Moonlight Man (2 page)

Head tilted high, she walked away, shining bell of hair swinging just above the shoulders of her gold velvet gown, the white of the dress’s fur trim making her hair look even blacker. Marc sighed. She was so beautiful that it made him ache to look at her. One day, he promised himself, one day soon, the flashes of disdain in those obsidian eyes are going to turn to flames of passion. For me.

Jason returned just then, and he put an affectionate hand on the boy’s neatly brushed hair. “Didn’t you tell me you were going to be an usher? Maybe you could show me to my seat. It looks like there’s a wedding about to take place.”

“Are you two all ready?” Sharon asked as she poked her head into her sister’s room. Her little daughter looked like a porcelain doll in her gold velvet gown that was a replica of her own dress. Sharon beamed at her, then stared at her sister who stood before the mirror, a look of consternation on her face.

“My hair!” Jeanie wailed, poking another pin into the French roll at the back of her head, tightening one of the antique combs at the sides.

“Your hair is beautiful,” Sharon said, readjusting the little circlet of gold tinsel Jeanie had chosen for a headdress, claiming that she wouldn’t wear a veil, that she was no blushing virgin and wanted to go to Max with her eyes wide open, her vision completely unobscured. “Now turn around and let me see you.”

Jeanie turned slowly, showing off the heavy, creamy-white velvet gown. It had a low neckline trimmed with golden fur which circled up and over her shoulders, then followed the open vee down her back, revealing a smooth expanse of bare skin. It fell in elegant folds from its tightly fitted bodice to where the golden fur around the hem just brushed the tops of her shoes.

“Is Max here?” Her voice shook. Her gray eyes looked slightly wild.

“Of course he’s here, silly. Where did you think he might be, Timbuktu?”

“I’m scared, Sharon.”

Sharon gave her little sister, who stood six inches taller than she, a hug. “I know, baby, but it’ll be all right the moment you come down those stairs and see Max waiting for you. Then, you won’t be scared ever again,” she promised with deep conviction.

Jeanie stared at her. How could Sharon have such total faith that good things were bound to happen? She was a wonderful woman, this sister of hers. Bending, she kissed Sharon’s cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “I love you.”

“I know, babe. Love you too.” Then, turning to her daughter, Sharon said, “Roxy, remember how we practiced it?” Quickly, she went through the steps of what was to happen, then, with a quick flick to straighten her daughter’s already perfectly aligned dress, Sharon left, holding up the skirt of her own gown as she ran back down the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused, descending at a decorous pace.

She smiled at the assembled guests in her living room and concentrated on not meeting Marc Duval’s hot stare. As she took her stool by her harp, she spread her skirts around her and lifted her hands, feeling the golden bangles her sister had insisted she wear slide toward her elbow, tinkling as they went.
Please
, she prayed silently,
let me do this right for Jeanie
.

She began playing the “Wedding March,” her fingers whispering over the strings, finding their way almost without her guidance.

Max stood rooted, watching his Christmas angel descend the stairs. Her hair was perfect, not a wisp out of place. Her little golden crown of tinsel glittered in the lights. Reaching behind him, he lifted her bridal bouquet and placed it in her arms. The gray satin of her eyes silvered over with tears for just an instant as she stared in awe at the huge armful of golden daffodils he had given her, then lifted her face to his with a smile that nearly stopped his heart. “Hi,” she whispered, stepping from the last stair. “Have you been waiting long?”

He reached out and flicked free a few little kinks of hair so they sprang out and caught the light around her face. “Only forever,” he said, and took her arm, linking it through his, seeing the gleam of a single gold bangle on her wrist. Something old. With a smile, he stepped forward with his bride, leading her to their welcome fate.

“It was a beautiful wedding, Sharon,” Zinnie McKenzie, her sister’s new mother-in-law said as she sat down, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet on the coffee table. Then, with a guilty start, she set them on the floor again.

“Oh, for heavens sake, go ahead,” Sharon said, leaning back, kicking off her own shoes, and putting up her feet. “That’s what coffee tables are for in my house.” She took a long drink from her glass of soda water, sighed, and looked at the children’s stockings she and Max’s mother had just finished stuffing and hanging from the mantel. “I’m beat!”

