Surprisingly, Tracy had turned up pregnant. How, he had no idea. As far as he knew Tracy took care of their birth control, not that three minutes once a month, the average frequency and duration of their sex life, required much in the way of birth control. Somehow, however, she’d conceived and Tess was born. If he’d bothered to think about it, his daughter’s brown eyes might have raised some questions in his mind. But in the end it hadn’t mattered. The moment he held Tess in his arms for the first time, he was caught. That feeling hadn’t changed in fifteen years.
“Are you going to cooperate and make sure that Tess takes her medication?” Tracy demanded.
Russ gritted his teeth and mentally counted to ten. “Yes,” he said softly.
Tracy turned away. “Tess, your father’s here.” She did not invite him inside.
Tess walked slowly down the spiral staircase and across the foyer to stand before him. “Hi, Daddy,” she said listlessly.
His heart lurched. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
He picked up her overnight bag. “I’ll have her back on Sunday night.”
Tess’s eyes widened and she looked at her mother.
“She has a party tomorrow evening,” Tracy announced. “You’ll have to bring her home before six.”
“Before five,” Tess said quickly. “I have to get ready.”
Russ felt the familiar rage course through him. “I haven’t seen you in three months, Tess. Surely you can miss the party this time.”
“I can’t, Daddy,” she wailed. “I really can’t. It’s Celia Merritt’s party and if I don’t go everyone will talk about me. She wasn’t going to invite me in the first place, but Dixie Ryan got sick and can’t go.”
Her logic escaped him. “Why would you want to go to a party where you’re not wanted?”
“You wouldn’t understand, Russ,” explained Tracy. “Girls are different. It’s hard to fit in and harder to stay in. It would be foolish for Tess to pass up an opportunity like this.”
“What opportunity?” His voice was cold now and furious. “Merritt owns a diner. He barely got through high school.”
“Nevertheless, his daughter is powerful. Tess has to live here in this town. It’s important to keep the right connections.” Tracy crossed her arms tightly against her chest. “Now, if you’re going to be difficult and refuse to bring Tess back on time, she won’t be able to go with you.”
Rage consumed his brain. He could barely see. “Tess, honey.” He fought to control his anger. “Do you want to come with me or not?”
“I do, Daddy, I really do.” She looked at him hopefully. “But maybe this isn’t the best weekend. Maybe you could pick me up the weekend after next.”
“What’s wrong with next weekend?”
“Skylar Taft is having a sleepover. Her party is even more important than Celia’s.”
He set down her overnight bag, reached out and hugged her. “All right, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We’ll get together the weekend after next.” Without a word to Tracy, he turned and walked back to his car.
Libby forced her eyes open and stared at the ceiling. One more minute, she promised herself. I’ll stay in bed just one more minute and then get up. Exercise wasn’t practical in the heat of midday and Marshyhope Creek had yet to become progressive enough for a gym. Either she had to rise at dawn or forgo exercise completely. Six extra pounds wouldn’t disappear by themselves. The French desserts Serena had been feeding her for a week didn’t help, either.
Groaning, Libby threw aside her sheet, the only bedcover she could tolerate in summer, and stumbled to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, dragged her hair back into a ponytail and pulled on her shorts and tank top. Carrying her socks and tennis shoes in her arms, she tiptoed downstairs. It was a few minutes past six. No one would be awake yet.
She chose the meandering river path for her run. Already, the water shone a silvery blue under the spreading rays of morning sun. The woods, nesting grounds for cranes and ospreys, rang with birdcalls. Trawlers heading south to the island fishing grounds churned their way from the calm waters of the bay to the rougher ones of the Atlantic. Dewdrops bubbled on grass and shrubs and the cicada’s tick-ticking had given way to the singsong chirping of crickets.
