The Last Will of Moira Leahy (17 page)

“All right, name a nice shop with reasonable prices.” I wasn’t tenured, after all. Yet.

“Mariella’s shop is close. You give her my name and she will turn you …” He kissed his fingers.

“And what if I don’t want to be—?” I made a rain shower of kissing sounds.

“Passeggiata,”
he repeated, a grave wisdom in his voice.

I lifted my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’ll go, but I have a mystery to solve first. I don’t suppose ‘Il Sotto Abbasso’ means anything to you?”

He looked around, lowered his voice. “It is secret place, in the underground.”

“Harlem Nocturne” kicked in again.

“What is it, exactly?” I asked.

“A place to dance and drink and—”

“A club?”

“Yes, a club under the ground. It is, how you say, hot.”

A club, huh. Sri Putra wanted me to go to a club? “I’d like to go there sometime, with Noel,” I said. “How do I get there?”

“It is only open on Sunday night—tomorrow. It is good luck that Mama let me have the night off. I can take you two. You would not find it without me. But first you will visit Mariella,” he continued. “You cannot wear bunny man to Il Sotto Abbasso.”

It was my turn to raise a brow. “I have some nice pants—”

“We will dance.”

“If you think I’m going to buy some sort of flowy skirt—”

“Flowy? Like flow-in-the-dark?”

I covered my mouth, but laughter burbled out.

“Go to Mariella’s,” he said. “She will fix you.”

“And you’re sure about the bunnies? Maybe just a little one?” I couldn’t help myself.

He scowled. “No bunnies.”

KEEPING NOEL’S ROBBERY
and his sensible advice in mind, I left the blade in the safe in my closet, then made my way to Mariella’s. A saleswoman in a bronze-toned belted suit and pointy shoes approached as soon as I stepped through the door (Mariella herself, as it turned out). I needed an outfit, I explained. Pants and a top. For dancing.

She threw me in a dressing room and poured me into something scandalous. Not a pant leg or cartoon character in sight. I couldn’t wear it.

“The flower is in full bloom.”
In piena fioritura
. “You have nice breasts,” she said. “Why not show them off a little?” She sounded like Kit. Maybe that’s why I let her bully me into buying what I did.

I was standing at the counter, my credit card still smoking in my hand, when I saw him. Turned away from me, but close by, lurking in a corner. Tall. Dark. Ageless as Romulus himself. I would’ve felt better about it with the
keris
in my bag, but I called his name anyhow.

“Ermanno.”

He turned, perplexed. This was not Ermanno’s face, but I thought, for a crazed second, that it still might’ve been him.
Magia nera
.

The man smiled, asked if I’d mistaken him for someone. I was losing it.

I apologized to the stranger, grabbed my stuff, and left before I changed my mind again.

Out of Time

Castine, Maine

LATE OCTOBER 2000

Moira and Maeve are sixteen

The lighthouse became Moira’s favorite place to meet Ian, though there was nothing light about it; it’d been defunct for as long as she could recall. Still, he always brought a flashlight, and they walked up together, kissing, laughing, ducking when a car door slammed nearby.

One Saturday they met earlier than usual, the sun just shy of a spectacular sunset. They found a secluded nook on the side of a hill, with a scatter of crisp leaves they covered with a blanket, and then they sat and watched the sky.

“They think I’m seeing a movie with Ann,” Moira explained when Ian asked how she’d managed the early getaway.

“Ann Houghton? She’s as boring as your sister.”

He laughed as Moira hid her hurt. Next time she’d lie about a girl more exciting than bookish Ann. It was so hard to constantly remember how Maeve would do things. It was exhausting.

“Come here, Maeve,” he said, and her stomach tipped as it always did at the sound of her twin’s name. She moved until they were face-to-face, thinking he wanted a kiss. Then all at once he laughed and grabbed her, turned her so she sat on his lap.

