Читать книгу Moonrise - Cassandra King - Страница 9

A LITTLE NEIGHBORLY SPYING

Itell myself that I’m not going to look this time. I tiptoe toward the bathroom quietly so Noel won’t hear me from his room down the hall. And passing by the windows, I avert my eyes. After doing my business, I make sure I don’t bang into the dresser on my way back to bed. Which is what woke Noel last night. Or was it the night before? Whichever, I had no idea that Noel had heard me banging around or cursing the damned dresser until he flung my bedroom door open. He stood there wild-eyed and half naked, and I screamed like a banshee. It was funny the next day, though neither of us laughed at the time. Even less amusing was his accusing me, yet again, of spying on Emmet and the Bride. He claimed to have caught me in the act, as though I would’ve left my warm bed for the sole purpose of doing such a thing. The very idea.

Tonight, I return to my bed quickly and snuggle under the covers. The thing is, I didn’t really have to look. If a light had been on at Moonrise, I would’ve seen it as soon as I turned off my bedside lamp. A few years ago I discovered, quite by accident, that any lit-up room at Moonrise, except those in the back of the house, is visible through my bedroom window. It happened after Noel had some tree limbs cleared out around the cottage. Moonrise is such a distance away that I can’t really see anything except the occasional shadowy figure moving around a room. Even so, I teased Rosalyn by claiming I could see her and Emmet in bed together. Being Rosalyn, she had a ready comeback. “Trust me, sweetie,” she’d said with a roll of her eyes. “After all our years together, there’s not much to see.”

The real, honest-to-God truth is, Noel has caught me turning the binoculars toward Moonrise a couple of times recently, and it’s caused some problems between us. The first time, he was exasperated but also a bit amused, which he tried to hide from me. The next time he was utterly furious. Noel’s like that. He’s easygoing to a fault, and so laid-back he’s practically in a coma, unless he gets pissed. Then you’d better watch out. Usually I know just how far to push him, but all this stuff with Emmet and his new wife has been a different matter. I can’t quite figure out where Noel’s coming from these days, and it’s bothering me more than I’ve admitted to anyone. Even myself.

The tension between us started in Atlanta, before we came to Highlands for the summer. I know Noel so well, and we’re closer to each other than I was with Rosalyn, or Noel is with Linc and Emmet, but in a different way. So I know I’m not just imagining this. Closing my eyes and hugging my pillow tight, I burrow under my deliciously warm quilt and try to remember when I first knew that something was going on with him.

I guess it was the time he called me to see how the packing was going, a few days before we closed up our respective flats for the summer and headed toward the hills. The packing wasn’t coming along that well because my closet depresses me so badly. I stood inside it—easily since it’s bigger than your average room—trying to decide what to take to Highlands, and I couldn’t make myself continue. Since the day that Kit and I packed up Rosalyn’s things so Annie wouldn’t have to, I haven’t been able to bear my closet, with its color-coordinated hangers and cubbyholes. Whatever made me think I wanted, much less needed, all that stuff ? And what would happen to it after I was gone?

I almost didn’t answer the phone that day because I knew it was Noel. I’d already snapped at him earlier, and wasn’t ready to pick up our fight. After lunch I’d stopped by his office to tell him I was going home to pack. I didn’t remind him that I’d finished the invitation design for the fall Tour of Homes, way ahead of schedule, and was exhausted. After all, a perk of being friends with the boss should be taking off when you want to. “You’re packing for Highlands?” Noel had said, giving me a look of amused irony (which no one does better). “What could you possibly need to take, dear girl? Your part of the cottage already looks like a Goodwill store.”

I told him to bugger off, that his royal ass had never been inside a Goodwill store to know what one looked like. Then I got out of there before he could start in on his favorite topic—me, and my neuroses. I’ll admit, I have quite a few, and I’m rather prone to go on and on. After Rosalyn’s death, all of us got downright morbid. Then Linc had a stroke and almost died, and our mortality became an obsession.

Linc, even as sick as he’s been, has done his best to help me deal with my funk. After he got out of rehab, I drove over to Tuscaloosa and spent several days with him so he wouldn’t be alone. That self-centered wife of his, who pretends to be so devoted to him, had prissed her fanny back to New York to do one of her New Agey poetry workshops. So I had Linc all to myself. I’m well aware of the irony, my calling Myna self-centered when I was there to take care of Linc, yet all I did was cry on his shoulder. Linc ought to be used to it, though. He’s always been my Zen master, the one who will listen to me ad nauseam when I bore the others shitless.

