Light of the Moon Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY LUANNE RICE

  COPYRIGHT

  To Karen Covert

  with love

  PROLOGUE

  She ran out the kitchen door into the darkness and fog, hearing her own footsteps pounding in her ears. She slipped, caught herself, kept running. Her shoulder seared—she could still feel her mother’s strong hand, shoving her away, shoving her down. She tugged at the barn door; it was so heavy, and the handle was too high. When she got it open, she smelled the horses and heard them rustling in their stalls. They sensed disaster—they knew her mother was leaving, knew she had to try to stop her.

  Her heart was racing. She’d heard the voices whispering. They woke her up and she’d thought it was a dream, but then she’d looked out the window and seen the bags, known in the pit of her stomach that something bad was happening. She was down the stairs in seconds and flew to her mother in the doorway, grabbing her hand.

  But he was waiting in the yard, his big ugly face and bristly moustache telling her mother to hurry, they had to go. And her mother had locked furious eyes with her—as if she was angry her child loved her so much, as if she felt rage because her daughter didn’t want her to go—and she’d pushed her away, sent her stumbling back into the wall.

  Sari had cried out for her father, but there was no time. Her mother was running across the yard, climbing into the car. Sari had flown outside, known she had to catch up, realized Mystère was the only way.

  The big white horse tossed her head. No time for a saddle or bridle; just a scramble up the rough boards, a jump onto her back. Small hands tangled in the mane. Her mother’s favorite horse, so much bigger than her own pony.

  Sari clucked her tongue, making Mystère move. Out of the barn, into the blackness. Fog swirled off the marsh; it was night, pitch dark, and rain was starting to fall. She rode blindly, by instinct, toward the road, her ears straining for the sound of the car.

  All she could hear were hoofbeats and the pounding of the rain. It soaked her clothes through to her skin, made her hair fall into her eyes. Her shoulder burned, and the raindrops felt like needles, and she wanted her mother to pull her off the horse and dry her with a towel and say she was so sorry for hurting her. She wanted to feel the rough towel and her mother’s soft hands, and she wanted it right now.

  “Mama!” she called.

  She kicked Mystère once, then again, to make her move. Riding was as easy as walking—she’d grown up doing it. But now it was night, and she’d been sound asleep, and the fury in her mother’s face and the thrust of her hand had shocked her into numbness. She thought she heard her mother whispering to the man, but it was just wind whispering through the reeds. Mist rising from the creeks and lagoon made it impossible to see. She knew they had reached the main road only because the horse’s hoofbeats suddenly sounded sharp instead of soft.

  The only sounds: hoofbeats and rain and the rustling marsh grass.

  And then, up ahead: glowing monster eyes.

  Red, burning through the fog, staring straight at her. But instead of being afraid, she felt her heart leap. She wasn’t too late. She was awake, this wasn’t a dream, she wasn’t too late.

  She kicked the horse, and felt her take off as if she knew, as if Mystère knew even more than she did. She’d never gone so fast—a pure gallop, hoofbeats clanging in her ears, the storm wind rising and shrieking, or was that her own voice? The rain came down hard, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision.

  The red eyes winked, blinked—brake lights being tapped. Her skin drenched, hair dripping, mouth wide open and filling with tears so fast she might choke, might not be able to get the words out. Getting closer, she saw the car beginning to pull away.

  She saw the beautiful face—turned half-around, looking over the back of the car seat, out the back window, arm reached out as if to touch her. She kicked Mystère faster, faster.

  “Mama!” she heard herself wail, letting go of Mystère’s flowing mane as she leaned forward, reaching out to her mother with all her might.

  But the car pulled away, faster than any horse could gallop, its lights receding. Fog and rain and night filled the distance between them, swallowing the car and making it invisible, and she was crying so hard she didn’t hear the other car coming, didn’t hear the wheels splashing up water. And then she was flying through the air as the big white horse suddenly dodged sideways on the glittering wet pavement.

  But she had no wings, this wasn’t a dream, and the whispering voices had been real, and the bags had been real, and the violent shove had been real, and the red eyes had belonged to a monster that had come to destroy her family. She catapulted over the horse’s head and opened her mouth to scream, but it never came out.

  The scream went in instead of out, and it was caught inside, the scream was trapped inside, and she hit the ground and broke into pieces, and she saw those glowing red eyes, and then the world turned to gray.

  Five Years Later

  ONE

  Air France 321, scheduled to leave Boston’s Logan Airport at 7:50 that night, was full. Susannah Connolly sat in seat 22A; she had her tray table stowed, seat in the upright position, and carry-on bag tucked under the seat in front of her. She’d slipped her passport into her jacket pocket, and at this very moment, she was missing a surprise party—hers.

