Chesapeake Summer (5 page)

Russ tied one shoelace and then the other. “Sure you can.”

“You don't know what Daddy's like. He's impossible to please.”

“I know exactly what Quentin is like and you'll manage.” Picking up his wallet and keys from the nightstand, he shoved them into his pockets. “It's time to go.”

“I'm serious, Russ. Tess is five years old. I've got no training. What will I do?”

“Let's see. What could a young, able-bodied woman with a college degree possibly do if she doesn't want to continue living with her parent?” He frowned and tapped his forehead. “Bingo! I know. She could get a job, earn a salary, hire a babysitter and move into a place of her own. What a concept. What an
original
concept.”

“You're an asshole.”

“Okay. I'll go with that.” He checked his watch. “I'm late for a funeral. Do you mind if we table this conversation so that I can make an appearance and go back to my life?”

Head held high, she stormed out of the room. Russ waited until he heard the satisfying slam of a door before starting down the stairs. Lured into the kitchen by the tempting aromas of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls, he stopped short at the sight of the Wentworths' housekeeper in her usual black dress and white apron. “Camille, what are you doing here? The funeral's about to start.”

Camille's smile was a dazzling white triangle in the nut brown of her face. “Miz Wentworth's funeral ain't for black folks. Besides, some people comin' back here after the service expectin' food.”

“That's ridiculous. You should be there. You've known her longer than the judge has.”

“Yes, sir. I come up with her from Mississippi when she married Judge Wentworth.”

Russ filched a cinnamon roll. “Come with me,” he said between bites.

She handed him a napkin. “I don't belong there.”

“Come anyway.”

She shook her head. “It wouldn't look right. No need to get the judge all riled up, especially now that Miz Tracy and little Tess'll be here on their own.”

“They'll have Quentin.”

Camille pursed her lips. “I hear it'll be a closed casket.”

“I heard that, too.”

“The judge say she burned to death in that car.”

Russ crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. “I guess a closed casket makes sense.”

Camille shook her head. “None of it makes sense. Miz Wentworth always told me when she was goin' somewhere overnight so I could pack for her.”

“Maybe she packed for herself.”

Camille's face was troubled. “Miz Wentworth had two closets, one for clothes she could wear and the other for ones that were too small but she couldn't give away.”

“So?”

Camille lifted intelligent dark eyes to his face. “The clothes she took were all too small. She hadn't worn them in years.”

N
ola Ruth Delacourte's eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. She fingered the pearls around her neck and stared out the car window. Dense pine forests passed unnoticed. Her mind was far away.

“Penny,” said her husband with a smile.

She turned. “Excuse me?”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She shrugged. “I was thinking about regrets.”

“Funerals always make you pensive.”

“Shouldn't they?”

“Life isn't always fair, Nola.”

“Why is that?”

“There are no guarantees,” he began.

“That's a cliché, Cole, and unworthy of you.”

Nola Ruth was in one of her philosophical moods. Reason would have no role in their conversation. “You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don't. If you're telling me that bad luck is random, I accept that. What I have trouble with is consistent, unpredictable unfairness that tests a person beyond what one should have to bear.”

Cole frowned. “Tell me you're not referring to the Wentworths.”

“Of course not.”

“Then who?”

She shook her head. “I was talking about us, Cole.”

Cole debated whether to change the subject and hope her mood lifted, or to press for resolution. They were less than five minutes from the church. He opted for silence.

In the foyer of Grace Episcopal Church, Quentin Wentworth and his daughter, Tracy, greeted their guests. Nola Ruth was not demonstrative. She shook hands with Tracy and Quentin, murmured her condolences and slid into a seat at the back. Nola Ruth was Catholic and even though she denied it, it seemed to Cole that any foray into a Protestant church was, for her, an act of impiety.

The service was mercifully brief. Cole and Quentin grew up together, making Cole's appearance at the funeral mandatory. Their distant professional relationship fell short of friendship. The Delacourtes made a brief appearance at the reception in the church hall and made their escape soon after. Cole turned left onto the highway and headed toward Salisbury.