With the calm reassurance that Linc’s known for, he told me I would remain miserable until I accepted death as a natural part of life. Contradictory as it sounds, we only begin to live when we acknowledge that we’re going to die. All the great philosophies teach the basic concept of birth, life, death, and rebirth; nature’s ongoing cycle. On the day I was headed home, Linc had a rather bizarre suggestion. He reminded me that I used to spend a lot of time wandering around Atlanta’s most famous cemetery, Oakland. Although it’s a habit that makes me look even crazier than I am, Linc suggested that I pay another visit to Oakland as soon as I got back to Atlanta. It could very well help me get some perspective.

I thought it was a great idea, but found to my surprise that I couldn’t do it. Instead, every time I drove past Oakland, I’d catch myself averting my eyes. It’s true; I used to enjoy going there, wandering around and reading the old gravestones. I would take flowers to my mama’s grave, then to the Clements plot, where I’d talk to Mr. Clements about whatever Noel and I were doing. Sometimes I’d bring flowers to the much-visited graves, like Margaret Mitchell’s, or to those lonely plots that never had any. My favorite place was the mausoleum. I loved the way sunlight filtered through the wrought-iron entrance, and how appropriate everything seemed—the eerie light, the faint odor of decay, the chill of stone and marble. I’d spend hours sitting on a nearby bench and wondering about the stories of those resting there, how they lived and died. But after Rosalyn’s death, my musing took a different direction. What difference does it make, I thought, the silly little ways each of us fritters away our lives? The graveyard is where all our stories end.

On the day I was supposed to be packing, Noel kept calling until I had to either answer or unplug the phone. I picked it up to tell Mr. Smarty-Britches that he was right, everything I needed was already at Laurel Cottage. Of course, he gloated for a long moment before asking, “So. Have you talked to anyone today?”

“Just Linc,” I told him. “Big surprise. Myna’s not staying.”

“No.” Although Noel said the word flatly, I heard the bitterness in his voice. “God forbid she give up anything for him. Her career has always come first, as we both know. Linc’s the only one who can’t see that.”

“Yeah,” I’d murmured in response. Then I’d reminded him that we were plowing old ground there. And that Linc was the most perceptive and introspective of men except when it came to his own life. Maybe we were all that way.

“Oh, I know,” Noel agreed. “Just wish that . . .” He let his voice trail off, then it brightened up as he added, “Willa has signed on, though. I knew she would. She’ll take good care of him.”

Unusual for me, I kept my thoughts to myself, that one day Willa McFee would have to get a life and stop her selfless caregiving. She’d nursed her mama through Alzheimer’s for years; she lived with a sorry alcoholic man, and now was taking on a stroke victim. Even so, I was overjoyed that she’d agreed to help us with Linc. The end of the summer would be plenty of time for Willa to find herself. To Noel I said, “Oh, yeah, forgot that I talked with Kit briefly. She won’t be around till Memorial Day. How about you? Heard from Emmet or the Bride?”

“Dammit, Tansy, would you stop calling her that?” And just like that, Noel had done it again, gone from being warm and friendly to turning his wrath on me. “Give the poor girl a break, would you? I can only imagine what a formidable bunch we must be, and she’s going to be slammed with all of us at once.”

I responded to that ridiculous statement with the scorn it warranted. “Us formidable? That ‘poor’ girl, as you so gallantly call her, married Emmet Justice, the most formidable man who’s ever drawn a breath. Compared to him, the rest of us are pussycats.”

Noel’s response had been a soft chuckle. “You and Kit might have claws, but no one would call you pussycats. The true softies are me and Linc. It’s you girls that Helen had better watch out for.”

“Oh, please,” I shot back. “I don’t care what you say, I will never understand why Emmet had to up and marry like he did. Whatever happened to a proper period of mourning? And if he was so dead set on marrying again, why couldn’t it have been to one of his own? I don’t like the sound of this woman, Helen. She’s a nitwit on the phone. So eager to please it takes all I can do not to retch into the receiver.”

“Tansy—” Noel’s voice turned to ice, but I cut him off, waving my finger in the air as though he could see me.

“She’s a dietician, Noel. How many dieticians do you know, pray tell? What kind of prissy, pious occupation is that? She’s not going to fit in with us, you wait and see. She’ll turn out to be sanctimonious and uptight, someone who uses every dinner party as an excuse to lecture us on trans fat and cholesterol. And she’ll only allow us to have one glass of wine—red wine, of course—before dinner. If she allows anything at all. For all we know, she’s already made Emmet quit drinking.”

“If Rosalyn couldn’t make him quit, no one can,” Noel reminded me, but I ignored that.

“To top it off, her name is Helen. Helen Honeycutt!” I mocked. “What a stuffy, old-lady-sounding name that is.”

Infuriating me even further, Noel had laughed. “You’re just jealous because she’s so cute. When I showed you her website, remember, you admitted that she was.”

“I did not!” Before he could argue further, I conceded. “Well, maybe I said something like that, trying to be nice. You know me, ever the sweet Southern belle. The truth is, I thought she looked rather mousy, like a dietician named Helen ought to look. And, Noel? If anyone ever calls me cute, just shoot me, okay?”

With another laugh, he said, “No one would ever call you that, my dear.” I didn’t rise to the bait, but he couldn’t let it go. “You can think what you want, Tansy old girl. Both Linc and I think that the new Mrs. Justice is quite a looker.”

“Oh, she won’t be called Mrs. Justice, remember?”

Noel sighed in exasperation. “Surely you’re not going to hold that against her, too. She took her maiden name back after her divorce, Emmet told me, and now she’s keeping it for professional reasons.”

“Yeah, he told me, too. And I wanted to say, ‘Well, la-di-da.’ She has a cooking spot on a noon show in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for God’s sake. We’re not talking Julia Child.”

“That’s for sure,” he snorted. “She’s a hell of a lot better looking than Julia Child ever was.”

“She has bouncy hair,” I said peevishly. “I’ve never liked women with bouncy hair.”

“Maybe that’s what Linc likes about her. Bouncy hair.”

With a dismissive wave of my hand, I’d said, “Linc doesn’t count. Any woman would look good compared to that wife of his, the skinny bitch.”

Noel tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help himself. It’s what I love best about Noel. Although he’s one of the movers and shakers of a very hoity-toity Atlanta society, and looks like he stepped off the cover of Town & Country magazine, the man has a truly wicked sense of humor. He would not have laughed, though, if I’d told him how I really felt after seeing the Bride’s website. He would’ve scolded me instead, and sworn that I was neurotic about growing old. I catch enough flak about being the oldest in our group—well, except for Emmet, that is. The truth is, it shocked me to see how young Helen looked, even though there’s only twelve or thirteen years difference in our ages. Her smooth, pink-cheeked face, the perky butt and bouncy hair—they reminded me of how much I resent younger women. Doesn’t matter if they’re pretty or plain, fat or skinny; in my present state I hate every woman in the world who’s younger than me.

Noel startled me out of my reverie by asking if I was still there, and I’d blurted out, “The thing is, I will never understand Emmet, and this surprise marriage of his. After Rosalyn—” My voice caught in my throat and my eyes filled, but Noel wasn’t having it.

“Stop it, Tansy,” he’d said harshly. “You’re not the only one who’s still grieving for Rosalyn, you know. All of us are.”

That was when I went too far. It’s what I’ve been doing lately, pushing him to the limit. I know I do it, but can’t seem to stop myself. With a snarl, I said, “Oh, yeah, right. Grief sure didn’t stop Emmet from finding someone else, did it?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Noel’d hung up on me before I could retract my hateful words. I’m not sure I would have, anyway. Until this sudden marriage of his, Emmet—the grieving widower—had my unwavering sympathy. Kit and I had worried about him for months after Rosalyn died, and we’d made a point of checking on him every day. The three of us would cling to one another for comfort when he broke down. And break down he did, in the worst kind of way. Only a few days after Rosalyn’s funeral, Emmet had ended up in Emory University Hospital with some pretty scary symptoms. Then a few months later, he’d worked himself into such a state of exhaustion that he landed in the hospital yet again. Following that had been the nights—and yes, days—of heavy drinking, the most destructive of all. We were actually relieved when Emmet decided his only hope was a change of scenery. First he sold the fabulous home that Rosalyn’s parents had given them as a wedding gift, then he decided to relocate. Although none of us wanted Emmet to move from Atlanta, or to leave CNN where he’d made such a name for himself, we had no choice but to support his decision to do so. Otherwise, our group seemed to be in danger of losing him and Rosalyn both.

