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to reply. I’m very interested—in playing the Palace.”

  “In that case . . .” His smile broadened and she thought maybe his heart swelled. “I’d love to help you out, Esmerelda. I’m certain something can be arranged.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  New York City

  Present Day

  Sitting in the rental car, Pete squinted up into stingy pieces of sky, century-old Midtown buildings surrounding him. It was like being trapped inside a tin can, even with the AC running full blast. He was accustomed to hot places, he was well versed in busy cities, but he’d never been a fan of New York. Honestly? He’d be more comfortable crouched in a tank, trekking across the Thal Desert. He’d always suspected his New York uneasiness connected to Esme.

  Traffic moved in spurts, and on his drive into Manhattan, he’d reasoned through his options. He could dive right into a search for the long-dead Esme or attempt to enlist the help of Ailish Montague. She might label his quest absurd, but Pete went with his gut—that Ailish would be willing to listen. Regardless, the problem with both women was the same. How the hell would he find either one?

  A cab darted from a tight spot, and Pete slammed on his brakes, setting off a chain reaction of blaring horns. Mercifully, moving fast in tight spots was part of his job. He parallel parked, snug and smooth as a snail in its shell. He got out of the car and began with obvious Internet routes: Google and the white pages, other people-searching sites. There was the option of a deeper Internet quest for a fifty-dollar fee. It was too creepy. He passed. He kept at it. “She’s an actress, shouldn’t she have a website?” he said to himself. PressCorp had been urging him for years to get one. Nothing came up for Ailish Montague. Pete couldn’t locate her through the NYU alumni site or even find a Facebook page. Almost every “Ailish” he came across lived in Cork or Kilkenny.

  Pete glanced up; a wider patch of blue domed. “Hey, Uncle Zeke, I heard you ran the tables back in the day. I don’t suppose dropping me the numbers for her phone occurred to you?” There was nothing. “Thanks. All you ghosts are the same. Show up when you want something.”

  At least he knew she lived in Manhattan—excluding four other boroughs was a plus. Her mother. He could call Nora Montague. But attempts to locate her proved equally futile, unlisted and unfindable. He guessed having one family member in jail for killing another might drive you under the radar. His own mother—she could get to Ailish’s mother. His thumb hovered over “Favorites” on his phone and the very few contacts it held. The aching pit returned to his stomach. He wondered if the first thing his mother had done, after expelling him, was change their phone numbers or block his. No. Calling home wasn’t an option. Not until he could assure his mother there was a reason to let him back in.

  Pete turned in a tight circle; the island around him seemed overwhelming. He tapped his knuckles on the car hood. Kimball . . . Ailish said that Kimball Studios had arranged an audition for her, the one that she’d missed. Another Google search produced good information: Kimball Studios, a prominent acting school. A solid lead, but Pete would need a ruse. Kimball Studios wasn’t going to hand over a name or address because he asked. Although surely anxious acting students could be enticed. He texted Flagler.

  I’m in NY. I’ll shoot the One Direction concert. I’ll need credentials.

  While he waited for a reply text, Pete took a chance and googled Esmerelda Moon, not terribly surprised when search engines turned up nothing. His phone pinged with Flagler’s reply. The editorial desk would have credentials waiting. Pete drove to a parking garage near the PressCorp office. Once there, he picked up the official concert pass, adding it to his general press authorization, and looped both around his neck. Before heading to Kimball Studios, he hit the restroom. Pete splashed cold water on his face and finger combed his hair. He supposed the scruff was fashionable; the wrinkled polo would have to do. Before looking away from the mirror, Pete took a genetic inventory—physically, he saw Levi. Pete’s eyes and the more curious parts were all his mother. He missed them both already. There was an acute difference between travel for work—hell, wasn’t that in Pete’s blood too?—and being banished from his parents’ lives.

  Blocks later, he was inside the doors of Kimball Studios. “Hi!” It came out of his mouth overly cheery, startling the girl at the front desk. “I’m Pete St John.”

  “Good for you.” She cracked a piece of gum and continued to scroll through her phone. “We don’t take walk-ins.” She slapped a sheet of paper on the counter. “Submit your application by snail mail or online, include head shots and a bio, plus a personal mission statement about why you want to be an actor.” She finally offered him a fast glance. “Hint. Don’t start with ‘I’ve dreamed about this my whole life.’ You and about two million other people in this city.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m with PressCorp.” He flashed the credentials in her face. “I’m covering a One Direction surprise reunion concert.”

  “A surprise One Direction reunion concert?” He had her attention. “You’re kidding.”

  “Hence the ‘surprise’ part.” Pete finger quoted the air as he spoke. “PressCorp is covering it for . . .” He had no idea why they would cover it. Pete clung to his smile and swept his hand past her. “Shampoo. One Direction is doing a series of shampoo print ads. And toothpaste,” he hurriedly added. “Procter & Gamble spread. Huge.”