After the first half mile, Libby came alive. Pain and breathlessness disappeared and the ground fell away from the soles of her tennis shoes. She felt the beating of her heart, the blood in her temples, the bunching of her muscles, the sweat beading her brow, flowing down her back and between her breasts. The flush of well-being began in her brain and spread down from her chest to her stomach, her arms and legs. She passed the harbor, the peach grove and Blue Crab Beach, where she and Russ would swim naked, catch crabs, roast fish in the sand, drink beer and make love behind the rocks on that last summer he was home.
She was honing in on the docks now. Two trawlers, decks empty of watermen, their engines silent, were tied to their moorings. A movement caught her eye. A man, dark-haired and tall, with lean, ropy muscles, climbed from the cabin to stand on the deck, his profile to her. He wore faded jeans that conformed to every movement of hard, straight leg muscle, and a denim shirt rolled to the elbow. A cigarette was clamped in his teeth.
Libby slowed to a walk. No one would mistake him. The man was born to the breed. She’d seen him first. It gave her a slight advantage. Mustering her courage, she approached the trawler. He was writing something on a tablet, completely preoccupied with his task.
“Hi, Russ,” she said softly.
He turned quickly. Black hair fell across his forehead and slate-blue eyes smoldered down at her. A variety of emotions played across his face, shock, pleasure, wariness. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, blowing a blue-tinted curl of smoke in her direction. “If it ain’t Miz Libba Jane Delacourte in the flesh.” He drew out the word Miz until the very word itself sounded like an insult. “How are you, Libba Jane?”
“I’m doing well. How about you?”
He nodded. “Staggerin’ blindly, as usual.”
“Are you back for good?”
“I think so.” His blue eyes were narrow, his mouth hard. “And you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said honestly. “I need a job and I have a daughter who’s California-spoiled. Before I can make any permanent plans, I’ve got to convince her that Marshyhope Creek has potential.”
He whistled. “Times sure have changed, haven’t they? Can you imagine our parents asking us if it was okay to move?”
His criticism stung. “That really doesn’t apply. Moving wasn’t even a possibility. Our families have lived here for generations.”
Russ hopped down to stand beside her. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Libba Jane. Your mother’s family isn’t from Marshyhope Creek and every one of your daddy’s brothers and sisters relocated elsewhere.”
She changed the subject. “I heard you were out West somewhere.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Why did you come back?”
“You do get right to the point, don’t you? Same as always.”
“What did you expect?”
He stroked his chin, looked up at the sky and pretended to think about her question. “Well, the thing is, I don’t know what to expect. There was a time when I knew you as well as I knew myself, or at least I thought I did. But that’s long gone. So, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a mystery to me, Libba Jane. When it comes to you, I’m startin’ fresh.”
Libby swallowed. She deserved the sarcasm and the subtle tongue-lashing. There was nothing left to do but grovel. “I know it’s late to try to make amends, but I’m sorry, Russ. I have no excuse for what I did to you. It was thoughtless and cruel. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He stared at her. “Did you practice that for long?”
Her lips twitched and then she laughed out loud. “I started when my daddy told me you’d come back to take over the busi
ness.”
“You’re a terrible actress.”
“Thank God for that. At least you’ll know when I’m telling the truth.”
He held out his hand and grinned. “Apology accepted.”
She took it and smiled. “I heard you’re divorced. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but that’s the best part. It was a mistake from the beginning except for Tess.”
“Tess?”
“My daughter,” he explained. “She’s fifteen going on twenty.”
Libby groaned. “I know what you mean. Wait until you meet Chloe.”
Russ tested the name. “Chloe. I like it. When will that be?”
“Whenever you like. She’s adrift right now because she doesn’t know anyone her own age. That’ll change when school starts.”
“Careful, Libba Jane,” he warned her. “You sound like you’re settlin’ in.”
“Truthfully, I’d like to. I never did care for California. I’m glad to be home, but that’s only the half of it. I need a job and I need to reach some kind of agreement with Chloe and her father.”
“What happened there?” he asked casually.
