Silver Apples of the Moon

By Rebecca James

It is a few days before Peyton Worthington’s wedding in 1994 when a mysterious package arrives from Australia. Peyton’s mother, Angela, is visibly moved by its contents, a first edition of W.B. Yeats’s poetry with evocative bookplate.

Set in a Pennsylvania steel town, "Silver Apples of the Moon" focuses on the universal themes of love and loss embodied in Yeats’s radiant poem, "The Song of Wandering Aengus," from which the title comes. At its center is the love affair of Angela D’Agnese and Steve Ryle and the lasting ripple effect his fateful tour in Vietnam has on their lives.

The action in this epic family saga spans thirty years and moves from working class Millmont to an elegant family estate to the mysterious Villa Indochine in Khe Sanh Province.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca James
• Release date: Aug 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301856305

Rebecca James

Rebecca James worked in publishing for several years before leaving to write full-time, and is now the author of several novels written under a pseudonym, as well as The Woman in the Mirror under her own name. Her favorite things are autumn walks, Argentinean red wine and curling up in the winter with a good old-fashioned ghost story. She lives in Bristol with her husband and two daughters.

Book preview

Prologue

Belvoir

Worthington, Pennsylvania, 1997

Who do we know in Australia, Mom?"

Angela Worthington had been so riveted to the package she held, she hadn’t heard her daughter rustle over. Ever since Peyton’s engagement had been announced, there’d been nearly daily deliveries of wedding gifts; but this was different. Worthington Steel documents Angela had assumed when she first glimpsed the DHL envelope tucked under the housekeeper’s arm. This just came for Peyton, Margaret Boyle said handing it to her. It was then that she saw the postmark and familiar handwriting.

Angela had been overjoyed by the prospect of her daughter’s wedding. As soon as the engagement was announced, she flew to New York to help Peyton pick out her dress. They started out at Bergdorf’s and Saks, but nothing caught their fancy. So Angela suggested they check out a couple of small boutiques on Madison Avenue. It was here at the end of a long day that Peyton tried on the dress both women instantly knew was The One. Oh Mom, Peyton said, spinning around to embrace her mother, I just love it!

After the final fitting, the dress was sent to Belvoir where it was removed from an enormous tissue paper-lined box and hung in a guest room, with two chairs underneath to support the train.

This morning, when Angela had finally buttoned Peyton into the dress, she watched her daughter make her way over to the mirror, accompanied by the swishing of heavy satin. She saw Peyton’s face light up at her reflection. A woman now, Peyton was beautiful to look at with regular features—oval face, full lips, large almond-shaped eyes—and character to match. Angela’s heart swelled with pride. Meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror, Peyton cried out, Now, I really feel like a bride, a rush of warmth coloring her cheeks.

I can’t wait to see Gus’s face when he sees you coming down the aisle, Sweetie. Angela said, blinking back tears. She was crazy about Gus, finding him everything she could want in a son-in-law: a Rhodes scholar finalist, he possessed intellect, but also charm and kindness in abundance. Most important, he adored Peyton.

It had been a tough few years and there was a lingering patina of sadness in spite of the joyousness of the occasion. Angela felt it acutely this morning with the photographer here to take the formal wedding portraits of Peyton dressed as the bride she would soon be: hair upswept in a French twist, the Worthington rose-point veil crowning her head.

They began with pictures in the foyer where the photographer snapped Peyton standing on the gleaming black and white marble floor. He next positioned the bride-to-be on the graceful curving staircase, first at the bottom, then a third of the way up and finally at the top poised to throw the bouquet.

With the interior shots completed, they moved onto the terrace. It was a glorious spring day resonating with the bright warble of birdsong. Mowers droned in the distance as a small army of landscapers worked on the estate, their labor evident in the air heavy with the smell of newly cut grass. Shortly into the session outside, a large cloud moved in and the photographer called for a break.

It was then that Peyton had crossed the terrace to join her mother, sitting motionless as a statue, a parcel in her hands.

Mom—are you okay? Peyton prodded, placing a hand on her mother's shoulder. Angela started. I asked who we know in Australia.

