Devil Moon
Authors: Dana Taylor
Devil Moon: A Mystic Romance
By
Dana Taylor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are products of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Supernal Friends Publishing
Copyright© 2005 by Dana Taylor
Copyright© 2010 at Barnes&Noble by Dana Taylor
All Rights Reserved
Originally published as
That Devil Moon
in Trade Paperback by Echelon Press ISBN 1-59080-344-2
What Reviewers say about
Devil Moon
Romance Designs
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You won’t get away from this read without chuckling…whether it’s from Phil’s wicked sense of humor, his daughter’s little, unknown facts or the crazy antics that happen in Beaver Cove…. The secondary characters were absolutely outstanding. Randy Bailey, Maddie’s gay best-friend and Melissa are hilarious. Grammy Harris tells it like it is and backwoods neighbor/student, Reba, is a quiet jewel. All-in-all, a delightful story.
****
Romance Junkies
Ms. Taylor's DEVIL MOON is a wonderful book that you will want to read over and over again. Maddie and Phil are two confident and secure adults who happen to, at the same time, fall off kilter for one moment of mad passion. In their reality at school they bicker and argue like an old married couple. Phil can't help but want to shatter Ms. Harris' picture perfect exterior. Maddie can't believe that the muscle bound football coach does everything to needle her, get under her skin and then expects her to be nice to him. With the help of two very unusual entities, these two find each other at every turn. I enjoyed watching them fight their growing attraction and looked forward to the moment when they discovered that the other was the fabulous one night stand that they had indulged in. DEVIL MOON will give you a dose of moon madness and is a very enjoyable read.
Prologue
It’s that old Devil Moon that you stole from the skies
It’s that old Devil Moon in your eyes
from “ Finian’s Rainbow”
It was hormone hell Saturday. She'd felt it building all week. The time when the gentle streams of chemicals in her blood turned into a raging flood of estrogen, swelling her breasts, swirling her emotions.
After a small bottle of wine, a large chocolate bar (with nuts), a piece of cake, and three Loretta Young movies, Madeleine Woodbridge Harris was still wide awake and edgy. She hit the remote, bringing silence into her cozy living room, crossed the carpet and looked through the picture window toward the lake. Dousing the lights, she stared at the glistening water reflecting the enormous summer moon.
It beckoned seductively,
Come to me…
Drumming her fingers on the windowsill, she said out loud, "Jeez, I'm turning into some kind of hormonal she-wolf, drawn by the full moon."
Then again, she thought, a swim might relieve some of the tension, take away the gnawing sadness.
Once outside, she grabbed Grammy's beach quilt that hung on the porch swing next to the back door. Grammy had quilts for all occasions and circumstances, made from every scrap assortment imaginable.
Even now with Grammy gone a year, Maddie could hear that Arkansas twang. "Little sister, things is made to be used. Don't be making my quilts into museum pieces when I'm gone. You make 'em part of your life."
So, hugging the beach quilt, a little tipsy from the wine, she padded across the meadow, a willowy figure seeking relief on a hot Ozark night. Clear lake water lapped the bank. Rhythmic waves sloshed a steady beat. Hidden spots of paradise dotted these hills she now called home. She'd come from up north during Grammy's last days and never wanted to leave.
Flinging the quilt on the coarse sand, she stripped off her blouse, shorts and shoes. Her breasts seemed to take on a life of their own, pulsing and swollen. Aching in constriction, she released the bra clasp at her sternum.
Ah, free at last.
The panties went next and lastly the clip that confined her silky honey blond hair. Tumbling soft curls tangled across white shoulders.
Arms raised, she reached for the moon. Woozy-wine thoughts floated by.
Free from clothes, free from rules. Just a few moments of freedom…
The warm evening breeze kissed her skin as she walked to the water's edge. Cool liquid on hot skin. Simmering desire swirled around her like hovering fog on the lake. She was Eve, Lady Godiva, and Delilah all rolled into one. Basic, elemental woman.
The moon smiled at her, whispering again,
Come to me.
She sank into the pebbly water seeking the arms of a phantom lover.
* * *
Phil Wilcox was having a shitty night. A rambunctious party going on in the apartment across the pool spilled out into the main courtyard. His teeth gnashed at the splashing, music, and laughing. Sitting in his leather recliner in the dark, with only the illumination of the ever-undulating mood lamp, he tapped his fist on the armrest. His sparsely furnished bachelor pad offered little diversion. He hadn't bothered to hook up cable yet, and local TV at this hour consisted of infomercials and loud Southern preachers.
Resentment poured through him as he relived the phone conversation with his ex-wife from seven hours earlier.
In the little girly voice he once found endearing, but now churned his stomach, Pam said, "She isn't coming, Phil."
