The Girl Who Chased the Moon (2 page)

Initially, Julia had been uneasy about renting a place from one of her old high school enemies. But she’d had no choice. Stella’s apartment had been the only place Julia could afford when she’d moved back to Mullaby. She’d been surprised to find that despite their pasts, she and Stella actually got along. It was an unlikely friendship, one Julia still didn’t know how to explain. Stella had been one of the most popular girls at Mullaby High, a member of Sassafras—what the elite group of pretty, sparkly girls had called themselves. Julia had been the girl everyone avoided in the hallways. She’d been sullen and rude and undeniably strange. She’d dyed her hair bright pink, worn a studded leather choker every day, and used eyeliner so thick and black that she’d looked bruised.

And her father had tried so hard not to notice.

Julia walked down the hall to her bedroom. But before she turned on the light, she noticed a light coming from Vance Shelby’s house next door. She went to her open window in the darkness and looked out. All the time she’d lived in Stella’s house, all the sleepless nights she’d spent staring out this window, and she’d never once seen a light in the upstairs bedrooms next door. There was a teenager on the balcony. She was just standing there, as still as snow, staring into the woods behind Vance’s house. She was willow-branch thin, had a cap of yellow hair, and a sad sort of vulnerability was wafting from her, making the night smell like maple syrup. There was something familiar about her, and that’s when Julia suddenly remembered. Vance’s granddaughter was coming to live with him. This past week at Julia’s restaurant, it was all anyone could talk about. Some people were curious, some were fearful, and some were outright mean. Not everyone had forgiven this girl’s mother for what she’d done.

Julia didn’t like the thought of what the girl was in for. It made her feel stiff and anxious. Living down your own past was hard enough. You shouldn’t have to live down someone else’s.

Tomorrow morning, Julia decided, she’d make an extra cake at the restaurant to take to her.

Julia undressed and got in bed. Eventually the light went off next door. She sighed and turned on her side and waited to cross another day off her calendar.

AFTER HER father’s death almost two years ago, Julia had taken a few days off work to come back to Mullaby to get his affairs in order. Her plan had been to quickly sell his house and restaurant, then take the money and go back to Maryland and finally make her dream of opening her own bakery come true.

But things hadn’t gone exactly the way they were supposed to.

She’d quickly discovered that her father had been deeply in debt, his house and restaurant mortgaged to the hilt. Selling his house had paid off his home mortgage and a small part of his restaurant mortgage. But even with that, she would have barely broken even if she’d sold the restaurant then. So she came up with her now-infamous two-year plan. By living very frugally and bringing in more business to J’s Barbecue while she was there, in two years she would have the mortgage paid off and could sell the restaurant for a tidy profit. She’d been perfectly up-front about it with everyone in town. She would be staying in Mullaby for two years, but that
did not mean she lived here anymore
. She was just visiting. That was all.

When she took over the restaurant, J’s Barbecue had a modest but loyal following, thanks to her father. He had a way of making people feel happy when they left, smelling of sweet yellow barbecue smoke that trailed behind them like a dress train. But Mullaby had more barbecue restaurants per capita than any other place in the state, so competition was fierce. With her father’s personal touch now gone, Julia knew the restaurant needed something to set it apart from the rest. So she started baking and selling cakes—her specialty—and it was an instant boon to business. Soon, J’s Barbecue was known not just for fine Lexington-style barbecue, but also for the best cakes and pastries around.

Julia always got to the restaurant well before dawn, and the only person there before her was the pit cook. They rarely talked. He had his job and she had hers. She left the day-today running of the place to the people her father had taught and trusted. Even though the barbecue business was in her bones, stuck there like spurs, she tried to stay as uninvolved as possible. She loved her father, but it had been a long time since she’d wanted to be like him. When Julia was a child, before she’d turned into a moody, pink-haired teenager, she used to follow him to work every day before school and gladly help with everything from waitressing to tossing wood into the smokehouse pit. Some of her best memories were of spending time with her father at J’s Barbecue. But too much had happened since then for her to ever believe she could be that comfortable here again. So she came in early, baked that day’s cakes, and left just as the first early-bird customers arrived for breakfast. On good days, she didn’t even see Sawyer.

