Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  It was quiet, Pete standing a couple of feet from Grace. Only the rustle of the red maple scratched the air, a breeze picking up. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “For what?” she said, though a tear rested on the rim of her eye.

  “For anything and everything I did that hurt you. For putting you in the line of fire that is . . . was,” he said cautiously, “my life.”

  “I appreciate that. But don’t blame yourself, Pete. Not for that.” She arched a brow. “For being an occasional ass—yes, that one you can have.” They both laughed. “I went willingly into Peter St John’s past. I suppose I hoped if we got beyond your other life, you’d love me in this one.” She looked sheepishly between the floor and him. “Let’s just say point proven—perseverance doesn’t always win the day.”

  “Yes, but—”

  She held up a hand. “Be honest. Loving me that way, it wasn’t something you were ever going to feel. With or without the complication of Esmerelda Moon. You can’t be angry with someone for not feeling something they don’t.” The silence grew awkward. “I should get going. I’m actually not done for the day.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I have to get my résumé together. Louise asked me for it. With any luck at all, I might be working for your father before the summer’s out.”

  “My father?” Pete shoved his hands in his pockets. “Wow. Well, won’t he be surprised.”

  “I sure was when Louise said she was looking for a new assistant. Maybe we both found something positive at the end of this long journey.”

  “For you, I absolutely hope so, Grace.”

  She left the porch, Pete watching until she got inside her car. A light rain started to fall, day giving way to night.

  No one said anything aloud, but come bedtime it was obvious what was on their collective minds. So much adrenaline pumped through Pete, he doubted he’d be able to close an eye. He looked at his laptop for a while and found himself perusing social media sites—something he never did. He’d almost forgotten he had a Facebook page; his last post was more than four years old.

  Pete wanted to contact Em, and he thought this might be a way. Wherever she’d landed in LA, surely she was busy getting a foothold on her new life. Maybe she was rehearsing for the sitcom audition that very moment, and he didn’t want to interrupt.

  Pete finally found her on Facebook—at least he found an Emerald Ailish. He thought to search this moniker after it occurred to him that Grace went by Grace Maree, her first and middle names. But whether or not he’d found the right Emerald Ailish remained a mystery. Her privacy settings were clearly meant to keep stalkers at bay, maybe guys like him. He considered friending her, but stopped as his cursor hovered over the “Add Friend” icon. The request felt lame, obtuse. Stupid.

  For him, last night had been worlds removed from a “friend request.” He picked up his phone. He could leave a message. She’d call back. They could figure out what last night meant. Or what it could mean to a girl who’d hopped on a red-eye and relocated her life to the West Coast. A guy most likely bound for unsettled regions in the opposite hemisphere. Right . . . that works out all the time . . . Seconds later, it didn’t matter. A recorded voice hit his ear, and he held the phone out in front of him. “The number you dialed is no longer in service.”

  He tried it again. Same result. Pete pushed his laptop and phone aside. He was halfway to his bedroom door, thinking his mother would have her mother’s phone number. Problem solved. He stopped. Given the day, thundering into his parents’ bedroom at . . . Pete glanced at the clock: 12:18. It wasn’t his best idea. Pete went back to bed, where he did nothing but think about Emerald. For the first time in this life, a woman other than Esmerelda Moon ruled his drifting thoughts. And whether those thoughts were about the wisdom of keeping her at a distance or wanting to hold her close, the only images in Pete’s head as sleep came were of Em.

  “Pete!”

  The timbre was manly and loud. He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later. He blinked from the midst of a rousing dream—a place he wanted to stay. Em was there. It was soft and sexy and it most definitely didn’t include his father’s voice, which was what he heard. Levi called out again.

  He threw back the covers and shot into the hall. Their bedroom was dark, but the light was on in the hall bathroom. At the doorway, Pete hit the brakes. His mother sat balanced on the edge of the claw-foot tub, which was nearly filled. “What the—?”

  “The running tub. It woke me up,” Aubrey said, her fingers swishing through the water. “There was only about an inch of water. I’ve been sitting here for a while, watching it flow in.”

