Triple Moon

  “Thanks, Freya,” Mardi whispered. With her second cocktail unfinished, she left a twenty-dollar tip under her glass and stepped out into the fresh air. Behind her the jukebox was blaring the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses.”

  Slipping into the Ferrari, she opened her bag to fish for her keys and found the twenty she thought she had left on the bar. It was origami-folded into the shape of a heart.

  “Freya, you are a keeper,” she exclaimed into the salty night air as she revved the engine and took off for the docks.

  • • •

  Pulsing with expectation, Mardi approached the Dragon sometime after midnight. Her mind was alive with visions of Trent emerging sweetly from sleep at her touch, his bare muscular chest outlined in a soft white sheet. She pictured his eyes opening, his gaze alighting on her face, his arms outstretched in a wordless embrace. This was as corny and romantic as she had ever felt. She blamed Freya and her love potion, even if she wanted this boy as never before.

  She walked up to the boat, but the Dragon was locked and empty. Trent had told her that whenever he was on board, he left the cabin door open. He didn’t like the idea of shutting himself in. Of course it was just another way to say, Come see me anytime—I’ll be waiting. Well, she was here now.

  Except he was nowhere to be found. Had she missed her chance? Had she put him off for too long? Had he given up on her? Was he in bed with someone else at the very moment she wanted to be with him?

  She sat on the dock and let the night hours roll over her, and her mind drifted back to the shaky memories of that awful night at Bret’s house with the giant bronze tarantula, the “crown jewel” of the family’s priceless sculpture collection. Had she and Molly really been naked in that slick black indoor pool, with the Valkyries singing opera on a giant flat screen while some creepy guy chased her and Molly through the water? Or had that ancient Creole memory god slipped them some peyote the other day in Freya’s living room?

  Through the predawn darkness, Mardi heard a rush of bicycle wheels coming off the Gardiners Island Bridge and guessed that Molly was racing back to Ingrid and Matt’s house in time to make a show of being there in the morning. In spite of herself, she began to harbor a paranoid vision of Molly and Trent together. It seemed impossible, but then again, he wasn’t here on his boat, and Molly had just spent the night at Fair Haven. Okay, so Trent wasn’t exactly Molly’s style of guy. She didn’t go in for rough around the edges. But then again, he was a gorgeous, rich heir, no matter how he dressed.

  Mardi winced into the breaking dawn. Her mind was racing. Molly was her identical twin. If Trent couldn’t have Mardi, would he go for Molly? Would Molly be all in? Her sister wasn’t known for her scruples where other people’s crushes were concerned. Could this be their idea of a sick joke? Mardi tried to stop herself from thinking about it, but her skin crawled with suspicion.

  • • •

  The horizon started to a burn a faint rose gold. The first glimmer of dawn found Mardi dangling her feet over the side of the dock beside the empty Dragon. There was no sound except for the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the boat. She felt her anger rise along with the sun.

  She didn’t exactly know what her dad expected her to take away from this summer of exile, but she feared that whatever his hopes were, they were going to be dashed. She was as dark, mad, and frustrated inside as ever.

  One thing that happened when you entered a new microcosm, especially one as limited as North Hampton, was this: no matter how petty and lame you thought its social hierarchies were, you found yourself caring where you fit into them and whether or not you were having as good a time as everyone else. It was more than a competitive instinct; it was a desire to belong. Even in the lamest, preppiest, stupidest, most backward town on the planet, you didn’t want to be alone.

  Mardi stretched, took a final look at the vacant Dragon, and stood up. It was time to go home, put in a couple hours of sleep, and stop freaking out about her sister hooking up with her crush. Suddenly, she was exhausted. She craved the guest bed back at Ingrid and Matt’s. In a few hours, a big load of kitchen equipment for the restaurant would arrive, and she would need some energy to get through the day. She figured it would be good for her to work blindingly hard. It would help numb her frustration.

  As she was getting to her feet, two familiar voices approached her. She recognized Jean-Baptiste’s gravelly French accent. It was as if she had conjured him with her thoughts about her and Molly’s vision. And Jean-Baptiste was talking to none other than . . . Trent Gardiner.