This, as it turned out, wasn’t a good day.

“You’ll never guess what Stella told me last night,” Sawyer Alexander said, strolling into the kitchen just as Julia was finishing the apple stack cake she was going to take to Vance Shelby’s granddaughter.

Julia closed her eyes for a moment. Stella must have called him the moment Julia left her last night and went upstairs.

Sawyer stopped next to her at the stainless steel table and stood close. He was like crisp, fresh air. He was self-possessed and proud, but everyone forgave him for that because charm sparkled around him like sunlight. Blue-eyed and blond-haired, he was handsome, smart, rich, and fun to be around. And he was disgustingly kind, too, as all the men in his family were, filled to capacity with Southern gentility. Sawyer drove his grandfather to Julia’s restaurant every morning just so he could have breakfast with his old cronies.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she said as she put the last layer of cake on top of the dried-apple and spice filling.

“Report me to the owner.” He pushed some of her hair behind her left ear, his fingers lingering on the thin pink streak she still dyed in her hair there. “Don’t you want to know what Stella told me last night?” he asked.

She jerked her head away from his hand as she put the last of the apple and spice filling on top of the cake, leaving the sides bare. “Stella was drunk last night.”

“She said you told her that you bake cakes because of
me
.”

Julia knew it was coming, but she stilled anyway, the icing spatula stopping mid-stroke. She quickly resumed spreading the filling, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “She thinks you have low self-esteem. She’s trying to build up your ego.”

He lifted one eyebrow in that insolent way of his. “I’ve been accused of many things, but low self-esteem is not one of them.”

“It must be hard to be so beautiful.”

“It’s hell. Did you really say that to her?”

She clanged the spatula into the empty bowl the filling had been in, then she took both to the sink. “I don’t remember. I was drunk, too.”

“You never get drunk,” he said.

“You don’t know me well enough to make blanket statements like ‘You never get drunk.’” It felt good to say that. Eighteen years she’d been away.
Look how much I’ve improved
, she wanted to say.

“Fair enough. But I do know Stella. Even when she drinks, I’ve never known her to lie. Why would she tell me that you bake cakes because of me if it wasn’t true?”

“I bake cakes. You have an infamous sweet tooth. Maybe she got the two tangled up.” She walked into the storage room for a cake box, taking longer than necessary, hoping maybe he’d give up and go away.

“You’re taking a cake with you?” he asked when she came back out. He hadn’t moved. All the crazy-hot activity in the kitchen—waitresses going in and out, cooks going back and forth, the constant thump of barbecue being hand-chopped—and he was so still. She had to quickly turn away. Staring at an Alexander man too long was like staring at the sun. The image became imprinted. You could close your eyes and still see him.

“I’m giving it to Vance Shelby’s granddaughter. She got in last night.”

That made him laugh. “
You’re
actually giving someone a
welcome
cake?”

She didn’t realize the irony until he pointed it out to her. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He watched her as she put the cake in the cardboard box. “I like this color on you,” he said, touching the sleeve of her white long-sleeved shirt.

She immediately pulled her arm away. A year and a half of avoiding this man since she’d been back, then she had to go and say to Stella the one thing that would draw him to her like gravity. He’d been looking for this excuse since the moment she came back to town. He wanted to get closer to her. She knew that. And it made her angry. How could he even
think
of picking up where they left off after what happened?

She reached over and closed the window above her table. It was always the last thing she did every morning, and sometimes it made her sad. Another day, another call unanswered. She picked up the cake box and took it with her out into the restaurant without another word to Sawyer.

J’s Barbecue was plain, as most genuine barbecue restaurants in the South were—linoleum floors, plastic tablecloths on the tables, heavy wooden booths. It was an homage to tradition. As soon as she’d taken over, Julia had pulled down the tattered NASCAR memorabilia her father had tacked to the far wall, but she’d been met with such protest that she’d had to put it all back up.

She set the box down and picked up the chalkboard on the diner counter. She wrote the names of the day’s cakes on the board: traditional Southern red velvet cake and peach pound cake, but also green tea and honey macaroons and cranberry doughnuts. She knew the more unusual things would sell out first. It had taken nearly a year, but she’d won over her regulars with her skill with what they already knew, so now they would try anything she made.