Fifteen minutes passed before Nola Ruth noticed. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we might have a late lunch at the Pelican. Are you hungry?”

She thought a minute. “I could eat.”

“I have an ulterior motive.”

“Of course you do.”

“We're going to talk about imbalances.”

“Oh?”

“Your name for it was consistent, unpredictable unfairness.”

She removed her sunglasses, giving him the benefit of her large, dark eyes. “Do you ever forget anything?”

“I forget plenty of things other people tell me, but not you.”

“I'm flattered.”

“I love you. Always have.”

Her face softened. “I know you do. I'm counting on it.”

“What have you done, Nola Ruth?”

She bit her lip. “Can it wait until after you've had a drink?”

“Is it that bad?”

She sighed. “Yes, it is.”

“I'll wait.”

The Pelican, a small restaurant with white tablecloths and tables with spectacular views of the bay, was nearly empty. Cole ordered a martini for himself and a glass of South African sauvignon blanc for Nola Ruth. After settling on crab cakes, salad and corn chowder, they tore off hunks of hot sourdough bread dripping with olive tapenade, ate and sipped their drinks, allowing the sense of calm serenity that alcohol and carbohydrates often brings to seep through them.

Cole wisely refrained from pressuring his wife to reveal whatever was bothering her conscience. He talked of inconsequential matters, the house, their next vacation, her upcoming birthday. Eventually, after they were halfway through their lunch and well into a second round of drinks, his patience was rewarded.

“I have something to tell you,” she began.

He waited.

“I withdrew eleven hundred dollars from our checking account.”

“You take care of the bills, Nola. I don't monitor how much you spend.”

She held up her hand. “There's more. Please hear me out.”

“All right.”

“On Monday I got a call from Drusilla Washington. I know we haven't spoken of this for years, but you do remember Anton Devereaux?”

Cole's expression didn't change. “I'm not likely to forget.”

“Drusilla told me he was arrested for speeding. Apparently, he spent the night in jail. He was driving a late-model Mercedes. I bailed him out. Sheriff Grimes never read him his Miranda rights.”

“I have a few questions,” Cole said. “But I'm sure you've already anticipated them.”

Nola Ruth nodded. “You want to know what he was doing here in the first place.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

She played with a forkful of crab. “He was looking for me.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He spent ten years in a Mississippi state prison for miscegenation. No one cared that he didn't know I was white.”

“It was 1962. His reasons wouldn't have mattered.”

“He blames me. He wanted to know why I didn't try to find him.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I told him to go away and never come back.”

“But you bailed him out of jail.”

She nodded. “It was the least I could do.”

“He'll have to come back for his court date.”

“I don't think so. He lives in France. He's a vintner.”

Cole swallowed the last of his martini. “Is that all?”

“People saw us, Cole. We had a very public argument. I was so angry and ashamed. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to help him.”

Cole leaned forward and took his wife's hand. “Why did you?”

She looked directly at him. “What happened to him was my fault. I never told him who I was. He was the one who paid with years of his life.”

“You paid, too, Nola. You paid dearly. You're still paying.”

“So is he,” she whispered. “He just doesn't know it.”

Cole signaled for the check. “This ends here,” he said firmly. “We won't speak of it again.”

“There's something else I should tell you.”

“I don't need to hear it. You've said enough.”

“But, Cole—”

“No more, Nola.” He stood. “I'll see what happened to the check and meet you in front.”

She stared after him in disbelief. Cole was a firm believer in self-disclosure. This was a side of him she'd never seen.

On his way into the office the following morning, Cole swung by the Marshy Hope Creek Police Station. Sheriff Grimes was sorting through his mail. He looked up briefly. “What can I do for you, Counselor?”

“Nola Ruth tells me you kept a man in jail overnight without reading him his rights.”

Silas shook his head. “Not true, if you're referring to one Anton Devereaux. Your wife came by and bailed him out.”

“Was he allowed a phone call?”

Sheriff Grimes leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “Processing takes up time. Seems to me he declined his call.”

Cole sighed. “Silas, unless you police by the book and read a suspect his Miranda rights, the state has no case. You know that. What are you trying to pull?”

“Hell, Cole. We're never gonna see that fella again.”