  “And you didn’t think to shut it off?” Pete offered his father a squirrelly eyed look.

  “I asked the same thing,” Levi said.

  She smiled at her husband and son. “You don’t get it. Shame on both of you.” But her voice was calm, her focus sublime. Aubrey swooshed her hand through water, which had reached an alarming level. “It’s the sign of a fluid path.”

  From the corner of his eye, Pete noticed that the toilet seat was up. Always putting it down was one of a few regimented behaviors his father had instilled. Neither he nor Pete ever left a toilet seat up. “Mom, are you all right?”

  “I admit it’s been a while since a specter got my attention that way. Enough to make me race to . . .” She too glanced at the commode. It was old-school ghost habits, spirit-induced nausea. Pete was familiar with the pattern, but he knew his mother was far more susceptible.

  “Who’s here?” Pete asked. Levi folded his arms, shuffling his stance. He remained her champion, closely guarding Aubrey should a specter pose a threat.

  “You don’t know? How very interesting that it’s me she’s sought out in the end.” Finally, she twisted both knobs, turning off the spigot. “Esme.”

  Pete was stunned. He had zero sense of any ghostly presence, never mind the one who’d loomed for so long in and around his life. “Esme?”

  “Our earlier physical discoveries, they completed the pathway, brought her to a point of closure. There’s so much history here for her.” Aubrey looked around the confines of the bathroom, though clearly she meant the whole house. “Much of it is unpleasant. She actually doesn’t like to be in the house. Yet she’s so attached to your . . .” She fixated on her son, but Pete had the impression she was looking at a stranger. “Your soul, the one you share. The person you once were. From the time you were born, the energy circling you has amassed, bringing us to this.”

  “This?” he said.

  “Well, this moment. Esme’s ending, it’s so tragic. I understand why she’s ambivalent about being here, making herself known.”

  “You know what happened to Esme? Tell me, because—”

  Aubrey held up a hand. “Slow down, Pete. You know how this works. I don’t believe she’s taking questions. Not even from you.” She smiled and paused. “Thank you for that much,” she said to the air. His mother focused on the tub’s water, then looked at Pete. “Apparently, Esme felt a mediator was necessary. She says it’s too painful, even now, being so close to you. It was something she learned last time you were together . . . here.” They all looked to the cracked mirror, which hadn’t yet been replaced. “She doesn’t want to cause you any more pain, Pete—she never did.”

  “She never . . .”

  “She swears she didn’t trigger your visits to another life. She says she doesn’t hold that sort of power over you—that it truly was uncanny circumstance.” Aubrey looked from the water to her son. “The fate of ghosts. Her past, it felt so incomplete to her. She only ever wanted to make peace with it. The life she came so close to having. The things . . .” Aubrey stopped, and it was obvious to Pete what was happening. His mother was working hard to capture a precise message. “Things snatched away from Esme by war . . .” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “By men.”

  “Benjamin Hupp,” Pete said.

  Aubrey tightened her brow. “The bro
ther-in-law. He was the reason she left home in the first place, went to New York.” She sat up taller and expelled a breath Pete and Levi could see, like it was twenty degrees in the bathroom. The chill of goose bumps rose on his mother’s arms. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Her expression grew grave, her fingers moving lithely, as if channeling through the water. “What happened here, before Esme left home . . . it was awful. But she says if not for that tragedy, she would have never met Oscar.” Aubrey hinted at a smile. “And never met Phin.”

  “But did Phin just leave her? Was it all too much—the things he went through in the war? What happened to Esme in New York?”

  Aubrey didn’t answer right away. A look of surprise overtook her as she came off the tub’s edge, and not of her own volition, dropping to the floor. Both her arms plunged into the tub, water sloshing over the side. As her knees made hard contact, a gravelly sound rose from Aubrey’s throat. Pete understood the discomfort; it was one thing to connect with the spirit world. It was another entirely when they took physical liberties. But it was clear that Esme felt she had her conduit, and she’d come prepared to make a point.

