Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The theater was black, and it made Pete think of the moments before the start of a movie. It also reminded him of the explanation he’d given Em, how he perceived messages from the dead. He thought it would be great if a reel could run right now; it might fill in his own remaining blanks. It was also cold as shit, like the bluffs overlooking Iceland’s black sands. This was Pete’s initial impression, having walked inside from the brightly lit, steamy street.

  He was anxious to see Em, to share everything he’d learned. She’d told him auditions could take hours, and he wasn’t sure he had that kind of patience left. Pete’s eyes adjusted to the dim setting. Near the front of the theater, a row of seats contained a handful of people and a lamp. But apparently Em had done her waiting before Pete arrived. Her name was the next one called. He slipped into the last row and sat down.

  The light changed as she came onto the stage, one gold beam shining down on her. She looked nervous. That couldn’t be good. He shifted in his seat, concerned that she might break into a standup routine. A man in the closer row asked inaudible questions. From his back-row view, Pete couldn’t make out Em’s answers. She wrung her hands, smiling, then not smiling at the small group, whose job was clearly to judge.

  Worry crept in like the cold had, a consuming and noticeable contrast. What if she was indisputably talentless? Sang like a bullfrog or read dialogue like her emotions were Siri generated. Pete fought the urge to propel forward, snatch her from imminent doom. Instead he inched to the edge of his seat until his knees dug into the next row.

  Music from a piano filled the theater. Em let out a note. Then her voice went one way, the sound from the piano another. It all stopped abruptly. Em came to the edge of the stage. There was fast conversation between her and the piano player. She nodded, though her smile surpassed tense. “Come on, Em,” he said. “You can do this. Keep it together.”

  The piano began again. He didn’t know the song, but this time there were a few bars of introduction—a ballad. Pete’s trepidation melted as her voice rose. Not only did she sing exquisitely, she sang in a voice scored to his soul—or so he knew the moment he heard it. In the icebox theater, a bead of sweat gathered on his upper lip. For the first time in his life, memories trickled in. Pete hadn’t heard that voice in a hundred years.

  The people in the up-close row did not appear to be drawn into the same mesmerized state. They simply offered Em a cursory thank-you, no compliment attached. Were they nuts? It was nothing short of astounding. He thought about expressing his opinion, but by the time Pete calmed, reentered the moment, Em was gone from the stage. Emotion took another hairpin turn, and he was consumed by the thought of her simply vanishing—like maybe Pete was just a bit player in one of her curious dreams. A floor-level side door opened. Em walked in a steady gait up the side aisle and toward the exit. He followed.

  Crowds were thick on the sidewalk, the summer sun unrelenting, even past six o’clock. By the time Pete’s eye caught hers, it wasn’t apparent that he too had just exited the theater, and he kept this to himself. He touched her lightly on the arm. “How’d it go?”

  “Oh, there you are. Good timing.” The two skirted around crowds into the theater alcove. “It took forever. Fine.” She shrugged. “You never know until they call—or don’t.”

  “So you think you’ll get the part?”

  Laughter, which had begun to hit his ears with the need of a next breath, rose from her. “Probably not. Competition is beyond fierce. My résumé isn’t that impressive.”

  “But you sang . . . I’m willing to bet you sang beautifully.”

  “Maybe. I had a little trouble with the key and accompanist at first. Nothing unusual there. But you know . . .”

  He shook his head vaguely, stumped as to why the people inside hadn’t chased her onto the sidewalk, thrusting a contract in her face.

  “They’ll want someone shorter or taller. Someone who doesn’t stand out so much onstage.” She shuffled a hand through her bright hair. “Someone who stands out more.” She smiled at him. “Someone who’s sleeping with the director.”

  “You’d never do anything like that.” He spoke with feverish conviction and Em half smiled at him.

  “No. I don’t suppose I would. But it did work for Caroline. Got her a speaking part in Chicago last winter.”

  “Well, winters in Chicago, who needs that?”

  She laughed. The sound nearly made Pete forget his afternoon until Em asked, “Tell me what you’ve been up to?”

