“Please know this is not personal to you,” he says. “But I have had the experience in the past of people assuming all sorts of things, most of them wrong, when I am involved in a sale. Some of it is my own fault, yes,” he says, acknowledging his past faux bidding. “And we lost a piece I dearly wanted by being too direct in our approach. With the Moon, quite frankly, I couldn’t let that happen again. So a public sale by a third party was the best way.”
He slips the patched and faded photograph of his great-grandmother into his jacket pocket, unasked, sips the last of his champagne, and stands. “I should be going.” But not before he empties the last of the bottle into Nell’s glass. “I think you’ll enjoy seeing the restoration of the Moon. I helped them bring in artisans from one of the famous workshops in Jaipur. The rumor is that back in the day, that very shop was the court jeweler for some of the Mughal emperors. They rewove the cording and shined it up properly. They’ll actually be at the party tonight.” He’s heading for the front hall, saying, “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you at the opening.” He bows a little to Louis. “You both, I hope.”
Nell had debated going to the reception even though she’d be less on display than the Moon or the Mahj, and she has no fear of overshadowing either. The Mahj can clearly hold his own, and no one can outshine the Moon. Patel had told her Baldwin and Pansy, all the Quincys in fact, had RSVP’ed right away. Those old familiar twinges of the imposter, the pretender, had gripped her, making her want to stay away. She was never a true owner of the Moon; it had passed through her possession quickly. She’d merely been acting as a placeholder in a drama bigger than her. The universe had paid her well for this, yes, and that should be her consolation.
But Nell is done with hiding, done with molding herself, done with monuments and shrines. She is ready to be seen for exactly who she is now in the midst of this. She is done with nostalgia.
Besides, Patel had been charmingly tenacious, which made Nell feel welcomed, and Louis has promised to be her wingman.
When he’s at the door, the Mahj turns and asks, “So she left him for his brother? The love letter. Buying her the necklace. A scandal, I’m sure.”
“I’m afraid not, actually. Ambrose died in a car crash. They were all in the car when it happened.”
“Oh, how tragic.”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother May died in childbirth later that year and Ethan Quincy drowned.”
“Drowned?”
“Some thought it suicide. There was a mine fire, an industrial accident, and some say he felt responsible for it. Some think he was depressed for other reasons.”
The Mahj squints closely at her, sizing up the color of her hair, the point of her chin, the light color of her eyes.
“Do you know the Hindi word ‘jaraja’?”
She shakes her head.
“Forgive me, it’s not a nice word. I don’t know you well, but let’s say it means ‘love child,’ essentially. The resemblance is uncanny.”
“Yes,” she says, blushing. “My mother had her suspicions.”
“So you find that to be true?”
“I’ll never know, but given the letters, I believe so. Many in the family find it shocking. I suppose that makes them scandalous, a little immoral.”
The Mahj is shaking his head. “No,” he says with a smile and his hand over his heart like a romantic balladeer. “I think that makes them human.”
THE DIVING BOARD
After the Mahj leaves, Nell needs to get outside. Despite counseling herself to caution, he was such a charmer that she drank more champagne than she wanted and now she’s jangly, face flushed and wanting cold air. She changes into wellies and pulls on an abandoned anorak from the hall closet that’s two sizes too big—a hodgepodge with the red wool dress she’s wearing, chosen to try to look chic for the Mahj. Louis takes her hand as they walk down a muddy path, the tall weed trees just starting to bud green. The borders of the field are soggy with last fall’s cut, but this trail is old and worn so deep into the land that it will never disappear.
The pond houses still stand, though the foundations on the men’s side look like they need attention. The diving board, a single plank of locust polished smooth by generations of wet feet, still gives a mighty spring into water that is thawing and patchy with ice.
“Think we could make something of this?” Louis asks, walking into the little clapboard house and patting the river rock of the fireplace. There’s a tentative grin on his face. Is he dreaming about living at the farm? Has he had his eye turned by Quincy grandeur? She supposes she shouldn’t judge him if he has. She’s been susceptible to it her whole life.
“That’s assuming we could get our hands on the property. Pretty sure Baldwin owns all the way down to the pond now,” she says.
“Not this,” he says. “This.” He waves back and forth at the space between them. “I feel bad that I haven’t seriously asked you,” he says, and in a moment she’s in a kiss that erases everything, all the doubts, leaving only connection and certainty.
When they part, this huge man, all six feet of conviction, folds himself down with one knee on the clear pine floor.
Her pulse storms in her head, flying on champagne and the traditional words, though he doesn’t need to say them. Everything is plain on his face. This is no joke proposal or manipulation.
She can’t deny that nagging questions have dogged her about how much of his attraction to her is because she’s now so well set up after the sale of the Moon. She admonishes herself that it’s uncharitable to think that of him. They’d been attracted to each other before anything with the Moon happened. He’d proposed, even—such as it was. But where will they live? Who will move for whom?
But in the moment when he asks, she savors; she breathes before this moment speeds into the past.
A compromise, a meeting halfway, that’s what’s often advised in a romance, but it hardly ever works to make half a commitment and keep half safe. It would be so easy to keep a piece of herself back. She’s been doing that for months. But she’s coming to understand that what is required is making herself vulnerable, moving fully and completely to a place that’s not safe or comfortable. He hangs then, waiting for a response. She knows when it comes, it can’t be halfway. If it is, they’ll never meet. She must come all the way over, exposing, rendering herself vulnerable, being clear.
From the poem and the Moon, Nell knows that a pair who were meant to be together were not. Though who moved or failed to move, who had courage and who was a coward, will remain forever obscured to her.
And the things she has been looking to belong to, to fit herself into, seemingly for her whole life, fall away as she looks at Louis at her feet, his eyes lit with a fierce faith.
“See, this is why people have a ring,” he says, misreading her silence. “You have doubts, that’s fine. I’ll be certain for both of us. I thought this might take a little convincing. Forget what people will say, I know you feel it, too . . .”
It’s then she kneels down to stop him, comes to his level to kiss him, with everything—with love and hope and the feeling of ultimate belonging—and then on an exhale she says, “Yes.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS