But when Lucy blinked, the colors and patterns disappeared. The window was bare. It was nothing but clear float glass.
“Wait. What’s that?”
Sam turned to see what she was staring at. “The window?”
“It used to be stained glass,” Lucy said dazedly.
“It could have been.”
“No, it was. With a tree and a moon.”
“Whatever was in there was knocked out a long time ago. At some point someone tried to make the house into apartments.” Sam carried her away from the window. “You should have seen it when I bought it. Shag rug in some rooms. They’d knocked out support walls and put in some flimsy chipboard ones. My brother Alex came in with his crew to rebuild load-bearing walls and put in support beams. Now the place is rock solid.”
“It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale. I feel like I’ve been here before, or dreamed about it.” Her mind was tired, her thoughts not connecting properly.
They went into a long rectangular bedroom paralleling the bay, the walls paneled with wide beadboard, a fireplace in the corner, abundant windows revealing the shining blue flat of False Bay. The window on either end of the row had been fitted with screens and opened to let in the outside air.
“Here we go.” Sam set her on a large bed with a seagrass headboard and quilted blue covers that had already been folded back.
“This is your room? Your bed?”
“Yes.”
Lucy tried to sit up. “Sam, no—”
“Be still,” he said. “I mean it, Lucy. You’re going to hurt yourself. You’re taking the bed. I’m going to sleep on a rollaway in another room.”
“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room. I’ll sleep on the roll-away.”
“You’re going to sleep where I put you.” Sam tugged the snowy white and blue quilt over her. Bracing one hand on either side of Lucy’s body, he stared down at her. Maybe it was the effect of the sunset glow pouring through the windows, but his face seemed to have gentled. He reached down to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “Think you could stay awake long enough to have some soup?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Rest, then. I’ll check on you in a little while.”
Lucy lay quietly after he left. The room was serene and cool, and from the distance she could hear the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Pleasantly indistinct sounds filtered through the floor and walls, voices punctuated by an occasional laugh, the clinking of pots and dishes and flatware. Sounds of family and home, floating on the air like a lullaby.
* * *
Sam paused to stare out the window on the second-floor landing. The moon had appeared even before sunset had finished, a massive white-gold circle against the magenta sky. Scientists said that the size of the summer solstice moon was an optical trick, that the human eye was unable to accurately measure distance without the help of visual cues. But some illusions were truer than reality.
Once Sam had read a story about an ancient Chinese poet who had drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He had been drinking rice wine along the Yangtze River—too much wine, in light of his ignominious death. But God knew there was no choice in yearning for something or someone you would never be able to have. You didn’t even want a choice. That was the fatal temptation of moonlight.
Lucy was in his bed, as fragile as a broken orchid. He was tempted to stay in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting for any sign that she needed something. But he made himself go downstairs, where Renfield was trotting back and forth with a discarded sock in his mouth, and Holly was setting the table, and Mark was on the phone talking to someone about scheduling a dentist appointment.
Heading into the kitchen, Sam went to the big freestanding wooden worktable where Maggie stood whisking cream in a bowl.
Maggie Conroy was pretty rather than beautiful, her personality so effervescent that she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. It was only when you stood right next to her that you realized she couldn’t be more than five foot one. “I’m five one and a half,” Maggie always insisted, as if that last half inch made a damn bit of difference.
In the past Mark had always gone for trophy chicks, the kind who were great to look at but rarely fun to spend any actual time around. Thank God that when Mark had finally gotten serious with someone, it had been Maggie, whose quirky optimism was exactly what the family had needed.
Wordlessly Sam approached, took the whisk and bowl from her, and continued to whip the cream.
“Thanks,” Maggie said, shaking out her cramped hand.