Valley of the Moon (3 page)

Bernadette slurped her Diet Coke. “Hey, did you guys hear? Someone stole all the frozen rats from the science lab. Mr. Shelhammer had to postpone the Biology midterm until after break! How freaking
awesome
is that?”

“Awesome,” I nodded. “And disgusting.”

Piper grinned. “Ladies, I have an announcement. My parents are meeting my brother and his girlfriend in Mexico so I have the whole place to myself. Which means…New Year’s Eve party at my place!” She sat back and gloated.

“Um, is anybody else going?” I asked slowly. I glanced over at Bernadette, who subtly shook her head. I knew it would be an all-girls sleepover. Like always.

I wasn’t in the mood to eat raw cookie dough and watch
The Notebook
. Again.

“Tons of people,” Piper said. “Bernadette’s on the ski trip, but I invited a bunch of kids from tennis. This time, there WILL be boys there. I promise. No, really.”

Half the class was going on a senior ski trip to Tahoe over break, but I hadn’t bothered to ask my dad for the $3,500 trip fee, which didn’t include ski rentals or lift tickets. Or ski pants, Patagonias, hats, gloves, après ski UGG boots, and other winter essentials I didn’t own. Piper had a tennis tournament in San Francisco over break, so she was staying in Sonoma.

“Put me down as a maybe.”

“You’re not working for that crazy valet company on New Year’s, are you?” Piper was one of the few people who knew about my job.

“No, my boss is out of town for Christmas.”

“Thank God. Don’t forget your PJs. You and Maya can sleep over after.” She slid her sunglasses on, grinning like a fool.

I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter. “What kind of school makes young children eat outside in December?”

“It builds character,” Bernadette said. “The colder we are, the higher our SAT scores.”

Piper scoffed. “Except Cressida. I heard she’s failing three classes.” Maybe there were a few teachers Ramona hadn’t gotten around to seducing yet.

“God, that girl,” Bernadette said. “I can’t even.” Bernadette had never been under her sway.

“I think it’s genetic,” I said. “Her mother’s no prize.” I shivered in my thin sweater as a gust of wind rattled the branches of the pear tree. White flowers spun down like snow. I watched them float to the ground and experienced an intense feeling of
déjà
vu, but I’d never seen snow in person.

Piper looked over at me. “I was Cressida’s best friend for, like, four years. I know why she hates you, Lana.” Cressida blackballed her for disloyalty last year and she immediately befriended me.

“Ooh, what’s your theory, Piper?” I asked.

“Because of this!” Piper said. She held up Mr. Quarry’s card like it was the Stanley Cup.

“He’s my teacher!” I said. Piper and Bernadette exchanged a look.

“He gave you his phone number,” Bernadette said. “Pretty sure that means he wants to do it.”

“
Who
gave you his phone number, Lana?” a high-pitched voice asked. We all turned. Ginger Palfrey and Valentina Horn emerged from behind the tree, grinning at us. Valentina was cat-eyed and petite and had terrible skin. Ginger was the tallest girl in our class, captain of the volleyball team, and a hard-core stoner. But as long as the team kept winning, they’d never kick her out. Plus, they were Cressida’s best friends.

“That’s fifty points from Slytherin for spying,” I said. Bernadette hooted.

Valentina crossed her arms and said in a sugary voice, “I heard Mr. Quarry is interested in finding out how far you’d go to get an A in his class.” I picked up my backpack and brushed my skirt down.

“Piper, let’s just go,” I said.

Piper bristled. “Hey Val, why don’t you shut your dumb mouth before I swing my racket through your empty little skull?” Valentina’s jaw dropped. Ginger was just getting started, though.

“Maybe Lana and Mr. Quarry played Truth-or-Dare,” she said, her eyes shining. “We all know that’s her favorite game.”

Valentina cackled delightedly and clapped her hands together.

I froze. The turkey sandwich I ate for lunch churned in my stomach. I needed them to shut up. No one knew what happened at that party two years ago. No one except me…and their friend Trevor. Had he told? I didn’t want to know.

