The Last Will of Moira Leahy (12 page)

I tried to tamp down my concern when I saw her eyes light with a hint of the devious. “Thanks,” I said, then returned her wicked smile. “I left your present at home. I’m sure you’ll find it without any problem.”

There wasn’t much fuss over the
keris
after all. The woman at the counter said it would go through a security check. I watched my big bag and its blade disappear down a conveyor belt, and then I turned to Kit. “You’ll remember to feed Sam?”

“Who’s Sam? Just kidding!” she said when my eyes bugged. “Yes, I promise to take care of your cat.”

“You’ll have to actually go home to feed him. Don’t set him up with a tube and some gross liquid food. Don’t let him wander out of any wide-open front doors. And don’t stuff him into any dresses, either. His girlfriends wouldn’t like it.”

She surprised me with a hard hug. “Love you,” she whispered. “Get the hell out of the country already.”

I turned to Dad and hugged him.

“Have fun, Mayfly.”

Oh, Daddy
.

Everything became a blur of waiting until, finally, I boarded the plane, and, finally, it lifted into the sky. Clouds lay outside my window, beside me and then under me as sunlight streamed in my eyes. Other people closed their shades, but I couldn’t bring myself to surrender a second of the experience.

When a flight attendant came by with snacks, I remembered Kit’s present, the details about the hotel. Inside the bag were a box of chocolates and a sepia print card picturing a woman taking a leap. I opened the card and found a scrawled note with the name of a hotel and these cryptic words:

Tall, dark, and handsome will meet you at baggage claim. Smile pretty
.

My heart skipped several beats as I realized just what she meant. And then I ate all of the chocolate.

Out of Time

Castine, Maine

SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2000

Moira and Maeve are sixteen

A chill settled over Castine in late September. The winds blew harsh, and Daddy banned boating until spring. The cold bit through the old walls of their home in new ways as well. Poppy’s health deteriorated; he seemed unable to recognize any of them. Daddy worked more than ever, traveling to find new business as their medical bills increased. Mom cried a lot. Both Maeve and Moira took part-time jobs to help—Maeve with a boating-supply store and Moira at a bookshop.

It was through the bookstore’s owner that Moira discovered Franz Liszt, a composer and pianist who injected his music with romance and humanity. At home, she struggled with his difficult sheet music, slowly keying notes for right hand alone.

“I can play the melody on the sax if you want,” Maeve said one evening as Moira struggled with “Liebestraum No.
3.”

“I’d rather do it alone, thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Moira kept a close watch on her sister, but only once did she spy Maeve walking with Ian near the docks. After, she felt so hurt, so angry, and so unwilling to discuss those feelings that she blocked Maeve. Weird, but the sense of isolation she’d once loathed felt to her now like a cocoon of safety.

That night, their mother begged them to try a card trick for Poppy—something that had always made him smile. They tried, and failed.

“I was holding a three of clubs, didn’t you know?” Maeve asked.

“No.”

“Why are you blocking me?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Kit approached her the next day at school. “Why are you mad at Maeve?”

“It’s private.”

“Is it because of my brother?”

“No,” she lied and walked away.

At night, Moira sometimes saw Ian’s shadow through the shade covering his window; he paced a lot. At school, too, he seemed restless. If only she had a single, golden opportunity, she could make him happy.
She
had liked Ian long before Maeve had taken him seriously, after all. Shouldn’t she have a chance with him first?

She opened
Jane Eyre
and read the passage she felt so intimately now:
Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart!
She would prove it. She had to prove it. Somehow she would.

Two weeks later, she slipped a note into Ian’s locker.

I need to see you. Meet me outside at midnight when my parents
and sister have gone to sleep. Don’t tell anyone, and don’t try to
talk to me about it before then. I’ll just play dumb if you do. Just
meet me
.

—Maeve

The Second Will
NOEL

YOU DO NOT TRAVEL IF YOU ARE AFRAID OF THE UNKNOWN, YOU TRAVEL FOR THE UNKNOWN, THAT REVEALS YOU WITH YOURSELF
.

