Mary Clark: Moonlight Becomes You

Maggie. He pictured her for a moment, her beautiful face, the intelligence and energy that she radiated.

Liam sipped the last of the martini and, with a sigh, hoisted himself out of his comfortable spot. Time to go, he thought. He checked his appearance at the foyer mirror, noting that the red-and-blue Hermès tie his mother had sent for his birthday went well enough with his navy blazer, although a traditional stripe might be better. With a shrug he decided not to worry about it; it really was time to go.

He picked up his key ring, and, locking the door behind him, set off for Nuala’s dinner party.

Earl Bateman was stretched out on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand, the book he’d just finished on the table beside him. He knew it was time to change for Nuala’s dinner party, but he was enjoying a sense of leisure, using the moment to contemplate the events of the past week.

Before coming down from Providence, he had finished grading the papers turned in by his Anthropology 101 class and was pleased to note that all but a few of the students had performed at the A or B level. It would be an interesting-and perhaps challenging-semester with them, he decided.

And now he could look forward to Newport weekends mercifully free of the crowds jamming restaurants and traffic tie-ups so typical of the summer season.

Earl lived in the guest wing of the family home, Squire Hall, the house Squire Moore had built for his youngest daughter on the occasion of her marriage to Gordon Bateman, “the ghoul” as Squire called him because the Batemans had been funeral directors for four generations.

Of all the residences he had presented his seven children, it was by far the smallest, a reflection of the fact that he had been opposed to the marriage. Nothing personal, but Squire had a horror of dying and even forbade the word “death” to be mentioned in his presence. To take into the family bosom the man who undoubtedly would attend to the rituals surrounding his own demise was a continual reminder of the forbidden word.

Gordon Bateman’s reaction had been to convince his wife to name their home Squire Hall, a mocking tribute to his father-in-law and a subtle reminder that none of his other children had thought to so honor him.

Earl had always believed that his own given name was another jab at Squire, since the old man had always tried to convey the impression that he’d been named for generations of Moores who in the county of Dingle had had the courtesy title of squire. A squire in Dingle tugged his forelock in homage to an earl.

After Earl finally convinced his father that he had no inten tion of becoming the next Bateman funeral director, his parents sold the mortuary to a private corporation that retained the family name and hired a manager to run it.

His parents now spent nine months of the year in South Carolina, near his married sisters, and had urged Earl to take over the entire house during those months, an offer he declined. The wing was arranged to his liking, with his books and artifacts locked away in glass-fronted cabinets against the possibility of careless dusting. He also had a sweeping view of the Atlantic; Earl found the sea infinitely calming.

Calm. That was perhaps the word he valued most.

At the noisy New York reunion of Squire Moore’s descendants, as much as possible he had stayed on the sidelines where he could simply observe the lot of them. He tried not to be too judgmental, but he did not join in their “can you top this?” tales. His cousins all seemed to be given to bragging about how well they were doing, and like Liam, they all loved to regale each other with far-fetched stories about their eccentric-and occasionally ruthless-ancestor.

Earl also knew how gleefully some of them seized on his father’s background as a fourth-generation funeral director. At the reunion, he had overheard two of them belittling him and making snide jokes about undertakers and their profession.

A pox on the lot of them, he thought now as he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. It was ten of eight, time to get a move on. He wasn’t looking forward to going to Nuala’s dinner party tonight, but on the other hand, Maggie Holloway would be there. She was extremely attractive…

Yes, her presence would ensure that the evening would not be dull.

Dr. William Lane, director of the Latham Manor Residence, looked at his watch for the third time in five minutes. He and his wife were due at Nuala Moore’s place at eight o’clock; it was ten of eight now. A large, balding man in his fifties, Dr. Lane had a soothing bedside manner with his patients-an attitude of forbearance that did not extend to his thirty-nine-year-old wife.

“Odile,” he called, “for God’s sake, get a move on.”

“Right with you.” Her voice, breathy and musical, floated down the stairs of their home, a structure that once had been the carriage house of Latham Manor. A moment later she rushed into the living room, still fastening an earring.

“I was reading to Mrs. Patterson,” she said. “You know how it is, William. She’s not used to the residence yet, and she resents the fact that her son sold her house out from under her.”

“She’ll settle in,” Lane said dismissively. “Everyone else seems to have managed to end up being quite happy here.”

“I know, but it sometimes takes a while. I still say a little TLC while a new guest is adjusting is important.” Odile walked to the mirror over the carved marble fireplace. “How do I look?” She smiled at her wide-eyed, blond-haired reflection.

“You look lovely. You always do,” Lane said shortly. “What do you know about this stepdaughter of Nuala’s?”

“Nuala told me all about her when she visited Greta Shipley last Monday. Her name is Maggie, and Nuala was married to her father years ago. She’s going to stay for two weeks. Nuala seems very happy about it. Don’t you think that’s sweet, that they met each other again?”

Without answering, Dr. Lane opened the front door, then stood aside. You’re in a great mood, Odile thought, as she walked past him and down the steps to the car. For a moment she paused and looked at Latham Manor, its marble façade glistening in the moonlight.

Hesitantly she suggested, “I meant to tell you that when I looked in on Mrs. Hammond, she was a bit out of breath and rather pale. I wonder if you should check her before we go.”

“We’re late already,” Dr. Lane replied impatiently as he opened the car door. “If I’m needed I can be back in ten minutes, but I can assure you that Mrs. Hammond will be all right tonight.”

Malcolm Norton was not looking forward to the evening. A silver-haired man with an erect, military posture, he made an imposing appearance. It was an appearance, however, that concealed a troubled mind.

Nuala’s call three days ago, asking him to come to dinner tonight and meet her stepdaughter, had been a shock-not the invitation to dinner itself, but the unexpected news that Nuala had a stepdaughter.

A lawyer with a general practice, working alone, Norton had seen his client list reduced drastically in the past few years, partly through attrition-he had become almost expert at handling estates of the deceased-but also due, he was certain, to the arrival of several young, aggressive lawyers in the area.

Nuala Moore was one of his few remaining clients, and he thought he knew her affairs inside out. Never once had she mentioned this stepdaughter.

For some time Malcolm Norton had been quietly urging Nuala to sell her home and become a resident of Latham Manor. Until recently she had shown signs of agreeing that it would be a good move. She admitted that since her husband, Tim, had died, the house was lonely, and it was beginning to cost more and more in repairs. “I know it needs a new roof, that the heating system is antiquated, and anyone who bought it would want to put in central air-conditioning,” she had told him. “Do you think I could get two hundred thousand for it?”