I wanted to run to my car, drive away and hide until college started. If only my life was that easy. If only I had any control over it. One more semester to endure…

“Piper, let’s go,” I said, through clenched teeth.

Piper stood up with her tennis racket in her hand like a wooden club. “Here’s a dare for you guys: I dare you to get a life. Because truth: you suck.” Bernadette clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Ooh, good one Piper,” Ginger said. “Hey, Lana—catch!” She lobbed a crumpled brown paper lunch bag at me. I caught it without thinking. Valentina high-fived Ginger and they strolled away laughing.

“God, they are the worst!” Bernadette said. “Total Cressida-bots.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. “I wish you wouldn’t defend me, Piper.”

Piper rolled her eyes and smacked her tennis racket against the tree. “Oh, please. Someone has to stand up to that sister of yours and her idiot friends.” Piper’s cheeks were streaked pink.

“She’s not my sister. And it’s complicated.”

“It’s bullshit.”

Bernadette’s head swung from me to Piper like she was watching a tennis match.

“We can discuss revenge tactics later. Bye, girls.”

The bell rang and I picked up my backpack and hustled inside.

98 more days and you’re free.

I was halfway to figure drawing class when I realized I was still holding the crumpled paper bag they’d tossed me. At the nearest trashcan, I made the mistake of opening the bag before I tossed it.

A melting rat carcass, its head separated from its body, lay at the bottom. Raw rat juice seeped through the paper onto my hand.

I made it to the bathroom three seconds before I threw up.

***

I pulled the Maranello into the small parking lot behind Valley Imports and walked into the shop, twirling the red key fob with the yellow Ferrari stallion emblem. My hands were still pink after holding them under scalding hot water for twenty minutes to remove any trace of rat juice.

The car showroom was deserted. There were a dozen or so restored vintage cars parked on the waxed concrete floor.

He hadn’t sold one in months.

I hung the keys on the hook behind the back door. Before I walked into his office, I heard my dad on the phone.

“I’m not crazy about those terms, Victor.” A pause. “Can we discuss, the, uh, collateral first? It seems extreme.”

I pushed the door open and waved hello. He spun around in his chair and jammed the hold button on the office phone. “Honey! I didn’t hear you come in!” He pressed the button again and said, “I’m going to have to call you back,” and hung up.

“I know what I want for my birthday,” I said. “A Ferrari. I’ll settle for a used one.” He grimaced and raked a hand through his hair.

“Too fast. Don’t need any more bodies in that damn cemetery.”

I rolled my eyes. “I was just kidding, Dad. Thanks again for the loaner.”

“You owe me one. How’d your exams go?”

“Fine. I’ll make the GPA I need.”

I stepped over to the bookcase against the wall and examined the photos on display. One was my school portrait from last year where my freckles were popping and I was doing something weird with my mouth. Another was of my mom in a big sun hat, working in her beloved garden.

“Guess I’ll head home,” I said. I opened the door to leave his office and paused. In the dim light, his face looked haggard. He didn’t seem to be listening to me. “Dad, did you ever see anything…weird in our house?”

“Like what?” He rubbed his temples.

“I don’t know. Like, a ghost maybe?”

His hands stopped moving. He sighed. “I used to wish I did. I dream about her sometimes. But she’s always gone when I wake up.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“But I mean no objects ever…moved? By themselves?”

He laughed. “No more late nights for you. Go home, honey. Oh, and I filled your gas tank. No charge.”

***

Some nights the moon hangs so low above the valley it nestles right between the Sonoma and Mayacama Mountains, which is why the Native Americans called it the “valley of the moon.” From my bed that night, I had a perfect view of the full moon above the hills behind our house. On the worst nights after my mother died, my dad would point up at the patch of sky framed by my bedroom window and tell me she was up there, in heaven. According to a seven-year-old’s logic, a person needed something to sit on, even in heaven, and therefore the moon was the most logical place heaven could be.