  She crinkled her brow.

  “Anywa
y . . . my crew, they’re outside.” He pointed to the busy Manhattan street. “We need some crowd talent. One Direction management was supposed to have this all set, but somebody screwed up royally. My managing editor can e-mail you a complete list of what we’re looking for.” Pete picked up a business card. “Should I have him send the details here?”

  “I guess, but usually—”

  “Great.” He pretended to punch Kimball’s contact info into his phone. “Since I’m here, I happen to know they want a few redheads. Redheads, they, uh . . . they shoot well with the band.” He was unsure if the statement made sense but continued to embellish. “From a photographic standpoint, the saturation level and contrast of redheads with the time of day, live and photo-shopped backgrounds are most amenable to print.”

  The receptionist looked at him queerly.

  “Do you have anybody like that . . . handy? Redheads? Girls.”

  “Redheads?” She folded her arms. “Girls?”

  “Yeah. The band’s management wanted a safety net, in case there’s not much of a crowd.”

  She laughed. “Fascinating. The last guy like you wanted Asian girls only. Listen, if One Direction were having a ‘surprise concert’”—this time she finger quoted the air—“they wouldn’t need extras to do the drooling and gaping. We get our share of scammers in here. Guys just looking for . . . you know.” She grabbed at his ID. “I suggest you hit the road, Peter St John of PressCorp, ID number TAB-147—if any of that is even real—before I call security.”

  He left, assured his foreign investigative skills did not lend themselves to American pop culture. Pete leaned against the outside of the building, staying out of the receptionist’s sight lines. He was formulating a plan B when the door to Kimball Studios swung open. A small group walked past, talking and laughing. From them, a single laugh stood out. “Ailish!”

  They stopped—two other girls, one guy. “Pete. What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find you.” He looked at her friends. The girls looked like pipe cleaners with arms, their features photo ready. In fact, he thought no two girls could have noses that perfect or cheekbones that high.

  “Ailish, who’s this?” The guy was commanding, like he’d just come from Leading Man class.

  “This is Pete St John. I mentioned him from my trip out east.”

  “Right. The Lucy car debacle.” He and the pipe-cleaner girls laughed. “Can’t say Caroline didn’t warn you.” He extended a hand to Pete. “Topher Richards. This is Zamara Witherspoon.”

  “Distant cousin,” she said.

  “To what?” Pete asked. The threesome laughed again.

  “And Evangeline Aires.” He motioned to the third girl. “What brings you into Manhattan?”

  “Her.” He pointed at Ailish. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Why?” The question came from Ailish, and Pete started to answer. The curious stares and breadth of his mission stopped him, the possibility that her friends might intervene. Then Pete had a much simpler idea. He flashed the press credentials at them. “Would you all like to go to a concert?”

  It worked. The inside track and press credentials swayed Ailish’s friends, who were standing up front near a Times Square stage, rapt when One Direction stepped out. The receptionist was right; the crowd was instantly elbow to elbow, the noise earsplitting. One girl fainted on sight.

  After a moment to gain his bearings, Pete went to work. He needed to turn something in to Flagler. Ailish’s friends proved useful as props, and he fired off about ten shots per second in burst mode. The band was only into their second number when Pete felt confident he’d captured enough images to satisfy PressCorp’s needs. He leaned over, asking Ailish if she wanted to get out of there. She pointed to her ear, indicating she couldn’t hear him.

  She’d been smiling, clapping along with the music. But as they looked at one another, her expression turned solemn. She grabbed Pete’s hand and started guiding him away from the stage. He read her lips: “Let’s go.” When she took his hand, the powerful noise was reduced to garbled background music—the overpowering sound you’d hear if standing near an ocean, everything swallowed by its roar.

  Pete took the lead and she followed, a serpentine escape through blocks of crazed fans, past police barricades and other media. Surreal as it was, above the mania, Pete heard only his footsteps and hers. He held tighter to her hand, and a bond that exceeded not getting lost in a crowd was evident. Pedestrian noise filtered back in when they reached the street corner, and he stopped.

  “Can we go somewhere?” Looking around, he saw nothing, not a café or green space. Almost anywhere in Europe they would have tripped over both. “I need to tell you—”

  “I live that way.” She pointed northeast. “Do you want to come to my apartment?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  They didn’t speak, walking down one block and up the next. She was holding his hand now, showing him the way. They moved deeper into a catacomb of buildings. After the seventh or eighth block, Pete had to stop. He bent at the waist. “Wait.” Nausea wove through him, the sun blistering. Ailish turned. Her face didn’t look overheated. She just looked anxious. “Sorry,” he said, feeling like a fine example of a weakling. “It was a long night before I even got to today—which hasn’t been short . . . or easy.”