Angela had been studying the package. What kind of salvo was it? A reproach of sorts, lobbed from the past to further roil emotions with the big day nearly here? She handed it to Peyton. Why don’t you go ahead and see what it is? she suggested gravely, watching Peyton’s pristine hem brush damp bricks. She’d been so careful earlier, making sure drop cloths were spread around the terrace to protect the dress. Now, it didn’t seem to matter.

Are you sure you’re all right? Peyton pressed.

I’m fine, Sweetheart, Angela stammered. Peyton studied her mother a moment longer before she returned her attention to the package. Ripping it open, she withdrew a rectangular object wrapped in cream-colored silk. She unwound the soft fabric to expose an inner cocoon of rice paper tied up with faded ribbon. Angela looked on in rapt silence as her daughter’s fingers pulled away the paper.

And, there it was, an elaborately tooled book. Slowly, Peyton turned it over, a puzzled look on her face. Angela read the title she already knew embossed in gold on the spine: The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. She was overcome with sudden dizziness. To anyone else the book was merely a handsome gift, but to Angela it represented a valuable treasure and—dare she think—a missive meant expressly for her.

A musty aroma of worn leather and old paper emanated from the volume when Peyton opened it. She stared spellbound for some time at the engraved bookplate within. It was as if she had happened upon some ancient relic she must now decipher. Despite being yellowed and spotted with age, it remained exquisitely beautiful. Gilded, intertwining bamboo fronds framed the spidery inscription written in violet ink: Villa Indochine. Tears filled Angela’s eyes as a fountain of regret welled within her and her mind turned to that impossible place, and impossible love of long ago. An envelope fluttered to the ground. Peyton reached for it, withdrawing a single sheet of paper to read:

Dearest Peyton,

I had intended to give this precious keepsake I have carried with me through the years to your mother, my glimmering girl. However, it now strikes me as fitting that on the occasion of your marriage I pass it your way—a lone, yet priceless, legacy, my dear child. My wish for you is that you and your beloved may forever walk among long dappled grass and pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.

Your Anamchara from afar…

Part One

Ten Years Earlier 1987

Chapter One

The traffic light turned red just as Angela Worthington's car crested Main Street. From this vantage point she could see the town spreading out before her, its rain-washed streets and rusticated stone buildings presenting a bleak vista to the horizon. Here, at the summit, engaged in a monolithic face-off on either side of the intersection stood the town’s two most commanding structures: the library and city hall. Their grandeur seemed so at odds with the drab streetscape that confronted her now, accentuating the sense of melancholy she always felt upon returning home from a trip.

To a stranger, Angela Worthington appeared to have it all. Possessed of beauty and wealth, her life seemed picture perfect. She had a devoted husband, a bright and pretty daughter, and a wide circle of friends. Yet, there was a quality about her that suggested she’d weathered a great sorrow—a cast of wistfulness to her lovely eyes a discerning visitor might observe that belied her gilded existence.

It had been a long drive from New York. Her thoughts kept returning to her daughter and their latest quarrel. It seemed they were always fighting these days. Angela sighed. It was hard to reconcile the strident young woman Peyton had become with the little girl Angela kept in her heart. The light turned green. Angela stepped on the gas and the powerful car glided down the hill.

On this chilly February afternoon, she was glad for its indulgent comfort—the soft leather, the sheen of bird’s eye maple, the quiet of the airtight capsule. A birthday present from her husband, it cheered her recalling its presentation, how Henry, always one to make gift giving an occasion, had handed her a card attached to a string when she descended the stairs that morning. And how she had moved through Belvoir’s rooms, winding the string around a spool to emerge into the garden with Henry at her heels and cross the south parterre where the shiny navy Jaguar was awaiting, a big, red bow on its hood. She remembered that first whiff of new leather, which remained to this day, the muffled click as she closed the door, and the purr of the engine as she turned the ignition key.

It was only when Angela visited the neighborhood where she grew up and passed houses that cost less that she felt twinges of guilt over the car’s blatant luxury. Cars of this type were non-existent in Millmont, home to Worthington’s working class where pickups mottled with blooms of rust, or sensible, American-made sedans were the vehicles of choice.

