Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2) Read online

“This is the youngest brother, right? Ciaran?” Ciaran, rhymes with beer-on, I thought. Best way to remember how to pronounce his name, Blythe had told me several months ago over the phone.

  “Yes. That’s him. Hope Manning’s an old friend of his from high school. I had no idea they were romantically involved. But, who knows with Ciaran. He’s involved with a lot of women.”

  Ciaran, according to Blythe, was charming and intelligent but an unapologetic “player.” He spent a lot of time in Idaho, but also kept busy sunning himself on the deck of friends’ yachts or at film festivals seducing actresses—somewhere between James Bond and Warren Beatty, back before he was domesticated.

  I flipped through pages of the magazine until I found the article. There were further photos from the yacht, obviously taken in a sequence, starting with her on his lap and ending with him carrying her in his arms to someplace out of reach of the cameras. In an additional photo, the two of them were arm in arm on the red carpet at one of her movie openings. Another showed them smiling at one another at a charity function.

  I scanned the article.

  Hope Manning (35) and Ciaran Lanigan (37), heir to the Lanigan Trucks fortune, appear to have reignited an old flame. The former high school sweethearts, according to close friends, have carried torches for each other for many years but have remained only friends up until recently. After Hope’s sex tape scandal with rapper T. Katz last year, she reached out to the youngest Lanigan brother for comfort. One thing led to another. “She’s finally happy,” said a friend close to the couple. “He’s the steady influence she’s needed to remain grounded.”

  A close associate to the trucking heir says, “Hope Manning has managed to tame one of American’s most eligible bachelors. We’ve never seen Ciaran so in love.”

  This all leaves Hope’s fans with many questions. Will she leave Hollywood for good like Grace Kelly to marry her prince? Is this the end of her party girl ways? Will playboy Ciaran Lanigan finally settle down?

  The article went on to describe Hope Manning’s childhood in Idaho, the daughter of a steel parts manufacturer, and her subsequent rise to fame in her early twenties after an Oscar-nominated supporting actress part in an independent film that managed to hit box office gold. Since then, she’d been a tabloid darling for her escapades both on and off the screen, including topless sunbathing, an unapologetic potty mouth, a propensity for dating rock stars—sometimes married—a fight with a paparazzo where she’d punched him so hard in the face he had to get stitches, a drunken appearance on one of the late, late shows where she danced on the host’s desk in a skin-tight blouse, red cowgirl boots and a skirt short enough that it was quite obvious she wasn’t wearing any panties, followed up shortly thereafter with a sex tape with famed rapper T. Katz. All of this interwoven with stunning talent—she had two Oscars and a bevy of other awards to prove it—and a distinctly anti-Hollywood attitude. “Girls from Idaho don’t do Hollywood,” she’d been famously quoted when she bought a home outside of Sun Valley.

  Although I’m not one for popular culture—I couldn’t tell you the names of most of the reality stars who populated the entertainment magazines—my passion for film had caused me to follow Hope Manning’s career for years. Not only was she talented and skilled, her unrepentant attitude toward conformity made her one of my favorite actresses.

  “Why is it bothering Kevan so much?” I asked. “It’s not like Hope is some thoughtless reality star or something.”

  “I honestly don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’ve learned with Kevan that it’s best not to push for answers if he’s not ready to talk. He’s a complicated person.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said.

  “True enough.” She glanced outside, as if nervous Kevan might hear her, but he and Henry were still chatting by the car. “Ciaran’s coming for Thanksgiving. Maybe he’ll tell us the scoop.”

  “Coming here? Does Kevan know?”

  “Not yet.” She grimaced and made a hopeless gesture with her hands. “But they have to sort out their disagreements at some point. Why not start now?”

  “What about the other one. Ardan?” I asked.

  “He’s in Europe for the year. He took a sabbatical from teaching to finish his novel. He rented a villa in Italy and won’t be back until next September. That’s why I’m starting with Ciaran, even though Ardan would be easier.”