  Levi was right there, not pulling Aubrey back, but making certain there was no further forward motion. “Nope. We’re not doing that, Esme,” he said, putting the ghost on notice. “I’m calling a realtor in the morning. Let the next occupants deal.”

  “It’s all right,” Aubrey said. Her body relaxed and she easily raised her dripping arms. Cautiously, Levi stepped back. “And don’t be ridiculous. How unfair would that be?”

  “To the new owners?” Levi said.

  “To the ghost,” Aubrey replied. “Like it or not, I believe Esme has passed the torch, entrusted me as the last caretaker of her dreams.”

  Levi groused, handing her a towel.

  “Would you please tell me? She must say something about Phin. Was she devastated when he left, went back to England, married someone else?”

  “Sad,” Aubrey said. “She was very sad. Not because Phin left her . . .” She drew a breath, the towel lowering to her lap. “Because she died.” Aubrey pointed. “Right here in this tub.”

  “Holy—” Levi looked at Pete. “You said that both Oscar and Esmerelda insisted she was going home. We know the sister had the flu in 1919. She recovered.”

  Pete’s hand raked through his hair, squeezing. “In New York, Esme was so weak, half-starved, beaten—emotionally, physically. It was the flu. She caught the damn flu from her sister. After everything she went through, Esme came home to die of influenza?”

  “The same thing you and that Phineas Seaborn recovered from,” Levi said.

  Aubrey dipped her arm back into the vintage tub and pulled the plug. It began to empty, the three of them watching the tornado of water. “A doctor . . . the sister, they put Esme in the bath. They were trying to get her fever down.” Aubrey blinked at her son. And in her eyes, Pete knew he saw Esme’s tears. “Phin, he was here, shortly before she passed. The doll.” Aubrey tilted her head. It was her own smile, someone else’s pain. “Somehow Phin managed to bring her the doll.” She closed her eyes. “My gosh, there were so many people in here. So much commotion. Then quiet. One man is speaking. He’s a stranger; he’s wearing black. I don’t know him—neither did Esme.”

  “Last rites,” Levi said.

  Aubrey’s expression turned vague. “Maybe. It’s all so imprecise. She doesn’t want me to pay attention to it. It’s too painful. She says, ‘I felt myself slip from a life my fingertips had barely touched. After everything, all our damage, it was all right there. Then our World was gone . . .’” Aubrey looked at Pete. “She knows how much pain it caused you, but she wants to thank you for keeping her alive. Not letting that day be the end of her existence or her story. You did that for her, Pete, and she’s so very grateful.”

  His eyes were wet too, watching the last of the water filter down the drain until it was clear that Aubrey was no longer communicating with Esme’s spirit. She was gone. The house was quiet, nothing but three living beings taking up residence. They made their way from the bathroom back into the hall, where Aubrey and Levi returned to reverent, needful sleep.

  Pete wasn’t finished, not yet. He too needed closure. He went back to his bedroom and got his camera bag, not stopping until he’d crossed the deck and made his way to their backyard fire pit. The night air smelled of boyhood memories, the only sounds insects brought to life by darkness. The outdoor architecture bordered the nature preserve, the fire pit surrounded by comfy pillow-lined furniture, a stack of kindling. In the drawer of a side table were matches. Pete unzipped the camera bag and withdrew the photos of Esme, the ruined postcard. The moon glinted off an object. He knotted his brow. “How the . . . ?” From the bag, he also retrieved what was apparently his own ghost gift. “Okay . . . wow. I take this to mean we’re all on the same page.” In Pete’s hand was a silver lighter, the initials O.B. engraved on the side.

  Pete placed the photos of Esme, even the one Grace had discovered that day, and the postcard in the fire pit. In the preserve, he sensed the soul of a grifter nearby. “Thanks for the assist, Zeke. For hanging around for my mom. For me.” As if in reply, a breeze kicked up and tall grass rustled. “But it’s time. Time to let go of a whole other life.” Pete flicked on the lighter. He made a point to watch, to burn all the photographs. To take a different path, letting memories turn to ash, Esmerelda and the moon vanishing behind clouds and the heavens until they no longer echoed.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  Pete woke to his buzzing phone. Em. He wrestled a tangle of sheets, coming up with the device. Flagler. Pete answered slowly, not even sitting up when his boss spoke in his usual “I need it yesterday” tone. He came right to his point: a group of Middle East dignitaries was gathering in New York City. Pete’s assignment would be to photograph the UN meeting and follow as the pool photographer on the flight back to Dubai. Certainly a shift from assignments in days previous to this one.

