Waking the Moon (36 page)

“This is the guest room, here—you don’t have your own bath but it’s only a few steps down the hall. And there’s plenty of hot water.”

My room was large and cozy, the walls papered with a pattern of ivy squills and the floor covered with bright rag rugs. There was a large canopied spindle bed piled high with a feather comforter in a green duvet, and a small night table, where a vase of chrysanthemums and marigolds dropped petals onto a stack of magazines. On the wall hung a watercolor of gold hills and blue water and feluccas sailing in the distance.

“It’s wonderful,” I said. “This is so kind, Mr. di Rienzi—”

“Not at all, not at all.” He waved me away, setting my knapsack on the floor. “Now you’ll probably want to freshen up. When you’re comfortable, come downstairs. We’ll have dinner on the porch—I think it’s still warm enough for that, don’t you?”

On the porch it was barely warm enough, but Mr. di Rienzi got me one of Angelica’s cable-knit sweaters and draped it over my shoulders. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that I felt dizzy; but it helped keep off the lingering chill.

The veranda overlooked a long wooded hillside that sloped down to the Hudson. Over the white wooden railings I could glimpse the tops of trees, a few still brushed with scarlet and brown, and the river itself, dark and shimmering faintly beneath the stars. On the far shore glowed the lights of Beacon and, a few miles north, Poughkeepsie. Two symmetrical rows of red lights showed where a barge was being towed toward the locks upstate.

“Will you have some wine, Sweeney?”

It was odd to have an adult call me Sweeney rather than Katherine or Kate. But then Mr. di Rienzi only knew of me through his daughter, and Angelica wouldn’t have called me anything else.

“Yes, please.” I had changed into a white cotton shirt and chinos, faded but clean. At first I was afraid this would seem too casual, but now in the friendly darkness, the brisk air softened by the faint smell of Angelica’s perfume rising from her sweater, it all seemed just right. “Thank you very much.”

We drank a bottle of chardonnay, and ate warm crusty bread and fried potatoes drizzled with golden olive oil and fresh rosemary, and chicken and arugula brightened with pimiento. Mr. di Rienzi did not grill me about what had happened at school. When I asked after Angelica, he said that she was visiting her cousins in Florence, at the University there. He would join her for the Christmas holidays, but she would probably remain even after he returned to New York, to begin classes in the spring term.

“It is so beautiful there in the spring, it would be a shame for her to have gone all that way and then miss it. But already
I
miss her so terribly, it is painful for me to talk of her. I hope you understand.”

He stared at me with huge eyes pale and luminous as Angelica’s own. There was a faint flicker in them, a gentle threat that might almost have been amusement; but I knew better.

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

So we spoke of other things. He gently but insistently drew me out to talk about my family, where my father had gone to school, how my parents had met, how many older siblings I had and what their careers were. We finished the bottle of wine, toasting the slow dark coursing of the Hudson with our last glass. For dessert he brought out a little orange-enameled tin of
biscòtti
wrapped in colored tissue, and showed me how to twist the discarded papers and loose them above a candle flame, so that they danced and spun and finally flared into ash. He would not let me help with the dishes—

“No, leave them. I have my own ways of taking care of them; it gives me some-thing to do in my retirement. Now, I think it is getting too cold out here for you. Let’s go inside to my study. Will you join me for a Sambuca?”

I was very impressed by all of this. In my family we did not eat outside or have wine at meals. We never ate after seven in the evening, and we certainly never had cordials after dinner. It was the first time I had Sambuca, and the sweet licorice taste reminded me of drinking Pernod with Oliver. Mr. di Rienzi served it in a tiny glass, like a lily blown of crystal, igniting it for an instant to send blue flame rippling across the surface.