God, that was such an awful period of time, those first weeks after the accident! Looking back, I’m not sure that any of us handled it well. Sudden deaths, I think, are the hardest. As difficult as it is to see a loved one suffer from some horrible disease, at least we have time to prepare ourselves for losing them. And we can accept the loss better, I think. Both my mother and Noel’s had died of cancer, and our fathers of heart failure, but they were older, their deaths more in the natural order of things. Rosalyn had only been fifty-five when her car skidded on ice and plunged down a mountain. It’s been over a year ago now, yet I still can’t believe that she’s gone. I’m always reaching for the phone to call her, to tell her some stupid story about my stupid life. Kit’s even worse. Not too long ago, she scared the crap out of me one night, banging on my door in hysterics. It was after midnight, and she’d driven all the way from Highlands to my flat. A dream about Rosalyn had upset her so badly that she’d gotten up, dressed, and driven to Atlanta. She stayed for only a few days that time; after Rosalyn’s funeral she’d been here for several weeks because she couldn’t stand to be alone.

In retrospect, I think that we should have joined forces to keep Emmet from leaving Atlanta so hastily. If only he hadn’t taken that job in Fort Lauderdale! It was a step down for him, if nothing else. He’d had offers from all over, even the big networks in New York. In his younger years, Emmet had been ambitious enough to give consideration to each of them, though we knew he’d turn them down. A born-and-bred Atlanta belle, Rosalyn didn’t want to live anywhere else. And why should she? She and Emmet were the golden couple, the undisputed royalty of an elite social scene that Rosalyn had reigned over since her debut into society. Rosalyn Harmon Justice was everything us lesser beings aspired to be. She came from an old family so well-off that Moonrise was a mere summer home for them. Classically beautiful, with a rare, old-fashioned charm, she also had a rugged, hotshot husband, and an adorable daughter whose trophy case overran with the blue ribbons she’d won with her show horses. For many years, Rosalyn was the envy of every woman in Atlanta.

I’d never tell Noel this, but despite my mean-spirited remarks about Helen, I can’t help but feel sorry for the girl. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, even though Emmet Justice is one of the most attractive men I’ve ever known (and that’s saying a lot). I know for a fact that he’s not an easy person to live with. Emmet even admits it himself. He’s hard-nosed and opinionated, with such a sharp tongue he can tear you to shreds before you realize what’s happened. I’m sure he’s fully capable of giving a woman’s heart the same treatment. I adore Emmet; we all do, but he’s not anything like Linc, the dearest man on earth. Or Noel, who might be a maddening pissant, but is also disgustingly nice, as even I have to admit. No, Emmet would be thrilling to bed, but not to wed. I love him, but I wouldn’t want to be in love with him, and I pity the woman who is.

IF MY BED wasn’t so cozy and warm, and my eyelids weren’t so heavy, I’d get up again to see if the lights are still off at Moonrise. Every night since we’ve been here, it’s been the same. The Bride gets up from the bed she shares with her new husband, then slips downstairs in the dark. I know this because she always turns on a small lamp in the room that she’s using as her office, writing that little heart-healthy cookbook of hers ( just as I predicted!). One night recently, I watched her lamp come on, then suddenly the stairwell lit up. I couldn’t really see him, but I knew the figure moving on the stairs was Emmet coming down to check on her. I don’t care what Noel says about my spying; I’m convinced something’s not right between them.

I haven’t mentioned the strange goings-on at Moonrise to anyone else. Not yet, anyway. Kit would be terribly interested, I know, but I can’t bear to do or say anything that might upset her more than she’s been lately. She’s having a harder time with Emmet’s remarriage than the rest of us are, which is understandable considering how close she and Rosalyn were. All of us are close, but Kit and Rosalyn had a deeper bond because they’d been raised together. They were childhood friends, then roommates at Agnes Scott College. Kit is Annie’s godmother, and Annie like the daughter she never had. And no question, she’s loved Emmet like a brother for all these years. To her, this too-sudden marriage is an insult to his daughter and a betrayal of Rosalyn’s memory.

Kit might have accepted Emmet’s new wife more graciously had it not been for what happened soon after the marriage, which she recounted to Noel and me. The marriage hit her hard, but to her credit, Kit called Emmet immediately to wish him well, as soon as he broke the news to us. She’d like to come to Fort Lauderdale to meet Helen, she told Emmet, and could arrange to do so during her upcoming trip to Coral Gables. Emmet had responded enthusiastically (or as enthusiastically as Mr. Cool can), and told Kit that he’d check with Helen. By the time he got around to calling her back with some lame excuse or the other, Kit’s trip had come and gone.