“I'm out eleven hundred dollars.”

“Maybe your clientele needs improving.” He opened his top drawer, pulled out a toothpick and stuck it into one side of his mouth. “I'd think twice before sending my wife to bail out criminals. Nola Ruth wasn't too happy about it, either, because everybody on Main Street saw her give him a piece of her mind. Then he stepped into her car like he was some movie star and she headed toward the Highway 39 turnoff. I tell you, Cole, you got too much faith in those people. A fella like that is likely to slit Nola's throat and leave her for dead on the side of the road.”

“The man violated a speed limit.”

“He was driving a Mercedes. Where'd he get enough money for that?”

“He owns a vineyard in France. He makes wine.”

Grimes spoke around the toothpick. “I told you he wouldn't be back.”

“Two hours, Silas. I want all arrests to be processed and offered a phone call within two hours. I won't tell you again. You're mighty close to collecting your pension. Don't spoil it.”

“No, sir. I wouldn't dream of it.”

Fifteen years later

I
t was seven o'clock in the morning and already steamy hot when Dave Yardley unloaded his tripod, his sample kit and his Nikon from the back of a leased Jeep Cherokee. Wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, he loaded up his backpack, hitched the tripod to his shoulder and crossed the road to hike into a spongy section of marsh that might very well hold up Weber's entire condominium development. The geology report showed a water table that was too high to drain without sinking millions of dollars into construction that wouldn't pay out.

Yardley was a Weber employee but even he couldn't work miracles. The bog was so wet his footprints disappeared within minutes. It didn't look good. Branches, leaves and sludge made walking difficult. He stumbled over what he thought was a tree branch, found his balance and looked down. “What the—” He stooped to examine his find. It was a human fibula, partially decomposed, rising from the swamp like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Chloe Richards woke dripping with sweat and the sense that her past year spent in the beach community of La Jolla, California, had been nothing more than a hazy dream. She lay flat on her back, blinking sleepily at the yellow ceiling and white moldings of her summer bedroom, and willed the heat and humidity that was typical of June in Marshy Hope Creek, Maryland, to evaporate.

No such luck. Rolling out of bed, she welcomed the cool wood under the soles of her feet and padded into the bathroom to stand under the tepid spray of the showerhead.

Ten minutes later she hung the towel that would take two days to dry over the edge of the tub, pulled a comb through her wet hair, stepped into a faded pair of shorts and a top with thin straps that revealed more tanned skin than her mother would approve of and made her way downstairs.

Serena, her grandfather's housekeeper, oblivious to the shimmering heat, was frying chicken-apple sausage and ladling scoops of batter into a crepe pan. Leaning over the black woman's shoulder, Chloe filched a dry edge from the end of a nearly cooked crepe.

Serena slapped her hand away. “You know how I feel about eatin' over the sink, Chloe Richards. Your granddaddy is expectin' you out on the porch.”

“Is he up already?”

Serena snorted. “Girl, it's nine o'clock. You're sleepin' the day away.”

Chloe sighed. “Give me a break, Serena. For me, it's six o'clock in the morning.”

“Mr. Delacourte's been up since five workin' in that garden. I'm countin' on you to stop him before he gets heatstroke.”

Chloe nodded, grabbed a forbidden sausage from the platter on the counter and left the kitchen in search of her grandfather. She found him near the front porch, a lean, slightly hunched figure, his head protected by a wide-brimmed straw hat, trimming the gardenias. Staying well inside the shade of the porch canopy, she leaned against the railing and watched him, struck, for the first time, by signs that he was aging. Cole Delacourte was closing in on seventy years old. New lines carved his forehead and the planes of his cheeks. His wrists were bonier, his cheeks thinner. Overall, he appeared frail. She fought off the icy fist that closed over her heart at the thought of losing him and called out, “Morning, Granddad.”

Cole Delacourte looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I was beginning to think I'd starve to death.”

“You could have eaten without me.”

He pretended indignation. “Not a chance, especially when my granddaughter has come all the way across country to visit me.” Cole pulled off his gloves and wiped his forehead. “Come on. Let's eat out back and look at the bay.”