For years after that, I thought heaven was on the moon.

Then I found out there were things called
maria
, which meant seas in Latin, on the moon. I would picture her dancing on white sandy beaches ringing pale lunar oceans, making castles and watching over me. I hoped she had a nice house on the shores of the Sea of Tranquility, or maybe the Sea of Serenity. Some of the other seas had ominous-sounding names.

Much later, maybe in eighth-grade astronomy, I learned the lunar maria are not actual seas. They’re just lifeless craters full of cold, gray dust.

And Annie Goodwin wasn’t on the moon and she wasn’t in heaven, no matter where God keeps it hidden.

I spent the weekend
catching up on sleep. I was not looking forward to two weeks slogging through the rest of my college applications and long days sitting around my dad’s shop. Luckily I had some new books to read.

I got to work Monday morning only fifteen minutes late. It didn’t matter, really. There were no customers. Since my dad knew no sane person would buy a car from a teenager, he also made me dress up and wear makeup. Not that it worked—I still hadn’t sold a car. Which wasn’t really my fault, since almost nobody walked in off the street to buy an expensive, “one-of-a-kind” car on an impulse.

The garage in back was closed—Cesar was off. I darted into the office but my dad was on the phone and he waved me away. I wandered into the quiet, gleaming showroom and looked for a place to get comfortable. I saw something sleek and silver parked by the floor-to-ceiling front windows. I checked the badge—an Aston Martin.

With my book, phone, and earbuds in my hands, I clambered in.

It was like sitting in a leather bath. I kicked off my shoes and eased the seat back as far as it would go and opened my book.

***

I blinked around, dazed. I yawned and stretched.

Some guy was staring at me through the window.

My body jerked in surprise. “Be right with you!” I called out.
You’re supposed to be managing the showroom and instead you’re soiling the merchandise with nap drool.
Shoving my feet into my heels, I gathered up my things and pushed the door open.

“Oh, hello!” I said, as if it was totally normal for people to sleep in cars at the shop. I stepped out of the car like I imagined Audrey Hepburn might emerge from a limo, but my shoe caught under the brake pedal and I fell forward. My paperback flipped out my hand and skidded across floor, coming to rest under a 1965 cherry-red Mustang. I got to my feet and grabbed the roof of the car to support myself. My phone clattered to the ground, yanking the earbuds still in my ears with it.

“You okay, Miss?”

“Oh yeah, fine.” I scurried to retrieve my phone. To reach the book, I had to kneel down and feel around under the Mustang with my legs sprawled out an awkward angle.

“How’s that chassis look?” he asked.

“Uh, good,” I said, before realizing it was a joke. Finally, book and phone in hand, I stood up, smoothed my skirt down and tried to stuff some loose hairs back into my bun. I stuck my chin out and arranged my most confident face. Better.
Now be cool and sell!

But when I took a good look at him, things got a million times worse. His eyes were soft and luminous and kind. He looked at me like we were sharing a secret he would guard with his life.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your nap,” he said. “I love naps.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. My insides were dissolving in a not-unpleasant way. He had deep dimples, dark hair, and gorgeous hazel eyes.

I leaned against the car so I wouldn’t tumble out of my heels and unleashed what I hoped was a killer smile.

“Ha, no, I wasn’t napping! Just checking out this beauty.” I tapped the Aston Martin. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.” I did a quick car salesman assessment, like my dad taught me to. You look at their shoes, check out their watch, give the wife or girlfriend a once-over for visible face work and flashy jewelry, and look for logos on their shirts. The good logos.

In ten seconds I knew I had a winner, even though he looked a lot younger than our typical buyer.

Sweater: Polo.

Shiny watch on his wrist: Rolex.

No visible girlfriend or wedding ring: Bonus.             

“Are you shopping for a car, sir?”
You idiot! He’s not shopping for a refrigerator!

“You work here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. I nodded. “Interesting. I just came in to see the Vanquish.”