Libby shrugged. “Like you, I made a mistake. I was too young to know what I wanted.”
He studied her face. “You look exactly the same.”
“Thanks,” she said lightly.
“It isn’t a compliment, Libba. Some things just are.” He changed the subject. “I’m sorry about your mama.”
“Thanks,” she said again. “She’s much better than I expected.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to be going. Nice talking to you, Russ.”
“I’ll be seein’ you around. Stop in any old time. I’m back at Hennessey House. You know the way.”
She picked up her pace, aware of his gaze on her back, conscious of her six extra pounds, willing her pounding heart and wobbly legs to respond normally. Did she want to see him again? Her pulse accelerated. He wasn’t quite the same as she remembered. He looked like the old Russ Hennessey, but there was something more there, a sophistication, an absence of bravado, an honesty that appealed to her. He wasn’t as model-beautiful as Eric, but to Libby he was better-looking in a rugged, masculine, take-charge kind of way. Russ Hennessey was the kind of man who would always be in control. Seventeen years ago his protective, alpha-male tendencies had rankled the young Libby Delacourte and she’d chosen a different kind of man, a man who believed a woman should shoulder her own burdens and half of his. Now she was of a different mind. It would be a tremendous relief to have someone take care of her once in a while.
There were a million questions she wanted to ask. Tracy Wentworth was one of them. She knew Russ would marry someone, but she never imagined it would be Tracy. The Tracy she remembered refused to swim in the bay for fear of ruining her mascara and wetting her hair. In school she’d been excused from physical education because her milky skin couldn’t tolerate the sun. She was always leaving class to take some sort of prescribed medication for her delicate constitution. Personally, Libby thought she was a classic hypochondriac. She’d gone out with Mitch for a while and Libby had tolerated her in the spirit of maintaining a friendship with Russ’s brother, but Tracy’s cloying manners and pretentious attitude toward anyone who lived on the wrong side of the creek made it difficult. Libby was relieved when Mitch broke off the relationship and surprised to learn from Shelby Sloane that Russ had taken up with Tracy less than a year after Libby had left for California. It was almost insulting. Russell Hennessey had been a catch. He deserved someone infinitely more worthy than Tracy Wentworth. To his credit, the marriage had been a brief one. But there was a child. Libby sighed. A child meant forever, no matter how one wished it otherwise.
Eight
Drusilla Washington shook the dirt from the plant in her hand and frowned. These budding sweet potatoes with their stunted stems and oddly shaped leaves were the least appetizing she’d ever harvested. Odd that they were so small when the ones she’d picked the other day were perfect. Hopefully, these plants weren’t typical. Otherwise, if the crop continued to grow poorly and if there weren’t more pregnancies in the migrant worker’s camp she wouldn’t be able to add to her nest egg this winter. She knew Verna Lee would take care of her, even take her in, if Drusilla was of a mind. The girl had a strong sense of family. But Drusilla had her pride and she liked her independence. She would stave off the day when she could no longer do for herself as long as possible.
She thought of the woman who had come to her the day before. The girl was young and very near her time. Her husband had promised Drusilla a healthy portion of his day’s earnings for assisting at the birth. She could buy a week’s worth of groceries with the money, maybe even a luxury or two she normally didn’t allow herself, like a half dozen soft-shelled blue crab or a good ham with a bone in the middle. Her stomach growled. She folded her blanket and took down her umbrella. She would stop by the woman’s shack just to be sure the herbs she’d given her yesterday were working their magic.
A low moan and the anxious black face of the young husband answered her knock. “She be at it since early mornin’,” he croaked, rubbing his hands nervously on his overalls. “If I don’ git to de fields, I won’ be gittin’ my wages.”
“You run along,” said Drusilla. “She don’t need you now.”
With a nervous half smile, he took one last look at the woman moaning on the stained mattress and hurried out the door.