Sawyer walked out just as she set the chalkboard back on the counter. “I told Stella I’d come over with pizza tonight. You’ll be there?”

“I’m always there. Why don’t the two of you sleep together and get it over with?” Sawyer’s Thursday pizza courtship of Stella had been going on ever since Julia had moved back to Mullaby. Stella swore there was nothing going on, but Julia thought Stella was being naïve.

Sawyer leaned in close. “Stella and I did sleep together,” he said into her ear. “Three years ago, right after her divorce. And before you think that sounds indiscriminate, I try to keep my actions regret-free these days.”

She gave him a sharp look as he walked away. His casual, almost flippant, mention of it took her by surprise and made her feel cool and tart, like tasting lime for the first time.

She couldn’t blame him for being a scared teenager when he’d found out she’d gotten pregnant from their one night together on the football field all those years ago. She’d been a scared teenager, too. And they’d made the only decisions they were capable of making at the time. For better or worse.

But she resented how easily he’d gotten on with his life. It had been just one night to him. One regretful night with the freaky, unpopular girl he’d barely even talked to at school. A girl who’d been madly in love with him.

Oh, God. She wasn’t going to fall into this role again. She couldn’t.

Six months and counting and she would leave this crazy place and never think of Sawyer again.

With any luck.

Chapter 2

W
hen Emily woke, her hairline was wet with sweat and she felt bone tired. She also had absolutely no idea where she was. She sat up quickly and pulled the earbuds of her MP3 player out of her ears. She looked around the room—the lilac wallpaper, the tattered princess furniture. That’s when she remembered. She was in her mother’s old bedroom.

She’d never slept in a place that felt so hollow. Even though she knew her grandfather was downstairs, having the entire upstairs to herself made her uneasy. All night, there had been long periods of quiet punctuated by loud wooden pops of the house settling. And leaves kept rattling outside her balcony door. She’d finally turned on her MP3 player and tried to imagine herself someplace else. Someplace not so
humid
.

Scared or not, tonight she was going to have to sleep with the balcony doors open, or else perish into a puddle of perspiration. At some point last night, she’d kicked the bedsheet aside. And she’d started out in pajamas, but she’d wiggled out of the bottom part soon after turning in, and was now in only the top. Her mother might have been the most politically correct person on the planet—an activist, an environmentalist, a crusader for the underdog—but even
she
ran the air conditioner when it got too hot.

She made her way to the antiquated bathroom and took a bath because there was no shower. And she was momentarily stumped by the fact that there were separate faucets for hot and cold water instead of both coming out of the same faucet like in a normal bathroom.

Afterward she dressed in shorts and a racer-back tank, then went downstairs.

She noticed the note taped to the inside of the screen door right away.

Emily: This is Grandpa Vance writing you. I forgot to tell you that I go out for breakfast every morning. Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll bring you something back, but there’s also teenager food in the kitchen
. The note was written in large block letters that slanted off the lines of the paper, as if he couldn’t see around his hand as he was writing.

She took a deep breath, still trying to rearrange her expectations. Her first day here, and he didn’t want to spend it with her.

Standing at the screen door, Emily heard a swish of leaves and, startled, looked up to see a woman in her thirties walking up the front porch steps. She had light brown hair that was cut into a beautiful swinging bob just below her ears. Emily could never get her own bobbed hair to look like that. She’d been trying to grow it out forever, and could only manage a short ponytail with it. And even then, it fell out of the tail and around her face most of the time.

The woman didn’t see Emily standing there until she reached the top step. She instantly smiled. “Hello! You must be Vance’s granddaughter,” she said as she came to a stop at the door. She had pretty, dark brown eyes.

“Yes, I’m Emily Benedict.”

“I’m Julia Winterson. I live over there.” She turned her head slightly, indicating the yellow and white house next door. That’s when Emily noticed the pink streak in Julia’s hair, tucked behind her ear. It wasn’t something she expected from someone so fresh-faced, in flour-stained jeans and a white peasant blouse. “I brought you an apple stack cake.” She opened the white box she was holding and showed Emily what looked like a stack of very large brown pancakes with some sort of filling in between each one. “It means …” she struggled with the word, then finally said, “welcome. I know Mullaby has its faults, as I’m sure your mother told you, but it’s also a town of great food. You’re going to eat very well while you’re here. At least there’s that.”

Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an appetite for anything, much less food, but she didn’t tell Julia that. “My mother didn’t tell me anything about Mullaby,” Emily said, staring at the cake.

“Nothing?”

“No.”

Julia seemed shocked into silence.

“What?” Emily looked up from the cake.

“It’s nothing,” Julia said, shaking her head. She closed the lid on the box. “Do you want me to put this in the kitchen?”

“Sure. Come in,” Emily said as she opened the screen door for her.

As Julia walked in, she noticed the note from Grandpa Vance still on the screen. “Vance asked me to take him grocery shopping yesterday morning so he could get some things for you,” she said, nodding toward the note. “His idea of teenager food was Kool-Aid, fruit roll-ups, and gum. I convinced him to buy chips, bagels, and cereal, too.”

“That was nice of you,” Emily said. “To take him shopping, I mean.”

“I was a big fan of the Giant of Mullaby when I was a kid.” When Emily looked at her, not understanding, Julia explained, “That’s what people around here call your grandfather.”

“How tall
is
he?” Emily asked, her voice hushed, as if he might hear.

Julia laughed. It was a great laugh, and hearing it was like stepping into a spot of sunshine. That she came bearing cake seemed oddly fitting. It was like she was
made
of cake, light and pretty and decorated on the outside—with her sweet laugh and pink streak to her hair—but it was anyone’s guess what was on the inside. Emily suspected it might be something dark. “Tall enough to see into tomorrow. That’s what he tells everyone. He’s over eight feet tall. I know that much. World record keepers came nosing around here once, but Vance wouldn’t have anything to do with them.”

Julia knew the way to the kitchen, so Emily followed. The kitchen was large and kitschy, like something straight out of the 1950s. Years ago, it must have been a showplace. It was overwhelmingly red—red countertops, red and white tile floor, and a large red refrigerator that had a sliver pull handle, like a meat locker. Julia put the cake box on the counter, then turned to stare at Emily for a moment. “You look a lot like your mother,” she finally said.

“You knew her?” Emily asked, perking up at the thought of finding someone willing to talk about her mother.

“We were in the same class in school. But we weren’t close.” Julia stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets. “She didn’t tell you
anything?”

“I knew she was born in North Carolina, but I didn’t know where. I didn’t even know I had a grandfather.” Julia’s eyebrows rose and Emily found herself rushing to explain. “She never
said
I didn’t have one, she just never talked about him and I always assumed it was because he had passed away. Mom didn’t like to talk about her past, and I respected that. She always said there was no use dwelling on the unfixable past when there was so much you could do to fix the future. She devoted all her time to her causes.”

“Her causes?”

“Amnesty International. Oxfam. Greenpeace. The Nature Conservancy. She traveled a lot when she was younger. After I was born, she settled down in Boston. She was very involved locally there.”

“Well. That’s … not what I expected.”

“Was she like that here? Was she involved in a lot of causes?”

Julia quickly took her hands out of her pockets. “I should be going.”

“Oh,” Emily said, confused. “Well, thank you for the cake.”

“No problem. My restaurant is called J’s Barbecue, on Main Street. Come by anytime for the best cake in Mullaby. The barbecue is really good, too, but I can’t take credit for it. That’s where your grandfather is right now, by the way. He walks there every morning for breakfast.”

Emily followed Julia to the front door. “Where is Main Street?”

As they stepped onto the porch, Julia pointed. “At the end of Shelby Road here, turn left onto Dogwood. About a half-mile later, turn right. You can’t miss it.” Julia started toward the steps, but Emily stopped her.

“Wait, Julia. I saw some sort of light in the backyard last night. Did you see it?”

Julia turned. “You’ve seen the Mullaby lights already?”

“What are the Mullaby lights?”

Julia scratched her head and tucked her hair behind her ears, as if deciding what to say. “They’re white lights that sometimes dart through the woods and fields around here. Some say it’s a ghost that haunts the town. It’s just another town oddity,” she said, as if there were many. “Don’t pay any attention to it and it will go away.”

