Look For Me By Moonlight (7 page)

Todd studied my face. “You like Will, don't you, Cynda?”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “He's very nice. You're lucky to have him for a friend.” As I spoke, Will slipped further and further into the past. Compared to Vincent, he seemed no older than Todd, a friend from long ago, a boy as ordinary as a glass of milk.

“Will's your friend too,” Todd said, frowning. “Or do you like Mr. Morthanos better now?”

Susan came to my rescue. “Todd, for heaven's sake, stop pestering your sister and eat your oatmeal. You hate it when it's cold.”

 

Later, when I was alone in my room, I found it impossible to study. My algebra equations might as well have been bird tracks on snow, French verbs slipped from my memory, Greek and Roman dates jumbled hopelessly. The clock measured the minutes one by one, slowly ticking time away. So long till dinner, so long till I'd see Vincent.

The ceiling creaked. Someone on the second floor was walking slowly back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes and pictured the inn's layout. Vincent's room was at the end of the hall, right above mine. Those were his footsteps I heard, soft and deliberate, crisscrossing the floor overhead.

I sat still and listened, entranced by Vincent's nearness. The clock ticked, the wind blew, shadows shifted on the wall. Our guest continued to pace.

By noon I'd accomplished very little. Unless you counted the hundreds of times I'd written Vincent's name in my notebook.

When Vincent came downstairs at six o'clock, I was waiting for him in the hall. Dad, Susan, and Todd were already in the dining room, but I thought someone should greet Vincent. After all, this was his first dinner with us, a special occasion.

“Am I late, Cynda?”

Vincent's deep, curiously accented voice drove every clever word I'd planned to say right out of my head. “I wanted to show you where we eat, I was afraid you might not know, I . . .”

As I came to a stammering halt, Vincent thanked me for my consideration. “You look very nice,” he added. “Black becomes you.”

I looked down at my sweater as if I'd never seen it before. “My mother says black's not my color, it washes me out, makes me pale. She thinks I should wear blue or green, maybe even purple. . . .” I stopped, hot with confusion. Surely Vincent didn't care what my mother thought.

“Come,” he said, touching my arm lightly. “We mustn't keep your family waiting.”

We took seats opposite each other at the shiny mahogany table. The setting was formal, the candlelight soft, the food cooked and presented perfectly by my father, both chef and waiter tonight. In the background, Wagner's “Siegfried-Idyll” played softly on the stereo. A fire crackled on the hearth.

The only problem was Todd. He sat beside me glumly, poking at his food and kicking the table leg in defiance of Susan's repeated pleas to sit still. Ignoring the handkerchief Dad handed him, he snuffled and sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He refused to look at Vincent or to answer any questions.

Todd wasn't cute tonight, nor was he funny. I shifted my chair away from him, ashamed of the way he was acting.

Vincent was obviously disturbed by Todd's behavior. Silent and withdrawn, he contributed little to the conversation Susan and Dad struggled to keep going. Like my brother, he spent more time rearranging his food than eating it. I caught his eye occasionally and tried to show my sympathy, but I couldn't rouse him from his thoughts.

When Todd knocked over an almost full glass of milk, Dad jumped up, thoroughly exasperated.

“That's enough, Todd.”

Taking his son's arm, he pulled him none too gently away from the table.

Todd's tears upset Susan. Rescuing him from Dad, she said, “For God's sake, Jeff, have a little patience. He's been running a low-grade fever all day.”

“Put him to bed then,” Dad said. “If he's sick, that's where he belongs.”

It was the first time I'd heard them quarrel.

“All right,” Susan said, “I will.” Taking Todd's hand, she led him upstairs. Long after they'd disappeared, we heard Todd crying.

Dad began to apologize, but Vincent stretched out his hand to stop him. “Please, Jeff,” he said softly. “It is I who should apologize. For some reason my presence disturbs the child. Perhaps it would be better if I took all my meals in my room.”

“Oh, no, Vincent,” I said, and then felt my face flush.

Ignoring my emotional outburst, Vincent told Dad he'd join him later for a fireside chat. “But now, if you'll be land enough to excuse me, I think I'll go upstairs.”