“And so you should be. You did your sister proud,” Zinnie congratulated her. “A Christmas Eve wedding was a lot of work, but you came through like a trouper. And I just know those two are going to be as happy as Harry and I have been all these years.” She picked up her glass and sipped, looking at Sharon over the rim. “Now tell me, since you caught that whole whack of daffodils right smack in the face, who’s the next groom in this family?”

Sharon loved the way she and her children had been automatically included in Jeanie’s new family. What she didn’t love was the way Zinnie’s words brought a startling image to her mind, an image of a golden-haired, bearded man with shoulders no drifter should have. He had no more business infiltrating her secret thoughts than he did coming into her living room.

“Don’t look to me for an answer,” she said quickly, and forced a laugh. “My little sister threatened that she’d get me, even with her back turned, and if your friend Marian hadn’t ducked when she did, I wouldn’t have caught that bouquet. I’m beginning to suspect there was some kind of conspiracy.”

“Oh, pooh! Marian’s just as bad as you are. She ducked because she doesn’t want to be the next bride either. Her family has lived next door to us since she was a toddler. She followed my boys everywhere. For a while she thought she was a little boy, I’m sure, and since she grew up, she’s driven her mother to despair. There are literally dozens of men after her, but she can’t see them for apples. Don’t tell me you’re the same. I understand you’ve been alone for three years now.”

More than that. Much more
, Sharon could have said but did not. Instead, for reasons she didn’t understand but which she suspected had a lot to do with that mental image she couldn’t quite dispel, she shrugged and said, “I am seeing someone, but it’s still a very casual relationship. He’s a banker. You’d have met him today, but he’s away.” She shocked herself with the lie. She doubted very much that she’d have invited Lorne Cantrell to the wedding even if he’d been in town. It just seemed … expedient, somehow, to drag him into the conversation. He was the only man she’d dated for a long time.

“You’re fond of this man?”

Sharon shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Yes. I guess so. I mean, of course. He’s very … nice. He’s kind, gentle, and well bred.” Then she frowned. It sounded as if she were discussing a dog she’d seen for sale. “Why do you ask?”

Zinnie smiled. “Your face doesn’t exactly light up when you speak of him. So I wondered.”

“Maybe it’s not that kind of relationship. Yet.”

“Of course.” Zinnie patted her hand. “But tell me more about him. If you had to describe him in a word, how would you do it?”

She looked at Zinnie. What an odd question. After a moment’s thought, she said, “I guess I’d say quiet.”

Zinnie shook her head, her salt-and-pepper hair dancing around her face. “Quiet? Funny, I’d have thought at your age you’d be looking for “exciting,” rather than “quiet.”

“My age? I’m thirty-seven, Zinnie. I’ve been married.” Her face took on a pensive, unhappy cast. “I’ve had ‘excitement.’”

“Thirty-seven is still very young, my dear, but it’s your business, of course. Now tell me, who is that utterly gorgeous golden panther of a man whom Jason kept in tow all evening? The one who followed you with his eyes.”

Sharon pulled a wry face. Trust Zinnie to spot the way the man looked at her. “His name is Marc Duval.”

“Oh!” Zinnie’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “Yes. Of course. He’s the one who found Jeanie and Max in that cave. I remember meeting him the day they were rescued, and naturally we wrote him a thank-you letter. But that day he’d been dressed in grimy jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with a hunting vest over it. He certainly didn’t look like he did tonight, all sophisticated elegance—suave, debonair, perfect manners, and that delicious little hint of a French accent! He’s a honey, all right. Charm right up to his beautiful eyes. They’re more golden than brown. Did you notice?”

Did I notice? Only every time I’ve seen him. Only far too much! But Sharon was saved from having to answer as Zinnie went on:

“Where’s he from? What do you know about him?”

“Not much, but what I do know I don’t like. He moved onto the grounds of the old Harding place next door last summer and lives in a disreputable camper, which he parked right next to my patio wall. You must have seen it out there. Naturally, we met, or at least developed a nodding acquaintance. I didn’t learn his name until he came into the library one day to borrow some books. He has Jase completely captivated and begging me for guitar lessons now. Lessons from the great Duval, of course,” she added, her tone making it clear just how she felt about the situation.

Zinnie raised her brows. “Well? That’s a problem?”