  “Amazing,” she murmured for the fifth or sixth time, scrolling through the archived photos he’d snapped on the sly. “Pete, finding these photos, the article about Phin . . .” Em sat cross-legged on the white leather sofa in her apartment. She leaned and picked up the postcard, which was on the glass-top coffee table. For the past hour, she’d been enthralled as Pete detailed his discoveries. “It’s incredible.” She examined the card again—message, return address, and now a recipient. “The new information on the postcard and what you learned about Phin Seaborn. He has a last name! He has an entire history. A hero, Pete. He was a hero.”

  He’d been captivated by her state of wonder. His mood, and he guessed his expression, darkened.

  “What? Doesn’t this put your mind at ease?”

  “Not really,” he said softly. “If anything, it further validates what I know.”

  “That’s not possible—”

  “Or just cleverly psychotic. Look at the timeline.” She put the postcard back on the table, and Pete reached for his camera bag, plucking out the battered images of Esme. “That article was written six years after her death. Phin Seaborn came back to the States. The article assumes I . . . he ran away to Europe to escape the notoriety of being a war hero. But we know differently, don’t we? Phin Seaborn fled to Europe to escape his crime—either literally or maybe the mental imprint of what he’d done. Which scenario makes more sense?”

  She bit down on her lip, and Pete picked up his phone again, swishing past images. He flashed the phone at Em. “This is our hotel heir, Benjamin Hupp. The picture creeps me out. I don’t know . . .” He shook his head. “Maybe Hupp was in cahoots with Seaborn, helped him get out of the country or something.”

  Em looked unconvinced.

  “Okay, so that’s total speculation with zero proof.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can find some.” She picked up her phone and searched the Hupp name. Her fair brow knotted. “Huh. There’s not much, but it’s all so old . . . wait. Here’s an entry about a Winston Hupp. But it sounds like he could have been the father. According to this . . .” She scrolled past what looked like an old newspaper article. “Mostly it has to do with the Depression and money. Apparently, Winston Hupp went bankrupt.” Em looked at Pete. “The barkeep told us that. It just says that the Hupps left New York in financial ruin, like many ‘spoiled riches of the day.’ It doesn’t mention a son, but let me keep . . .” Em abandoned her search, wrapping her fingers around Pete’s wrist and guiding his phone toward her, getting a better look at the picture on his screen. “Uh, Pete. Never mind the Internet, I can tell you something about Benjamin Hupp that’s not speculation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve seen him—in my dreams.”

  “You’ve seen—”

  The apartment door burst open and Caroline blew through.

  “Wow,” she said. “You’re still here. Seems almost impossible.”

  Pete blinked, looking from his phone to the gust of air and disruption she brought. “And no one dropped a house on you today. Same conclusion.”

  As Pete said this, Em shot him a look. Caroline turned for the tiny kitchen, helping herself to the same bottled water as yesterday. He glanced at the two tap-filled water glasses on the table.

  She carried the water in one hand, holding a black-covered notebook in the other, and came into the small living area. “I see you’re also still on my sofa.”

&n
bsp; He looked at his watch and Em read his mind. “Wicked is dark on Mondays.”

  “So this is just a personal performance today.”

  Caroline smiled and something familiar prickled inside Pete. It was enough to shut him up. Her thin hair was pulled into a severe ponytail that highlighted her sad brown eyes.

  Any visual was overrun by Caroline’s mouth, going on about a television show pilot. “Here. Look at the script. It’s perfect for you.” She plunked down her water bottle which knocked into one water glass, spilling it onto the postcard.

  Em grabbed the card from the coffee table flood, but it was too late. “Oh no! Oh, it’s ruined!” She jumped up from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen, blotting the card with a dish towel. Seconds later she held it up, but the damage was done. Puddles of vintage ink swam together, the image and writing one murky blur. “Pete, I’m so sorry!”

  Caroline squinted, her neck craning forward. “What was it?”

  “A postcard,” Pete said dully.

  “Okay, so it’s New York. I’ll get you a dozen new ones tomorrow.”

