Moonlight Becomes You Read Free

her happiest.
    Nuala, who always took her part in arguments, protesting to Maggie’s father, “Owen, for the love of heaven, she’s just a child. Stop correcting her every minute.” Nuala, who was always saying, “Owen, all the kids her age wear jeans and tee shirts. . . . Owen, so what if she used up three rolls of film? She loves to take pictures, and she’s good. . . . Owen, she’s not just playing in mud. Can’t you see she’s trying to make something out of the clay. For heaven’s sake, recognize your daughter’s creativity even if you don’t like my paintings.”
    Nuala—always so pretty, always such fun, always so patient with Maggie’s questions. It had been from Nuala that Maggie had learned to love and understand art.
    Typically, Nuala was dressed tonight in a pale blue satin cocktail suit and matching high heels. Maggie’s memories of her were always pastel tinted.
    Nuala had been in her late forties when she married Dad, Maggie thought, trying to calculate her age now. She made it through five years with him. She left twenty-two years ago.
    It was a shock to realize that Nuala must now be in her mid-seventies. She certainly didn’t look it.
    Their eyes met. Nuala frowned, then looked puzzled.
    Nuala had told her that her name was actually Finnuala, after the legendary Celt, Finn MacCool, who brought about the downfall of a giant. Maggie remembered how as a little girl she had delighted in trying to pronounce Finn-u-ala.
    â€œFinn-u-ala?” she said now, her voice tentative.
    A look of total astonishment crossed the older woman’s face. Then she emitted a whoop of delight that stopped the buzz of conversations around them, and Maggie found herself once again enfolded in loving arms. Nuala was wearing the faint scent that all these years had lingered in Maggie’s memory. When she was eighteen she had discovered the scent was Joy. How appropriate for tonight, Maggie thought.
    â€œLet me look at you,” Nuala exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back but still holding Maggie’s arms with both hands as though afraid she would get away.
    Her eyes searched Maggie’s face. “I never thought I’d see you again! Oh, Maggie! How is that dreadful man, your father?”
    â€œHe died three years ago.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, darling. But he was totally impossible to the end, I’m sure.”
    â€œNever too easy,” Maggie admitted.
    â€œDarling, I was married to him. Remember? I know what he was like! Always sanctimonious, dour, sour, petulant, crabby. Well, no use going on about it. The poor man is dead, may he rest in peace. But he was so old-fashioned andso stiff, why, he could have posed for a medieval stained-glass window . . .”
    Aware suddenly that others were openly listening, Nuala slid her arm around Maggie’s waist and announced, “This is my child! I didn’t give birth to her, of course, but that’s totally unimportant.”
    Maggie realized that Nuala was also blinking back tears.
    Anxious both to talk and to escape the crush of the crowded restaurant, they slipped out together. Maggie could not find Liam to say good-bye but was fairly sure she would not be missed.
    *   *   *
    Arm in arm, Maggie and Nuala walked up Park Avenue through the deepening September twilight, turned west at Fifty-sixth Street and settled in at Il Tinello. Over Chianti and delicate strips of fried zucchini, they caught up on each other’s lives.
    For Maggie, it was simple. “Boarding school; I was shipped there after you left. Then Carnegie-Mellon, and finally a master’s in visual arts from NYU. I’m making a good living now as a photographer.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful. I always thought it would be either that or sculpting.”
    Maggie smiled. “You’ve got a good memory. I love to sculpt, but I do it only as a hobby.