"Why the hell not?"
"Don't get pissy with me or I'll hang up. She has a slumber birthday party for her best friend. These things are very important to eleven year olds."
Phil bit back his irritation. "Why didn't you tell me about this before now?"
"Oh, I'm sure I did."
"I'm sure you did not!" He tried to take a reasonable tone. "Okay, so are we making the visitation up next weekend?"
"Can't. I've got my family reunion next weekend. You wouldn't want her to miss that, would you? I really gotta go, Phil."
He hung up and thought about calling his lawyer. Again. But the damn court system didn't give a rat's ass about his lost visitation. He'd been through it too many times.
Another long night of paying for past sins yawned before him. At least he wasn't ten years younger when he would have screamed obscenities into the phone and gone out and gotten drunk.
Now it was three-fucking-o'clock in the morning and he felt as restless as a caged bear. In the old days he would have been in a pleasant, boozy haze by now. Probably passed out on the couch. Nights like this he missed the good old, bad old days.
A riotous female shriek pierced his walls, followed by the sound of a big, loud splash. The goddamn party was going to go on all night. He stood and ran his fingers across his short-cropped hair.
He shrugged and mumbled, "What the hell, might as well go fishing."
* * *
Phil steered his beloved 1981 Buick Skylark Convertible up the curving mountain road. At least Pam hadn’t gotten
that
in the divorce settlement. He turned onto a dirt road leading to the lake. He liked to explore, find new places to throw his line. A buddy had told him about Lake Luna, nestled ten miles from town in the hills. He stopped his car, thinking he could see water beyond the brush and trees. Getting out, he heard the slapping of small waves. Close, definitely close.
Looking up, he marveled at the brightness of the moon, made out the dark craters on the surface. Damned, if it didn't resemble a wizened face. White light circled the orb, then arced into space. He stood mesmerized, hypnotized.
Thought he heard someone whisper his name, beckoning,
This way, Phil…
He shook his head. "Get a grip, Wilcox. Next, you'll be talking to the Man in the Moon."
He opened his trunk and grabbed his rod and tackle box. Inhaling the pungent, lakeside air, he spied reflected light on water through the bushes. His feet crunched twigs and leaves as he pushed through branches, drawn to the surface of glistening silver on black.
Oh man, he needed this bad. One night away from complaints, responsibility and guilt. He wore guilt like an invisible cloak. Invisible, but heavy as iron chains.
Maybe he could stare at that huge moon and get lost in it, forget his sins—just for a few minutes. Phil blinked. A shaft of moonbeams glowed like a laser, showing him the way. Optical illusion, no doubt. Still, he followed, the smallest glimmer of excitement warming his belly.
Maddie had risen out of the water, the liquid sluicing down her slender body as she padded up the bank. The beauty of the night, the melancholy breezy rustle of the leaves brought an ache to her entire being. Alcohol erased all her inhibitions, plunging her into a wave of drowning emotion.
A schizophrenic conversation whirled in her mind.
"Oh, God I'm lonely. I want to wrap my arms around someone warm and wonderful."
"Don't be silly. You don't need anyone. You're a self-reliant woman. It's just your hormones."
"Shut up! I'm tired of always blaming my hormones for feeling bad. This ache in the pit of my stomach is more than hormones. I want more, I want someone…"
"Oh, just go onto bed. I hate it when you whine."
A rising tide of tears rose in her throat. "I hate it, too. I can't help it."
"Fine, cry all you want. Nobody's watching."
Sitting on Grammy's quilt, she pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. She stopped the mental gyrations and gave in to the emotion. Big, salty drops washed down her cheeks. Her eyes squeezed tight; her throat choked, holding back racking sobs. High-pitched squeaks bubbled from her diaphragm.
Drip, drip, drip. Not nearly there yet. A few crocodile tears weren't going to do it.
Oh, Lord, I'm going into a full-blown crying jag
.
She laid back on the cottony surface, flinging one arm over her eyes. High-pitched mewling followed the erratic contractions of her lungs. She gave in entirely, moaning like a wounded animal.
She sobbed, she wailed.
Wash it all away. Wipe away the humiliation. Forget the betrayal.
Her shoulders heaved in full-bodied crying frenzy. Riding the teary tide, she peaked and rode the wave down to the shallows. Quieter tears trickled.
Rational thoughts splintered into cutting fragments and then dissolved entirely. Her brain dozed as her body still wept, curled into a fetal position. Blanketed in moonlight, blue air warmed her, offering slight comfort. Still, the longing remained; the bone-deep longing for love, for connection.
Phil heard eerie, thin wailing. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He remembered the tales from his childhood of "haunts", the lost souls that wandered the earth in perpetual limbo.