  Well, a great deal had changed in the past few days. Hadn’t it? He finally sat up, clearing his throat and his head. “Yeah, Austin. I’m on it.” He packed up his gear and said a fast goodbye to his parents, but not before asking about Nora Montague. Aubrey seemed curious but didn’t press Pete about why he was asking. She also couldn’t help. Nora and Ian Montague were sailing the Mediterranean with his mother. Nora would be out of touch for weeks. It was disappointing, but what could Pete do in the moment? He needed to be at the UN by noon.

  As Pete left, at least he was able to assure his parents there was nothing to worry about, nothing upsetting—just work. His parents stood in the dining room alcove, a bottle of pure maple syrup in Levi’s hand, his mother having set a table for three. She picked up the third plate and said, “Of course. Your job. Well, at least a hug goodbye.”

  “I’ll call . . . see you soon.” Pete said this with brand-new positivity, looking forward to following through.

  While Pete felt a renewed sense of family, he could not say the same about his job. He drove toward Manhattan, figuring he’d ditch the rental car at JFK, working hard to reenergize his war correspondent photojournalist passion. Hell, the past few days would throw anybody off their game. He’d be back in the swing in no time.

  A few hours later, the jump-start hadn’t gotten the starter gun signal, with Pete stuck in dead-stop traffic on the Hudson Parkway. Idling, he scrolled through the e-mails on his phone, including the press packet and agenda Flagler had supplied. It would be an insanely busy week. After the UN summit, the entourage was scheduled for a Middle East meet and greet, six volatile countries in four days. Because Pete would serve as the official US pool photographer, he rated his own military escort. It was an important assignment with inherent risks.

  A note of somberness took hold. Pete put down his phone and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He shifted in his seat and picked the phone up again, retrieving photos from two years ago. They were the last ones taken with his
parents—Christmastime, in front of their tree, a place where it was hard to differentiate orbs from ornaments. Aubrey and Levi had been so glad to have him home, even if it had been for a few short days and a couple terrifying nights. Pete continued to stare at the phone, running his thumb over their faces. Why hadn’t he taken a moment, snapped a damn selfie with them before taking off today? The car behind him honked. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” He placed the phone in the console.

  Traffic eased and he wove through Manhattan, moving toward the UN complex. He looked at his watch; at this rate, he’d arrive just in time to throw on the collared shirt that hung from a hanger in the back seat. The car felt stuffy. He held his hand over the air-conditioning, which was blowing hot air. “Hey, Uncle Brody, what gives? You promised me AC,” he said lightly. Pete rolled down the window.

  City smells and sounds filtered in, the subways venting, the collective vibrations of cultures, the indescribable vastness of human forms. Pete was attracted to the idea of photographing all of it. But the UN complex came into view, and he darted into a vacated parking spot. Still, Pete didn’t bolt for his assignment. From his hot-car perspective, he looked at a city that wasn’t so different from the one Phin and Esme had lived in a century ago.

  For as much as New York melded, there remained a glaring division of classes. At the moment, it was best demonstrated by a homeless man asleep in a building alcove, covered by a cardboard sign. A well-dressed couple stood feet away. They fussed over a tiny dog in a . . . doggy stroller? The juxtaposition was too tempting. Pete hurried out of the car, but not before grabbing his phone and the Fuji X100F, a tiny camera perfect for taking photos from a stealthy vantage point. It worked well in unpredictable territory where the obviousness of a larger lens might get you killed. It would work well here. Pete shot from hip height without ever putting the lens to his eye, setting the shutter speed and letting the camera do the work, capturing the right mood, the astonishing diversity found in a two-foot span of the world’s most well-known city.