—
E
LLA
M
AILLART

CHAPTER NINE

FAR AND AWAY

O
ne stop in Newark and more than a dozen hours later, I stepped off the airplane to a frenzy of shouts and hand gestures. Around me, people scattered, to the turnstile or down brightly lit corridors teeming with other travelers. Overhead, announcements made in Italian—about planes boarding, planes delayed, planes arriving—flooded my ears, and even I had trouble understanding because the words spilled so fast. A group of giggling Americans clasped their translation dictionaries and clunkered through a phrase about ordering pizza as a couple ran by—
“Su, sbrigati, perderemo il volo di coincidenza!”
—late for their flight.

Great Zeus—err, Jupiter! I pinched myself. Rome!

For a second, I thought I saw a little girl with red hair standing beside a revolving door. Then she was gone.

Think about where you are. Don’t do this now
.

Right. I inserted my Visa into a nearby machine, and it spit out euros so colorful they felt like play money in my hand. I dashed into a gift shop to pick up a tourist’s guidebook and some other essentials, then took my purchases and stood—well, paced—beside the turnstile to wait for my luggage … and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

After so many months, I would see Noel. Noel, who’d been weirdly out of touch. Noel, who’d been a touchstone for me since my undergrad years at Betheny U. Back then, Kit and I were fresh escapees of Maine, entrenched in school and needing to prove we could make it alone. Noel sat beside me one day in French class, and I swear we recognized something in each other from moment one—some invisible badge that attracted others who’d had their hearts trampled early and utterly. He’d accepted me as I was and taken only what I could offer. At first, it wasn’t much. Smiles. Jokes. A walk. The occasional movie when I couldn’t study anymore. Hot chocolate at the shop. Someone who grew to know me well, who didn’t know me from Before.

What a blessed relief to keep everything so neatly compartmentalized. The After Maeve without music could still function and make friends. She excelled in school and didn’t think much about her former plans or even have time for that. She was so much better off grounded.

I reset my watch to 8:30 a.m., though it felt like the middle of the night to my body. Noel was forty-five minutes late. It struck me then that I’d assumed a lot: that Kit’s note meant she’d actually spoken with him, that she’d told him the right time and place to meet me, and that he’d find me.

I tried to calm my nerves by perusing the new guidebook. Small squares lay spread across the city—Piazza Barberini, Piazza della Rotonda, Piazza delle Coppelle—and so many museums, cathedrals, places to eat. The muted sounds of “Harlem Nocturne” kicked up a notch as I scanned a map of Trastevere, home to Empu Sri Putra. Why had he followed me, given me that book, asked me to remember?
Eling
. What did he know about my
keris?

“Scusi,”
a woman said, brushing past me.

The bags were in; I spied my blue beast on the conveyor. I made to grab it, but another hand got there first.

“Hey!” I spun around, and there was Noel, smiling at me. He set my bag down beside us.

“Rome’s full of relics,” he said with his hint-of-British voice. “You didn’t have to bring your own.”

Memories of a night so many months ago rushed back at me: opening a second bottle of Shiraz; me calling him a ninny, explaining that the word was derived from the Latin
innocens;
his hilariously garbled expression as he called me sozzled; me denying it, announcing that I was high on life; snugging my cheek against him to say good night; the almost kiss.

Is it me, Maeve? Or is It … just?

Just. Just
.

“You’re really here,” I said.

“I really am. And so are you.” He kissed me, quick on the mouth, then laughed at my speechlessness. “My chariot awaits,” he said, with a little jerk of his head. “Unless you’d like to go and stand outside for a while, maybe work up a good taxi-fume high.”

“Tempting,” I said, recovering myself, “but I think I’d like to get out of here.”

We settled my luggage in the trunk of a white car with an official-looking light on top, and got inside. The cab lurched onto the roadway.

“Sorry I was late,” he said in a low voice. “Cabbie went to the wrong airport. Not the brightest bulb on top of this heap.”