  “Lovely to see you again, young man.”

  “I’m glad we talked, Jean-Baptiste. Thank you,” Trent said softly, as if to respect the sacred quiet of the dawn. Mardi realized as he spoke that she would know his melodic voice anywhere. It had burrowed deep inside her and lodged like a secret treasure. She hoped beyond hope that he hadn’t been hooking up with her twin.

  The men betrayed some surprise when they came upon Mardi stretching next to the Dragon, but neither one of them lost his composure.

  “Why, Mardi!” Jean-Baptiste, dapper in an off-white linen suit, made her name sound like trickling notes of music. “How lovely to see you here, and how unexpected.” It was impossible to know whether he was truly pleased, shocked, or annoyed. He was as unreadable as any good shrink.

  Mardi didn’t know whether she was more stunned to run into Jean-Baptiste on the docks at five-thirty in the morning or to realize that he was on such friendly terms with Trent, who was standing comfortably beside him in the green board shorts she liked so much, sipping coffee from a metal thermos. The coffee smelled like heaven.

  Reading her mind, Trent held the thermos out to her. “You look like you need this as much as I do. This gentleman here does not know the meaning of rest. We’ve been talking all night.”

  “You have?” She tried not to sound too happy. “You’ve been with Jean-Baptiste all night?”

  “Yep.” He grinned. “All night.”

  She took his coffee gratefully, inhaled its steam, and felt her head clear so quickly that she looked at him with a start. This was no ordinary brew. Trent was no ordinary guy. And here he was hanging out with the god of memory. He had to be one of them. That would explain so much. But she wasn’t quite ready to ask him openly what his divine status was. Their dance was not far enough along yet.

  “I see that you two are acquainted,” Trent said, looking from Mardi to Jean-Baptiste.

  “Yes, thanks to my lovely young friends Ingrid and Freya Beauchamp. They have convinced me to spend the summer here, to escape the New Orleans heat and to help Mardi and her twin sister, Molly, with a project they have.”

  “A project?” Trent looked mischievous. How much, Mardi wondered, did he know?

  Mardi took a deep breath and began to explain without really explaining. “You see, Jean-Baptiste is part of the doomed effort to reform Molly and me. You should know, Trent, that the two of us, the terrible twins, have been sent here by our father, who fears we are out of control. Dad thinks a summer in the town that time forgot, with normal jobs, life in a stable family that doesn’t live on takeout, and sessions with Dr. Mésomier here will somehow set us straight.” She was trying to be sarcastic, but her words had no barb. She was too happy to see Trent and profoundly relieved to see he wasn’t with any other girl, let alone her twin.

  “Well,” said Jean-Baptiste, “I’d best be getting back to the Rose Cottage, my charming if overstuffed, overchintzed bed-and-breakfast. My hostess, Mrs. Ashley Green, is a lovely woman, but she does tend to worry about her guests. Besides, I’m rather spent after an evening keeping up with this one.” He gestured to Trent.

  “You look less tired than either of us,” Trent said. It was true. After a presumably sleepless night, Jean-Baptiste was as crisp and bright as his violet pocket square, while Mardi and Trent were both yawning as they passed the coffee ba
ck and forth.

  “Nevertheless, I shall leave you two,” Jean-Baptiste said with a quiet, knowing smile. Mardi and Trent locked eyes for a moment, and by the time they looked around again, the old man had evaporated.

  “This coffee is fantastic,” Mardi said, enjoying his intense gaze on her as she drank.

  “Have you been here long?” he asked.

  “I was at the North Inn for a while, hanging out with Freya, and I thought I’d stop by the Dragon on my way home—even though it’s not really on my way home—and see what you were up to.”

  He nodded.

  She noticed his eyes drawn to the rainbow snake around her neck. He looked at it with such interest that she shimmered inside. No one had ever taken her in so fully before. Yet she still hadn’t opened up about who she really was. And neither had he.

