Moonlight Becomes You, Page 2

  Nuala—always so pretty, always such fun, always so patient with Maggie’s questions. It had been from Nuala that Maggie had learned to love and understand art.

  Typically, Nuala was dressed tonight in a pale blue satin cocktail suit and matching high heels. Maggie’s memories of her were always pastel tinted.

  Nuala had been in her late forties when she married Dad, Maggie thought, trying to calculate her age now. She made it through five years with him. She left twenty-two years ago.

  It was a shock to realize that Nuala must now be in her mid-seventies. She certainly didn’t look it.

  Their eyes met. Nuala frowned, then looked puzzled.

  Nuala had told her that her name was actually Finnuala, after the legendary Celt, Finn MacCool, who brought about the downfall of a giant. Maggie remembered how as a little girl she had delighted in trying to pronounce Finn-u-ala.

  “Finn-u-ala?” she said now, her voice tentative.

  A look of total astonishment crossed the older woman’s face. Then she emitted a whoop of delight that stopped the buzz of conversations around them, and Maggie found herself once again enfolded in loving arms. Nuala was wearing the faint scent that all these years had lingered in Maggie’s memory. When she was eighteen she had discovered the scent was Joy. How appropriate for tonight, Maggie thought.

  “Let me look at you,” Nuala exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back but still holding Maggie’s arms with both hands as though afraid she would get away.

  Her eyes searched Maggie’s face. “I never thought I’d see you again! Oh, Maggie! How is that dreadful man, your father?”

  “He died three years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. But he was totally impossible to the end, I’m sure.”

  “Never too easy,” Maggie admitted.

  “Darling, I was married to him. Remember? I know what he was like! Always sanctimonious, dour, sour, petulant, crabby. Well, no use going on about it. The poor man is dead, may he rest in peace. But he was so old-fashioned and so stiff, why, he could have posed for a medieval stained-glass window . . .”

  Aware suddenly that others were openly listening, Nuala slid her arm around Maggie’s waist and announced, “This is my child! I didn’t give birth to her, of course, but that’s totally unimportant.”

  Maggie realized that Nuala was also blinking back tears.

  Anxious both to talk and to escape the crush of the crowded restaurant, they slipped out together. Maggie could not find Liam to say good-bye but was fairly sure she would not be missed.

  * * *

  Arm in arm, Maggie and Nuala walked up Park Avenue through the deepening September twilight, turned west at Fifty-sixth Street and settled in at Il Tinello. Over Chianti and delicate strips of fried zucchini, they caught up on each other’s lives.

  For Maggie, it was simple. “Boarding school; I was shipped there after you left. Then Carnegie-Mellon, and finally a master’s in visual arts from NYU. I’m making a good living now as a photographer.”

  “That’s wonderful. I always thought it would be either that or sculpting.”

  Maggie smiled. “You’ve got a good memory. I love to sculpt, but I do it only as a hobby. Being a photographer is a lot more practical, and in all honesty I guess I’m pretty good. I’ve got some excellent clients. Now what about you, Nuala?”

  “No. Let’s finish with you,” the older woman interrupted. “You live in New York. You’ve got a job you like. You’ve stuck to developing what is a natural talent. You’re just as pretty as I knew you’d be. You were thirty-two your last birthday. What about a love interest or significant other or whatever you young people call it these days?”

  Maggie felt the familiar wrench as she said flatly, “I was married for three years. His name was Paul, and he graduated from the Air Force Academy. He had just been selected for the NASA program when he was killed on a training flight. That was five years ago. It’s a shock I guess I may never get over. Anyway, it’s still hard to talk about him.”

  “Oh, Maggie.”

  There was a world of understanding in Nuala’s voice. Maggie remembered that her stepmother had been a widow when she married her father.

  Shaking her head, Nuala murmured, “Why do things like that have to happen?” Then her tone brightened. “Shall we order?”

