The remaining pictures were of Moonrise, and I couldn’t get enough of them. Emmet told me that the estate was on a mountainside a couple of miles outside Highlands, and that it overlooked a lake. Looking Glass Lake, the original settlers of the area had called it, because of the way the water mirrored everything around it, or on it, so exactly. My favorite picture of Moonrise was one taken from the lake, looking up at just the right angle. Gothic in style and majestic in scope, Moonrise had the gabled roofs and turrets of a storybook castle. And the setting! A lifelong resident of south Florida, I peered longingly at the formal layout of shrubs and trees, many of which were unfamiliar to me. The foliage I was accustomed to was lush and tropical. Although I knew nothing about gardening, I could only imagine the upkeep of such majestic grounds.
A photo of the back of the house proved to be my downfall. Although I’d vowed not to bother Emmet with anything else about Moonrise, I had to know more about that one. The gardens in the back of the house had been photographed at night, in the light of a full moon. It was an eerily beautiful scene, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Although the leafy foliage of the garden was dark and mysterious, the moon illuminated white blossoms that grew everywhere—in every bed, border, shrub, and tree. Arbors hung heavy with flowering vines; pale blossoms encircled fountains and statuary; moonlit blooms lighted the graveled pathways like torches. I’d heard of moonflower vines and night-blooming cereus, of course, but I’d never seen anything like this. Those gardens had clearly been designed to be nocturnal, seen only by the light of the moon. Then it hit me. Moonrise! Did the name come from the garden, or was it the other way around?
I could hardly wait for Emmet to get home to ask him about the photo, and he was surprisingly patient in responding—initially, anyway. No, he hadn’t taken that one. He didn’t have the equipment for night photography, so Rosalyn had hired a professional. The photo was taken a few years back, when she needed one for a poster advertising one of her garden tours. And I’d guessed correctly; the house got its name from the moon gardens planted by Rosalyn’s great-grandmother, the original mistress of the house. Rosalyn took great pride in maintaining the unique gardens, a skill that had been passed down from her mother. The maintenance was so much work that few gardeners would’ve undertaken it without an extensive crew. At that point Emmet’s face changed and took on that guarded, remote expression I’d come to dread. “But all that died with Rosalyn,” he stated bluntly. “You’ve met Annie, so you know that, too. Rosalyn wasn’t able to pass her skill on to her daughter because Annie never had the interest. Maybe later, she might’ve come around.” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “It would be better for all of us, Helen, if you’d let go of this obsession of yours. You’re stirring up a lot of things from the past that are better left alone. Trust me on this one, okay?”
And I might have done so, if it hadn’t been for a conversation I had with Noel Clements later that same night. It was early April, and I was still smarting from Emmet’s abrupt end to my probing into the life he led before I became a part of it. I’d answered the phone reluctantly, and even more so once I recognized the voice on the other end. Funny, I chatted freely with Linc Varner whenever he called, but was uncomfortable talking with Tansy and Noel. They were too glib for me, their urbane banter off-putting. With Tansy, I stammered like an ignorant Cracker and said the most embarrassing things imaginable. “I can’t wait to meet you, Tansy. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends!” My blabbering would be followed by awkward, deadly silences. Finally, mercifully, Tansy would drawl, “I can’t wait to meet you, either, Helen. Ah . . . when did you say Emmet would be home?”
My conversations with Noel were worse, if possible. It never failed; I ended up gushing like a schoolgirl, then cringing at the sound of my voice. “Noel? Oh, hi! Hi! When will we ever meet face-to-face?” Noel was obviously the quintessential Southern gentleman, for he always made gallant attempts to rescue me from my blunderings. That evening, however, he had a ready comeback. Make Emmet bring you to Highlands this summer, he said, then all of us can meet the new bride. Not only would Moonrise fall apart if Emmet didn’t soon take care of it, so would their group.
“Tell the son of a bitch that we miss him,” Noel added gruffly. “The rest of us are taking the summer off, and we’re spending it in Highlands, just like the old days. That way we can have one last summer together before we all lapse into senility and old age.” Before he hung up, Noel threw in one last caveat. “And, Helen? If Emmet balks, tell him I said to think about Linc. We’ve lost one of our group, and come close to losing another. The truth is, none of us knows when our last summer will be. Tell him he owes it to Linc.”
When I repeated Noel’s message to Emmet, he dismissed it without further comment. He hadn’t been back to Highlands since Rosalyn’s death, though he’d halfheartedly promised to take me. But in dismissing Noel’s request, Emmet made the mistake of using our jobs as an excuse, not realizing how I’d pounce on that. Seeing how badly I wanted to go, he hedged, he’d be tempted if only we weren’t tied down to our work.
I began plotting the very next day. Surely if I set everything up with our jobs, made it easy for the two of us to get away for an extended period, Emmet would have to agree. Both of us worked at the same TV station, on the same show, even, which made it easier than if I’d had to deal with two different situations. Besides, Emmet was such a big shot at the station that they’d never deny their prized newsman anything. I moved quickly, and everything fell into place. I was given permission to tape my cooking segments in advance, and Emmet could do his news commentaries from an affiliate network, whichever one was closest to Highlands. Everything worked out so well I convinced myself that it had been intended. By the end of May, our town house had been sublet and our bags packed. We would be spending the summer in Highlands, North Carolina.
Yet here I am, several days into the summer I was so determined to have at Moonrise, huddled in the darkness and wondering what’s wrong with me. I can’t sleep; I’m hearing voices, and I lie to Emmet every time he asks me if I’m happy that we’re here. He doesn’t question my lies, and why should he? From his point of view, I’d wanted to be at Moonrise so badly that I was blind to the risks involved.
What he can’t know is, I had known the risks; I’d just ignored them. The thing was, I’d just gotten through a really bad time in my life when I met Emmet Justice. It was a meeting that turned both of our lives around. He and I had little in common, and neither of us was looking for a relationship. Yet we’d fallen so deeply in love that we’d hastily—and some might say foolishly—cast our lots together. We were just settling into our lives with each other, and we were happy, goofily, giddily so. I was more at peace than I’d been in a long time, maybe ever, and I believed Emmet to be also. So what did I think I was doing, bringing Emmet back here? Here, of all places, where the ghosts of his past lived on? No wonder I was so restless. Emmet had been right. By bringing us to Moonrise, I’ve stirred up things that would have been better left alone.
A LITTLE NEIGHBORLY SPYING
Itell myself that I’m not going to look this time. I tiptoe toward the bathroom quietly so Noel won’t hear me from his room down the hall. And passing by the windows, I avert my eyes. After doing my business, I make sure I don’t bang into the dresser on my way back to bed. Which is what woke Noel last night. Or was it the night before? Whichever, I had no idea that Noel had heard me banging around or cursing the damned dresser until he flung my bedroom door open. He stood there wild-eyed and half naked, and I screamed like a banshee. It was funny the next day, though neither of us laughed at the time. Even less amusing was his accusing me, yet again, of spying on Emmet and the Bride. He claimed to have caught me in the act, as though I would’ve left my warm bed for the sole purpose of doing such a thing. The very idea.
Tonight, I return to my bed quickly and snuggle under the covers. The thing is, I didn’t really have to look. If a light had been on at Moonrise, I would’ve seen it as soon as I turned off my bedside lamp. A few