The first time she’d felt his arousal, it frightened her. But boys couldn’t help things like that when they kissed girls. It was natural, harmless. At least that’s what Ian said when he’d seen the look on her face. She didn’t mind it at all now. In fact, she knew she could give him a little pleasure, and herself, by sinking into him when he pressed against her.

“Play a song for me.” He tucked his hand beneath her shirt and stroked her belly.

“Ian.”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he said, stretching his free arm out before her. “C’mon. Play for me.”

“You think I pack a saxophone in my hip pocket?” she asked with forced levity.

“I’d love to be your saxophone, have your hands all over me and your mouth on mine all of the time.” He made a deep noise that sounded like he’d just eaten a spoonful of caramel.

Moira swallowed hard. Twice. “You would?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and nuzzled his face into her neck. “C’mon, one song. Unless you’re not who I think you are.” She went stock-still. “Maybe that’s a recording I hear from inside your house and not you at all.”

“Right.” Her breath felt shallow and sharp. “Or maybe I’m really my sister?”

“She could never be you.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not like you.”

“We’re twins. Exactly the same genetically.”

He dropped his arm. “Which just proves there’s a lot more to a person than genes. You’ve got balls. You’ve always had them. That’s why you won’t be stuck here for the rest of your life.”

He looked seaward with the same longing she’d seen in him before—when he stared at the enormous ship stationed in the Penobscot, where trainees from all over the country came for education in ship handling. She felt his restless desire for
more
in a hundred ways. He and Maeve were so alike that way.

“You can leave, too,” Moira said. “Join the Maritime Academy. You can travel all—”

“Not if my old man has his way with my life.”

She stared where he did, at the black water and its dusky golden highlights. “I think you can make anything happen if you believe in it. You can convince your father and become a merchant marine. And Moira has a lot more to offer than you’re giving her credit for,” she couldn’t help adding. “She’s had different opportunities than … than I have. She plays the piano very well and—”

Ian feigned a yawn. “Sorry, I’m sure you love her and all that, but I can’t stand the piano.”

“She knows Liszt.”

“What’s Liszt?”

“The composer, Franz Liszt. He’s difficult to master.”

“Yeah? From what I’ve heard she hasn’t mastered him yet.”

Moira couldn’t hide her splintered expression that time.

“I like
you,”
he said.
“You’re
the one who’s fun to be with. I don’t want you to be your sister. C’mon. Play me.”

Moira put her cold fingers on Ian’s arm, moved them around a little.

“That’s not a song,” he said. “That’s a fidget.”

She closed her eyes against a blurred and watery vision, and played for him. The fleshy notes she touched were for piano, but she held herself as if she played the sax; and the song was Liszt’s
Liebesträume, notturno No. 3
, a piece about love, holding onto it for as long as you’re able—for lost love is wretched. She doubted Ian would ever appreciate it.

“You’re amazing,” he said when she stopped. “The most amazing girl in the world. Let’s go all the way.”

She turned to look him in the eye. The sun cast long orange fingers over his cheekbones and made a mask of his face. He pressed himself against her again, clasped her to him.

“I hope it’s not too soon, but I need a real girlfriend. I’m a man, you know, not a boy anymore.”

“But—”

“You thought I was a virgin?” He smiled.

Moira nodded. “Who—?”

“If you’re not ready,” he said, “then maybe
we’re
not.”

“You mean you’d break up with me?”

“Break up from what? You won’t even hold my hand in the hall.” His gaze grabbed at her; it hurt. “Maybe that’s the game, huh, Maeve?”

“There’s no game.”

“You want to keep me at a distance. Other girls wouldn’t.”

Moira thought of Paula, the day Ian had been with her without his shirt. And then she thought of her sister. Maeve, she knew, wouldn’t think so much. She’d live in the moment, let passion decide. Moira wanted to believe she had passion, too.

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!

“Can I think about it?”

Ian wrapped a finger around the saxophone stone necklace and pulled her close, then kissed her until her body hummed with possibility.