  From what Blythe had told me of the conflict between the Lanigan brothers, I knew it was not something simply solved over drinks by the fireplace. But I kept that thought to myself, not wanting to crush Blythe for her good intentions.

  “Is Ciaran bringing Hope Manning?” I asked, already thinking through all the experiences in her various movies I wanted to ask her about. Starstruck—I admit it.

  “No. He didn’t say one word about her when I talked to him several days ago,” she answered. “Which makes me doubt the whole story.”

  “Probably for the best. I’d go all fangirl on her and act like an idiot.”

  Blythe laughed. “I’d love to see that. I wish she were joining us. She might distract Kevan and Ciaran from fighting with one another.”

  The fifty acres of land that had been the site of their summer home had been left to the five children. In the good times, before the conflict, but just after their father’s death, the five siblings had agreed to keep the Idaho acreage and divide it amongst themselves, each planning to build a residence of their own, so that they might remain connected in the place that held the happiest memories of their childhood. Riona, their mother, had been only too happy to relinquish the land to them, happily settling in San Francisco and content to visit without the responsibility of ownership. The siblings amicably agreed about which acres they wanted, giving Kevan, as the oldest and the brother who had taken on the burden of running the family business throughout his adulthood, first choice. He’d chosen the section nearest the highway, although still a mile down a dirt road, because it was the site of the original summer home, which had been torn down several years before. The house was near a small lake, fed by a creek that curled and gurgled throughout the acreage. Not far from the house, a horse barn was home to the horses.

  Blythe, during the summer she’d spent here, discovered a path that ran along the creek, made from years of little boys’ feet running and playing. It was the path that connected the houses, well used until four or so years ago when Kevan’s wife and the second brother, Finn, were murdered. Suspicions and false accusations between the remaining brothers caused a deep and hurtful riff. Despite the truth exonerating them all, they would not reconcile.

  Instead of walking to one another’s homes alongside the gurgling creek, the Lanigan brothers knew of one another’s presence only by the wisps of gray smoke from their chimneys on winter days. Their vehicles passed by Kevan’s property without stopping. Birthdays went unrecognized. Kevan no longer knew when they would arrive, how long they would stay or many of the other details of his brothers’ lives. They knew only that they were all innocent in the deaths of their brother and Kevan’s wife, which had been in doubt for some time until the true murderer was discovered. It was a starting point, Blythe assured me. The road back could begin. She intended that healing to begin this very weekend.

  “Being consciously thankful is the first step in forgiveness,” she said now, interrupting my thoughts.

  Where had she come up with that? It didn’t even really make sense, although I kept that to myself. I pointed to the window. “Henry’s off, looks like.”

  Outside, Henry’s car was doing a slow turn in the driveway. Kevan stood watching and then gave a quick wave before setting out across the yard toward a shed.

  “I hate the thought of Henry being all alone for Thanksgiving.” I paused, waiting for Blythe’s inevitable reaction.

  She blinked. “Alone? No, that’s absolutely unacceptable. He must join us. Would he accept an invitation, do you t
hink?”

  “Well, I’m sure we could talk him into it, although he’s all about propriety and all that English stuff.”

  “I’ve invited Moonstone as well. The more the merrier. After the work of making all the food, it’s wonderful to have a big crowd around to eat.”

  I wanted to tell her about Mrs. Pennington but I figured that would have to wait until I confessed about Sam and Sweetheart. The table was large, I told myself. Three more surely wouldn’t be a problem.

  Blythe inspected me for a moment, then took my hand and pulled me over to the couch. “Here, sit. With this head injury, are you allowed to have wine?”

  “They didn’t say anything against wine. Just driving. And not hitting it again for several weeks. Not that I make a habit of hitting my head on a regular basis.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that.” She walked to the bar at the other end of the room and disappeared under the counter for a moment before coming up with a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Coming toward me with a glass of wine in each hand, Blythe stared at me with her laser-beam mother’s eyes. There’s no way to escape them—one just has to surrender and give her the information she wants. “What’s happened? You’re acting strangely. Skittish. Like a hungry cat.”