Sharon sighed. “I don’t want Jason to have anything to do with”—she nearly said “him,” but changed it at the last moment—“music. I want him to be just a normal, happy little boy. I do not want him to grow up to be a musician. And Marc Duval keeps encouraging him. Why, that man is the reason Jason, and then Jeanie and Max, got lost in the first place,” she added indignantly.

“Every night the man plays one instrument or another; his harmonica, guitar, flute, whatever, and Jason loves to hear him. When he told me he was spending the night with a friend, what he intended to do instead was sneak onto the porch swing to listen to him play. So he lied to me about where he was going and to make it look good went off down the trail and spotted that rabbit. The rest is history.”

She sighed unhappily. “It’s my fault, I know. For his first seven years, Jason was exposed to music daily. He misses it. He even told me so, but I didn’t want to hear him.”

She sighed again, and there was almost a sob in her voice. “I don’t want to hear Marc Duval’s music either, but I do. It was awful in the summer. I couldn’t sit outside because he was always playing something. And now … Oh, heavens! I almost forgot! He told me he’s bought the house and is moving in. And I’ve been hoping he’d be moving on!”

Zinnie touched Sharon’s hand. “So why don’t you play for Jason if he wants to hear music so badly?” she asked gently. “It doesn’t mean he has to grow up to be a musician. But how can it hurt for him to have an appreciation of it? And you’re good, Sharon. Incredible. Today, you created a kind of magic with that harp of yours I’ve rarely heard. Your “Ode to Joy” at the end of the ceremony moved me to tears.”

Sharon gave Zinnie a quick smile. “You,” she accused, “were in tears from the moment Roxy tripped and Harry picked her up. I think half the guests were afraid that you hated the thought of losing your son to my sister.”

“Weddings always make me cry,” said Zinnie. “But never one like that. It was the most beautiful and poignant ceremony I’ve witnessed, all the more so because the bride and groom are so lucky to be alive, and we are so lucky to have them.” She stood, yawned, and stretched. She was ready for bed.

“Yes. I know.”

“So be nice to your Mr. Duval. Remember, we do have him to thank.”

“Yes,” Sharon said, getting to her feet. “Good night, Zinnie. Sleep well.”

Sharon paced around the house, still too keyed up to go to bed. In the darkened kitchen, she glanced out the window. Duval’s camper showed no lights. Often it did, far into the night, as if he slept as poorly as she did. She wished Zinnie hadn’t left her thinking about the man. She knew what they all owed Marc Duval. She’d known it now for nearly two months, and it didn’t make it any easier to deal with her jumbled feelings toward him.

She left the kitchen, hoping to leave the thoughts of him behind. The living room still smelled of the cigarettes some of the guests had smoked, and her harp stood there, calling, calling, begging her to come back to it.

“No!” she whispered, and grabbed a heavy jacket from a hook near the back door. As if the opening of her door had been a signal, the music came, soft and haunting and infinitely sad.
Silent Night
…
Holy Night
. He played his harmonica quietly, but all was not calm, not in Sharon’s heart. It pounded as she listened to the melancholy sounds. How could a carol of joy be played with such infinite sadness?

Suddenly, tears flooded her eyes and she felt them running cold down her face. She clenched her fists in her pockets, hunched her shoulders, and let the music wash over her, tear into her, cut her heart to ribbons.

“Don’t!” she said harshly, and the music came to a discordant stop. “Oh, Lord, please stop it!” She realized that she was standing before Marc Duval and had no idea how she had gotten there. He had come to his feet, had shoved his harmonica into the pocket of his leather jacket, and was staring at her. “Don’t!” she cried again, her voice breaking. “I can’t bear it another minute! Just stop torturing me, Duval! Stop!”

 
“WHAT IS IT?”
Marc demanded. “What’s wrong, Sharon?” He’d never called her by her first name, except in the conversations he made up in his head. It felt so good, he said it again with all the tenderness she evoked in him. “Sharon …” He reached out to touch one of the silver streaks tracking down her face. “Don’t cry, little Sharon.” Lord, but she was lovely by moonlight, even weeping, even angry she stirred his soul.

She gasped and flinched at his touch as if he had slapped her. Jumping back, she tripped on the edge of the concrete pad the camper sat on. She would have fallen, but he caught her around the waist and drew her hard against him.