  “It wasn’t any postcard, Caroline. It was a vintage card from Long Island, from 1918.” She continued to shake the ruined thing, as if drying it out might restore it.

  “Fine. I’ll have it fixed in a jiff. I’m sure there’s another available on eBay.”

  “You can’t replace it.” Em’s voice tensed. “You can’t dial Daddy and have the collection’s designer whip you up a fresh one! The card is irreplaceable. There isn’t another one like it—anywhere.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Emerald Ailish Montague. It’s an old postcard. What could possibly be so special about it?”

  “Are you honestly so self-centered that—”

  “It’s fine.” Pete stood. Caroline had taken a defensive pose, and it probably wouldn’t take more than another sentence for her to kick Em to the curb. “Really. It’s not a big deal.”

  “How can you say that?” Em pressed.

  “Because I think we learned everything we’re going to from the postcard.”

  “Tracing your lineage?” Caroline said, fists planted into her tiny hips.

  “Actually, you’re not far off.” He picked up his camera bag, passing by the puddle.

  In one fast motion, Em stepped into the living room, throwing the dish towel at Caroline. “Mop it up.” She grabbed Pete’s hand and pulled him along until they were inside her bedroom, slamming the door. They were in complete darkness. “She just makes me so . . .” She knew every square inch, and a moment later, soft hues rose from a string of tiny globe lights. “Damn mad!” Em jutted forward, hitting “Play” on her iPod. Music rose. She still held tight to the waterlogged postcard. “I’m sorry. So sorry about the card.”

  “Seriously.” Pete eased it from her grip, placing it on the makeshift book-stack table. “I wasn’t making excuses when I said we got everything we needed from it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yeah. I do.” He swore he heard bells chime, but it was muddled in the iPod music. Oddly enough, what he also felt was calm. “My monsters don’t live under the bed, Em. For sure there were clues on that ghost gift postcard. But the things that haunt me, they’re not written in code or hidden there.” He gestured to the card and muddied ink. “My answers aren’t in old newspaper stories either. The thing I’m chasing, or running from, it lives in my mind . . .”

  She moved closer. “Your soul.”

  “So far as I know.” Instead of haunting emotions connected to Esme, for the first time since Pete was twelve, he felt that passion ebb. “I don’t mind telling you, relocating all of those . . . feelings, it’s not the worst idea.” He closed his arms around Em; her head tilted up and his came forward until their foreheads bumped. “What is this music?”

  “It’s the score from the show I auditioned for—a new musical. The producers lifted the melodies from the vaudeville era, expired copyrights.”

  “Making it fair game.”

  Her head nodded softly against his. “It’s kind of hypnotic after listening to it a few hundred times.” They were swaying now, not really dancing, more like a subtle shift around the edge of time. “They’ve been auditioning girls for months. Rumor is they can’t find anyone with the right authenticity.” She inched back, her eyes fast on his.

  “Em, I don’t know a damn thing about Broadway auditions, but they’re crazier than me if they don’t see you as authentic.”

  Pete couldn’t say that kissing Emerald Montague had been on his mind before that moment. But a few seconds later it was all he could think about, and Pete’s mouth met hers in a way that said this wasn’t their first kiss. She responded in kind, the two of them kissing until they were lying on the daybed. His mouth moved over her fair, freckled skin. The buttons on her blue cotton blouse were tiny, and they both laughed as Pete undid them, only straying slightly from suave. She was faster, tugging on his polo until it was over his head and on the floor.

  While the bed was old and narrow, it was a perfect fit as long as she was beneath him. He kissed her hungrily, Pete making a smoother advance on her bra clasp than he had the blouse buttons. The garment fell away and his gaze met with her bare body. “You . . . you’re so beautiful.” In the dim light, Pete anticipated a subtle blush. But Em wasn’t looking at him. She was focused on the ruddy, wide bruise on his shoulder.

  Her fingertips came forward. “How . . . what happened to you?”

