The Last Will of Moira Leahy (11 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

JOURNEYS

H
ours passed as I waited for my father’s return. I helped Garrick and-his assistants stack dishes and gather cups, sweep gingerbread crumbs into dustpans in the hall. I went through the small rooms, too, straightening bears and books, setting chairs back in their places.

Once, I peered inside the music room and saw the Steinway. I could easily picture Moira behind it, playing one of her favorites, something from
The Sound of Music
or
Pippin
. Or Liszt. Struggling over the difficult measures, perhaps, but injecting each phrase with heartfelt emotion. I felt a prickle, turned, and saw Garrick at the end of the hall, looking at me. Neither of us spoke.

I picked at the simple meal he prepared for us, and the third white plate on the table was so brilliant with emptiness that it nearly hurt my eyes. I spent the rest of my time in the front room, my face all but pressed against one of the cold windows as the sky spit sleet on the walks and the season changed before me.

Walking was my dad’s way of processing anger, releasing it peacefully. He must be furious with me to be away for so long. I wondered if I should go out looking for him; this wasn’t his town. Still, I couldn’t believe he’d be lost with his sense of direction. Maybe he’d made the state line by now. Or maybe he’d walked back to my apartment and his truck, and left for Maine.

I’d just reached for the shop phone, intent on calling my landlady to verify whether my father’s truck was there or gone, when Garrick approached. The
keris
lay unsheathed in his hand.

“I tried to remove that stain,” he said. “I used all of my cleansers, but …” The mark was still there, long and thin like a vein. “It blends with the
pamor
and shouldn’t reduce the value. You needn’t worry.” We shared a look; we both knew I had other things to worry about.

When I called my landlady, she said my dad’s truck was there all right. And so was his dog. Running around the yard, barking, spawning all sorts of complaints. Had been for nearly five hours. The dog seemed rabid, she said.

“A little brown and white dog?” I clarified.

“That’s the one. Cujo.” There was a tremor in her voice. Her fear of dogs was legendary, but Sparky? Menacing? “I’m surprised no one’s called the police,” she added. “I was nearly ready to do it myself.”

What the—?

“I’ve got to go,” I told Garrick, gathering my things. “If my father comes back …” Icy rain beat against the window.

“I’ll get him to you.”

SPARKY NEARLY BIT
off my nose when I got out of my car and rounded her up. Shivering. Bits of ice stuck to her fur. Not rabid, but frenzied. Frenzied as only a frightened, freezing animal could be. Five hours, oh, my God, what a horrible person I was for completely forgetting about her.

The mystery of how it happened was solved at the front door. Closed but not quite latched.

Kit was a dead woman.

I’d thought her cured of this particular bad habit. In her first weeks as a resident physician, she’d often left our apartment open in her rush to get back to the hospital. I’d had to remind her repeatedly to lock up, which was usually her cue to joke that my forgetfulness was rubbing off on her. But this—now—was no laughing matter, and there were not enough miles for me to walk to dissolve my anger.

I bathed Sparky in warm water, apologizing to her with my human words, but I was still livid when I found my missing cell (in my car, beneath the seat) and called Kit.
Be gentle
, I thought, taking deep and calming breaths as the phone rang.
Tell her you love her
. Voice mail picked up. I waited for the beep.

“You’re such an ass. You left the door unlocked again and my father’s dog got outside and nearly died from hypothermia. Isn’t ‘first, do no wrong’ part of some sacred doctor code or something? Maybe you should read up on it.” I hung up and brushed my hand over Sparky’s warm, dry coat, as she burrowed more closely against my leg. “I think I handled that pretty well,” I told her. “All things considered.”

I FELT THE SLOW
pulse of time that night as I had just once before. My father’s truck still sat outside of my house and his dog on my couch, but I saw no sign of the man himself. I reached for my old senses, the ones I used to rely on, but I couldn’t sort my anxiety from any possible omen of disaster.