  Over dinner they caught up on twenty-two years. After the divorce from Maggie’s father, Nuala had moved to New York, then visited Newport, where she met Timothy Moore—someone she actually had dated when she was still a teenager—and married him. “My third and last husband,” she said, “and absolutely wonderful. Tim died last year, and do I ever miss him! He wasn’t one of the wealthy Moores, but I have a sweet house in a wonderful section of Newport, and an adequate income, and of course I’m still dabbling at painting. So I’m all right.”

  But Maggie saw a brief flicker of uncertainty cross Nuala’s face and realized in that moment that without the brisk, cheerful expression, Nuala looked every day of her age.

  “Really all right, Nuala?” she asked quietly. “You seem . . . worried.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. It’s just . . . Well, you see, I turned seventy-five last month. Years ago, someone told me that when you get into your sixties, you start to say good-bye to your friends, or they say good-bye to you, but that when you hit your seventies, it happens all the time. Believe me, it’s true. I’ve lost a number of good friends lately, and each loss hurts a little more than the last. It’s getting to be a bit lonely in Newport, but there’s a wonderful residence—I hate the word nursing home—and I’m thinking of going to live there soon. The kind of apartment I want there has just become available.”

  Then, as the waiter poured espresso, she said urgently, “Maggie, come visit me, please. It’s only a three-hour drive from New York.”

  “I’d love to,” Maggie responded.

  “You mean it?”

  “Absolutely. Now that I’ve found you, I’m not going to let you get away again. Besides, it’s always been in the back of my mind to go to Newport. I understand it’s a photographer’s paradise. As a matter of fact—”

  She was about to tell Nuala that as of next week she had cleared her calendar to allow time to take a much-needed vacation when she heard someone say, “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Startled, Maggie looked up. Standing over them were Liam and his cousin Earl Bateman. “You ran out on me,” Liam said reprovingly.

  Earl bent down to kiss Nuala. “You’re in hot water for spiriting away his date. How do you two know each other?”

  “It’s a long story.” Nuala smiled. “Earl lives in Newport, too,” she explained to Maggie. “He teaches anthropology at Hutchinson College in Providence.”

  I was right about the scholarly look, Maggie thought.

  Liam pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down. “You’ve got to let us have an after-dinner drink with you.” He smiled at Earl. “And don’t worry about Earl. He’s strange, but he’s harmless. His branch of the family has been in the funeral business for more than a hundred years. They bury people. He digs them up! He’s a ghoul. He even makes money talking about it.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows as the others laughed.

  “I lecture on funeral customs through the ages,” Earl Bateman explained with a slight smile. “Some may find it macabre, but I love it.”

  Friday, September 27th

  2

  HE STRODE BRISKLY ALONG THE CLIFF WALK, HIS HAIR blown by the stiff ocean breeze that had sprung up during the late afternoon. The sun had been wonderfully warm at the height of the day, but now its slanting rays were ineffectual against the cool wind. It seemed to him that the shift in the air reflected the changing quality of his own mood.

  Till now he had been successful in his plan of action, but with Nuala’s dinner party only two hours away, a premonition was coming over him. Nuala had become suspicious and would confide in her stepdaughter. Everything could start to unravel.

  The touri
sts had not yet abandoned Newport. In fact there was an abundance of them, postseason day-trippers, anxious to stalk the mansions managed by the Preservation Society, to gape at the relics of a bygone age before most of them were closed until next spring.

  Deep in thought he paused as he came to The Breakers, that most marvelously ostentatious jewel, that American palace, that breathtaking example of what money, and imagination, and driving ambition could achieve. Built in the early 1890s for Cornelius Vanderbilt II and his wife, Alice, it was enjoyed only briefly by Vanderbilt himself. Paralyzed by a stroke in 1895, he died in 1899.

  Lingering for a moment longer in front of The Breakers, he smiled. It was Vanderbilt’s story that had given him the idea.