“Just don’t think about it for too long,” he said, as breathless as she was. “You’ll love sex, Maeve. You’ll be a natural. You’ll see.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DECLENSION

W
hen I arrived back at the hotel, I carried four bags of clothes and quite a bit more debt. I changed into one of my new outfits—a pair of gray trousers and a tangerine-toned silk blouse Mariella said made my eyes look
elettrizzante
. She’d somehow noticed my hair as well, my roots.
Why have you taken away your color? You are young. Be beautiful
. But in this, I was resolved; I bought a blue hat and stuck it on my head.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Noel said after he stepped through my door a little later.

I wrinkled my nose at him. “How did it go today?”

“Remind me never to take the bus again.”

“That good?”

“Better. And I’m sure my wallet’s history. Working with the law was a challenge, even with Giovanni’s help, but at least I learned a lot about
passeggiata.”

“Silly, isn’t it?”

“Silly. Effing insane. Whatever.”

“Where’d he send you?”

“A leather shop. Do you want lunch?”

My mouth fell open, and then I laughed so hard that I sent myself into a coughing fit. “I’d pay to see you in leather pants! Seriously, oh, my God—”

“Go on. Murder my self-respect.”

I gasped for breath. “It’s just so not you. Noel Ryan in leather pants, riding a Harley.”

“We’re in Rome. How about a Vespa?”

I laughed harder.

“First, I didn’t buy any pants. Second, I did own a motorcycle once. Third, I’m hungry, so let’s go.” He tossed my coat to me, a curveball I barely caught.

“What? When did you have a bike?”

“Oh, you know, when I was a pain in the ass adolescent, around the time I grew my hair long. The girls loved long hair.”

“Did they?”

“Definitely,” he said, and winked at me. His hair was still on the long side, sleek and dark like mink. “But it wasn’t something my grandfather thought was appropriate for life at the shop. I exploded. Told him I didn’t want to run the bloody shop my entire life. I wasn’t his son, why did he care what my hair looked like?”

“Wow.” I found the whole scene hard to imagine—arguments between two of the most gentle men I’d ever met.

“He gave me the bike the next day. I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I took it anyway. I just wanted the choice to be mine, you know—stay or go.” He shrugged. “Things got better after that. Truth was, I did want to be his son. I was just pissed I wasn’t.”

I nodded. Moira and I had struggled just as hard over our identity. Identi
ties
, rather; my mother made sure they were separate. Skirts and books and gardening and piano for Moira. Jeans and comic books and football and saxophone for me. How different things might’ve been for us if we’d had a Garrick in our lives to offer what we didn’t know we craved—freedom of choice. Especially Moira. Especially her.

I stirred from my musings to find Noel excavating me with his gaze. I suggested pizza, and we headed for the elevators.

“Let’s try a club tomorrow night,” he said as he pushed the button to the lobby. “Giovanni said he’d take us, even got his mother to give him the night off. It’s underground—sounds interesting. You up for it?”

“Yeah, it’s intriguing,” I said. “The idea to go to Il Sotto Abbasso came from me, actually.”

Silence, then, “You’ve been to Putra’s, haven’t you?”

How had he known? He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, exactly like mine; “Visit Il Sotto Abbasso,” it read. We spoke over each other.

“You didn’t tell me about a note with my name on it?”

“You went back after what happened with that landlord?”

“Yes.” I hardened my jaw. “And he’s not the landlord, smarty; he’s the landlady’s son—and Sri Putra’s brother.”

“Brother?”

“Half brother. Ermanno’s weird, granted, but—”

“You know his name? Did you talk to him? Did—”

“Stop! It doesn’t matter!” My fingers made ten exclamation points between us. “You’re missing the point.”

“No, you are. The note you found—let me see it.”

“Why, starting a collection?”

The elevator stopped. The door opened. Neither of us moved.

He spoke intensely. “There are things you don’t know, Maeve, things I’ve learned about that guy—”

“You mean his love of black magic?” I laughed humorlessly when he reared back. “This response from the man who doesn’t believe in myths!”

