The Last of the Moon Girls(89)
“So that’s it? We’re back to square one?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I was pretty clear on what would happen if he bothered you again. I called Roger on the way back and ran the whole thing by him. He agrees that while Gilman was way over the line this afternoon, nothing he said or did was actually illegal, but he said it might be good to get it on the record. The police will send someone around to talk to him, take a statement, probably warn him to stay away. Gilman won’t like it, but that’s his problem.”
Lizzy shook her head wearily. “I know I probably overreacted this afternoon, turning up like some hysterical damsel in distress, but he was just so angry. I didn’t know what to do. You were the first person I thought of.”
“I’m glad. And you didn’t overreact. I know you hate anyone trying to protect you, but under the circumstances . . .”
She was quiet for a time, allowing the crickets and peepers to fill in the stretch of silence. Finally, she sighed, tipping her glass to him. “All right. You can be my bodyguard. But I’d appreciate you not mentioning this afternoon to Evvie and Rhanna. I don’t want them freaking out on me.”
Andrew nodded grudgingly. “Where are they, by the way?”
“Out in the shop, making one last push for the festival this weekend. I was out there for a while, but I bailed. I needed some time to clear my head.”
“And count fireflies?”
She smiled sadly as she looked off into the distance. “Yes.”
Andrew watched her from the corner of his eye. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight, so cool and still, and so very far away. But then she’d always had a talent for detachment, an ability to hold herself apart from the world around her—and from him.
“I’m glad you thought of me today, Lizzy, and that you felt you could come to me. You always can, you know. No matter what happens with us—or doesn’t happen—I’ll be here for you.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. A reflex to keep from reaching for her.
Lizzy blinked up at him, as if startled to find him on his feet. “You’re going?”
“Have to. I’m off to Boston in a few days, and I need to finish the latest set of plans. If I don’t see Evvie and Rhanna before they leave for the festival, tell them I said good luck.”
“Andrew.” She stood so that they were face-to-face, her eyes luminous in the moonlight. “Last night in the barn, when we . . .” She dipped her head awkwardly. “It’s not that I’m not . . . I just . . . can’t. You get that, right?”
He heard what she was saying. Maybe she even believed it. But as he met those silvery-gray eyes, he saw the truth: that if he wanted to, he could kiss her. She wouldn’t stop him this time, despite all her careful explanations. The wine—and perhaps the events of the day—had softened her up, leaving her pliant and vulnerable. But he also saw that she would regret it. Again. And there’d be no coming back from a second rejection.
He took a careful step back. He could wait. Even if waiting meant never. “Good night, Lizzy.”
THIRTY-FOUR
August 19
It was the quiet that woke Lizzy at 2:00 a.m., the prickly sensation that something wasn’t right. There was no light bleeding out from under Evvie’s door, no muffled Joplin or Creedence drifting down the hall from Rhanna’s room. Then she remembered: Rhanna and Evvie had set out for Connecticut just after breakfast, headed for the fair with a load of salt scrubs and massage oils, and Ben’s borrowed umbrella.
She’d spent the rest of the day in the barn, organizing her workbench and unpacking supplies, then experimenting with what she hoped would be a workable formula for the re-creation of Earth Song. But the work left her restless and unable to settle. It had taken a hot bath and a cup of valerian root tea to finally get her to sleep. And now she was awake again.
It felt strange being in the house alone, the darkness thick and inky, the silence absolute. She lay still, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was there again, the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right. There were no whirring appliances or ticking clocks, no creaky ceiling fans or whiffs of moving air, as if the house had suddenly stopped breathing.
She reached for the lamp, flicked the switch, once, twice. Nothing. Either the power was out, or the prehistoric fuse box had finally given up the ghost. Frustrated at the possibility of another expensive calamity, she kicked off the covers and groped her way out into the hall, vowing to make finding an electrician her top priority when the bank loan came through. She was halfway down the stairs when she suddenly went still. Had she imagined the creak of a floorboard somewhere below her?
She sucked in a breath, hand on the banister, letting the quiet spool out. Not a sound. What was wrong with her? She was a grown woman and acting like a big old scaredy-cat. Then she heard it again, another creak, louder this time, just below her in the kitchen. Her heart slammed against her ribs when she spotted the hunched silhouette sliding past the window.
It took everything in her not to shriek her head off. Instead, she flattened her back to the wall, a hand clamped over her mouth as she watched the shadow melt into the darkness below. One wrong breath and she’d give herself away. But she couldn’t hold her breath forever.
With the kitchen phone well out of reach, she had two choices: make a run for the mudroom door and pray she reached it before the intruder did, or bolt back up the stairs to her cell phone, lock herself in, and hope he’d be too spooked to come after her.