Emily nodded.

Julia turned to leave again, but stopped with her back to Emily. She finally turned back around and said, “Listen, I’ll be next door if you ever need me, at least for the next six months. This place takes some getting used to. Believe me, I know.”

Emily smiled and she felt her shoulders lose some tension. “Thanks.”

IT DIDN’T take Emily long to decide to walk to Main Street and greet her grandfather. She thought it would be nice to walk home with him, establish some sort of routine. He’d obviously lived alone for a long time, so maybe his hesitancy around her came from simply not knowing how to act.
Don’t wait for the world to change, Emily
, her mother used to say to her, sometimes in a frustrated voice.
Change it yourself!

Emily wondered if her mother had been disappointed in her. She didn’t have her mother’s passion, her courage, her drive. Emily was cautious, but her mother had never met a person she didn’t want to help. It had been an awkward dynamic. Emily had always been in awe of her mother, but it had been hard to get close to her. Dulcie had wanted to help, but never be helped.

She found Main Street easily. Just like Julia said, there really was no missing it. Once she turned the corner off Dogwood, there was an enormous sign declaring that she was now on “Historic Main Street.” It was a long, beautiful street, different from the comfortable neighborhoods she’d walked through to get there. The street began with brick mansions in grand Federal style, sitting close to the sidewalk with almost no front yards to speak of. Across the street from the mansions was a park with a bandstand that had a lovely silver crescent-moon weathervane on top of it. Past the houses and the park, the street turned commercial, with a series of touristy shops and restaurants squeezed side by side into old brick buildings. Emily counted seven barbecue restaurants, and she was only halfway down the business end of street.
Seven
. They were obviously the source of the smell that settled over the town like a veil. Woody, sweet smoke was rising from behind some of the restaurants in wisps and curls.

There were a lot tourists around, mesmerized, as she was, by Mullaby’s old-fashioned beauty. The sidewalks were crowded, more crowded than she’d expected at that time of morning. She kept looking, but she couldn’t see J’s Barbecue and, out of nowhere, panic set in. One moment she was feeling happy and proactive, walking along this beautiful street, and the next moment she was terrified that she couldn’t find the restaurant she was looking for. What if Julia had been wrong? What if Grandpa Vance wasn’t here? What if she couldn’t find her way back?

She started to feel light-headed. It was like being underwater, this pressure against her eyes and ears, always followed by sparkling confetti swimming along her periphery.

She’d been having these anxiety attacks ever since her mother died. It was easy enough to hide them from Merry, her mother’s best friend, with whom Emily had lived for the past four months. All she had to do was close her bedroom door. And at school, her teachers would turn a blind eye when she stayed in the girls’ restroom, sitting on the floor by the sinks trying to catch her breath, instead of coming to class.

The business end of Main Street was lined with benches, so she made it to the nearest one and sat. She’d broken out into a cold sweat. She wouldn’t faint. She
wouldn’t
.

She leaned forward and rested her chest against her thighs, her head down.
The length of the thighbone is indicative of overall height
. It was a random thought, something she remembered from physiology class.

A pair of expensive men’s loafers suddenly appeared on the sidewalk in front of her.

She slowly looked up. It was a young man about her age, wearing a white summer linen suit, the jacket pushed away from his hips by his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. He had on a red bow tie and his dark hair was curling around his starched collar. He was handsome in a well-bred kind of way, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. She unexpectedly felt self-conscious in her shorts and racer-back tank top. Compared to him, she looked like she’d just come from a spin class.

He didn’t say anything to her at first, just stared at her. Then he finally, almost reluctantly, asked, “Are you all right?”

She didn’t understand. Everyone she’d met here so far treated her as if associating with her was going to hurt. She took a deep breath, the oxygen going to her head with the force of floodwater. “Fine, thanks,” she said.

“Are you sick?”

“Just light-headed.” She looked down at her feet, in ankle socks and cross-trainers, and seemed strangely detached from herself.
Socks that only cover the ankle are not acceptable. Socks must be crew or knee socks only
. So said the Roxley School for Girls handbook. She’d been at Roxley School all her school career. Her mother had helped found it, a school to empower girls, encouraging activism and volunteerism.