“Oh. I don’t think we have one of those in stock.”
There goes your commission.

He smirked. “Oh, you do,” he said, leaning forward a little, “but there was someone sleeping in it.”

Where is a giant earthquake to swallow you up when you need one?

“Um, sir, I would appreciate it if you could not tell my boss about that.”

He took a step closer. “Your secret is safe with me, Goldilocks.” I looked up at his face, which was a big mistake. His eyes had some kind of tractor beam effect on me. Head to toe, he was, as Piper would say, a specimen. At least six feet tall, broad shoulders. And his mouth…
don’t look at his mouth.

“So tell me a little about it,” he said, leaning on the car and crossing his arms.

“Ask me anything you want to know.” I didn’t know a single thing about it.

“Speed?”

“Zero to sixty in, like, seven seconds,” I guessed. “Give or take. It’s fast.”

“I see. And the torque?” He stroked his chin. Was he serious?

“Torque?”

“How many Newton-meters of torque?”

“Oh, those,” I said, dismissing his question with a wave of my hand. “Well, a lot. It has plenty of torque, believe me.”

He nodded. “For three hundred grand, it better.” My mouth dropped.
How much?

I wanted this commission. My dad had promised me a hundred bucks if I ever managed to make a sale. Unleashing my biggest smile, I went for “the close,” as my dad called it.

“The tech specs don’t matter on this car. It’s simple. When you sit in it, you fall in love.”

His eyebrows twitched. “That could be useful.” He reached down and opened the driver’s side door. “Do you mind?”

I stared at him. “Oh, go right ahead!”

“No, you. Awake this time.” I blinked. I considered fleeing to my dad’s office, but there was that tractor beam issue, so I got in the car. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. He closed the door, walked around to the other side, and slid into the seat next to me.

The faint smell of woodsy cologne mixed with the sweet leather smell of the car. He was so close I was positive he heard my heart hammering in my chest. He ran his hand across the leather dashboard. “Nice.”

I cleared my throat and grasped for something to say. Something witty and charming. “Yes. It is. Nice.”

He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. The air in the car was getting warm.

“Well, you were right,” he said.

“I was?” My hands clutched the steering wheel at ten and two.

“I’m in love.” I tried to think of a suitable response. Nope, nothing in here, my brain said. Don’t look at us, my vocal chords chimed in.

There was a loud knock and I jumped like I’d been stuck with a pin. My dad’s face loomed outside the back window. I opened my door just as he uncorked the most embarrassing combination of words ever uttered, in English or any other language.

“Hey, how are you two making out?”

I gritted my teeth in horror.

“Great,” Tractor Beams said as we both unwedged ourselves from the car. “Your salesgirl was just telling me about the torque.” My dad fired off a concerned look at me.

“She was? Well, Lana knows her way around a car,” he said. “You’re in very good hands with her.”
Again
with the worst ever word choice, Dad!
I accidentally made eye contact with Tractor Beams again. The warm depths of his eyes took my breath away. It was like he was saying,
we have secrets, you and me.

“I could tell,” he said. “Thank you…Lana.”
Was he…no, is
not
flirting with you.
My
dad extended a hand to him.

“John Goodwin, great to meet you, Mr. …”

“Alexander.”

“Well Mr. Alexander, what can I tell you about this magnificent piece of machinery that Lana didn’t cover?”

“Alexander’s my first name,” he said, and our eyes met again.

“Uh, I’m just going to go and finish up some paperwork, Dad,” I managed to squeak out.

“Oh!” my dad said. “You called about the Aston! The Christmas present! That is one lucky lady.”
Girlfriend. He wasn’t flirting with you. As if
he
would even look at
you
.

Alexander looked at me. Tractor beams.
Must. Flee. Now.

I speed-walked to the bathroom at the back of the showroom. The fluorescent light made me look like a meth head. But I was grateful to be in the safety of the bathroom with its tiny pedestal sink. I could lean on it. Hold on to it. Attempt to act normal.

