The Last of the Moon Girls(4)
TWO
Lizzy kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen. She’d managed to finish out the day, smiling through a steady stream of condolences as news of her loss spread through the office. Now all she wanted was a large glass of wine and to be alone with her grief.
She opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a generous glass, then paused to water the herb pots she kept on the sill. Rosemary, for remembrance. Basil, for courage. Thyme, for warding off nightmares. It was the catechism of her childhood—the catechism of all the Moon girls.
On impulse, she plucked a basil leaf from the plant on the sill and rolled it between her palms, releasing its savory-sweet fragrance—peppery, anise-like, faintly minty. It was one of her favorite aromatics, perhaps because it reminded her of happy times spent cooking in her grandmother’s kitchen. But this time another memory surfaced—an older memory.
Althea had been out surveying the damage after an unusually late frost when Lizzy came up from behind. She couldn’t have been more than seven at the time, but she had known instinctively to keep still, mesmerized by the strange intensity in her grandmother’s face as she knelt beside a clump of blackened basil plants and, with eyes closed, passed her calloused hands over them. She had murmured something then, tender words Lizzy couldn’t make out. It was the first time she’d ever seen her grandmother’s gift in action, but she’d never forgotten it. Or the sight of those same plants the next day, healthy and green, and without a trace of frostbite.
It had been Althea’s most startling gift—the ability to raise a nearly dead herb or flower with a touch and a few gentle words. That, and an uncanny knack for growing things that had no business flourishing in stingy New England climes. Whispers about her grandmother’s green thumb had been commonplace in Salem Creek. Some chalked it up to magick, others to a strict reliance on her almanac. Whatever it was, it was widely accepted that the rocky soil of Moon Girl Farm could refuse Althea Moon nothing.
Who would tend that soil now that she was gone?
The question needled as Lizzy carried her chardonnay to the living room. It would belong to someone else soon. The house and barn, the herb fields, her grandmother’s apothecary shop, all passed out of the family and into the hands of strangers. She had always known it would happen, that one day Althea would die and something would have to be done with the farm. She just hadn’t given much thought to what that something might look like—or that it might fall to her to carry it out.
She’d have to work out the logistics, find a Realtor willing to handle the sale long-distance, then contact an estate dealer to handle the contents of the house. There wasn’t much of any real value. But what of Althea’s personal belongings? Her clothes, her books—the collection of journals kept under lock and key in her reading room? Could she really trust the handling of those to a stranger? And if not, who did that leave? Certainly not her mother, whose recklessness had sent the final dominoes toppling. But Rhanna was another story—apparently one without an ending, since no one had heard from her in years.
Lizzy felt numb as she perched on the arm of the couch, emptied of anger and blindsided by the events of the day. The sun was beginning its descent, sliding into the cracks and crevices of Midtown Manhattan’s jumbled rooftops, like one of those sepia postcards drugstores stocked for tourists. Three months after trading her tiny loft for a place in the East Tower, she still wasn’t used to the view. Or any of the other perks that came with her posh new address. Luc had assured her that she would grow into her new surroundings, but as she glanced around the room, she recognized nothing. The furniture, the art on the walls, even the reflection staring back at her from the darkened window seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger pretending to be Lizzy Moon.
Over the years, the city had polished her rough edges, leaving no sign of the girl who’d run barefoot through her grandmother’s fields, gathering herbs until her fingers were stained, her nails gritty with New England soil. But then, that was why she’d come to New York: to rid herself of that girl. To live like other people. A plain, round peg in a plain, round hole. No surprises. No suspicions. No secret book with her name on it. Just . . . normal. And it had worked, mostly. She’d come a long way since leaving Salem Creek. But was there such a thing as too long? Was it possible to walk away so completely that you lost yourself in the process?
She drained her glass and headed to the kitchen for a refill. She was on the verge of a good wallow; she could feel it. But she couldn’t afford to become nostalgic, or forget what had ultimately driven her from Salem Creek.
Eight years ago, a pair of teenage girls had failed to return home at curfew. Hours turned to days, days to weeks. Heather and Darcy Gilman had simply vanished.
It had taken less than twenty-four hours for Althea’s name to be raised as the likely culprit. It was hardly a surprise. Anytime anything went wrong—an early blizzard, a freak high tide, an outbreak of measles—the Moons were somehow to blame. Many claimed to speak in jest, but for those in certain circles, the rumors held a ring of truth. What Salem Creek lacked in worldly pretentions, it more than made up for with arcane superstitions and gaudy displays of religious fervor. The disappearance of the Gilman girls proved no exception.
A hotline had been set up and the press descended. Vigils were held, complete with Bibles, candles, flowers, and teddy bears. And then, just when the furor was beginning to die down, there’d been a knock at the door. Someone had called in an anonymous tip, claiming to have seen Althea dragging the girls, one at a time, into the pond, and then burying something nearby.