The Last of the Moon Girls

between arrogance and condescension. “My mother was the sentimental type. She used to say we all need to go home from time to time, to remind us where we came from. I think she was half-right. We do need to go home from time to time, but only to remind us why we left in the first place, so we can get clear on what we do want. Because in the long run, that’s all that matters—what we want from life and what we’re willing to do to get it. Maybe that’s what you need, Lizzy, to go spend some time with your memories. Things might look different when you do.”
Time with her memories.
Lizzy dropped her eyes to her lap, unwilling to meet his gaze. He had no idea what he was asking. Not that he should. How could anyone imagine the kind of memories they were really talking about?
“It’s fine, really. I’m fine. I can make it work long-distance.”
Luc eyed her skeptically. “Suit yourself, but you don’t sound fine. Maybe there’s something to be said for processing your loss, putting a period to things, as they say. I could go with you, make things easier.”
And there it was, the real motive behind his sudden concern. “We’ve been over for months, Luc.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why make the suggestion?”
“Would you believe I was being noble?”
“No.”
Luc dropped the smile, apparently accepting defeat. “Still a crummy time to be alone. At least let me take you to dinner. I promise to stick to business, if that’s how you want it.”
“Thanks. But I think I just need to be by myself.”
Lizzy watched him go, pretty sure he was miffed. But he’d been right about one thing. She did need time to process, to digest the fact that she was suddenly alone in the world, and what that meant. Althea was dead, and her mother had apparently fallen off the face of the earth—either literally or figuratively. And there’d be no more Moons after Elzibeth—of that she was certain. For all intents and purposes, she had just become the last Moon girl.

TWO
Lizzy kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen. She’d managed to finish out the day, smiling through a steady stream of condolences as news of her loss spread through the office. Now all she wanted was a large glass of wine and to be alone with her grief.
She opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a generous glass, then paused to water the herb pots she kept on the sill. Rosemary, for remembrance. Basil, for courage. Thyme, for warding off nightmares. It was the catechism of her childhood—the catechism of all the Moon girls.
On impulse, she plucked a basil leaf from the plant on the sill and rolled it between her palms, releasing its savory-sweet fragrance—peppery, anise-like, faintly minty. It was one of her favorite aromatics, perhaps because it reminded her of happy times spent cooking in her grandmother’s kitchen. But this time another memory surfaced—an older memory.
Althea had been out surveying the damage after an unusually late frost when Lizzy came up from behind. She couldn’t have been more than seven at the time, but she had known instinctively to keep still, mesmerized by the strange intensity in her grandmother’s face as she knelt beside a clump of blackened basil plants and, with eyes closed, passed her calloused hands over them. She had murmured something then, tender words Lizzy couldn’t make out. It was the first time she’d ever seen her grandmother’s gift in action, but she’d never forgotten it. Or the sight of those same plants the next day, healthy and green, and without a trace of frostbite.
It had been Althea’s most startling gift—the ability to raise a nearly dead herb or flower with a touch and a few gentle words. That, and an uncanny knack for growing things that had no business flourishing in stingy New England climes. Whispers about her grandmother’s green thumb had been commonplace in Salem Creek. Some chalked it up to magick, others to a strict reliance on her almanac. Whatever it was, it was widely accepted that the rocky soil of Moon Girl Farm could refuse Althea Moon nothing.
Who would tend that soil now that she was gone?
The question needled as Lizzy carried her chardonnay to the living room. It would belong to someone else soon. The house and barn, the herb fields, her grandmother’s apothecary shop, all passed out of the family and into the hands of strangers. She had always known it would happen, that one day Althea would die and something would have to be done with the farm. She just hadn’t given much thought to what that something might look like—or that it might fall to her to carry it out.
She’d have to work out the logistics, find a Realtor willing to handle the sale long-distance, then contact an estate dealer to handle the contents of the house. There wasn’t much of any real value. But what of Althea’s personal belongings? Her clothes, her books—the collection of journals kept under lock and key in her reading room? Could she really trust the handling of those to a stranger? And if not, who did that leave? Certainly not her mother, whose recklessness had sent the final dominoes toppling. But Rhanna was another story—apparently one without an ending, since no one had heard from her in years.
Lizzy felt numb as she perched on the arm of the couch, emptied of anger and blindsided by the events of the day. The sun was beginning its descent, sliding into the cracks and crevices of Midtown Manhattan’s jumbled rooftops, like one of those sepia postcards drugstores stocked for tourists. Three months after trading her tiny loft for a place in the East Tower, she still wasn’t used to the view. Or any of the other perks that came with her posh new address. Luc had assured her that she would grow into her new surroundings, but as she glanced