Kit was hurt, and shared her concerns with me. She couldn’t help but wonder if Emmet’s new wife was to blame. What if she was trying to keep Emmet away from us, his nearest and dearest? After all, Annie didn’t even meet Helen until several weeks after the marriage. Both of us knew women like that, Kit reminded me, jealous of their husbands’ affection for others. Even when we heard that the newlyweds were coming to Highlands for the summer, Kit still worried. “I still wonder,” she told me. “First they’d given us a definite no, then Helen finds that photo album of Rosalyn’s. After that, she changed her mind. That bothers me.” Then Kit added, “We don’t know anything about this woman, Tansy! After seeing the pictures of Moonrise, she might be looking for a way to get her hands on Rosalyn’s inheritance.”

We went back and forth a bit about the trust, and how surely it was set up for the inheritance to go to Rosalyn’s heirs, not whomever Emmet might marry should he survive her. Kit wasn’t so sure, and since she’d had plenty of experience with trusts, I didn’t argue. No point in getting her all stirred up over something out of our control, anyway.

One thing I won’t say to Kit: If the Bride has set her sights on Moonrise, no one can blame her. It’s one of the grand summer estates of the Highlands area, which is saying plenty. A lot of landed gentry “summer” in the Highlands-Cashiers area, so there are some spectacular homes here. What makes Moonrise so special is its history as one of the first, and the way Rosalyn preserved its unique character. She became an expert in all things Victorian, then turned the whole place into a museum and showplace. The work she put into those weird old gardens was just plain mind-boggling. I’m a devoted gardener, too, but nothing like she was. A crew of professionals kept up the yards at their Atlanta house, but not at Moonrise. Rosalyn wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.

Actually, the preservation of Moonrise ended up being the driving force of Rosalyn’s life. She insisted that everything stay as it had been for generations, since her great-grandfather built the place, a replica of their home in England. I was the one who talked her into installing a dishwasher, for God’s sake. And Emmet, who indulged her in everything else, refused to spend another night there until the claw-foot tub was replaced with a shower. Eventually he came to resent the place because it was such a financial drain, even with Rosalyn’s considerable family money. In a house like Moonrise, a restoration expert is necessary for every little repair, and old houses require constant work. Since Rosalyn has been gone, the place has gone down drastically. I don’t know how Emmet will ever keep it. But he can’t sell it, either.

I doze off thinking about Moonrise, and Rosalyn’s obsession with it. Funny, the other night when we all went over to Moonrise for drinks and to meet the Bride, I asked her how she liked the place. She became so animated that it took me by surprise, considering what a skittish little thing she is. It was exactly the way Rosalyn had looked when she got on the subject of Moonrise. Helen’s eyes took on that same feverish glow, and her voice grew breathless with excitement. Something about that spooky old place casts a spell on its occupants, evidently.

Maybe the spell is cast by the spirits who dwell there. Moonrise is haunted, I have no doubt. Rosalyn joked about hearing strange noises and seeing shadowy figures, but it’s no joking matter to me. Because everyone thinks I’m crazy, anyway, some things I keep to myself. I’ll never tell any of them what happened to convince me.

Until this summer, I’d only been back to Moonrise once since the week after we buried Rosalyn’s ashes. Kit and I had taken it on ourselves to put Rosalyn’s things away, both at the Atlanta house and at Moonrise. We couldn’t bear the thought of Emmet and Annie seeing her clothes hanging forlornly in the closet, or the personal items she left on her dressing table. As painful as the task was, we did it methodically and thoroughly, with little discussion. Following Emmet’s instructions, we donated a truckload of stuff to charity, kept a few mementos for ourselves, then stored the rest in the attic for Annie to go through at a later date. The attic at Moonrise is so creepy looking, Kit and I were anxious to do what had to be done and get the hell out of there. Leaving, Kit told me she’d never set foot in that attic again, and I had no intention of doing so, either.

As I was putting away some of my mementos, however, I realized I’d left the one that meant the most to me, a sunhat I’d decorated with flowers from her garden. Those suckers had taken me forever to dry, but Rosalyn had loved the hat. I’d spotted it with the summer things in the attic’s cedar closet, but forgotten to get it. I asked Willa to fetch it next time she was there, but she kept forgetting it as well. (Which made me wonder if the attic spooked her, too, though she’d never admit it.) If I wanted the hat, I’d have to get it myself.