  Her seat belt was tightly buckled. She had the window seat, and two strangers—a couple, whispering comfortably to each other—had the middle and aisle. She had a novel, a magazine, and a guidebook to read. She hoped the party guests were enjoying champagne and birthday cake. She couldn’t think of many things she felt less equipped to do than pretend to be having fun at her own surprise party.

  Every seat on the plane was taken. The captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, telling them they were third in line for takeoff. His French accent was soft, alluring, and sexy, but she barely noticed.

  Staring out the window, she felt the plane begin to move, its wheels bumping slowly along the accessway. Susannah traveled a lot. Her passport had been stamped so often, the customs officials had to search for a clean page. Work had taken her away from home a hundred times in the last few years. But this was different—brand new territory: this was a journey for herself, to connect with her mother.

  Her mother…Although she had died six months earlier, it still didn’t seem real.

  Susannah was a cultural anthropologist, on the fast track in a competitive field. She taught at Connecticut College, but this was a sabbatical year. Her specialty was cave paintings—specifically those with a spiritual bent—with a concentration on horse illustrations. Cave dwellers had looked to the sun, the sea, the great bear, the forest deer, the blue whale, the wild horse. They’d created sain
ts before the birth of the church, and she’d always been impressed and moved by the inspiration they’d found in the world around them.

  Susannah had traveled the world to crawl, wriggle, dive, and spelunk into the planet’s deepest, most hidden crevasses—dark, usually slimy, frequently precarious holes, where other humans had gone before, to leave messages, stories, splashes of hope, despair, and beauty.

  She had crawled deeper into caves than anyone else would dare to go. She’d lie on her stomach, inching forward as the rock walls closed in on her, fighting claustrophobia, knowing that if only she made it a few feet farther, she’d be rewarded with the sight of something no one had seen in thousands of years.

  Ian had seemed to understand. He’d often traveled with her, but rarely entered the caves; he’d wait outside, review the data she sent back via the miracle of fiber optics. He’d had a phobia of being trapped, and no matter how hard he’d fought it, he couldn’t overcome the fear—but it hadn’t mattered; his analysis of the images had been without peer.

  Susannah had met him when they were both grad students at Yale. They’d started out studying together; they took the same classes, had the same professors. The work was hard, so they encouraged each other. Susannah would get lost in her research, the love of her subject matter, and Ian would remind her to apply for grants, submit her work to journals.

  Once they were studying in his room, and Susannah fell asleep on his bed. It was December, just before break, and an icy draft was coming through the old windows. She woke up to find him curled beside her, and she pressed against him for warmth. They lay there for a long time, and then he began to kiss her.

  His arms were around her. She felt so cold and tired, and she knew she should stop him. But he stroked her hair, and whispered that he’d been feeling this way for so long. Susannah let him hold her, shivering in the cold. Her father had died not long before, and she’d buried herself in work, and she felt starved for closeness.

  Susannah remembered that moment so well—the instant they’d gone from good friends and work partners to something confusing. They studied so well together, balanced each other out. She delved deeply into the raw subject matter, and he organized the material. They worked separately on their own dissertations, but coauthored several papers published in journals. Ian never missed a chance to publish….

  Ian gave her jade earrings for Christmas, red roses for Valentine’s Day. Susannah had felt herself becoming part of a couple—almost by accident. She had so much in common with Ian. He was always there. Curious about her work, involved in her research, interested in her discoveries, sympathetic when they found her mother had lymphoma.

  But was this love? He began talking about what they’d do after leaving Yale. There seemed to be an assumption that they’d be making decisions together. And since he had his mind set on Stanford, Susannah felt herself being pulled to the West Coast. She’d resisted at the time—told Ian she wanted to accept a position at Connecticut College.

  He hadn’t understood, but he also hadn’t given up. Although they’d made their academic homes on opposite coasts, Ian kept trying to convince her they should be together. Years went by; they both advanced, working together on projects when they could. He kept up his campaign, telling her they already knew each other so well; they were passionate about the same field; and he’d spoken with the publisher of an academic press, who thought the idea of a couple visiting sites together could make a wonderful series of books.

  Susannah’s mother had tried not to laugh when she told her.

  “Oh, darling,” Susannah’s mother said. “How romantic…he’s courting you with a book deal!”

  “Mom,” Susannah had warned.

  Margaret Connolly chuckled. She was thin and pale, her skin yellowed from the disease and treatment. But her eyes were as bright and blue as ever.

  “Sweetheart, tell me your hopes and dreams…”

  “About what, Mom?”

  “About everything.”

