Sarah Allen - The Girl Who Chased the Moon

“I don’t think Emily knows,” Win said. “I don’t think her mother told her.”

“Stop,” his father warned. “Whatever you’re thinking. Stop. Emily Benedict is off-limits. End of discussion.”

A woman in a white dress and apron entered the room, carrying a tray with a silver tea service. Win’s father gave him a look that meant Be quiet now . They rarely talked about it among themselves-in fact Win sometimes thought his mother had even forgotten and she seemed strangely happier that way-but they never, ever talked about it in front of the help.

Win turned and walked over to where his sister, Kylie, was sitting in the far corner of the room. She had her phone out and was texting someone. This was traditionally reading time in the Coffey household, at dusk, just before dinner. It was an old family tradition, dating back hundreds of years, structuring their time at night when they were all forced to stay inside because of their secret, even on beautiful summer nights like this one. Win didn’t see the point of it now, and he was itching to go outside. He’d felt this building for months now. He didn’t want to sneak around like there was something wrong with him anymore.

He sat beside his sister and watched her ignore him for a few minutes. Win was almost two years older than Kylie, and when they were kids, she used to follow him around relentlessly. She was about to turn sixteen and she still followed him, either to vex him or to protect him. He wasn’t sure which. He wasn’t sure she knew, either. “You shouldn’t test him,” Kylie said. “If I were you, I’d stay far, far away from that girl.”

“Maybe I’m just getting to know my enemy.” It was unsettling, his unexpected fascination with Emily, with her unruly blond hair and the sharp edges of her face and body. When they’d shaken hands that morning, he hadn’t wanted to let go. There was something vulnerable about her, something soft under those sharp edges. He’d been thinking about her all day. It had to be more than a coincidence, Dulcie Shelby’s daughter coming to town at the same time he was having issues with the way his family chose to live. Maybe it was a sign.

Yes. That was it.

It had to be a sign.

“I’m going out again tonight,” he said suddenly. “Don’t tell Dad. And don’t follow me.”

Kylie rolled her eyes. “Why do you keep trying? I can tell you from experience, it’s not all that great.”

“What?”

“Being ordinary.”

“JULIA! WILL you get the door please?” Stella called from downstairs that same evening, just as Julia was taking her second attempt at madeleines out of the oven. She frowned at the pan. Still no good.

Stella bellowed again, “Julia! It’s Sawyer, and I’m in the bathtub!”

Julia sighed. She’d already seen Sawyer once today. That was enough. The key to getting out of this stay in Mullaby un-scathed was not associating with him.

Julia wiped her hands on her jeans and went downstairs with hard, Godzilla footfalls on the steps to annoy Stella, whose bathroom was directly under the staircase. Through the sheer curtains on the front door window, she could see a figure haloed by the porch light.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. But she smiled in relief when she saw who it was.

Emily shifted from one foot to the other. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing that morning, black shorts and a black tank top, and her quirky blond hair shone like meringue in the light by the door. “Hi, Julia,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No. No, of course not.” She stepped back and waved Emily in. When Julia had told her that she’d be here if Emily ever needed her, she didn’t think she’d take her up on her offer so soon. Still, as Julia watched the girl look around awkwardly, her heart went out to her. It was never easy being the outsider, especially when it wasn’t by choice.

“You have a nice house,” Emily said. Stella’s part of the house was warm and lovely, thanks to her decorator mother-golden wood floors, lively flower arrangements, original artwork, and a striped silk couch she wouldn’t let anyone sit on.

“It’s not mine. It belongs to my friend Stella. I have the apartment upstairs.”

As if on cue, Stella yelled, “Hello, Sawyer! I’m wearing nothing but steam, want to see?”

“It’s not Sawyer,” Julia called to her. “I can’t believe you’re waiting for him in the bathtub. Get out before you turn into a prune.” Emily’s brows rose and Julia said, “That’s Stella. Don’t ask. Come on, I’ll show you my part of the house.” She started up the stairs and motioned Emily to follow.

At the top of the staircase, Julia had to step back in the narrow hallway to let Emily enter, then she reached around her to close the door.

“Just let me turn off the stove,” she said as she walked to the bedroom that had been turned into a tiny kitchen. There was a mood of magic and frenzy to the room. Crystalline swirls of sugar and flour still lingered in the air like kite tails. And then there was the smell-the smell of hope, the kind of smell that brought people home. Tonight it was the comfort of browning butter and the excitement of lemon zest.

The window in the room was wide open, because that was the way Julia always baked. Bottling up the smell made no sense. The message needed some way out.

“What are you making?” Emily asked from the doorway as Julia turned off the stove.

“I experiment with recipes here before I make them for the restaurant. My madeleines aren’t up to snuff yet.” Julia picked up a madeleine from her first batch. “See? Madeleines should have a distinct hump on this side. This is too flat. I don’t think I refrigerated my batter long enough.” She took Emily’s hand and placed the small spongy cake in her palm. “This is how the French serve madeleines, with the shell side down, like a boat. In America, we like to see the pretty shell side from the shape of the madeleine pan, so we serve them this way.” She turned the madeleine over. “Go on, try it.”

Emily took a bite and smiled. She covered her lips with her hand and said, her mouth full, “You’re a really good cook.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ve been baking since I was sixteen.”

“It must be nice to have such a gift.”

Julia shrugged. “I can’t take credit for it. Someone else gave it to me.” Sometimes she resented the fact that she never would have found this skill on her own, that she had only discovered what she was truly good at because of someone else. She had to keep reminding herself that it didn’t matter how the skill got there, it was what she did with it, the love that came out of it, that mattered. Emily looked like she was going to ask what Julia meant, so Julia quickly said, “How was your first full day here?”

One more bite and Emily had finished the madeleine. She took a moment to chew and swallow, then said, “I guess I’m confused.”

Julia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a hip against the ancient, olive-drab refrigerator. “About what?”

“About why my mom left. About why she didn’t stay in touch with people here. Did she have friends? What was she like when she lived here?”

Julia paused with surprise. Emily had a lot to learn about this town, about the havoc her mother had wreaked. But Julia certainly wasn’t going to be the one who told her. “Like I said, I didn’t know her well,” Julia said carefully. “We weren’t in the same social group in school, and I had my own problems at the time. Have you talked to your grandfather? He’s the one you should ask.”

“No.” Emily tucked back some of her short, flyaway hair. Her whole demeanor was so achingly sincere. “He’s been hiding in his room all day. Did he and my mom not get along? Do you think that’s why she never came back?”