We laughed almost giddily. The whole situation seemed surreal. We were together, in Rome! I looked him over, took in his dark jeans and coffee-colored sports coat. Had I ever seen him look so comfortable? “You look great!”

“Well you look
bloody
great,” he said.

I remembered my baggy sweater, the faded jeans, and tucked wayward strands of hair behind my ears. “No, I’m a wreck.”

“Who’s looking at you?”

He
was, all right—until the cab bucked and nearly sent us both through the windshield.

“Told you,” Noel mouthed. “No seat belts, either.”

I gripped the vinyl. “Where are you coming from?” I asked. “Tell me everything.”

“Paris. Hang on.” He leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie, gave him the address of my hotel. I interrupted him.

“Would you mind if we stopped at Sri Putra’s first? I’m anxious to see him. Sorry, I thought Kit would’ve said,” I explained, when his thick brows bunched. “I’m here to take a
keris
to see an
empu
. Sri Putra.”

“An
empu
here in Rome? A Roman
empu
. You came for a
keris?”

“What did you think?” I asked, hyperaware that our darting cab had become the vehicular equivalent of a hummingbird.

“My grandfather called yesterday with a message from Kit and the name of a hotel. ‘Merry Christmas. Maeve needs you. Meet her in Rome, 7:45 a.m., Fiumicino Airport.’ Over and out.”

“Well, I do need you. You can help me.” It was the wrong thing to say—that was clear from the quick retreat of his every expression. “And of course I’m happy to see you again! C’mon!”

I pulled Sri Putra’s card from my pocket and read it to the driver, and he spun us onto a roadway we’d nearly passed. I bumped into Noel as I slid across the seat.

“So,” I said, inching back to my side. “You were in Paris?”

“Yes,” he said. “Paris.”

“Did you find her? Is your mother in Paris?”

“No.” He laughed humorlessly and turned to stare out the window. “At least I don’t think so.”

“I thought maybe you’d been out of touch because you’d been with her, you know, catching up or—”

“I’ve been busy, Maeve. Scouting antiques, taking day trips.”

“No luck at all then?”

“No. No luck.”

And then I stopped pushing, because our driver turned into a suicidal-homicidal maniac. Alarm spindled through me as he weaved ever faster between cars. I tried to say, “Slow down!”—
Rallenti, per carità!—
but my tongue was too busy cowering in the back of my mouth to form words.

MY KNUCKLES LOOKED
as bleached as my hair by the time we jerked to a stop alongside a gold-washed building with black shutters. Beside the entrance, a flag bearing basil, ripe tomato, and mozzarella-cheese stripes rippled from a long pole.

“Let’s have him wait for us,” Noel suggested, after the cabbie stepped out to remove our luggage.

“Let’s not,” I replied, opening the door. I pulled the smaller of my bags from the trunk as the cabbie dragged out Goliath. Before he could retrieve Noel’s sleek black valise, though, my friend stopped him.

“Wait for us,” Noel said. A scar near one of the cabbie’s eyes puckered in confusion, but then Noel handed him a wad of bills and the driver smiled.
“Per favore.”

I tried logic. “We might be a while.” Lowered my voice. “What if he takes off with your stuff?”

“He didn’t at the airport. Come on, Maeve. What if we can’t find another cab? I don’t want to carry that thing around the city.” He glanced at my bag. I grunted as I hoisted it onto my shoulder, grabbed my smaller case, too. “You’re being a little paranoid,” he said, which shut me right up.

We stepped inside, into a foyer that smelled of stale bread. I spied two narrow halls, a broken light, and a stairwell that led to darkness.

“Exactly how I’d expect an
empu
to live,” Noel muttered.

I ignored him, though admittedly this interior didn’t jive with what I knew of the artsy and well-kept homes in Trastevere. “Look for apartment forty-seven. It should be on this level.”