  I took the glass from her outstretched hand and took a generous sip before answering. “I was fired.”

  “Fired?”

  “Sacked. Let go. Kicked to the curb.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Ralph wants to run things.”

  “Ralph? Run things? After you made him so much money taking it public? She plopped on the chair across from me, putting her feet on the ottoman and kicking off her boots. Her boots. I hadn’t noticed before but they were brown with thick soles, like something a lumberjack would wear. Her socks were wool, not to mention the color of canned peas. Choosing discomfort was something one only did in exchange for fashion, not practicality. Was this her Idaho attire or had she lost all sense of my direction from the makeover I’d given her last summer? I inspected her hair. It looked good, actually. She wore it shoulder-length with a few layers around her face—very flattering—and had kept the honey highlights I’d insisted she add to her dark blonde hair during our makeover session before what turned out to be her epic road trip to Idaho. And she was wearing makeup, as I’d suggested. That was a good sign. Idaho hadn’t fully ruined her yet. In all honesty, I had never seen her look better. Slim from her daily runs and looking well rested, along with that glow a woman gets when she’s in love. I’d seen it many times over the years and it always made me slightly envious. What would it feel like to love someone that much? And to have it returned? I couldn’t imagine.

  “The ego on that guy. What a fink.” Blythe drank from her glass.

  “Fink? I haven’t heard that word for awhile.”

  “Rat fink.” For whatever reason, this made us both laugh, the silent way we’d developed as children in our shared bed at night, not wanting to be heard by our mother and one of her multitude of boyfriends. This silent laughter, like two children trying not to giggle in class, only made us laugh harder. Finally we composed ourselves, wiping tears from the corners of our eyes. After another sip of wine, I explained my theory of why I’d been let go, all the while fighting against this feeling that I’d failed her. An embarrassed, apologetic tone slipped into my voice, as much as it made me inwardly cringe. “Apparently he felt threatened by me and wanted me out. They gave me all my stock and a year’s salary to get rid of me.” I gazed into my glass, feeling like I might start to cry. Why is it when you tell something hard to the people you love most, it always makes you want to weep, when only moments before you were fine?

  Sensing my emotion, as she always does, Blythe slid from her chair, set her wine aside and pulled me into an embrace. “I think you should seriously consider taking some time off. You really could stay the winter here. Watch your movies. Read. When was the last time you took any time off?”

  “1983?”

  She laughed. “I don’t think you’ve ever taken time off. Not once since I can remember.”

  Before I could reply, Kevan appeared, carrying several pieces of firewood, bits of snow shaking from his boots making a trail of water behind him. “He’s so manly,” I whispered to Blythe, which set us off on our silent giggles once again.

  Kevan set the wood in the iron holder by the fire and turned to us. “What are you girls up to in here?”

  At Blythe’s insistence I told them in detail the story of my firing while Kevan stacked the firewood, tossed two more magazines into the fire, and swept the hearth. He nodded sympathetically, threw in several supportive comments, one of which was emphasized with a swear word before Ralph’s name, making me laugh but getting a disapproving look coupled with a dart of her eyes to the back of the house from Blythe. “The girls,” she said.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” Apparently finished with his chores, Kevan went to the bar and poured a glass of wine for himself, then sat across from us in the chair Blythe had previously occupied. As we sipped our wine, they filled me in on the latest with the girls, including how well they’d adjusted to their father’s new wife and the presence of Kevan in their lives, at which point he raised his eyebrows and grinned at me like a kid with a secret. In spite of my cold, dead heart, seeing them together melted me until I felt like warm chocolate coursed through my veins. They were like teenagers in love, only better because they were actually adults who had earned the right to be together.

  The half glass of wine had gone to my head. It must have been the mountain altitude or something, because suddenly my tongue was as loose as Clementine’s. I started telling them about my fall and how as I’d lain in the hospital bed that night a transformation of sorts had come over me. “I thought about the course of my life, as trite as that sounds, and decided I need to rethink my priorities.”