  But now he had to act quickly. Picking up his pace, he passed Salve Regina University, formerly known as Ochre Court, a hundred-room extravagance that stood splendid against the skyline, its limestone walls and mansard roof beautifully preserved. Five minutes later he came upon it, Latham Manor, the magnificent edifice that had been a worthy, more tasteful competitor to the vulgarity of The Breakers. Originally the proud property of the eccentric Latham family, it had fallen into disrepair in the lifetime of the last Latham. Rescued from ruin and restored to reflect much of its earlier grandeur, it was now the residence of wealthy retirees, living out their last years in opulence.

  He stopped, feasting his eyes on Latham Manor’s majestic white marble exterior. He reached into the deep pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a cellular phone. He dialed quickly, then smiled slightly as the voice he had hoped to hear answered. It meant one thing less he had to worry about later.

  He said two words, “Not tonight.”

  “Then, when?” a calm, noncommittal voice asked after a slight pause.

  “I’m not sure yet. I have to take care of something else.” His voice was sharp. He did not permit questions about his decisions.

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  Breaking the connection without further comment, he turned and began to walk swiftly.

  It was time to get ready for Nuala’s dinner party.

  3

  NUALA MOORE HUMMED AS SHE SLICED TOMATOES ON THE cutting board of her cheerfully untidy kitchen, her movements quick and confident. The late afternoon sun was about to set, and a stiff breeze was rattling the window over the sink. She could already feel a slight chill seeping through the poorly insulated back wall.

  Even so, she knew her kitchen was warm and inviting with its red-and-white colonial paper, worn red-brick linoleum, and pine shelves and cabinets. When she finished slicing the tomatoes, she reached for the onions. A tomato-and-onion salad marinated in oil and vinegar and generously sprinkled with oregano was a perfect accompaniment to a roast leg of lamb. Her fingers were crossed that Maggie still loved lamb. When she was little it had been one of her favorites. Maybe I should have asked her, Nuala thought, but I want to surprise her. At least she knew Maggie wasn’t a vegetarian—she had ordered veal the night they were together in Manhattan.

  The potatoes were already bouncing in the big pot. When they had finished boiling, she would drain them but not mash them until the last minute. A tray of biscuits was ready to pop in the oven. The green beans and carrots were all prepared, ready to be steamed minutes before she seated her guests.

  Nuala peered into the dining room, double-checking. The table was set. She had done that first thing this morning. Maggie would sit opposite her in the other host chair. A symbolic gesture, she knew. Cohostesses this evening, like mother and daughter.

  She leaned against the door frame for a moment, reflecting. It would be wonderful to have someone with whom she could at last share this terrible worry. She would wait a day or two, then she would say, “Maggie, I have to talk with you about something important. You’re right, I am worried about something. Maybe I’m crazy or just an old, suspicious fool, but . . .”

  It would be so good to lay her suspicions before Maggie. Even when she was little she had had a clear, analytical mind. “Finn-u-ala,” she would begin when she wanted to share a confidence, her way of letting me know that this was going to be a very serious discussion, Nuala remembered.

  I should have waited until tomorrow night to have this party, she thought. I should have given Maggie a chance to at least catch her breath. Oh well, typical of me—I always act first and think afterwards.

  But she had wanted to show Maggie off to her friends after talking about her so much. And also, when she asked them to dinner, she had thought that Maggie was arriving a day earlier.

  But Maggie had phoned yesterday to say there was a problem with one of the jobs, that it was going to take a day more than expected to complete. “The art director is a nervous Nelly and is agonizing over the shots,” she had explained, “so I can’t start up until around noon tomorrow. But I still should be there by four or four-thirty.”

  At four, Maggie had phoned. “Nuala, I tried to call a couple of times earlier, but your line was busy. I’m just now finishing up and heading out to my car.”

  “No difference as long as you’re on your way.”

  “I just hope I arrive before your guests so I’ll have time to change.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Just drive carefully and I’ll ply them with cocktails till you get here.”