It didn’t take long. We turned a corner and found a door bearing three nails, a few notes, and more wood scars than I could count. Number 47. I knocked, waited. When I knocked again, the door creaked opened. I heard a tinkling noise, bells or chimes. “Empu Putra?” I called. “Hello?”

“The lock’s dead,” Noel said, indicating severe damage to the wooden frame near the handle and around the latch. “We should go.”

“Maybe.” Scent made me do it, a rich spice that drifted from the room, a fragrant match to my silk bookmark. I pushed at the door, stepped across the threshold as Noel tried to grab my arm, missed.

Inside, dozens of puppets made of golden metal, leather, and wood hung from the high ceiling, their bodies cloaked in tribal costumes—painted skirts, headgear, and thick collars dotted with red and blue faux gems. Skinny brass tubes dangled from the figures’ thin hands like ski poles.

“We can’t stay here,” Noel said behind me, but I knew by his awed tone that he wasn’t eager to leave, either.

In one corner, a foot-long bronze lion sat beside a large metallic bell and a miniature temple. Along the wall, a triad of shelves bowed, overstuffed with a variety of wooden human figures—small, large, regal, and wild.

A curtain of hot air poured from a ceiling vent, tickling strands of wooden and metallic spheres into music. I walked through it, and into another room covered in relief panels—carved pictures depicting kings and queens and forest animals, wide-eyed villains, battles and victories. Propped against one of the panels stood an instrument with a long, slender neck, three strings, and a skinny pot at its end. I leaned toward it, curious over its sound, but stopped short.

There, on a carved armchair, lay the straight
keris
whose bold oval pattern I’d last observed in a case at Time After Time.
Jackpot
, I thought, just before a reverberating crash sounded out in the other room.

“Christ!” Noel said. “Are you the
empu?”

“Empu?”
Deep sardonic laughter filled the air.
“No. No. Non sono empu. Eppure, questo è il mio edifizio. Lei trapassa!”

The landlord, not the
empu
. And yes,
trapassa
, we were trespassing.

“Sorry, then.
Scusi
. We’ll go.” Though I doubted Noel had understood every word, he’d comprehended enough: time to leave.

I crossed, tentatively, back into the room to find Noel restoring a tipped bronze gong. A man, tall and with a thick head of unruly black hair, stood beside him in a posture of intimidation, and when he turned his head, his eyes laser-focused on me. Handsome. Dark. Ageless as a Roman god.

“Non bastano mai.” A
grimace formed around his lips. I noticed he gripped a small sledgehammer, that his fingers were tightening around it.
“La velocità non basta mai. Non basta mai la buona sorte.”
Never enough speed, never enough luck.

I spoke quickly in Italian, told him we were looking for Sri Putra, the
empu
.

“Lei dovrebbe cercare me.”
His eyes tracked my body, my face, my bag.
“Non lui. Me.”
You should be looking for me. Not him. Me.

“What did he say? Translate.” Noel’s eyes fixed on the man whose words had confused me into silence, and his voice carried a rare edge when he spoke, made me think not much had been lost on him. “Do you speak English? Does Putra live here or doesn’t he?”

“He does,” I said, thinking of the
keris
. “I just found—”

“I understand your language.” The Italian seemed to hover over Noel, though he was only an inch taller. “You do not know mine? That is too bad.
Chi va dicendo che io non sono Putra?”

“Who says you’re not Putra?” I repeated his question for Noel’s benefit, then answered it.
“You
said you weren’t the
empu.”

The man bowed grandly at the waist, tucking in one arm but lifting the other so high behind him that the sledge struck the gong and filled the room with a hollow peal. “It is true. I am no
empu
. Merely a man and a fool.
Il tempo dirà quant’è scemo. Il tempo dirà quant’è bravo.”
Time will tell how big a fool. Time will tell how big a man.

I didn’t know what to say to that, was too busy trying to figure the guy out. Beautiful as Noel, but bizarre, a puzzle. He seemed to enjoy my confusion, smiling to reveal a line of straight, white teeth.

“We’re looking for Sri Putra,” I repeated, handing him the
empu’s
business card. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”