  “Look, the sun is coming up,” she said, looking out at the first rays.

  He came up behind her, wrapped her in his arms and nestled his chin on her shoulder. “It’s so peaceful, isn’t it?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Mmmm.” She leaned back into him.

  “Mardi, I don’t want to push you, but I want you to understand that I really care about you, and I can tell you’re in some kind of trouble. Jean-Baptiste didn’t tell me much. He feels he can’t. But he gives me the impression that your struggle is more than a simple discipline problem. You’re not just some spoiled brat from the big city. I want you to know. . . .” He trailed off.

  “Know what?”

  “That I’m just like you,” he whispered, and she knew exactly what he meant.

  “I thought so” was all she could manage.

  “You’re not the only one who’s exiled here,” he continued. “I need Jean-Baptiste’s help as much as you do.”

  She turned around to face him. There was hardly a breath of space between them. For a few beats, she simply looked into his eyes. Then, because her feelings for him were, yet again, too powerful for her to understand, she pulled away. “I should go,” she said.

  Gently he took her hands in his. “Wild horses can’t drag me away,” he said, as if he had read her mind earlier. But he released her and turned toward his beautiful boat while she wandered back to her red convertible, her heart full of hope and confusion.

  PART TWO

  SUMMER NIGHTS

  16

  WE ARE FAMILY

  Although it was profoundly bucolic, North Hampton was not devoid of progress. The once decrepit, faintly sleazy motel on the outskirts of town had recently been gussied up into a boutique establishment, complete with vintage photographs in burnished frames and Jonathan Adler throw pillows in nautical colors. Not to mention the historic estate of Fair Haven, which, as the whole town knew, had just been renovated with central air, induction stoves, and radiant heat in its bathroom floors. Among the local clam shacks and candy stores, a traveler could now also find some of the same gourmet food that was flooding the rest of the Hamptons.

  The Cheesemonger carried several brands of handcrafted crackers at ten dollars a box. An ambitious young local named Joshua Goose was opening a restaurant whose menu would explain the provenance of every beet green and beef cheek without a trace of irony.

  But these were superficial changes. They gave North Hampton the illusion of keeping up with the times when, in fact, it was shrouded for eternity in a spell of timelessness. How else could its inhabitants fail to notice that the Beauchamp sisters, Freya and Ingrid, never aged? No one had ever noticed as their mother, Joanna, felt her wrinkles go smooth, her gray hair go brown, and her belly swell in order to give birth to them again all those years ago. North Hampton, despite its nod to the occasional trend, was a place of oblivion.

  It was also a place that prided itself on its traditions, one of which was Manhattan clam chowder, made with clams from the bay and chunks of potato, onion, and tomato from surrounding farms. So when Marshall suggested that they try making and selling New England clam chowder, the kind made with cream instead of tomatoes, Molly was skeptical. “People here wear the same brand of Top-Siders from the cradle to the grave, Cheeseboy. I can’t really picture them suddenly going for a new soup. Especially since Manhattan chowder is their specialty. They’re so proud of it.”

  “You’re the one who told me they keep inventing new bagel flavors in New York. And what’s more New York than a bagel?”

  “Are you really going to compare North Hampton to New York?”

  “I guess you’re right. North Hampton has so many distinct advantages.”

  She laughed. “Like?”

  “It has fewer roaches. Fewer rats. And it has outdoor opera on the Fourth of July, which is tomorrow night by the way. In case you don’t have plans. How about some Wagner under the stars? I make the best picnic in town.”

  “Am I dreaming, Cheesefriend, or are you actually trying to ask me out again?” Her joking tone took the edge off. “Are you one of those people who doesn’t learn from experience? Like the mice who keep reaching for the electric shock button even after the hundredth time? Because the button looks like a piece of cheese?”

  He laughed. “Are you really calling your boss a lab animal?”

  You had to hand it to Cheeseboy. Against all odds, he remained playfully persistent.

