Moonlight Becomes You Read Online Free Page B

events of the past week.
    Before coming down from Providence, he had finished grading the papers turned in by his Anthropology 101 class and was pleased to note that all but a few of the students had performed at the A or B level. It would be an interesting—and perhaps challenging—semester with them, he decided.
    And now he could look forward to Newport weekends mercifully free of the crowds jamming restaurants and traffic tie-ups so typical of the summer season.
    Earl lived in the guest wing of the family home, Squire Hall, the house Squire Moore had built for his youngest daughter on the occasion of her marriage to Gordon Bateman,“the ghoul” as Squire called him because the Batemans had been funeral directors for four generations.
    Of all the residences he had presented his seven children, it was by far the smallest, a reflection of the fact that he had been opposed to the marriage. Nothing personal, but Squire had a horror of dying and even forbade the word “death” to be mentioned in his presence. To take into the family bosom the man who undoubtedly would attend to the rituals surrounding his own demise was a continual reminder of the forbidden word.
    Gordon Bateman’s reaction had been to convince his wife to name their home Squire Hall, a mocking tribute to his father-in-law and a subtle reminder that none of his other children had thought to so honor him.
    Earl had always believed that his own given name was another jab at Squire, since the old man had always tried to convey the impression that he’d been named for generations of Moores who in the county of Dingle had had the courtesy title of squire. A squire in Dingle tugged his forelock in homage to an earl.
    After Earl finally convinced his father that he had no intention of becoming the next Bateman funeral director, his parents sold the mortuary to a private corporation that retained the family name and hired a manager to run it.
    His parents now spent nine months of the year in South Carolina, near his married sisters, and had urged Earl to take over the entire house during those months, an offer he declined. The wing was arranged to his liking, with his books and artifacts locked away in glass-fronted cabinets against the possibility of careless dusting. He also had a sweeping view of the Atlantic; Earl found the sea infinitely calming.
    Calm. That was perhaps the word he valued most.
    At the noisy New York reunion of Squire Moore’s descendants, as much as possible he had stayed on the sidelines where he could simply observe the lot of them. He tried not to be too judgmental, but he did not join in their “can you top this?” tales. His cousins all seemed to be given to bragging about how well they were doing, and like Liam, they all loved to regale each other with far-fetched stories about their eccentric—and occasionally ruthless—ancestor.
    Earl also knew how gleefully some of them seized on his father’s background as a fourth-generation funeral director. At the reunion, he had overheard two of them belittling him and making snide jokes about undertakers and their profession.
    A pox on the lot of them, he thought now as he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. It was ten of eight, time to get a move on. He wasn’t looking forward to going to Nuala’s dinner party tonight, but on the other hand, Maggie Holloway would be there. She was extremely attractive . . .
    Yes, her presence would ensure that the evening would not be dull.

6
    D R . W ILLIAM L ANE , DIRECTOR OF THE L ATHAM M ANOR Residence, looked at his watch for the third time in five minutes. He and his wife were due at Nuala Moore’s place at eight o’clock; it was ten of eight now. A large, balding man in his fifties, Dr. Lane had a soothing bedside mannerwith his patients—an attitude of forbearance that did not extend to his thirty-nine-year-old wife.
    â€œOdile,” he called, “for God’s