  They were sitting in the oncologist’s office on Temple Street, waiting for Margaret Connolly to be seen. Her lymphoma had come back. It had been in remission for years, but now it had returned and spread. Susannah sat by her side, waiting to hear the results of the latest radiation treatments. At that moment, she wanted never to leave Connecticut again. She wanted to be with her mother every second she had left.

  “My hopes and dreams? To plant a garden, to walk on the beach, to ride again…on a beautiful white horse…”

  “Those are mine, too,” her mother whispered.

  “We’ll do them together,” Susannah said.

  “Okay,” her mother said, smiling. “Maybe we’ll finally take that trip together…”

  “The Camargue!” Susannah exclaimed. “To see Sarah! Could we? Do you really think…”

  Her mother just looked over, her gaze full of love and sadness.

  “No,” Susannah said, answering her own question. “No, we’ll stay home instead. We’ll garden, and walk on the beach…”

  Her mother shook her head. “No, Susannah…that’s not how it will be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re not going to stay home and wait…. I want you to take that trip.”

  “Mom. Not without you.”

  “Yes, sweetheart. And others, too. Your work takes you where you need to be, and that’s how I want it.”

  “Not now, though,” Susannah said. “I should cancel everything. Lascaux, Istanbul…”

  “Listen to me. You’re the best daughter anyone’s ever had. I know you’d do anything you could to make me well. You’d find a cure for cancer if you could, and I know that. But that’s not your work…”

  “Work doesn’t matter now,” Susannah whispered.

  “Yes,” her mother said, nodding. “It does. Life’s work matters so much. It’s the distillation of who you are, what you believe. You care about the past, because you love everything and everyone, and you want to learn all there is to know.”

  “You taught me to be that way.”

  “I tried,” her mother said. “Your father and I both did. And we’re so proud of who you’ve become. So don’t hold back now, Susannah…. Go see Sarah.”

  “Maybe Ian and I should—”

  “Not Ian,” her mother said, her voice surprisingly sharp.

  Susannah looked deeply into her mother’s blue eyes.

  “You think Ian is as passionate about anthropology as you are,” her mother said. “But he’s not. He’s ambitious, darling. There’s a difference.”

  If Susannah hadn’t already known that, her mother’s words might not have rung so true. The more Ian pushed, the more Susannah pulled back. And then early last fall, on a trip to Lascaux, he’d unexpectedly arrived and surprised her with a question. Susannah sat back in her seat, eyes closed, remembering it now.

  He’d planned so well; he’d known how excited she’d be after exploring a new chamber, seeing cave paintings she’d never seen before. And he knew, too, how worried she was about her mother. Susannah had continued her work, her travels, because her mother insisted. But her entire spirit was pulled home, every minute. She felt ripped in half.

  Susannah walked out of the cave, and Ian caught her in his arms. She was sweaty, covered with dirt, but he didn’t seem to care. He held her, listening to her describe the delicate drawings, the subtle colors. She’d seen images of a mother and children, close by the fire, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of her own mother.

  “Those drawings,” he said, “are our future.”

  “Our what?”

  “You’ll document them, I’ll get everything ready for the publisher. We’re a team, Susannah. You don’t want to come to Stanford—fine. We’ll go somewhere else, but we’ll do it together. It just makes so much sense….”

  “Ian…” She wanted to ask him: Weren’t you listening to me? But she held the words inside. He just kept talking, making his plans, and she stood there, rocked by the
beautiful, ancient paintings of a mother and her family.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, finally noticing her tears.

  “I’m just thinking of my mother,” she said.

  He stood there, silent for a moment. She suddenly felt overwhelmed. She wanted him to hold her tight, understand the grief she felt—knowing her mother’s illness was advancing, and there was nothing they could do.

  “You’re so sad,” he said.

  “I am,” she’d whispered. Something about the cave, the earth, the almost eternal quality of the paintings, had made the idea of losing her mother all the more vivid.

  “Susannah, maybe if you rethought your priorities…made other choices…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Taking time for the people you love. Relationships,” Ian said, “take work. Even now, with your mother dying, it was your choice to come here…”

  “God, stop!”

  “I want us to be together,” he said. “Really together. Working, traveling…”

  She stared, in shock.

  “Will you marry me, Susannah?”

  “Oh, Ian…” She felt her eyes flood again. He knew by her non-answer what her true answer was. They stared at each other for a long moment. Susannah’s face was streaked with dirt and tears. Ian looked immaculate, as always.

  “You’re making the wrong choice,” he said, and it sounded like a warning. “But then, I’ve watched you do that for years.”

  Sitting on the plane, Susannah thought of Ian. He was for the most part gone from her life now—she’d told him she needed a break, and although he’d made some recent overtures, they hadn’t seen each other since then. But his words haunted her.