Drusilla found a bucket and walked to the outdoor pump. “Don’ you be frettin’ now,” she told the girl when she returned. “Ol’ Drusilla goin’ take care o’ you. It won’ be long now.”
She looked around. The sharecropper’s shack was a temporary dwelling, clean but pitifully stark, designed to house the tide of migrant labor for as long as the harvest lasted. Pulling a handful of clean rags from the shelf, Drusilla sat down on the mattress and lifted the girl’s gown to examine her. She was more than halfway there.
“There, there, chil’,” she crooned as the girl cried out against the next contraction. “You doin’ jes fine.”
Three hours later the child had still not come. The mattress was drenched with blood and sweat and the young woman had long since passed out from the pain. Drusilla’s round face was shiny and giant wet circles stained the underarms of her dress. She was worried. Something was very wrong. Frowning, she thought back to her mentor, Minnie Hobbs. Only once had Minnie allowed her to turn a breeched baby. It was long ago. If only Drusilla could remember. For the space of time it takes to hear a heartbeat, she thought of calling Verna Lee, Verna with her college education and her knowledge of herbs. Just as quickly she disregarded it. Verna would insist that the woman go to a hospital, something the young family could never afford.
Her eyes lit on the large cooler that served as an icebox. Moving quickly, Drusilla opened the lid and found what she was hoping for. Breaking off a fistful of lard from the block, she warmed it on the hot plate in the corner before smearing it over her hands and up her arms clear to the elbow. Positioning herself on the mattress, she spread the woman’s legs and reached into the birth canal with both hands and waited for the next contraction. It came quickly. Grimacing against the bone-crunching pain, she slowly, with painstaking care, pulled the infant free.
For a full minute she stared in horror at the creature she’d delivered. The baby’s face, arms and legs were normal, but beyond that, Drusilla knew that in all her years as a midwife she had never seen anything quite like the tiny female lying in her lap. The infant was horribly deformed, with soft, purple, fleshy masses attached to her chest and abdomen that moved and pulsed like living things. A soft, mewling cry brought Drusilla to her senses. “Dear Jesus,” she whispered. “Dear Jesus.”
The woman on the mattress stirred but did not waken.
Drusilla looked at the tom body of the new mother. Then she looked down at the tiny monster she’d delivered. Life was hard enough for a young couple without this. It didn’t take a prophet to see the f
uture. If the child lived, the father would stay loyal for a while, averting his gaze from this thing he’d created, avoiding his wife in the superstitious fear that the two of them together would create another like the first. He would stay away for longer and longer periods of time, seeking work in nearby counties until finally it was easier to keep on going, to never return, to put this life and this woman and this child behind him forever.
The infant coughed and cried briefly. Drusilla made her decision. Quickly she stood and tied off the cord, wrapping the afterbirth in a towel-size rag. Then she swaddled the infant tightly in the brand-new receiving blanket she’d found on top of the dresser and sat down in a chair by the door. Crooning softly, she let the words soothe her troubled soul.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry,
Drusilla’s gonna sing you a lullaby.”
Her fingers found the pulse fluttering in the baby’s throat and squeezed firmly. Her eyes filled. She lost the words and hummed the next few lines. The child was still.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Drusilla’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”
She looked down once more. Above the swaddled blanket, the baby’s head was perfect, full and well shaped, the skin fudge-colored, the lashes long. Dr. Balieu would need to file a report. He wouldn’t notice the faint purple bruises on the baby’s throat, not when he saw the rest of her. She looked perfectly content as if she were sleeping, not dead at all. Looking at that precious face, Drusilla nearly forgot the atrocity beneath the blanket.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “forgive me, but life is hard enough for us colored folks. We don’ need no more than we already got.”
The woman on the mattress woke and lifted her head.
“Where’s my baby?” she croaked.
Drusilla tightened the blanket around the child and crossed the room to the bed. “Don’t fret too much. She be with God.”
Chesapeake Tide Page 8