Angela drove past the tawdry strip malls on the outskirts of Worthington into open country. With the town behind her, her dark mood began to fade and she started to picture her arrival home. The dogs, Mollie and Jasper, would be tripping all over themselves in excitement at seeing her. There’d be a fire already roaring in the library as it did most winter nights and Margaret would be putting the finishing touches on a delicious dinner.

And, of course, Henry would be waiting for her. She steered the car through Belvoir’s elegant gates and along the tree-lined drive, her headlights illuminating the brilliant strips of new grass glistening with rain beside the road and becoming snagged here and there in gauzy drifts of mist. Coming around a bend, she spotted the golden glow of the house through the gathering fog. She lifted her foot off the accelerator, allowing the car to roll to a stop. Observing the scene before her, she marveled once more at the combination of fate and luck that had brought her to this splendid place where all, or almost all, was as it should be. After a moment or two, she stepped on the gas once more.

As she pulled into the circle in front of Belvoir, the door was flung open and Henry’s lanky figure was silhouetted in the doorway. Though she couldn’t make out his face, she saw it clearly in her mind: its high, aristocratic forehead, which had become slightly broader with the passing years, thick brows and jocular blue eyes framed by crow’s feet, the aquiline nose bracketed at its base by expressive lips. Beneath, a strong jaw, which embodied Henry’s legendary determination, created a pleasing balance.

He stood there for a moment, his arm raised in salute as the two Labradors eagerly pushed past him, bounding ahead to greet her. Helping her out of the car, Henry embraced her as the dogs danced around at their feet. In his arms, Angela inhaled his scent—the familiar combination of laundry starch and vetiver, laced with the pungent aroma of wood smoke.

Finally, you’re here! He kissed her temple then holding her at arm’s length, he grinned, laugh lines crinkling his face. Angela was laughing now, feeling safe and protected, enveloped once again in Henry’s world. She stooped to pat the two dogs, which were balanced on trembling haunches barely containing their urge to jump up. Straightening, she shrugged her shoulders against the cold. B-r-r-r, she said taking hold of Henry’s arm, let’s go inside.

You go on in, I’ll grab the bags, he said.

All I need is my satchel, Honey—the rest can wait.

Popping the trunk, he paused for a minute surveying the interior. Looks like you gals did some damage in the Big Apple. He whistled appreciatively, moving aside shopping bags to reach Angela’s satchel.

Oh, no you don’t! she exclaimed. Don’t forget, your birthday’s just around the corner! She shooed him away and closed the trunk. I’ll get them later.

He laughed heartily and wrapping an arm around her, guided her toward the steps. As they passed through the entrance hall on the way to the library, Angela observed how inviting it looked this evening, brightly lit and deliciously warm with a large vase of fresh flowers set upon the hall table.

The library was her favorite room in the house with its rich lacquered walls, deep sofa and comfy club chairs. She loved it most of all for the memories it held: stockings on Christmas morning, Scrabble and Monopoly on the window seat and the countless, intimate family evenings spent by the fire.

Glass of wine? Henry asked busying himself at the bar as Angela settled herself on the sofa. He removed a bottle of Château de Puligny-Montrachet from the fridge. There was a resounding pop followed by the gurgle of wine being poured out.

Henry refilled his own tumbler with whiskey and joined her by the fire. So tell me about your trip. Did you have fun?

It was great, thoroughly enjoyable. We covered a lot of ground, including some birthday shopping for you—that’s why you’re not allowed to go poking around in my trunk! She poked him in the ribs playfully.

He grinned, his face transformed into that of a little boy. Aw, can’t you give me a hint? he wheedled.

Angela shook her head. Nope, you’ll just have to wait for the big day.

Okay then, so what did you get yourself?

She swirled the wine around in her glass admiring the glowing effect of firelight on the liquid. Nada she replied.

Angela, he rolled his eyes. You mean to tell me you went to the shopping capital of the world and you came home empty-handed? With all the credit cards you’ve got, I was expecting a foxy new dress.

You and Peyton are driving me crazy, she exclaimed. I mean I get it coming and going. Peyton, on the one hand, accuses me of putting on airs while you meanwhile don’t even seem to understand me after all these years. Shopping's just not part of my blueprint.

But Angela, it’s important to me that you look good.

Don't I? she flared. The way you talk, it's like I'm some sort of arm-piece for you.

