Free The Last Will of Moira Leahy by Therese Walsh Page A

stared at it all for a moment, then opened one of the notes.
Maevy Gravy ,
Guess what number I’m thinking of. Come on, guess!
    Oh, God. Nauseous. Bleeding memories. I hated eling .
    I tucked some rocks into the pocket of my pajamas, then put Noel’s postcards into the case with my sister’s note and closed the lid. And then I shut my eyes and let myself sway with the turbulence, feeling like the First Chinese Brother—my mouth filled with water, the ocean pressed against my ribs.

Out of Time
Castine, Maine
JUNE 1999
Moira and Maeve are fourteen
Kit had requested a personal concert, so Moira and Maeve set out one day with their instruments in the lobster boat—a vessel that was sturdy and long and had decent coverage. No clouds roamed the sky, but because Moira had a keen and personal appreciation for how weather conditions changed in the bay, she took care to drape an orange rubber coat around the edges of her keyboard.
Maeve warmed up with a series of arpeggios as Kit made her requests: “Don’t Speak,” “Nothing Compares 2 U,” “My Heart Will Go On” (Maeve pulled away from her sax and made a retching noise), “Sowing the Seeds of Love.”
When Maeve smiled, Moira set her keyboard to Reverse Gurgle, put her right thumb on D, and began. The brass of Maeve’s sax caught and threw sunlight, and her clear tone rang out. Moira knew her sister was a true talent, the prodigy she’d been labeled years before. Ben Freeman said he’d see to it that she made an album someday.
If I do, so will you , Maeve always said.
Sometimes, alone with her thoughts as her sister slept, Moira wondered what might’ve been if she’d tried the sax first. She might’ve been a prodigy, too. Then she remembered the things she liked best—her piano, her roses, Jane Eyre , and solitude—and knew she wouldn’t have liked the attention so well as Maeve.
Later, as Maeve played a piece she’d written herself, Moira noticed a lone boat lingering nearby. She pointed it out to Kit, whose lips twisted into a parody of a smile.
“It’s my brother,” she said.
“Ian?”
“Well, yeah, I only have one brother, thank God. See the little red cat on the mainsail? That’s Michael’s boat.” Kit leaned close, whispered in her ear, “I think Ian likes Maeve.”
“He does not!”
Maeve’s cadence faltered.
“Shh! He always talks about her.”
“That’s not a good thing. He probably has a voodoo doll with red hair and pins sticking out of it.”
Kit giggled quietly as Moira studied the boat. It was Ian, all right. He was hard to miss. Though just a grade ahead of them, he was more than a year older and had sprouted taller than anyone in his class. He looked dusk-gilded and windblown, like a storybook hero with a kind heart. Moira knew better, even if he did look softer, more mortal somehow, surrounded by so much sea.
“When Maeve plays in your living room, Ian takes out his telescope and watches her,” Kit said.
“He doesn’t!”
“The first time I saw, he said he’d give me ten bucks not to tell anyone. I told him to keep his money, and then he told me he’d break my legs if I said anything.”
“Maybe he just likes the saxophone?”
“Maybe, but whenever Maeve’s over he gets all googly-eyed and dopier than usual.”
Moira dredged up a smile for that. Everyone knew Ian was wicked smart. Almost as smart as Kit.
“You don’t have to tell Maeve, do you?” Kit asked. “I mean, it’ll make her uncomfortable, and, I mean, Ian wouldn’t really break my legs”—she paused for a moment as if considering the legitimacy of this statement, then continued—“but I’ll have a miserable summer if he’s mad at me.”
“Uh, I can try.” Already, Moira felt the pulse of her twin’s curiosity. Maeve’s last notes still hung in the air when she turned to Moira.
“What’s going on?”
“Ian and Michael boated out,” Moira said, hoping Maeve would be satisfied with that. She nodded toward Michael’s craft, now turned