They walked arm in arm, the tall, spare old man and the petite, golden girl, through the gracious colonial home that had housed five generations of Delacourtes, out the back door and across a deep, velvety lawn that curved down to the mighty Chesapeake, “the protein factory of the South,” her mother had once described it.

Serena had set the table under the canopy of two enormous oak trees. What Chloe would have called pretentious for a Monday-morning breakfast in Southern California, the cloth napkins and white tablecloth, the shining silver and crystal goblets seemed just right here in the shade of her grandfather's house. It was cooler this close to the water. Chloe felt the first stirrings of an appetite. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “So, Granddad, give me the latest gossip.”

Cole poured dark, chicory-flavored coffee from the carafe into their cups. “Nothing much has changed around here. Your mama and Russ have their hands full with Gina Marie.”

“I guessed as much from Mom's phone calls. Gina's not exactly the typical three-year-old, is she?”

Cole's lips twitched. “Spit it out, Chloe. What are you trying so politely not to say?”

“She's spoiled rotten.”

Cole threw back his head and laughed so loudly that Serena, bearing platters of crepes and sausage, heard him from inside the house. “Someone open this door for me,” she called out. “I've only got two hands.”

“I'll go,” Chloe said, moving as quickly as the heat would allow. She crossed the lawn, climbed the back steps and opened the door. “You'll make me fat, Serena.” She reached for the crepe platter. “I never eat this much at home.”

The black woman raised her eyebrows and gave Chloe's slender legs and concave stomach an appraising look. “You could use a little weight, honey. I doubt you'd tip the scales at a hundred pounds.”

Chloe's cheeks flushed a warm apricot. “I'm not very tall,” she murmured just as they reached the table.

“Sometimes it's hard to believe you're Gina Marie's sister,” the woman continued. “Now, that one, she's the image of your mama.”

Chloe winced. She didn't need reminding that Gina, with her bewitching smile and terrifying temper, was turning out to be more of a Delacourte than Chloe would ever be.

Noticing that her grandfather's eyes were on her face, she recovered quickly and set the plate down in front of him. “These are the most delicious crepes on the planet. I'm having two.”

“One will do for me, thank you,” said Cole. He nodded at his housekeeper. “We'll take it from here, Serena.”

Waiting until she was well inside the house, he cleared his throat. “I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, Chloe, but you look a great deal like my mother did when she was your age. In fact, you resemble the Delacourte side of our family far more than your mother or sister. They're Beauchamps through and through, just like Nola Ruth.”

A backwash of affection for this dear man flooded her chest. “It's okay, Granddad. I don't mind that I didn't get Mom's looks.” She grinned impishly. “I did get her brains, though. Even Dad admits to that.”

Cole wiped his mouth. “Well, now, I think I can take some credit for that. After all, Libba Jane is my daughter.”

Chloe laughed. “Be careful, Granddad. I'll tell her you said that.”

Cole Delacourte sat for a minute, content to simply look at his granddaughter's vivid face, the Siamese-blue eyes and high-boned cheeks, the small, slightly arched nose and wide sensitive mouth, all framed by that straight swath of floating silvery hair.

When, he wondered, would she discover her power? She was twenty years old, young, but definitely grown. Still, there was an innocence about her that reminded Cole of the women from his own youth. “I hope your mama doesn't mind that you're staying here with me and not at Hennessey House.”

Washing down a mouthful of crepe with a swig of coffee so rich and strong she could feel the heat of it all the way to the center of her stomach, Chloe shook her head. “Mom knows I love it here. Besides, there are only two bathrooms at Hennessey House. You have more room and I don't want to put any stress on Russ. It's hard to share your house with someone else's child.”

Shocked, Cole stared at her. “Where did you dredge up that absurd idea?”

Chloe shrugged, assuming an offhand insouciance. “Mimi and I had a heart-to-heart the last time I stayed at Dad's.”

Cole's mouth tightened with uncharacteristic temper. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“If I were you, honey, I wouldn't take your stepmother's babblings as the Amy Vanderbilt of familial relationships. Whatever misguided philosophies are practiced in California, remember that this is the South. Nothing is more important to us than family.”