I’m sorry, Sweetheart of course you always look great, he soothed. It’s just that indulging you brings me pleasure.

Well, if it makes you feel better, Henry, we didn’t scrimp on our meals. We went to Le Cirque, in fact. Sirio made such a big to do; I was so flattered. And it gave us lots of time to talk—you know—over all those courses. Her expression darkened, a little furrow forming on her brow.

What is it, Darling? Henry pressed.

Angela sighed heavily before proceeding, a note of resignation in her voice. I sense Peyton’s not happy.

Really? Henry sounded concerned. She seemed in perfectly good spirits in Sun Valley.

Yes, I know, but don’t forget, Darling, it was Christmas, and the pressures of college far away. Besides…you know how much she loves it there. She paused to study the flickering fire.

I think she feels over her head at school. A log in the grate collapsed with a shower of sparks. Henry got up and reached for the fire tongs.

I also suspect she's, well, a bit lonely. Angela sighed. My impression is she’d be happier at a co-ed school.

But we’ve been over this repeatedly, Henry interjected, returning to the sofa. His tone was mildly exasperated. I thought Peyton decided the pros, namely Sweet Briar’s terrific riding program, outweighed the cons. You and I agreed it was the right place for her. He shot his wife a knowing glance.

Yes, but it’s only natural being in a college environment has changed things, opened her mind to other possibilities. And, let’s face it, ever since the fiasco last fall, her riding is less important. Angela looked at her husband to gauge his response. A passion for riding had been a bond shared by father and daughter. Henry had been so proud when Peyton had qualified for the prestigious Maclay finals at Madison Square Garden; but his hopes were dashed when she came down with Mono and couldn’t compete. To add insult to injury, in Henry’s mind Mono would always be that God Damn kissing disease, even though Angela kept reminding him that was a myth.

Angela went on, She told me she wants to transfer to the University of Virginia.

I suppose there’s a young man involved? Henry suggested, an eyebrow arched.

Well, as a matter of fact, yes, a Charlie somebody-or-other. But I think it’s more than that. She doesn’t like being ‘squirreled away in an ivory tower’ is how she put it.

Angela took a sip of wine. In any event, she's invited this Charlie fellow to your party so we’ll have a chance to meet him. Why don’t you plan on having a heart-to-heart with her about all this then?

In the dining room candlelight flickered off the antique Chinese wallpaper. Brought to Belvoir by Henry’s grandmother, Arabella Peyton Worthington in its original sandalwood boxes, the wallpaper featured an extravagant pattern of flowers and birds. Opposite the Regency sideboard hung a full-length portrait of Arabella. It was a romantic work, depicting the young woman in a riding habit of cascading jet-black material, a crisp white stock pinned at her throat with a flashing diamond horseshoe. In one elegant gloved hand she grasped a whip with furled thong, her other, carelessly held a full-blown rose. She regarded the viewer with a challenging and supremely self-confident eye. There it was: beauty and youth, like the rose she held, at its prime. Lushly executed by the great society portraitist, John Singer Sargent with loose open brush strokes that perfectly matched young Arabella’s winsome vitality, the painting was a tour de force. In the parapet behind her, Sargent had painted the inscription El fin fa tutto: The End Makes All—an apt motto for the fortune-favored Arabella.

During an age of legendary beauties, Arabella had been a standout. Raised in obscurity in a gracious, land rich, cash poor Virginia family; she burst onto the social scene unexpectedly and to great acclaim. Her parents, with ambitions for a good marriage, had scrimped and saved for her debut. They watched their daughter's triumph with pride and some measure of relief. When she captured the heart of the heir to Worthington Steel, surpassing all expectations, the Peytons were quick to overlook the fact he was a Yankee.

Following their marriage, the couple honeymooned in Europe. Though she had led a rather isolated life, Arabella was a social butterfly by nature, at ease and congenial. Dressed for the opera in her Worth gowns and Garrard jewels, Arabella enchanted all who saw her. And so it was that when she sailed for home, the girl from the James River left behind a legion of admirers including, Sargent himself, as evidenced by his radiant portrait that now presided over Belvoir dinner parties.