Which is what I went to Moonrise to do, one sunny afternoon in late spring. I was also missing Rosalyn and longing for a connection to her. The Atlanta house, grand and elegant as it was, never had that. “Let’s walk up to Moonrise,” I said to Noel, but he waved me off. It’d be too depressing, he said, which was the last thing I needed. I didn’t relish going alone, but wouldn’t have asked Kit to accompany me even if she’d been around at the time. Like Noel, Kit would’ve refused.

After retrieving the key from the most obvious place imaginable, one of the stone planters flanking the front door, I let myself in and ran up the stairs before I chickened out. At the top of the landing was the door to the attic, so I didn’t even have to go down the dark hallway. Without glancing that way, I flicked on the light switch and marched fearlessly up the steep attic steps. Because of the eaves and slanted ceilings, the attic was dark and dreary even with an overhead light, but I reminded myself how Rosalyn pooh-poohed the notion of Moonrise being haunted. All old houses have strange noises. Even so, I dared not look around as I made straight for the cedar closet, grabbed the hat from its hook, and started back to the stairwell leading to the landing.

And that’s when it happened. Wham! The door at the foot of the stairs slammed shut, and I let out a scream bloodcurdling enough to scare away the most frightful of spirits. I’d probably still be standing there if I hadn’t convinced myself that I’d purposefully left the front door open, and strong breezes tended to whip up the mountain from the lake. Fortunately I didn’t stop to wonder why a breeze would climb the stairs, blow the attic door shut, and leave the front door open; I just got down those stairs as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me. Safely on the landing, I leaned against the door clutching Rosalyn’s sunhat like a talisman, then remembered I’d left the attic lights on.

Only one thing to do. Sitting atop an ornate table on the landing was an old Victorian vase, ugly as sin and twice as heavy, which I used as a doorstop. A hurricane couldn’t move that thing, I told myself as I scampered back up the stairs. Just as I reached the top and turned off the lights, wham! The door slammed shut again, except this time the slam was preceded by another sound—the scrape of a vase against a wooden floor.

I almost busted my butt getting down the dark stairs, but not in fear like the time before. I was mad as hell. It had to be Noel, playing a trick on me, I thought as I flung the door open. Sure enough, the vase had been moved to the side, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure disappearing down the main staircase. I keep myself in good shape and can move pretty fast, but I wasn’t fast enough. Halfway down the staircase, I knew it was futile. No one was there, despite what I thought I saw. No one but me was in the dark, empty house, nor was anyone running down the driveway, laughing gleefully at having tricked me.

I knew then, as I know now, that no earthly presence slammed the attic door on me that day. Moonrise is haunted. And it’s not a stretch to imagine Rosalyn as a ghost, returning to walk the halls of the place she loved so much. Before I convinced myself otherwise, I blamed Noel for scaring me that day, but it certainly could have been Rosalyn. She might’ve been having a little fun with me, or trying to let me know she was still around. I can’t help but wonder if the Bride has seen her, or if she senses her presence. If the idea weren’t so sad, it’d be rather deliciously gothic.

Something hits me and I sit straight up in bed, wide awake now. I wonder if Emmet has told his new wife that the gardens where Rosalyn spent so many happy hours are also her final resting place. Not only does Rosalyn’s spirit still dwell there, her ashes are part of the grounds she once trod. Does the Bride have any idea that she shares Moonrise with her predecessor, and quite literally, too?

Then an even more troubling thought arises, one I suppress each time it comes up. The rest of us do the same—or so I assume, since no one will talk about it. Will we ever know what really happened on the night Rosalyn died? It was early March, but still winter here in the mountains. Without letting any of us—even Kit—know what she was doing, Rosalyn left Atlanta late one afternoon to come to Moonrise. That in itself was strange enough, but what she did once she got here remains the true mystery. For some unknown reason, Rosalyn left Moonrise that same night, even though it was snowing and the roads iced over, to drive back to Atlanta. Why? Driving so late on dangerous, curvy roads was completely out of character for her. Until that fateful night, she had never done such a foolish thing. It torments me, and always will: Why did Rosalyn come to Moonrise so impulsively, and what on earth scared her away once she got there?