She tilted her nose and showed him her profile. “Misguided philosophies and familial relationships,” she mimicked. “You sound like a lawyer.”

“You don't say.”

Chloe frowned, all teasing aside. “I'm guessing that you don't care for Mimi.”

“I've never met her and, believe me, I doubt that it's my loss.”

“Don't say anything to Mom.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Chloe leaned over and kissed him. “I'm going now. I love you, Granddad.”

“The feeling is mutual. Don't forget your bike.”

Chuckling at the four-year-old memory of her need to appear “cool” at the expense of a convenient bike ride into town, Chloe found her bicycle in the shed, swung her leg over the crossbar and headed toward the service road that led to the street.

After the shade of her grandfather's yard, the blast of humidity hit her like a wet blanket. It was three miles into town as the crow flies, a bit longer on the road. Despite the cool promise of the forest, thick with summer foliage and tall trees, hickory, oak, beech, white ash and elm, within two minutes sweat trickled down Chloe's forehead, between her breasts and the insides of her thighs. Gritting her teeth, she tried turning her thoughts to something else, but the brackish, metallic odor of the Chesapeake, the smells of fish and pine and salt and dirt and a billion species of underwater life, assaulted her senses.

Despite her California roots, which Chloe now realized was a brief aberration in her mother's life, a period to be endured until Libba Jane was drawn back to Marshy Hope Creek with its relentless sun, its thick, wet air and its infinite spaces of marsh and woods and dark creek water, all by-products of the mighty Chesapeake, this was home to the Delacourtes. And, whether she liked it or not, Chloe, too, was a Delacourte.

Behind her, the sound of an approaching car interrupted her thoughts. Chloe hugged the side of the narrow road, allowing the driver to pass. Her eyes widened as a late-model silver-gray Porsche, more at home on the expensive beachfront streets of Malibu than here in Marshy Hope Creek, drove past. She caught a glimpse of the New York license plate. She wasn't surprised. Who would own a Porsche in this backwater town? Marshy Hope Creek's more comfortable citizens thought in terms of Lincoln Town Cars and Cadillacs, gas guzzlers for patriotic Americans who bought only Fords and Chevrolets and who believed in conservation except when it applied to them.

The road veered to the left. Chloe turned the corner, squeezed the hand brake and pulled up abruptly, jumping off in time to avoid a collision with the Porsche, idling in silver splendor by the side of the road. Leaning against the door, black hair falling over his forehead, cigarette dangling from his lips, was a young man with dark hooded eyes and a face so bladed and severe and beautiful it could have graced the cover of a magazine.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

The years rolled back. Chloe drew a long, quivery breath. Bailey Jones hadn't changed much, except for the car and the Rolex and the Gucci shoes. “It's been a long time, Bailey.”

“I guess it has.”

“You could have called.”

“So could you.”

“I needed a number. You had mine.”

He drew deeply on the end of his cigarette, dropped the stub and ground it into the dirt. “Do you want a ride or not?”

She looked down at the bike and then back at him. “Nice car, but we wouldn't fit.”

“Throw the bike in the bushes. You can come back for it later.”

Chloe considered her options. On the one hand was burning curiosity, on the other was her completely understandable desire to show Bailey Jones that spending time in his company was her lowest priority. Curiosity won.

He waited while she stowed the bike out of sight of the road, hiked up the embankment and slid into the soft leather of the passenger's seat.

“So, Bailey,” she began. “How have you been?”

He pulled the car out onto the road. “I can't complain. You?”

“Not too bad.”

“What brings you back here?”

“This is where I come every summer. My mother lives here. She married Russ. I have a sister.”

Bailey nodded. “I heard. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. What about you? I thought you'd wiped the dust of Marshy Hope Creek from your shoes forever.”

She saw the leap of muscle in his cheek.

“That was the plan. I'm here to sell my land. Weber Incorporated made an offer I can't refuse.”

Chloe stared at him. “You can't be serious. Those wetlands are home to thousands of native species.” What she left unsaid was huge, important, an impassable, unspoken chasm between them. His hand was steady on the wheel. “I'm dead serious.”