“Very nice,” he said. “It takes the chill off the liqueur, and dissipates some of the volatile spirits. So you will not have a headache in the morning.” We were in his study, a small book-lined room. He smiled, motioning for me to sit in an enormous chair upholstered in slippery oxblood leather. “Now then—

“I understand that there were some very unfortunate things that happened to you, and to some of my daughter’s other friends at school this semester. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it—it was quite unpleasant, hearing about it once from Angelica—so you don’t need to tell me or try to explain. I certainly do not blame
you
for any of it, Sweeney,” he went on in a gentler tone. “It is very, very common for young people to find themselves in—difficult circumstances—especially, perhaps, young people from good families. Coming from a sheltered background, being on your own for the first time, all that sudden freedom! Though I will say, I told Balthazar Warnick I think the University should have been much more circumspect in its dealings with the students, especially as regards that retreat. In my day we had parietals. It just would not have been permitted for young ladies and gentlemen to be unchaperoned for the weekend. But anyway,” he sighed, and went on.

“Anyway, Angelica has spoken very, very highly of you. Of how fond she is of you, and how much fun you had together. I know that young people today do things I don’t approve of, very dangerous things, and I don’t care to know what you may or may not have done with my daughter. But I
do
feel, in light of what has happened to your young friend Oliver, that you, Sweeney, have experienced quite enough punishment for one school term.

“I can’t do anything about your grades. I’m afraid they will follow you, and I hope serve as a reminder to you of what can happen if you don’t tread the straight and narrow path. But I have spoken to Balthazar Warnick and asked him to adjust the terms of your departure from the Divine.

“He has agreed to remand your suspension, under the condition that you submit a formal request to withdraw from the University and transfer to another school. At my request he has not mailed notice of your dismissal to your parents. It seemed to me that if they have successfully raised all those children, it would be an unnecessary heartbreak for them to deal with the academic failure of their youngest daughter.

“I know from Angelica that you are an exceptionally bright young lady, Sweeney, and have a wonderful future ahead of you. Now, there are several excellent schools in the D.C. area, and I know people at all of them. But the Dean of Students at George Washington University is an old friend of mine. They have a very fine Anthropology Department—slanted toward physical anthropology and archaeology, but very highly regarded. Now, if you would like, I would be very happy to contact Dr. Cohen and speak to him about your case. Your grades are shaky, but I’m sure it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Certainly the fact that you were accepted at the Divine will make a difference. And I know, of course, that you will
throw
yourself into your studies, and someday make us all proud with some marvelous discovery!”

He threw his arms open, laughing, and smiled at me.

What could I say? Of course it was a bribe, an effort to buy my silence; but I had no doubts but that the
Benandanti
could have ensured my silence as easily as they had arranged for Magda Kurtz’s, and perhaps Oliver’s.

No, it was truly a kind gesture that Mr. di Rienzi was making, and a very generous one: it meant that I was still under Angelica’s protection, though perhaps for only a very little while longer.

“It’s—that would be wonderful,” I said. “Really. I’m overwhelmed—I can never thank you enough.”

Mr. di Rienzi looked pleased. “Well then—a toast to your new life!” He refilled my glass, and said, “Now I know you’re aware that GW doesn’t have the same cachet as the University of the Archangels and Saint John the Divine. But it’s a
very good school,
and I think that there you’ll have a chance to shine, Sweeney. There are advantages to being a big fish in a little pond, although GW is a challenging place, don’t get me wrong about that. It’s in the heart of downtown, you can walk into Georgetown, I believe, and in a year or so there’ll be a subway stop right there. And of course the wonderful hospital affiliated with their medical school—”

I winced at the word
hospital,
but he didn’t notice.

“—although there is limited dormitory space, but if you wanted to live on campus, I’m sure arrangements could be made.”

I thanked him again and told him I’d figure something out. All this
largesse
was starting to make me feel uneasy and a little prickly. Unworthy of such kindness, and perhaps liable to start acting unworthy. I decided I’d better go to bed. I got to my feet, thanking him, and hoped I didn’t sound like I’d had too much to drink.

“It—it was a wonderful dinner, sir. This is all sort of too much—”

He waved his hand, as though dispersing a cloud of unpleasant smoke. “Of course, dear, of course. You don’t need to make a decision right away. I don’t imagine you could really start as a matriculating student anywhere until the spring term; but if you’d like to sit in on classes at GW …”

I told him I’d think about it. He gestured toward the door of his study.