After Vincent left, I gazed sadly at his abandoned plate. The salmon Dad had grilled so carefully was practically untouched, the baby carrots and wild rice barely disturbed.

I'd looked forward to dinner all day long, but in just a few minutes Todd had ruined everything. Sniffling and snuffling, kicking, pouting, spilling milk—why hadn't Dad taught him some manners? He let Todd get away with the most outrageous behavior just because he was little and cute. It wasn't fair. Todd should have been fed in the kitchen and put to bed before we sat down at the table.

 

True to his promise, Vincent came downstairs an hour or so later. Sinking into the same chair he'd chosen the night before, he accepted a glass of red wine and sipped it slowly.

Encouraged by a question from Vincent, Dad began talking about his novel. Despite five revisions, he was still bogged down in the second chapter.

“Every time I start a new book, I wonder if I'll be able to finish it,” he admitted. “Beginnings are so damned hard. And then you get to the middle. After that, you have to face the end. Lord, sometimes I think I should have kept my teaching job.”

Vincent twirled his glass slowly, nodding in agreement. “Writing's a long, slow process. It affords me so little pleasure I often wonder why I make the effort.” One corner of his mouth rose sardonically. “Possibly because I can't do anything else.”

Todd chose that moment to start screaming for Dad and Susan. “Come quick, there's a wolf under my bed,” he yelled from the upstairs hall. “Oh, for God's sake, not another bad dream,” Dad muttered, earning an angry look from Susan, who was already hurrying toward the stairs.

Dad got to his feet. “Excuse us, we'll be back in a few minutes.” Glancing at me, he added, “Keep Vincent company, Cynda.”

All day I'd dreamed of being alone with Vincent, but now that I was, my mouth was too dry to speak. I wanted to ask him about his car, I wanted to know where he'd been going in the snow, where he'd come from, but the silence grew, expanded, threatened to swallow me. I felt hot, then cold. I couldn't say a word.

Vincent looked at me inquiringly. “You seem uncomfortable, Cynda. Is something bothering you?”

Slowly, hesitantly, I said, “I saw your Porsche in the parking lot. It looks just like a car I saw the night it snowed. It slowed down at our driveway, flashed its lights, then drove on by . . .”

“So it was you I glimpsed at the window.” Vincent leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs toward the hearth. Firelight danced on the buckles of his boots. A ring on his right hand sparkled, a diamond stud in his ear glittered. “I sensed I'd be welcome here. That's why I returned. I hope I wasn't mistaken.”

“Of course you're welcome,” I said quickly. “Very welcome. I'm glad you're here. So's Dad. Susan too. We're all glad.” I stopped, afraid of saying too much.

“Everyone but Todd,” Vincent said wryly. “He certainly isn't enjoying my visit.”

“I don't know what's wrong with him,” I said. “It must be his cold or something. I hope he didn't hurt your feelings.”

Vincent smiled. “Children are such funny little creatures, more like pets than human beings, as unpredictable as cats in their likes and dislikes.”

I glanced at Ebony. He sat on the windowsill, as tall and aloof as an Egyptian cat statue I'd seen in the Metropolitan Museum of Art catalog. No friendlier than Todd, he refused to have anything to do with our guest.

Vincent raised his glass. The red wine glowed in the firelight. “Just so you don't share your brother's feelings, Cynda.”

“I don't share anything with Todd except my father,” I said, eager to clarify things. “I'm staying here while my mother's in Italy with my stepfather.”

“I thought as much,” Vincent said slowly.

I stared at him, perplexed by the sympathy in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Vincent picked up one of the puzzles my father collected and left lying around for guests to solve. It looked deceptively easy. All you had to do was separate four cleverly linked circles. I'd tried to take them apart before dinner and given up ten or fifteen minutes later, totally frustrated.

Vincent's long, slender fingers shifted the circles, twisted and rearranged them. In a few seconds, he held one aloft. “Shall I tell your fortune, Cynda?”

I nodded, too fascinated to breathe, let alone speak.

“This circle is you,” he said. Flourishing the other three, still joined, he added, “Jeff, Susan, and Todd.”

Deftly he detached Dad's circle and joined it to mine. “How you'd like it to be.” In a flash, he reunited Dad with Susan and Todd, leaving me unattached. “How it is.”