Once Angela and Henry had served themselves to the coq au vin Margaret had set on the sideboard, they returned to the library, plates in hand. Their conversation shifted from Peyton to other topics—Worthington Steel's proposed merger with a Swiss multinational conglomerate and the baseless lawsuit filed by a competitor with Henry gleefully parroting his lawyers as Angela listened with half an ear. She didn’t have the heart to tell him how dull she found it all to be.

So it was a relief when he finally changed the subject. He described the practice he'd had with his jazz buddies Sunday. He hadn’t picked up his trumpet in months, and it was great to get the juices flowing again.

Oh, and Candace stopped by with the new Robert Ludlum for you, he reported. And Millie called, something about a dinner party.

Presently, Margaret appeared with dessert and coffee. They lingered by the fire for a bit longer until at last Angela excused herself, Darling I’m going to head up now, I’m bone tired.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, Angela cast a last look behind her—the gleaming marble floor, the graceful staircase, the chandelier prisms flashing spangled light around the room. After nearly twenty years, she’d grown accustomed to living at Belvoir. But at moments like these, after being away, she saw it again with fresh eyes and was dazzled anew.

She turned down the hall to her bedroom. Large and airy, the room faced east to receive the morning sunlight. The bed was turned down, a carafe of water and fragrant spray of freesias beside it. Angela went into the bathroom to draw a bath, sprinkling Dead Sea salts into the tub. She undressed, and lowering herself into the steamy water, closed her eyes, abandoning herself to the delicious warmth.

But her pleasure was short-lived as in a flash the ugly scene on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum came back to her. Her jaw tensed, as she felt again the sting of her daughter’s words. It was the same old issue—why her D’Agnese grandparents weren’t more a part of their lives. It had come up when Peyton asked if they’d been invited to Henry’s birthday party. Angela tried to explain that they Poppa and Grandma didn’t feel comfortable at Belvoir functions. She had stopped abruptly as they crossed the museum’s Great Hall, just as if she’d run into a wall. In fact, that was exactly what it was, a wall of fragrance—the unmistakable scent of lilies. And standing there, she suddenly recalled being in that very place with her mother-in-law shortly after she and Henry had married, and Lucinda exclaiming—Angela could remember her words clearly: What a magnificent gift! She said, referring to the donation in perpetuity of fresh flowers—four huge urns of them—by the woman who founded Readers Digest.

It was when Angela and Peyton emerged from the museum’s half-light into bright sunshine that Peyton lit into her. The problem with you, Mom, is you’re just so superficial! It was the same with Joey. At this particular recollection, Angela sighed and slid further down into the bath. She could hear Peyton ranting on. "Joey was born and raised in Millmont, same as you. His aunt even lived on your street! But you think you’re better than him—the same way you think you’re better than your own parents, just because now you live in a big house and wear Chanel. Face it Mom, after you married Daddy, you slammed the door on your past. Your own family! I mean, how could you?"

Joey was ancient history. A mere blip on the radar screen. She was troubled Peyton was still bringing him up. Sure, Angela had her qualms about him, but they had to do with habits and history. Joey was a dropout, dealing drugs. He had no future. The reality was she’d be accepting of any suitor of Peyton’s, regardless of background, so long as he possessed integrity. But Angela knew this wasn’t about Joey. Peyton had moved well beyond him. Whatever its origins, Peyton’s outburst had struck a nerve. Angela’s gilt-edged life was not without sacrifice, despite outward appearances. Physically removed from her origins, she was, in essence, an alien—part refugee, part expatriate in the exotic realm of her marriage. Angela would catch herself reflecting upon how suddenly it had all happened—just as if she’d walked onto the set of her mother’s favorite show, Queen for a Day—only to learn she’d been invited to take up permanent residence in fantasyland.

Certainly her interactions with her parents had suffered, but not because she was ashamed of them. It pained her that Peyton would think this. But, of course, Peyton couldn’t know how hard it was straddling two such disparate worlds. Angela’s struggles to knit them together had only met with her parents’ resistance. How well she remembered her father’s words: Your mother and I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, Angie. Truly we do. But the D’Agneses and the Worthington country-club-set just don’t mix. There’s no use forcing it, Honey. And though she couldn’t really blame him, she was disappointed Henry hadn’t taken more of an interest in her past. Once he had borne her away to his rarefied world, it was as if her former self had ceased to exist.

