Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis

“Andy Fuller” all the hurt, the disappointment, the humiliation came rushing back.

      “He wasn’t any good,” she said. “I told you that when I met him back in the States. He was after your old man’s dough and you know it.”

      “Please,” I said, “let’s not talk about Andy now. That’s over and done with.”

      “Is it?”

      “Yes.” I picked up my larger suitcase and started toward the stairs. In spite of its weight, it suddenly seemed lighter than my thoughts. Carlotta picked up my other case and followed me.

      “Who is the man who called for me at the airport?” I asked as we got to the top of the stairs.

      “Neil Alenquer. He’s Philip’s older brother.”

      “Do they live around here?”

      She tossed my bag on the bed and nodded in a westerly direction. “They have the old castle on the next bluff. They’re my nearest neighbors. We kind of share this isolation.”

      “What do the Alenquers do?”

      “Do?” She laughed. “Now that’s a typical American question. Here in Europe when a family lives in a castle and comes from a long line of blue-bloods, they generally do nothing.” She shrugged. “Oh, I suppose they look after their land holdings, but that’s about the extent of it. They’re quite well off, although to look at that Neil character one would never suspect it.”

      I recalled Neil’s attire when he picked me up at the airport. “Yes,” I said, “I know what you mean.”

      “I bet he looked like an unmade bed. He has always looked like that, ever since....” She let her sentence go unfinished. She turned and started toward a door that I knew connected with her suite of rooms. “I’m going to soak in a tub. How about getting yourself unpacked. And for heaven’s sake, Jen, put on something with a little more flair. That travelling suit looks like you borrowed it from your grandmother.”

      Carlotta didn’t hurt my feelings. I knew I had no eye for style. “Is it really all that drab?” I asked, eyeing myself in a full-length mirror.

      “Drab isn’t the word. It makes you look like a doddering old woman. But don’t fret, kiddo. We’ll change all that with a trip over to Nice or up to Paris. I’ll have you looking like a femme fatale in no time at all.”

      “But I don’t want to be a femme fatale.”

      “Every woman wants to be a femme fatale. Even me.”

      She went into her rooms but left the door open. I heard her chattering away but couldn’t understand any of it.

      I started to unpack. With each dress I unfolded I looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. I wondered if Carlotta would approve of any of my dresses. I had the feeling she wasn’t going to. None of the wardrobe was new, however, with the exception of the travelling suit; so I really didn’t care. If the truth were known, I had never cared much about fashion and clothes. What I had wanted out of life didn’t exist for me anymore. Andrew Fuller had left me waiting at the altar, so to speak, and he was someone else’s now—not mine.

      I heard the water being turned on full blast. Carlotta swept back into my room. She was wearing a long, lime green dressing gown. The color was perfect on her. I’d never been able to wear lime green, not with my dark brown hair and dark eyes. It made me look sallow. Yet it was one of my favorite colors.

      “Would you prefer to go out for dinner, Jen?”

      I shook out another dress and put it on a hanger. “No, not really, Auntie.”

      “Hey, let’s cut out that ‘Auntie’ stuff. It’s okay around your mother and my stuffy brother, but here you’ll call me Carlotta, or anything else you like, but definitely not ‘Auntie’.”

      Her eyes fell on the dress I unfolded. It was a light beige dinner gown. “That’s nice,” she commented.

      Just then the front door buzzer sounded. We looked at each other. Carlotta started toward the window. “I didn’t hear anybody pull up,” she said. She parted the curtains and looked out and down. “Philip,” she announced over her shoulder. “I’ll turn off my tub and go down and let him in. Slip into the beige job and come on down.” She was suddenly all aflutter.

      I went to the window and peeked out. It was the same man who’d rung the bell when I was sunbathing on the terrace. I had forgotten to mention to Carlotta that he’d been here. I started to shake just a little. I wasn’t prepared to meet Philip Alenquer, knowing that Carlotta had purposely planned on throwing us at each other. I truly hated that sort of thing. It always made me more uncomfortable than usual.

      “Hurry up,” she said as she came back through my room and out into the hall. The buzzer sounded again.

      In spite of my nervousness, I quickly slipped into the dinner gown. As I brushed my hair back and checked my makeup I heard them greeting each other. I stood and studied myself in the mirror for a moment. Then, screwing up my courage, I turned and went downstairs.

      They were talking almost in a whisper when I came down. Carlotta heard my steps on the stairs. She held up her hand as though cautioning Philip to be quiet.

      Philip Alenquer was as good-looking up close as I had thought him to be when I saw him from the window. His hair was dark and curly, but not as unruly or long as Neil’s. Yet the similarity between the two men was remarkable. Philip was younger, there was no doubt about that. Twenty-eight, possibly thirty, I decided, but no more. His complexion was dark, his smile contagious. He came directly toward me, holding out both hands.

      “So you’re Jennifer,” he said, taking my hands in his. He looked me up and down with the boldness I found so common in European men. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” He spoke with the same charming accent as his brother.

      I flushed. I wasn’t all that accustomed to compliments. Besides, I knew Europeans were prone to exaggeration.

      “This is Philip Alenquer, Jen. How about taking him into the lair and entertaining him until I can get myself together.” She turned to Philip. “You know where the bar is,” she said.

      He nodded.

      “Fix Jen a martini or something. She’s tired. She could use a pick-me-up; couldn’t you, Jen?”

      “That might be a little strong for me,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t had much to eat except an omelet from your kitchen.”

      “You don’t have to worry too much about Philip’s martinis. They’re pure vermouth. They’re ghastly things, but one gets used to bad martinis over here.”

      Philip laughed. “I thought you liked my martinis.”

      “Let’s say I tolerate them,” Carlotta answered with a smile. “On second thought, how about fixing Philip a real American martini, Jen. Let’s show him what a really good martini tastes like. And while you’re at it, make a pitcher full. I’m in the mood to celebrate tonight. I got a good commission in Paris today. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

      Carlotta hiked up the skirt of her dressing gown and went up the stairs.

      “I’ll make one of my martinis for you if you’ll make one of yours for me,” I told Philip as he headed for the built-in bar at one end of Carlotta’s lair.

      “Fair enough,” he said, bowing. With a sweep of his hand he added, “You first. But I warn you, I am not used to strong drinks.”

      I hesitated. “Then perhaps we better skip the American martini. It’s practically pure gin.”

      “No, no. I insist. If you are game to try what we call a martini, I only think it right that I do the same.”

      I let Philip produce the glasses and the pitcher. I got a tray of ice from the portable refrigerator.

      “Is this your