  “Oh, my God, I forgot you’re my boss!” She covered her face with her hands in mock drama, peeking through long manicured fingers at him as he dropped handfuls of parsley into his creamy chowder. “I depend on you, Mr. Cheeseboy, for such a huge part of my upkeep!” She gestured up and down the multicolored designer sundress that had surely cost more than a week’s paycheck from the Cheesemonger. “I mean, this job almost covers my sock budget. Not stockings. I didn’t say stockings. That would be asking too much. Besides, they don’t sell Wolford in this town. But it pretty much covers my athletic socks. So, I guess I better not blow it and alienate you. I guess I have to say yes to your date. So, what time is that opera thing tomorrow? And what is it again? Wagner? Do I like Wagner? By the way, does this count as sexual harassment? Because you’re my boss and all.”

  Partly, she wanted to make Tris a little jealous, since he hadn’t mentioned any plans for the Fourth of July. Although in all fairness, they hadn’t done much talking once they had started making out the other night. But partly, Molly couldn’t help but find Cheeseboy cute, even if he was, you know, Cheeseboy.

  She could see that he was so stunned and happy by her acceptance that he had to pretend to be absorbed in his cooking while he scrambled for a comeback worthy of her banter. After a few seconds, he said, “I think you’ll like the Wagner a lot. The concert is a little, um, cheesy in that it’s a ‘greatest hits’ of the Ring Cycle. So it’s sort of high art meets Americana. But that’s sort of how I think of you. You’re an exquisite, yet all-American beauty.”

  “You think of me as ‘high art meets Americana’?” She was trying to hold up her end of the conversation, but something about the words Ring Cycle was throwing her. Her body surged with the same otherworldly tingling she had felt during that creepy memory therapy session at Freya’s house when that old Frenchman with the cool pocket square, Jean-Baptiste, had taken her and Mardi back to that weird night at Bret’s. Scared that she was losing her balance, she gripped the counter.

  Marshall didn’t seem to notice. “Do you want to try my soup?” he asked.

  “I guess,” she managed. “Do I have a choice?”

  He held out a spoon to her mouth. As she leaned toward it, she felt herself swoon. There was heavy music pounding in her head. Images of her and Mardi’s ring snaked across her field of vision, and she lost her balance.

  “Are you okay?” Marshall yelled as he saved her from face-planting into the chowder pot.

  The next thing she knew, she was draped across the shop’s gingham-upholstered window seat with a cool wet washcloth pressed to her forehead. Marshall was standing a
bove her, slowly coming into focus as her nausea ebbed. From below, his ordinary features appeared reassuringly familiar, but also strikingly handsome.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she said, slowly sitting up.

  Just then, her phone rang. It was Daddy. His ringtone was “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge, which always brought an ironic smile to Molly’s glossy lips, because she, Daddy, and Mardi were hardly a traditional family. They were no more than three strong-willed individuals bound up together, with no rhythms, no traditions, no center. Living with Ingrid, Matt, and the kids, with their aromas of home cooking and their chore lists taped to the fridge, was really bringing this fact home.

  Marshall handed her the phone.

  “Thanks, Ch—I mean, Marshall.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He was so kind. And not bad-looking either. Cute, really. Something was melting inside her.

  “I really mean it. Thanks.”

  He winked and went back to his place behind the counter.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she sighed into her phone.

  “Sweetheart, you sound upset. You must have heard the awful news. Did Ingrid tell you?”

  “Daddy, I can’t deal with your hysteria right now. I’m not feeling so great. Can we talk later?”

  “Molly, this is serious. There’s a formal accusation by the dead girl’s parents. They have testimony from some of the kids and teachers at school about your outrageous pranks. The word witchcraft is actually being used. It was in the Post today.”

  “Daddy, this is the twenty-first century. No one is going to get tried for witchcraft in New York City.” She tried to sound blithe, but she was starting to feel some of his anxiety. Her usual steely self-confidence was beginning to falter. So she did what she always did when she felt threatened. She said something mean.

  “You live in an ancient fantasy world, Daddy. We’re never going to be able to return to Asgard, and the mortals of this world think you wear a red cape and hold a hammer, okay? I gotta go.”