Using circles instead of cards, Vincent had read my mind, unearthed my secrets. Speechless, I watched him remove another circle. He held up the two still joined. “Your mother and your stepfather.”

We both stared silently at the circle lying on the table. My circle. Alone, unattached, easily forgotten.

Vincent swiftly reassembled the puzzle. The only sound was the clink of silver circles. When he'd finished, he crossed the room and sat on the couch beside me. “Believe me, Cynda, I understand. I know how hard it is to be an outsider, alone and unhappy, misunderstood.” Resting his head against the back of the couch, he sighed and closed his eyes.

This close to him, I was conscious of his smooth skin, his dark hair, his long fingers. He smelled of spices, sweet and aromatic. His sweater was cashmere, as thick and soft and strokeable as Ebony's fur. He was beautiful, I thought, almost unearthly in his perfection. How could such a handsome man empathize so completely with my loneliness? Surely he had no end of friends and admirers.

Vincent opened his eyes and gazed at me. In the silence, the fire whispered to the logs, consuming them softly, lovingly. For a moment, I thought he meant to kiss me, but the strange intimacy he'd created was destroyed by the sound of voices. Susan and Dad were coming downstairs.

“I must go now, Cynda.” Vincent got to his feet quickly. “We'll talk again.”

I reached toward him, wishing he'd stay, but he didn't turn back. Passing Dad and Susan in the hallway, he bid them a polite good night. Then, head erect, he climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness at the top.

Dad and Susan looked at each other, puzzled perhaps by Vincent's abrupt departure.

“I guess the poor guy got tired of waiting for us to come back,” Dad said. “We had the devil of a time getting Todd to settle down and go to sleep.”

Susan collapsed on the couch beside me. “I hope you and Vincent found something interesting to talk about while we were gone.”

Without looking up from my book, I said, “He's very nice.”

Susan squeezed my hand. “Yes,” she agreed, “he
is
nice, but . . .”

I thought she'd say more about Vincent, but instead she asked if I'd mind fixing a pot of chamomile tea. Todd had worn her out, left her tense and worried. A cup of hot tea was just what she needed to relax.

While I waited for the kettle to boil, I gazed out the window. An almost full moon shone down on the snowman, casting his inky black shadow on the white lawn and hiding his face. The wind plucked at his scarf. The moon slid behind a cloud, darkening the scene. When it emerged, I had the oddest sensation that the snowman had moved closer to the inn, taking tiny steps like a child playing a game.

In the woods, the owl called three times. At the same moment, the wind rose, filling the air with a fine dust of blown snow that almost obscured the lonely figure. I turned away, afraid the snowman might be nearer when the wind dropped.

Several days passed, each like the one before. In the mornings I studied—or tried to—while Dad worked on his novel and Susan sewed. After lunch, it was back to the books for a couple of hours. In the late afternoon, I took care of Todd while Susan napped and Dad wrote. At six, we ate dinner. At seven, Todd went to bed. At eight, Vincent joined us for a glass of wine and an hour or so of conversation.

Every night I hoped Todd would wake from a bad dream and yell for Dad and Susan, but he slept soundly, depriving me of a chance to be alone with Vincent. I had to content myself with being in the same room with him. From my perch on the couch, I listened to every word he said and stole looks at him as often as I dared. Sometimes he caught me watching him; sometimes I caught him watching me.

Although I rarely had anything to say, Vincent made an effort to draw me into the conversation. Unlike Dad, he took my opinions seriously. He listened to me. He never laughed or teased me. If I made a mistake, he defended me, even when my error was as irrefutable as a misquoted poem or a blunder in grammar. He had a clever way of making Dad sound like a pedant when he corrected me.

Vincent also noticed how often Susan asked me to do things for her. Fetch this, fetch that, make tea, clean up the dishes, put another log on the fire, let the cat in, let the cat out, answer the phone. When I returned from one of these chores, he'd catch my eye and smile sympathetically.

 

One afternoon I took a walk to escape Todd's endless requests to build block towers, play Candyland, help him with puzzles, read to him, and so on. Sometimes I enjoyed entertaining my brother, but he was so demanding. One game was never enough, neither was one book or one puzzle. More, more, more—it was exhausting.