“Angelica still feels very close to you, Sweeney,” he said. His gaze softened and his hand held mine for a long moment. “My daughter has always had wonderful judgment in her choice of friends. Nearly always,” he corrected himself. His eyes took on a keen look; I knew he was thinking of Oliver. “Now, you scamper up there and take a nice long bath, help yourself to any books you see, and tomorrow morning you sleep as late as you please. I get up early but don’t you worry about that. I think your flight is at two in the afternoon? The driver should be here by noon, to make sure you get there in plenty of time. Here, now I’ll see you to the steps—”

He placed his hand on my back and steered me out the door. At the foot of the stairs he smiled down at me.

“It will all work out for the best, Sweeney,” he said softly. “It always does.”

Impulsively I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Good night, Mr. di Rienzi. And thank you again—”

“Good night, dear. Sweet dreams.”

The guest bathroom was small. A huge claw-footed tub took up most of the space, but after my four days of exile it seemed like a royal bath at Pompeii. A willow basket held seashell soaps from France, and muslin sachets of dried lavender and chamomile, and there were blue-and-white striped cotton towels thick and soft enough that I could have spread them on the floor and slept there. I almost wept at all this homey luxury, but instead I clambered into the steaming tub and stayed there for an hour. When I got out my fingers were puckered and pink as boiled shrimp. I felt thoroughly serene, calmer than I had been in weeks. Everything suddenly seemed manageable again. I had a new life waiting for me, new friends, a new school. Though of course GW wasn’t the Divine, and there would never be anyone like Angelica or Oliver.

I went back to my room, and found the covers turned down, a white plate with two foil-wrapped Perugina chocolates on the night table beside a carafe of water and a glass. To the pile of
Vogues
and
New Yorkers
a few books had been added:
The Thirty-nine Steps, Anne of Windy Poplars,
Margaret Mead’s
Blackberry Winter.
But I was much too tired to read. I ate the chocolates, drank a glass of water, and fell into dreamless untroubled sleep.

The next morning I slept until nearly nine o’clock. After showering and changing I went downstairs. There was a note on the kitchen table saying that Mr. di Rienzi had unexpected business to attend to and probably would not be back before my departure. He wished me well and told me that someone from George Washington University would be contacting me soon, and left the number for Mercury Skyline Livery, in the unlikely event that my car didn’t show by noon. There was coffee set up in the coffeemaker, cream and milk in the fridge, and a basket of pastries and fresh fruit.

I ate and went back upstairs. I lay on the bed in the guest room, thinking about my dinner the night before, and flipped through the stack of magazines. There was a recent issue of
Paris Vogue
addressed to Angelica, and the copy of
Blackberry Winter
had her name in it, written in that familiar swooping hand with peacock blue ink. I looked around the guest room for other signs of her presence but found none. Only that watercolor of a Mediterranean scene, which she must have brought back from some long-ago visit to the Aegean.

At last I gathered my things and went to wait for the car. As I walked slowly down the hallway I stopped in front of a closed door and tested the knob. I was curious to see Angelica’s room, just for one moment. But the door was locked. So was the next one, and the next, and the one after that. All the doors were locked. When I got downstairs I put my knapsack by the front door and walked very quietly down the hall, calling out softly for Mr. di Rienzi. There was no answer. When I reached his study, it was locked. Everything, locked. I returned to the front door, and waited with a mixture of melancholy and resignation and relief for the car that would bear me from Storm King.

I did not hear from Angelica. No letters, no phone calls; nothing save a small package that arrived a few days before Christmas, posted to my parents’ house in Armonk. The box was neatly wrapped in brown paper, and covered with brightly colored airmail stamps and the word
FIRENZE
stamped in red ink. When I opened it, there was another box inside, and inside that a nest of Italian newspapers and shredded bits of wrapping. I dug my fingers into the nest and withdrew something round and pocked with myriad tiny raised bumps, trailing an electrical cord.

It was a sea urchin. Like the one Angelica had on her desk at the Divine, its swollen sides striated in shades of pale rose and lavender and white. A sea urchin lamp, actually—it had been fitted with a tiny Christmas-tree bulb. It glowed a wonderfully soft, twilit purple, like a globe representing some lost and secret place. There was a little card with it, of marbled paper, and Angelica’s swirling peacock blue handwriting.