Because I had completely failed to do so in that guy’s presence.

***

I left my dad a note on his desk telling him I didn’t feel well. I was too humiliated by the way I’d acted and anyway, I would probably mess up any chance he had closing the sale.

When I got home, I grabbed the mail, kicked off my heels, and collapsed on the worn velvet sofa in our front room. I flipped through the slick catalogues filled with gift ideas we couldn’t use or afford, and a few Christmas cards from various car vendors.

I spotted a small blue envelope with our address handwritten in calligraphy.

This was not an overdue bill.

It was addressed to someone named Tanith Fremont.

My mother’s maiden name was Fremont. I flipped it over. A return address in New York City was printed on the back, but there was no name. I found a pen on the coffee table and wrote “RETURN TO SENDER” on the letter before sticking it back in the mailbox on the porch.

When my dad got home later, he had a big grin on his face. “Hello, my darling, wonderful daughter.” He rubbed his palms together. “Whatever you did today worked like a charm.”

“You sold the Aston Martin?”

He smirked at me. “No, you did.” He took a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it on the kitchen counter.

“Who was he buying it for? Girlfriend?”

“Christmas present for his mother.” He pulled a beer out of the fridge and twisted it open. “He asked me if you came with the car.”
What?

“Uh, he did?” I asked, avoiding his stare.

“He was joking—I think. I told him I was your father and that shut him up.” He chuckled to himself. “Quesadillas sound okay to you, honey?”

“Yep, great,” I said. I washed an avocado and pulled a knife out of the wooden block. “So Dad, will this help? With money?”

He choked on a sip of beer. “Well, it was a co-listing with a dealer in San Anselmo, so the margin’s not great. But I’ve got other things in the pipeline, honey.
Big
things.” He looked over at me and winked. “We’re not selling the house.”

***

On Christmas morning, the clouds refused to let the sun break through. After I made his favorite breakfast, Dutch baby pancakes, we exchanged presents. One each, as usual. I got the new phone I wanted. He got a silver money clip engraved with his initials. When he opened it, he said, “Oh, I love it! Now I just need a big wad of cash to go with it.” That was not the reaction I had intended.

After breakfast, it was time. I got dressed and went outside to the garden in front of the house and cut a dozen lavender roses from the garden. Her favorites.

We didn’t talk on the drive. It was better to stay quiet, because once you broke the seal, the tears wouldn’t stop, and I’d be watering the dirt soon enough.

Sonoma County’s oldest and most beautiful cemetery is Mountain Cemetery. It’s laid out like a small city in the Mayacama foothills overlooking the town of Sonoma. We drove up the hill and turned right, following the small one-lane road bisecting the cemetery. Mottled stone crypts designed to look like miniature Greek temples lined the road like miniature houses on a quiet suburban street. Rugged hiking paths led up the hill from the road, through the trees.

That’s where the smaller family plots were.

My dad parked in our usual spot and we hiked up the trail towards our destination. Wildflowers grew along the crooked path. The swaying oaks stood like sentries among the dead, guarding them with silent reverence. Headstones were clustered like toadstools around the widest trees. Low, mossy stone walls encircled each family’s private plot. My mother’s parents, maternal grandparents, and great-grandparents were all buried here.

There had been dead Abbotts in this shady glen for almost a century. After the 1906 earthquake, the San Francisco Abbotts quit their ancestral Irish jobs as police officers and bartenders and moved to Sonoma to farm.

I sat in my favorite spot on the low wall next to my mother’s grave. Sometimes at sunset, golden light bounced off the pale stones, giving them a warm glow. On cold winter mornings, mist seeped out of the moist earth and hung like a tiny cloudbank around the stones.

The oldest crypt was as tall as I was. It housed the remains of the early Abbotts. In front of it stood the wide double headstone that marked the graves of my grandparents, Bart and Caroline. My mom’s parents. Their headstone contained a verse from the Song of Solomon. I’d memorized it years ago.