  “It’s a deal. I’m on my way.”

  Thinking about the conversation, Nuala smiled. It would have been awful if Maggie had been delayed yet another day. By now she should be around Bridgeport, she thought. She’ll probably get caught in some commuter traffic, but at least she’s on her way. Dear God, Maggie’s on her way to me.

  Since there was nothing more she could do for the moment, Nuala decided to sit down and watch the early evening news. That would still leave her time for a nice hot, relaxing bath before people started to arrive.

  She was about to leave the kitchen when there was a rap at the back door. Before she could look through the window to see who it was, the handle turned. For the moment she was startled, but as the door opened and her visitor stepped in, she smiled warmly.

  “Hello there,” she said. “Good to see you, but you’re not due for a couple of hours, so you can’t stay long.”

  “I don’t plan to stay long,” her visitor said quietly.

  4

  AFTER HIS MOTHER MOVED TO FLORIDA, SELLING THE house that had been old Squire’s wedding present to Liam’s grandmother, Liam Moore Payne had bought a condominium on Willow Street. He used it regularly during the summer, but even after his sailboat was put into storage at the end of the season, he frequently would come down from Boston on weekends to escape the hectic world of international finance.

  The condo, a spacious four-room unit with high ceilings and a terrace overlooking Narragansett Bay, was furnished with the choice contents of the family home. When she had moved, his mother had said, “These things don’t work in Florida, and anyhow I never cared for any of it. You take them. You’re like your father. You love this heavy old stuff.”

  As Liam stepped from the shower and reached for a bath towel, he thought of his father. Was he really so much like him? he wondered. Upon arriving home after a day of trading on the ever-mercurial market, his father always had gone straight to the bar in the study and prepared himself a very dry, very cold martini. He would sip it slowly, then, visibly relaxed, he would go upstairs to bathe and dress for the evening.

  Liam toweled vigorously, half smiling at the thought that he and his father were very much alike, although they differed on the details. His father’s almost ritualistic soaks would have driven Liam crazy; he preferred a bracing shower. Also, he preferred his martini after he had bathed, not before.

  Ten minutes later, Liam stood at the bar in his study, carefully pouring Finlandia vodka into a chilled and ice-filled silver goblet and stirring. Then, straining the drink into a delicate stemmed glass, he drizzled a drop or two of olive juice over the surface, hesitated, and with an appreciative sigh, took the first sip. “Amen,” he said aloud
.

  It was ten of eight. He was due at Nuala’s in ten minutes, and while it would take at least nine minutes to drive there, he wasn’t worried about being precisely on time. Anyone who knew Nuala was aware that her cocktail hour was apt to last at least until nine and sometimes later.

  Liam decided to allow himself a little downtime. He sank onto the handsome couch covered in dark brown Moroccan leather and carefully placed his feet on an antique coffee table that was shaped to resemble a stack of ancient ledgers.

  He closed his eyes. It had been a long and stressful week, but the weekend promised to be interesting.

  Maggie’s face floated into his mind. It was a remarkable coincidence that she happened to have a tie to Newport, a very strong tie, as it turned out. He had been astonished when he had learned of her connection to Nuala.

  He remembered how upset he had been when he realized that Maggie had left the party at the Four Seasons without telling him. Angry at himself for so thoroughly neglecting her, he had been anxious to find her and straighten out the situation. When his inquiries revealed that Maggie had been seen leaving with Nuala before dinner, he had had a hunch that they might be at Il Tinello. For a young woman, Maggie was pretty much set in her ways.

  Maggie. He pictured her for a moment, her beautiful face, the intelligence and energy that she radiated.

  Liam sipped the last of the martini and, with a sigh, hoisted himself out of his comfortable spot. Time to go, he thought. He checked his appearance at the foyer mirror, noting that the red-and-blue Hermès tie his mother had sent for his birthday went well enough with his navy blazer, although a traditional stripe might be better. With a shrug he decided not to worry about it; it really was time to go.