Angela’s greatest regret was missing out on the cozy relationship she knew other women shared with their mothers—shopping for specials at the A&P, enjoying coffee and conversation over the kitchen table, reflecting on the pleasures of years gone by and dreams for the future—precious time that Angela and her mother rarely, if ever, enjoyed. Her family had naturally expected her to marry a regular Millmont guy, but joyfully embraced her union with Henry. How could they do otherwise? They were proud of their baby girl for she had accomplished the unimaginable, slipping seamlessly into the upper reaches of American society.

The bath water had grown cool. Angela grabbed a towel from the heated rack, and wrapping it around herself, padded into the bedroom to put on her nightgown. Picking up a brush from the dressing table, she stood before the full-length mirror brushing her hair. She regarded her face. Her mother had always stressed the importance of taking care of her skin and Angela was meticulous about this. So, her complexion glowed with merely a suggestion of delicate lines around her eyes, imperfections that served to temper her near perfect beauty. At nearly 40, her body was still girlish—the negligee hugged her slender figure accentuating the curves of her breasts and hips. Physically, Angela favored her mother; her fair hair and high Nordic cheekbones came from the Anderson family. But her olive skin and dark eyes were hallmarks of the Italian heritage on her father's side. A product of the world's greatest melting pot—brown-eyed and blonde-haired—she was a classic American Beauty.

She heard movement behind her and saw his reflection in the mirror. Their eyes met in the glass and she smiled. She watched him approach and felt his touch on her shoulders. He pressed his lips against her neck as he caressed the contours of her body. Dearest, how I've missed you, he whispered, mouthing the words against her throat, his lips raising goose bumps on her skin. She arched her back and felt him harden in response. Gazing at their entwined reflections, she reached around to stroke his hair. She watched with growing excitement as his hand gently stroked her breast and then traversed the length of her torso to the swell of her hips. Her breathing quickened as waves of heat surged within her.

My love, he breathed between kisses. He pulled the fabric up, slipping his hand underneath. Angela caught her breath as flesh touched flesh. Henry’s hand trailed up her thigh until, almost tentatively, he touched the soft mound between her legs. She gasped softly and he gently pulled the nightgown over her head. It slid soundlessly to the floor into a glistening pool of silk. She turned to face him, whereupon, he stepped back, holding her at arms length to admire her naked body. She watched as his eyes rested on her breasts and then shifted to the dark, chiaroscuro blur below that evoked such ineffable sweetness.

Overcome with desire, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. You're so beautiful, he murmured bending to kiss first one and then the other quivering nipple. She closed her eyes and her breathing deepened as all sense of time faded away.

Raw, sensual memory now engulfed her as she was transported, inevitably again to that meadowsweet moonlit glen deep in her subconscious. That precinct of long ago that remained sharply familiar in its appointments like a chamber in her own house—the clutch of pale buds overhead, the subtle aroma of orchard grass, the loamy smell of earth.

Finally, she heard a rushing in her ears signaling the approach of that sweetest of all pleasures. And, then, she was there, crying out as her body shook with exquisite rapture and she felt the fragrant earth underneath rising up to meet her.

Chapter Two

As Henry pulled away from the house, he could hear the clamor of wild geese down by the pond. A molten shimmer, heralding the rising sun, was beating back the tremulous gray of fading night. Driving through the estate, he was filled with a renewed appreciation for the beauty of nature and for Belvoir itself. He wished Angela was beside him to share this moment. He felt supremely content thinking about her and how his life had unfolded. It could have turned out so differently. To think that after all the years he’d spent gallivanting around the globe, he had managed to find his precious Angela right there in his own backyard.

Those wild years of his youth seemed far away now: New Year’s parties in St. Moritz, jetting to Paris for a weekend, sailing off Sardinia. And how about that crazy fixation Camilla had about Venice at Carnival? The house parties she organized with all those outrageous costumes and elaborate masks. He chuckled at the memory. His reveries always grew quiet, recalling that final over-the-top holiday, the safari in Kenya they’d taken mere months before the crash—and the evening he proposed to her on the Serengeti.

He could not help but ponder how entirely different his life would