  Neither interrupted as I told them that my driven life was lonely and how I wanted this next chapter to be about family and friends. I explained the situation with Sam and Sweetheart—how it had come to be that they were here in Idaho—and concluded by confessing to my plot of uniting Henry and Mrs. Pennington. They both sat in what I can only describe as stunned silence for a moment after I stopped talking. I gulped some wine and focused on Kevan, afraid to see what my sister would say and do next.

  Kevan spoke first. “So let me get this straight. You brought a homeless guy and his dog to Idaho, along with an out-of-work actor who you now want to set up with a woman you met this afternoon.” At the word dog, Shakespeare raised his head and wagged his tail before sighing and resting his face between his paws.

  I grimaced, feeling my neck flush. “Yeah, it sounds crazy when you say it like that.”

  Apprehensive, I turned to my sister, expecting horror and swift admonishment. To my surprise, she smiled and clapped her hands together. “I think it’s wonderful you’re trying to help Sam and Henry. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s sort of unlike you. Well, completely unlike you.”

  “Exactly,” I said, still feeling sheepish. “Being good is not as easy as you make it look.”

  “But is it safe? This Sam could be dangerous,” Kevan stood, threw another magazine in the fire and sat back down.

  “I feel he is,” I said.

  Kevan didn’t say anything further but I could tell he was either worried or disapproving by the way his brow wrinkled. I couldn’t blame him. It really did sound insane when I said it all out loud. Henry’s reaction had been the same. Any sane person’s reaction would be, I supposed.

  “They’re all coming for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Blythe.

  I glanced at Kevan. He was looking at my sister with a bemused expression. He thinks she’s crazy but loves her anyway. That’s as good as it gets for a Heywood sister, I thought, stifling a smile. “Well, I would like to get a look at this Sam for myself, and I know you two can’t be talked out
of anything once you’ve launched a plan.” Kevan put another magazine on the fire and then gestured outside. “I shoveled a path to the guesthouse and out to the lake.” He stood. “Now I’m going to take a shower. Blythe, do you want to take a little walk down to the lake after I’m done? The edges are frozen over.”

  “Sure, honey. That sounds great.” But I could tell from her tone of voice she was distracted by my news. Not for long, I thought. Soon she would be gazing at a fat diamond on her finger and forget all about my escapades.

  “No funny business in the snow, you two,” I said, teasing but barely containing my excitement. I dared not look at Kevan for fear of giving away the secret. After he left, Blythe hugged me again. “Come on, let’s get you settled into the guesthouse before dinner.”

  After we layered up into our coats and hats, Blythe and I set out, following the newly shoveled walk. I linked my arm with hers, holding tighter than I usually would. No need to fall again, although the snow felt more cumbersome than slick as we trudged along.

  About a hundred yards or so from the main house, we reached the guesthouse, a lovely thousand-square-foot space that mimicked the big house in design and architecture, with the same steeply slanted roof, windows spanning the front, and similar mixture of modern and rustic design. Blythe opened the door and we went inside, where it was warm but dark. She flicked on several lamps, filling the room with an orange glow. One large room encompassing both the kitchen and sitting area, decorated in black and tans, gave me the immediate feeling of serenity, like a visit to a high-end spa without the smell of eucalyptus and ginger. Through an open door, I spotted the bedroom, where my luggage waited beside a high four-poster bed covered in a white duvet with bunches of pillows in various shades of grass.

  “The housekeeper stocked the fridge and liquor cabinet before she left for her vacation.” Blythe pointed toward the kitchen area, which was more substantial than one in a family-friendly hotel room but similar in that it took up one corner of the main room with only one bit of counter space next to the sink. A refrigerator and stove a third smaller than standard sizes mimicked the big house kitchen, like a skinny spinster sister to her wide-berthed older sibling. Blythe flicked on the gas fireplace, further adding to the warm glow in the room. “Make yourself at home.” She opened the refrigerator. Various cheeses, cold cuts and apples were stacked neatly on the shelves, along with several bottles of white wine.