“I don’t,” he said. “But you shouldn’t go anywhere near that guy alone. He’s a whack job. He could be dangerous.”

“I’ve done plenty of things in my life alone, Noel. I’ve faced danger. Whatever delusion you have that I’m a weakling woman is wrong. I won’t let you lie to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Not telling the truth then. Dissembling. Whatever you want to call it. That note was meant for me. This is my journey.”

“Then why am I here?” The door closed again.

“How many times have you gone back there?” I asked.

“A few. How many times have you gone by yourself?”

“Just once. Today.”

Noel continued looking at me like I’d let him down. I hated feeling like a scolded child; it made me angry. “Any other notes with my name on them? Did you take anything else?”

He didn’t answer right away, but then he pulled a slip of paper from his other pocket. I took it.

Visit Villa Borghese

“Any more?”

“No,” he said, with just as much snap. He punched a button and the doors reopened. I matched him step for step when he strode out.

“I’m not the bad guy here,” I said.

“Guess that means I am. I’ll stop trying to protect you.”

“Jesus, God, there’s no reason to protect me! Do I seem like some fragile little wisp of a girl to you? Nothing I own is pink! I didn’t even own a purse before today!”

We rounded the bend, the front desk in sight. Giovanni waved to us.

“I tried to ring you in your room,” he told Noel. “A thing
rimarchevole
has happened. Your wallet has been returned. It was left by someone unanimously.”

“How—?” Noel took the bag Giovanni held out to him, and pulled out a wallet.

“Yours?”

He opened it. “Christ. It really is mine.” He dumped the bag’s contents on the counter: traveler’s checks, cards, a key, and several golden coins fell out; yellow, blue, red, and gray euro notes drifted to the floor. “Unbelievable,” he said. “What the bloody hell?”

Within the rubble, I spied a picture of Garrick snoozing in a chair at Time After Time, his glasses teetering on his nose. “What a great shot,” I said, pointing to it, trying to put the bad feelings behind us.

My words triggered something in Noel. He pulled the photo from the rubble with unseeing eyes, then began searching through the pile with new vigor. Bills scattered across the counter. Business cards fell to the floor. I asked what he was looking for, if I could help, but he ignored me. Finally, he stopped.

“He stole it,” he said in a voice that struck me as dangerously calm, placid as the water in the eye of a storm.

“What? Who?”

“Your photograph—the one I took last year at the maple festival. It’s gone. That bastard.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your new buddy, Ermanno. He stole my wallet.”

“Wait, wait, back up. You saw him at the apartment? He was there when you took the note? What happened?”

“I went to the apartment after I bought the tarts,” he said, hard-focused on the counter. “I’ll bet he followed me when I left. Or maybe he took it right there, in the hall.”

“Did you two argue?”

“No, I never saw him. But the hall was full of people, kids showing off their presents, that sort of thing. He could’ve been anywhere. He seems to be everywhere at once.”

I wanted to shake him. “Seriously, Noel, do you hear yourself? You were in a hall full of kids and maybe one of them did take your wallet, yet you blame Ermanno—someone you didn’t see. Why? Because he can appear out of thin air, thanks to his astounding skill in dark magic?”

Giovanni made a sign of the cross.

“Listen.” Noel gripped my shoulders. “Who knew we were staying here? Kit, my grandfather, and him—this Ermanno.”

I remembered the information Noel left on Putra’s door that first day, the information Ermanno had seen. Maybe Ermanno
had
taken it. But there were a hundred better, more rational explanations. “You probably had a card in your wallet with the hotel’s address.”

“No. I kept details about your flight and the hotel information in an inside pocket. Here.” He opened his jacket, pulled out a paper, and waved it in my face.

I tried reasoning with him. “You probably dropped your wallet just outside the hotel and someone brought it back in.”

“After sitting on it for two days? No. Everything was returned. My cards. The key to my flat in Paris. My euros and traveler’s checks. The only thing missing is your photograph. How many coincidences can there be?”