  And reality crashed down onto the narrow bed, into the moment. Pete recoiled, their bodies parting. He shuffled hurriedly to the far end of the bed, crouched on his knees. She’d seen disturbing things in the past few days, but she hadn’t seen this. “It . . .” Pete glanced at his own shoulder, still swollen. In another day or two, the red would turn a purplish black. In a few weeks there’d likely be another. Worse, there was no predicting how a night alone with her might end. “My last visit to my past life. The reentry slammed into a plaster wall.”

  She came forward, meeting his position. “Why didn’t you say something? It must hurt like hell.” Her hand came forward again. Pete jerked back.

  “Don’t. In fact, don’t come any closer.” He started to move off the bed. Em’s fingers locked around his forearm. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. You can’t do this. Not with a damn ghostly prediction all but screaming at you to stay away from me.”

  “Pete, I’m really clear on what that prognostication implied. I think I’m even more clear on necessary risks. The thing it might take to prevent any of it from coming to pass.”

  “This isn’t smart. It will take ‘complicated’ to a whole new level. It’s going—”

  “You think it’s going to put us in the same place as Phin and Esme. That history will repeat.”

  Her conclusion surprised him. Interesting. In the cycle of his life, so little did.

  “Listen to what I’m telling you—that won’t happen.”

  “It’s wishful thinking.”

  “No. It isn’t. You forget, I have my own insider information. Esme and Phin, they never have this moment. I’ve never seen a glimpse of it. Better still, I know how much she loves him and how much she wants him. There’s a sad ache to her dreams, a hollowness. It’s the loneliest part of Esme’s world—and I promise you, Pete, it’s not a part of this one.”

  He searched her eyes and the space around them. He looked toward the damn doll that brought more questions than answers. He only wanted to do what was best for Em. Pete squeezed his eyes shut. That was a lie. He wanted this more—for both of them. On this earthly plane, the impending moment couldn’t feel more right.

  Her fingers made contact with his chest, his unbruised shoulder. Desire was undeniable. He kissed her. Em’s hands clasped around his face, and the note of expectation humming from her throat was hard to miss. In a life where Pete chose so little, he chose to trust her. The promise Em made about this being new history.

  Time, which had always been a source of pain fo
r Pete, became an exquisite span of pleasure. He’d never been so captivated by another human being, wanting to give as much as he got. Em was a tempting combination of desire and reticence, and as the physical moments traveled on, he thought of her. Only her. While Pete was unsure about giving in to passion, he couldn’t deny the energy between them. And it seemed she was right—Pete had never wanted someone in this way. Not in this place or time.

  Spoken words lapsed to unnecessary as communication turned intrinsic, the way Em touched all of him, the glide of her mouth over taut muscles and a body that had been through so much. A short while later, Pete understood his body and mind had never experienced this. Everything slipped into a beautiful rush of hues that Pete could see and feel and, damn—well, he felt like he could touch them. Trembling moments later, he searched for words, Pete’s mind too overcome with present-day emotion to navigate the simplest prose. He trailed his fingers over Em’s face. “If I said that was the most incredible thing ever, would it sound like a line?”

  She appeared equally lost in the aftermath, her skin damp, pressed to his. She didn’t answer right away, and Pete perceived it as an ambivalent pause. Maybe the fact that there also seemed to be no air in the room accounted for her breathless state. Or maybe her experience hadn’t been like his. But then she smiled, fingers shaky as his, brushing along his unshaven face. “No. I think it sounds like the truth.”

  Around one in the morning, Em ordered Chinese food, suggesting China Kitchen dumplings were the perfect post-sex sustenance. Pete happily went along with the idea of food. Act one in her bedroom had rolled smoothly into act two, and he was agreeably starving. But Pete refused to eat in her bedroom. He couldn’t imagine the aura and sandalwood scents of her space drowned in dim sum and the rest of her order, which naturally included half the menu.

  They agreed on the outdoors, devouring the Chinese food on the steps of her apartment, Pete shirtless, Em in a short floral bathrobe. Neither of them gave a damn what late-night passersby thought about their half-dressed state, sitting in a surround of cardboard containers and fortune cookies.