  He thought how fast she’d run if he confessed the day’s agenda: tossed from his parents’ lives, contemplating suicide, and a verbal exchange with his dead uncle. Pete stood straight and a curious addendum occurred to him. They both had dead uncles who wanted in on their fates.

  Earthly smells distracted him. Pete and Ailish stood outside a Greek deli, the scents from which only stirred his nausea.

  “Wait here a second,” she said.

  Ailish went in the deli as Pete recalled her ravenous appetite. If she came back with a gyro and today’s baklava, he’d lose it all over the sidewalk. In anticipation, he eyed a sewer drain. Thankfully, she returned with only a bottle of water.

  “Here. And give me the camera equipment to carry. We have a few more blocks to go.”

  “I’m fine.” But he did take the water from her. “Thank you. I’ve got the equipment. You don’t need to carry it.”

  She smiled at him. “Forever the hero.”

  Pete stopped drinking and swiped the back of a hand across his mouth. “Me? What does that—”

  “Come on. I’m starting to wilt out here too.”

  Finally they reached a building fronted by brick steps and a wrought iron rail, a wide awning, and planted urns. It was more upscale than he’d expected. Definitely in a part of the city he didn’t imagine she could afford. Ailish buzzed them in. The elevator delivered them to the third floor, and she retrieved a key from her cloth purse. Ailish and her accessories appeared more hippy than the designer ensembles her two friends wore. The back of her red head faced him, the thin cotton top she wore sticking to her. A glimpse of a small tattoo peeked out from between her strappy shirt and thick hair. He couldn’t make out the symbol. “Just out of curiosity,” he said, “is your roommate home?”

  With the key in the lock, her hand froze. He realized how it sounded. “I mean, what I want to talk to you about is private. The lobby’s fine if she’s home. I saw a sofa down there. No people.”

  The space was tight, the hallway dim and hot. Ailish turned and leaned her head against the door. “Caroline isn’t home. But here is fine. Just come in.”

  Pete assumed it was trust by association, their mothers having known each other for years. He followed, but he also fought the urge to warn her. She shouldn’t be so inviting, even if the guy wasn’t a complete stranger. The inside of the apartment caught him off guard—cool air and ultramodern decor, though it was New York tiny. It was a mix of glass and stainless steel, the small sofa in the living room covered in expensive-looking white leather.

  “It’s all Caroline’s.”

  “You mentioned that her father footed the bill.”

  “
For everything, including her taste. To be honest, I’m roommate number four or five.”

  “So, easy to get along with.” He found himself smiling. “Got it.”

  “The rent is dirt cheap—Caroline’s okay. Just used to having her own way. It feels more like I rent a bedroom, have kitchen privileges. Do you want to sit?”

  He did, though a Siamese cat eyed him from the sofa, spitting before it darted away. “Hello to you too.” Ailish busied herself in the kitchen and he tried to keep conversation going. “I’m guessing the cat belongs to your roomie.”

  “How did you know?” She was getting ice from the freezer, filling glasses at the sink.

  Once she settled onto the sofa, silence took over. On their journey through the city, they hadn’t talked beyond lefts and rights, and silence slipped to awkwardness. For a second, Pete considered leaving. “Sorry—this was a mistake. I shouldn’t drag you into my mess . . .”

  He imagined how everything would hit her ears. And it would have to be everything. Then Pete thought of his mother’s declaration and his own need to break from the vicious cycle of his life. Pete squeezed his fist and stared at his hand. The photos of a battered Esme stood out in his mind; so did her newer ethereal presence. Motivation had definitely been piqued.

  Ailish smiled uneasily and placed her glass on a coaster. Pete held on to his, the coolness soothing on his blistered fingers. “So,” he said. “I guess you’re wondering what this is all about.”

  “To a point. When I left you back in East Marion, I had a feeling I’d see you again.”

  “Did you?” He hesitated when she didn’t expound. “Sorry. What I have to say, I don’t know how it will go over. I’m also not exactly sure why I need to tell you.”

  “Then I guess it’s best to get on with it. See where we end up.”

  She was being more cryptic than he was, and this made him curious. It also helped, and Pete started an arduous story that began with a war, his profound knowledge of things a boy of six, then ten, shouldn’t know. The age of twelve took longer to convey. Pete talked about his kidnapping, moving quickly past her uncle’s involvement. He detailed the injections of propofol and how Pete and his parents viewed this as a trigger, opening his mind to even deeper encounters. “My parents and I, we’ve agreed for years that this all comes down to some form of . . . reincarnation.” He anticipated a snigger, maybe an outright belly laugh. There was a reason he didn’t bring it up at dinner parties—if he went to dinner parties.