Only the dark seemed comfortable, as I stepped out into my backyard. Cold air rolled over me as long minutes passed. The multicolored glow from my landlady’s window disappeared as she turned her tree off, went to bed. Sleet came again and pelted against my hood, until a song evolved from the rhythm of nature. Tribal. Compelling. I breathed it in. Swayed with my hands over my head. Moved my limbs to it. But I’d never been graceful on my feet. I slid, fell. Sudden laughter burbled up in me as I lay there on my back, staring up at night.

“Mayfly. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” my father said, when I nearly leaped out of my skin.

“Dad, I was so worried.” Felt my heartbeat, strong and hard beneath my hand. But thank God. He was here. Whole and well and … here. Muscles I hadn’t even realized were clenched relaxed as I followed him inside, back into the living room.

“I have something for you,” he said, just as I saw it. Beside my couch sat a miniature boat, made into a coffee table—the wood burled and polished to a high sheen, a generous loop of lanyard on either end, twin seats under a pane of glass.

It took a second for me to find my voice. “Did you make that?”

“Christmas present,” he said sheepishly.

So that’s what had been under the tarp in his truck. “You knew I wouldn’t go back with you.”

He didn’t answer, just wrinkled his lips—a man sorry to be right.

“You’re leaving now, aren’t you? I can tell.”

“In the morning,” he said. “Right after you.” He held out an envelope, waggled it at me. I took it, tucked my finger beneath its seam, and tore. Inside was a plane ticket for a trip that would begin in less than ten hours. Destination: Rome.

“I can’t take this.” I set it on the table. “Dad, I’m sorry for everything. We should talk about—”

“I’m tired of talk.” He did look tired, the creases around his eyes as deep as I’d ever seen them. “You have time off now. You want to learn about that sword, and the man who can tell you what you want to know is on the other end of that ride,” he said, picking the ticket back up, holding it out to me again.

“How did you get that?”

“Found your airport. Small thing, but it’ll get you a plane to Newark, and from there to Rome.” The airport. No wonder he’d been away for so long. “So you’ll go,” he said, like it was a done deal.

Excuses reared up like students with their hands raised high, but when I gave them their chance they lacked spine.

“I don’t have time to pack.”

“There’s time enough.”

“I can’t take a
keris
on a plane—not after 9/11.”

“I asked about that,” he said. “You won’t be able to take it in your carry-on, but you can pack it in that big blue suitcase of yours. About time you used it properly.”

“I can’t leave Sam.”

“Kit said she’d take care of Sam.”

“That’s a good one. Kit nearly killed your dog this afternoon leaving the door open. Sparky was outside for hours.”

He glanced at his dog, asleep on the couch. “No harm done. She checked Sparky out, even took her temperature. Everything’s normal.”

“Kit was here?”

“Not five minutes ago. Just took off.”

“See that? She’s avoiding me,” I said. “Plagued with guilt.”

“Nah, she just said she had to go back to work, grabbed a few things, and left. You’re alike, aren’t you? All work, no play. We’re going to change that. She mentioned a place a surgeon friend of hers likes in Rome, a nice hotel, and said she’d make a reservation. And your ticket back is open, so you can stay as long as you’d like.”

This was his talent: making the stiff limber, bending it to his will, reinforcing weaknesses.

“You asked why I stand by your mother.”

“I shouldn’t have said those things.” I forced my eyes to stay on his. “I’m sorry.”

“She’s hard sometimes, Maeve, but strong and steadfast like a shore. My shore. I love her for that. I don’t believe she ever meant to hurt you girls—not in any way. She did her best. I know your sister was your shore.”

“Dad—”

“Let me finish. Moira was your shore, and now she’s gone. Maybe you don’t want another shore, maybe you don’t need one, so you’ve decided not to bother looking. But what I’m seeing in you is someone who’s afraid to move at all, someone who’s decided to play it safe. That’s not living. The Maeve I used to know would take this ticket—which, by the way, is nonrefundable. Better not waste my money, or I’ll be pissed like you’ve never seen.”

