other side of Rosalyn, Noel Clements and Tansy Dunwoody, were the ones I found the most intriguing—and certainly the most attractive. According to Emmet, the two of them had been together as long as he’d known them, yet they weren’t lovers, and never had been. They were a stunning couple, especially seen next to each other. Noel was sunbright and tawny, a striking contrast to the dark-eyed, sultry Tansy. He had an arm crooked around her neck, and she was contorted in a playful pose. Despite their movie-star looks, it was their relationship that interested me. In Atlanta they lived at the exclusive Reid House, where each had their own flat (as they were called at such a ritzy place). In the summer, however, they shared a house together, right below Moonrise. And they’re not lovers? I’d asked skeptically. Emmet had waved me off in exasperation and said they’d have to explain their relationship to me. And if they did, could I kindly let him know because it’d never made a damn bit of sense to him, either.
Another photo showed a young woman who didn’t fit any of the descriptions of the folks I’d heard about. Judging by her startled expression, she’d been caught unaware as she hung a bird feeder from the eaves of a porch. Dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots, this woman was strikingly different in appearance and demeanor from the rest of Emmet and Rosalyn’s sophisticated group. When I asked Emmet about her, he frowned as he took the album from me for a closer look. “Oh, that’s Willa McFee,” he said as his face relaxed into a fond smile. “I’d forgotten taking it. Probably the only one we have of her, she’s so camera-shy. A lot of mountain folks are.” Handing the album back, he explained. “Willa’s like family. Her mother was the housekeeper at Moonrise; now Willa’s taken over. Well, not as housekeeper—she’s the property manager, runs her own company. Matter of fact, she takes care of all of our places off-season, and does some housekeeping for us when we’re there. Nice girl. You’ll like her.”
The remaining pictures were of Moonrise, and I couldn’t get enough of them. Emmet told me that the estate was on a mountainside a couple of miles outside Highlands, and that it overlooked a lake. Looking Glass Lake, the original settlers of the area had called it, because of the way the water mirrored everything around it, or on it, so exactly. My favorite picture of Moonrise was one taken from the lake, looking up at just the right angle. Gothic in style and majestic in scope, Moonrise had the gabled roofs and turrets of a storybook castle. And the setting! A lifelong resident of south Florida, I peered longingly at the formal layout of shrubs and trees, many of which were unfamiliar to me. The foliage I was accustomed to was lush and tropical. Although I knew nothing about gardening, I could only imagine the upkeep of such majestic grounds.
A photo of the back of the house proved to be my downfall. Although I’d vowed not to bother Emmet with anything else about Moonrise, I had to know more about that one. The gardens in the back of the house had been photographed at night, in the light of a full moon. It was an eerily beautiful scene, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Although the leafy foliage of the garden was dark and mysterious, the moon illuminated white blossoms that grew everywhere—in every bed, border, shrub, and tree. Arbors hung heavy with flowering vines; pale blossoms encircled fountains and statuary; moonlit blooms lighted the graveled pathways like torches. I’d heard of moonflower vines and night-blooming cereus, of course, but I’d never seen anything like this. Those gardens had clearly been designed to be nocturnal, seen only by the light of the moon. Then it hit me. Moonrise! Did the name come from the garden, or was it the other way around?
I could hardly wait for Emmet to get home to ask him about the photo, and he was surprisingly patient in responding—initially, anyway. No, he hadn’t taken that one. He didn’t have the equipment for night photography, so Rosalyn had hired a professional. The photo was taken a few years back, when she needed one for a poster advertising one of her garden tours. And I’d guessed correctly; the house got its name from the moon gardens planted by Rosalyn’s great-grandmother, the original mistress of the house. Rosalyn took great pride in maintaining the unique gardens, a skill that had been passed down from her mother. The maintenance was so much work that few gardeners would’ve undertaken it without an extensive crew. At that point Emmet’s face changed and took on that guarded, remote expression I’d come to dread. “But all that died with Rosalyn,” he stated bluntly. “You’ve met Annie, so you know that, too. Rosalyn wasn’t able to pass her skill on to her daughter because Annie never had the interest. Maybe later, she might’ve come around.” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “It would be better for all of us, Helen, if you’d let go of this obsession of yours. You’re stirring up a lot of things from the past that are better left alone. Trust me on this one, okay?”
And I might have done so, if it hadn’t been for a conversation I had with Noel Clements later that same night. It was early April, and I was still smarting from Emmet’s abrupt end to my probing into the life he led before I became a part of it. I’d answered the phone reluctantly, and even more so once I recognized the voice on the other end. Funny, I chatted freely with Linc Varner whenever he called, but was uncomfortable talking with Tansy and Noel. They were too glib for me, their urbane banter off-putting. With Tansy, I stammered like an ignorant Cracker and said the most embarrassing things imaginable. “I can’t wait to meet you, Tansy. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends!” My blabbering would be followed by awkward, deadly silences. Finally, mercifully, Tansy would drawl, “I can’t wait to meet you, either, Helen. Ah . . . when did you say Emmet would be home?”
My conversations with Noel were worse, if possible. It never failed; I ended up gushing like a schoolgirl, then cringing at the sound of my voice. “Noel? Oh, hi! Hi! When will we ever meet face-to-face?” Noel was obviously the quintessential Southern gentleman, for he always made gallant attempts to rescue me from my blunderings. That evening, however, he had a ready comeback. Make Emmet bring you to Highlands this summer, he said, then all of us can meet the new bride. Not only would Moonrise fall apart if Emmet didn’t soon take care of it, so would their group.
“Tell the son of a bitch that we miss him,” Noel added gruffly. “The rest of us are taking the summer off, and we’re spending it in Highlands, just like the old days. That way we can have one last summer together before we all lapse into senility and old age.” Before he hung up, Noel threw in one last caveat. “And, Helen? If Emmet balks, tell him I said to think about Linc. We’ve lost one of our group, and come close to losing another. The truth is, none of us knows when our last summer will be. Tell him he owes it to Linc.”
When I repeated Noel’s message to Emmet, he dismissed it without further comment. He hadn’t been back to Highlands since Rosalyn’s death, though he’d halfheartedly promised to take me. But in dismissing Noel’s request, Emmet made the mistake of using our jobs as an excuse, not realizing how I’d pounce on that. Seeing how badly I wanted to go, he hedged, he’d be tempted if only we weren’t tied down to our work.
I began plotting the very next day. Surely if I set everything up with our jobs, made it easy for the two of us to get away for an extended period, Emmet would have to agree. Both of us worked at the same TV station, on the same show, even, which made it easier than if I’d had to deal with two different situations. Besides, Emmet was such a big shot at the station that they’d never deny their prized newsman anything. I moved quickly, and everything fell into place. I was given permission to tape my cooking segments in advance, and Emmet could do his news commentaries from an affiliate network, whichever one was closest to Highlands. Everything worked out so well I convinced myself that it had been intended. By the end of May, our town house had been sublet and our bags packed. We would be spending the summer in Highlands, North Carolina.
Yet here I am, several days into the summer I was so determined to have at Moonrise, huddled in the darkness and wondering what’s wrong with me. I can’t sleep; I’m hearing voices, and I lie to Emmet every time he asks me if I’m happy that we’re here. He doesn’t question my lies, and why should he? From his point of view, I’d wanted to be at Moonrise so badly that I was blind to the risks involved.
What he can’t know is, I had known the risks; I’d just ignored them.
