The Last of the Moon Girls

about her conversation with Luc two days ago, his glib assertion that when he inherited Chenier Fragrances, Ltd., he’d inherited her too, as if she were some shiny trinket in his mother’s jewelry box. And here was Andrew, telling her a promise he made to Althea was a promise he now owed to her. The contrast was hard to ignore.
“You don’t inherit promises,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t work like that.”
He shrugged, smiling again. “My promise. My rules. I’ll nail the door shut before I leave, just to be on the safe side. I’ve got a load of wood coming next week. As soon as I finish the greenhouse, I’ll get started on the loft.”
“I just told you—there’s no money to pay you. And I can’t ask you to work for free.”
“Your grandmother was a special woman, Lizzy. She had a great big heart, and she used it to take care of people. Not everyone understood that, and toward the end, even the people who knew her forgot it. I’m not one of those people. I’m repairing the greenhouse and the barn for the same reason you’re about to carry a pitchfork into that wreck of a garden. I can’t bring Althea back, or change how things went down, but I can do this for her—I can look after the things she cared about.”
Lizzy fought the urge to look away, rattled by the sudden intensity in his voice. Or maybe it was his kindness that made her feel so defensive. He’d been with Althea at the end, where she should have been. He had to have an opinion about that.
“It isn’t that I don’t care, Andrew. I do. But I can’t stay. I know what you think. I know what Evvie thinks too. But I have a job—in New York.” She shook her head, hating that she felt the need to defend herself. “Althea was Moon Girl Farm. I’m not. That’s why I’m selling. Because it should belong to someone who’ll love it the way she did.”
Andrew scrubbed his knuckles over the stubble along his jaw, as if weighing his next words carefully. “What about Rhanna? She doesn’t want it?”
Lizzy stiffened at the mention of her mother’s name. “We haven’t heard from her in years. I think it’s safe to say she isn’t interested.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know. Althea didn’t mention her much.”
“The last we knew she was in California somewhere, singing for her supper.”
And god only knew what else.
She didn’t say the last part out loud. She didn’t need to. Everyone in town knew Rhanna’s story. The drinking and the drugs. The revolving door of one-night stands. The frequent run-ins with police. And Andrew knew better than most, since he’d seen it firsthand. Lizzy tightened her grip on the pitchfork, trying to fend off the memories. They came anyway.
A crowd at the Dairy Bar on a sticky summer night. Families with children. Kids from school looking for a place to hang out on a Friday night. A ruckus at the back of the line. People scurrying, moving like a school of minnows, across the parking lot and around the corner.
She had followed them, because that’s what you did when people started running. When she rounded the corner, there was a police car in front of city hall, blue lights strobing dizzily. A burst of laughter. A smattering of catcalls. A prickle of dread as the crowd peeled apart. And then Rhanna, stripped down to her panties and knee-deep in the fountain, belting out “Me and Bobby McGee” at the top of her lungs.
One of the officers kicked off his shoes and waded in after her, chasing her around in circles until he was red-faced and panting. It had taken a full fifteen minutes, but finally she was hauled from the fountain, high as a kite and still singing as they wrapped her in a blanket and folded her into the squad car. A wave of relief had washed over Lizzy as she watched the black-and-white pull away. The spectacle was over.
Only it wasn’t.
There was a boy from school, a football player named Brad or Brett, who spotted her in the crowd. He rounded on her, pointing with an outstretched arm. Hey, that’s her kid! Maybe she’s next! What are you gonna sing, sweetheart? More laughter. More pointing. She had wanted to melt into the pavement then and there, to run, to die. But her feet wouldn’t move. And then, out of nowhere, there was a hand on her elbow, steering her through the crowd, down the street, around the corner.
She finally yanked her arm free and stood glaring at her rescuer—the boy from next door, whose father did odd jobs for her grandmother, the guy with the grin and the Twizzlers.
He’d meant to be kind, to spare her from further humiliation, but his face, thinly lit from the streetlamp overhead, was full of pity, and she had hated him for it. She’d told him so too, before leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk.
She’d been humiliated twice that night. The first time by a crowd of jeering onlookers, the second by someone trying to show her kindness. Strangely, it was the latter that stung most, which was why, from that day on, she had redoubled her efforts to avoid him. Growing up a Moon had prepared her for pointing and whispers. Kindness, not so much. And here he was, being kind again, looking at her the way he had that night under the streetlamp, dredging up emotions she’d just as soon not feel.
“I have to go,” she said, hoisting the pitchfork up onto her shoulder. “I have things to do.”
Let him think what he wanted. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was not to let herself care what anyone else thought. But as she turned and walked away, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d think if he knew she was planning to pay the police chief a visit.

SEVEN
July 19
Lizzy drove slowly through Salem Creek’s