“I think you’re a little obsessed over trying to find fault with the
keris
and with Sri Putra and Ermanno. Really,” I said when he glared at me. “It’s not healthy. In fact, it’s a little paranoid.” He deserved the dig.

I turned to Giovanni, who’d just placed a handful of fallen euros on the counter. “Giovanni, how far is Villa Borghese?”

“Christ all-freaking mighty,” Noel said. “Now?”

“Yes,” I said. “Villa Borghese now, and tomorrow night Il Sotto Abbasso. I’ll go with or without you.”

His eyes lost a little of their spark. Despite everything—my anger and his questionable behavior—I knew he meant well. I gentled my tone.

“I read about a gallery in Villa Borghese. Let’s go look at beautiful things and try to unravel this mystery. It’s not like Ermanno will be hiding out behind a painting with his sledge.”

Giovanni looked between us. “There is the gallery and also a museum. There is much to see.”

“Can we walk?” I asked. “I have a thing against cabbies who try to match the speed of light.”

Giovanni shot Noel an apologetic look. “There is the bus.”

THE CLOUDLESS DAY
seemed ideal for a visit to Borghese Park, and it would’ve been if not for the tension between Noel and me. We ate pizza in near silence. Walked to the bus in absolute silence. Took our seats among people who chatted about the holiday and the museum and where they would eat dinner. The couple before us kissed.

I leaned against a rattling window and stared out. We traveled a grand avenue, past headless statues, and some who’d kept their heads over hundreds of years. When we arrived, we debarked and purchased admission into the gallery for later that day. There was time, we were told by an attendant, to visit the National Etruscan Museum if we so desired. Noel said he’d like to go, which I took for progress.

A bunch of us headed up hills, then down again to reach Villa Giulia and the National Etruscan Museum. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I don’t know if my poppy ever went to Rome, but his enthusiasm for artifacts had rubbed off on me as I grew, and I wanted to see what the Etruscans—who predated the Romans and whose language predated Latin—had left behind.

Once inside, our group divided, some going straightaway to see the reconstructed temple and famous
Nymphaeum
on display in the courtyard, while others decided to walk the halls first, as Noel and I did. We stopped to take in the various coffers, vases and terra-cotta sculptures, even a surprisingly well-preserved sarcophagus of a married couple—their facial features clear and smiles broad, despite being over twenty-six hundred years old.

“I wonder if they’ll ever decipher it,” Noel said when we stepped before a display of three golden tablets. The writings, Etruscan and Phoenician, provided one of the rare clues in existence about the Etruscan language. The lettering had always looked backward to me, though, like words viewed in a mirror.

“I doubt it,” I said. “That language died over two thousand years ago, and there are so many variables—regional dialects, phonetic spellings, abbreviations.”

“A lost language.” Noel’s tone was thoughtful. I would’ve asked what was on his mind, but my head filled just then with long-buried sounds.

Vinah way pleshee myna
.

I flashed to a time barely within memory’s grasp—a day when I stumbled with pudge-toddle feet over rocks on the beach beside my sister. I could hear my mother call behind us, “Slow down, girls. Be careful.” Moira tittered in her hand and I held tight to her other one. We ran.

Vinah way pleshee myna
.

I could not recall what the words meant, but I knew without doubt they were from our language, the language my mother had called Trying Twin. We’d forgotten it by age six.

I suppose I had more knowledge than most about lost languages, and lost people. But that day in Villa Borghese marked the first time that I seriously wondered if I’d lost myself—not just my music or my sister or a mother who’d call on Christmas. Me. I feared I’d lost my essence, that it was so far gone in the wrong direction that I’d never get it back.

WE ARRIVED AT
the Borghese Gallery at our appointed time and went inside. I appreciated the vivid artwork, the sculptures, the essential dedication needed to accrue all of that splendor in one place. Noel, though, was enraptured. I couldn’t tear my eyes from him as he touched, examined, even sketched in the book I’d given him. His brows crushed and lips pursed as he honed in on particulars. I thought his eyes might’ve misted once.