What did I want to say?
Don’t make me do this
. But my hand reached forward anyway, and then the ticket that would change my life lay on my palm. My throat clogged. “Thanks.”

YOU’D THINK MY
head would’ve been full of Italian music that night—“O Sole Mio” or even plainchant. “Harlem Nocturne” stalked through me instead, along with the image of a detective with a pillbox hat searching Rome for an
empu
.

Earlier, I’d pulled my passport from my saxophone case and leaned it against the lamp on my dresser. Looking at it now from my bed, in the shadow of night, its cover seemed black as a raven’s wing, though I knew it was navy.
What am I doing? What am I doing?

My phone rang at five of six. Kit.

“Still feeling bad about the dog? You’ve called, finally, to face my wrath?”

She ignored me. “You’re going this morning, right?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, staring at the mound of clothes on my bed. The suitcase yawned open on my floor, and I’d yet to offer it even a pair of socks.

“What could possibly be holding you back?”

I knew what was holding me back: good, old-fashioned panic. I said something different. “I have a few appointments.”

“What appointments?”

“I need a haircut and I’m due for some color—”

“Color? Color would be nice!” she said. “And that’s the lamest of all lame-ass excuses in the history of the world. Don’t think I don’t know you cut your own hair or that I haven’t seen your stash of bleach under the sink. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to toss every last box.” Foiled at every turn. “I can’t believe you’re not jumping at the opportunity to take this trip. You hate the break! Just think about all the hours of rest you’ll avoid by trekking around Rome.” This was a good point. “In fact, the only possible downside of this trip is that we won’t have a chance to exchange gifts, which means your chocolate won’t be around when you come back. I apologize in advance for my lack of willpower.”

Somehow she got a laugh out of me.

“Maeve! How can you even think about not going?” I felt her mental shake through the phone. “Here’s your chance to take that big leap forward!”

“Oh, stop with all that leap crap already, will you? You know how I hate it when you get all motherly on me.”

“Where do you land, and when?”

I sighed. “Fiumicino Airport, 7:45 a.m. Roman time tomorrow. You figure it out. Kit, Dad mentioned a hotel—”

“I’m totally on it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up, I already ate two of your chocolates. Give me your flight info,” she said, and I gave her the specifics. “All right. I’ll meet you at the airport. I want to see you off.”

“You want to strap me to the wing of the plane.” She denied it, but we both knew I’d spoken truth.

“IF YOU FORGOT
to pack something, you’ll buy it there.” My father stood beside me as I waited to check my luggage, studying my face. I realized I’d been frowning.

“It’s not that,” I told him. I glanced at the woman before us, at the sleeping child over her shoulder. “I should call Mom.”

“It’s late. She’ll be off. What do you need to say?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded. “You can’t know what your mother thinks or what she’d say. Sometimes even I don’t. You just have to do for you.”

“Yeah, I know.” I looked again at the little boy.

“Hey, I thought maybe I’d missed you!” Kit strode toward us, a small gift bag in her hand and a scowl on her face. “What in Godiva’s name are you wearing?” she asked me.

“What?” I looked down at myself, but there weren’t any holes in my sweater—a billowy blue comfort—or my jeans. No stains and not too much cat fur on my coat, either.

“You’re going to Rome!” she said. “You look like you’re off to a ball game! Tell me you packed some decent clothes. Something with sparkle. Something with color. Something fitted.”

I blinked at her. Who cared about clothes?

“You’re hopeless.” She turned and smiled at my father, who’d been smiling ever since she’d arrived. Their faces had collusion written all over them. “You’re looking fine this morning, Mr. Leahy.”

“As are you, Kit. All set with the hotel?”

“It’s in the bag.” She patted said bag and handed it to me. “But no peeks until after takeoff,” she warned. “You’re going to love it!”