“Where would we go?” Lizzie asked. “I can’t work. We own the land here. It isn’t much, but we survive. I suppose he’d be gone if it wasn’t for me. I wish—”
Her son’s cheerful whistle stopped her. “Never mind.” She rested her long brown hand on Chloe’s knee. “It might not be as bad as you think, living here. Your mama grew up in this town. She’ll help you find your way.”
Bailey hopped down from the trailer, his arms full. “You made biscuits,” he said approvingly. “That means you’re feeling better.”
“I do feel better. The nap helped.”
The words came out before she could stop them. “Is something wrong with you, Mrs. Jones?”
A shadow crossed the woman’s face. “Just an ache in my bones, is all.” She smiled. “Doesn’t that stew smell good? Bailey’s a wonderful cook.”
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Bailey made the stew?”
“He cooks all our meals,” she said proudly.
Chloe watched him ladle the rich brown meat, vegetables and gravy into bowls and set them on the table. “Can I help you, Bailey?”
“It’s done. All we need to do is sit.”
His mother stood and walked directly to the table. Carefully, she stepped over the bench and sat down. “Sit beside me, Chloe,” she said.
Chloe took her place. Remembering her mistake at lunch, she waited before picking up the spoon. Lizzie held out her hands palms up. Bailey took one hand and with the other reached for Chloe’s. Lizzie began to pray. “Lord, bless this food and this house and all the people in it. Thank you for bringing Chloe to us today and help her to return often. Amen.”
Chloe’s cheeks burned. These were nice people. Her grandparents were nice people. It wasn’t their fault that she was here. They didn’t deserve her anger. She deeply regretted her outburst earlier in the day.
“So, Bailey,” she said around a mouthful of biscuit and delicious stew. The meat was different, stringy with a strong flavor. She liked it. “Tell me about the high school here.”
He finished chewing before he spoke. His manners, she decided, were decent.
“What do you want to know?”
“Is there a drama department?”
“The school puts on a play every year, so I suppose there’s one. It isn’t my thing.”
“What is?”
“Painting,” he said, “as in art.”
“Really?”
He nodded, swigged down the rest of his milk and refilled his glass.
“Do you have anything you can show me?”
He hesitated.
“Go on, Bailey,” his mother said softly. “I’ll get the dishes. Show Chloe what you’ve done.”
“Do you know anything about art, Chloe?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’ve been to lots of museums. My dad knows a lot about art, I think. I just know what I like. It’s different every time,” she explained. “But when something hits me, I know I like it. I’m sort of an Impressionist person. I like the French painters.”
He looked at her, surprised and pleased. “You know a lot more than ninety-nine percent of the people in Marshyhope Creek.” He stood. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’ve done. Some of the paintings aren’t finished yet, but you’ll get the idea.”
Together, they walked to a shed in the back of the trailer. Inside, Bailey pulled a chain that dangled from the ceiling. Light flooded the room. Canvases of every size were stacked against one another on the floor. He pulled out two of them, levered them against the wall and stood back. “So,” he said, “what do you think?”
Chloe didn’t know much about painting, but she knew when something was very good. The canvases exploded with light and color. The room lit up. Her blood warmed and her nerve endings drummed with energy. She recognized the peach grove immediately and the black sharecroppers in various stages of their chores. The scenes were rich and seductive and filled with joy and pain. “What else do you have?” she whispered.
He flipped through the stacked canvases and pulled out another. Chloe gasped. He’d captured an outdoor flea market, carts alive with jewel-like colors, black vendors with ropy muscles, white teeth and red bandannas, so real she could hear their shouts and smell their wares.
She gazed at the scene, drinking in the warmth and texture, and then she looked at the boy beside her, proud and defiant at the same time. “You have an amazing talent, Bailey Jones. Do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes, I think maybe I do. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter.” He searched through his paintings one last time and pulled out a portrait.
Chloe recognized Lizzie Jones immediately, but a different Lizzie than the one she’d shared a meal with. The woman in the picture was riddled with pain. “What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s blind, just woke up one day and couldn’t see. She has something wrong with her blood. She’s dying,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What about drugs?”
“Prescriptions cost money. We don’t have any.”
Chloe remembered her one visit to the emergency room and the street people waiting to be seen. Her mother had explained that certain hospitals were obligated to help the poor regardless of whether or not they could pay. “Can you get welfare?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not permanently,” he said, “and not if you own anything. This land is ours. She won’t sell it, not even to help herself.”
“I’m sorry, Bailey.”
He threw back his head. “Don’t worry about us. We get along all right.”
“You’ll get along more than all right if you keep on with this painting. Have you ever tried to sell any of these?”
“I’ve thought of it.”
“People do that in Los Angeles. They set up their paintings on a street corner and sell them. They aren’t half as good as these.”
He smiled. “I’ll try it sometime.”
Chloe hesitated.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to leave. Really, I don’t. But my family will be worried about me.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
She thanked Lizzie for the meal and waited in the truck while Bailey helped his mother into the trailer. Chloe hadn’t been invited inside. Bailey Jones had his share of pride.
He climbed in beside her and turned the key. The engine rattled to life.
They were silent most of the way back home. Bailey stopped at the end of the road leading to the Delacourte house.
Chloe looked at him. “Aren’t you going to drive me in?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
Resigned, he turned down the road and into the long driveway, stopping in front of the house.
Cole Delacourte was smoking a cigar on the porch. He walked up to the car and held out his hand. “How are you, Bailey?”
“Fine, sir.”
“I see that you found my granddaughter.”
“I’d say she found me. But she’s safe and fed. My mama enjoyed her company.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Her mama’s worried.” He nodded at Chloe. “You better run inside, sugar, and tell the women you’re still in the land of the living. They were imagining all sorts of foolish things and there was nothing I could do to convince them otherwise.”
Chloe opened the door and stepped out. “Thanks, Bailey. I had a nice time. I hope I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, Chloe. You know where to find me.”
She drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and braced herself to face her mother.
Twelve
Libby sat across from her daughter in her parents’ comfortable living room of cream-colored couches, colorful pillows and mahogany furniture, willing herself to remain calm, reasonable, sane, when what she really wanted to do was hurl vases, pace the floor and, if she dared to be honest, smack the surly expression from Chloe’s mutinous little face. “Let me see if I understand you,” she said carefully. “You ran off i
nto the woods, fell asleep for hours, woke up to find a strange boy hovering over you and then you went home with him to eat dinner.” She drummed her fingers on the coffee table. “Do I have the facts correct?”
Chloe nodded.
Libby saw red. “Do you have any idea how stupidly you’ve behaved?”
“It wasn’t like that at all,” Chloe argued. “You’re turning it around.”
“How am I turning it around?” Libby couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“I already knew Bailey,” Chloe explained. “I met him the other day. He gave me a ride into town.”
“He did what?” Libby couldn’t believe her ears. Had all her warnings about accepting rides from strangers fallen on deaf ears? Had she failed completely as a mother? “Are you saying you got into a car with a stranger?” Her voice cracked. “Chloe, how could you?”
“I don’t know.” Chloe hung her head. “It didn’t seem that bad at the time and it turned out all right.”
Cole Delacourte walked into the room in time to hear Chloe’s confession. “Bailey Jones isn’t a bad sort. Chloe won’t come to any harm with him.”
“That isn’t the point,” cried Libby. “She didn’t know anything about him. She could have been killed or kidnapped.”
“This isn’t Los Angeles,” her father reminded her. “Although I’m sure such things happen in small towns, it hasn’t happened here. Bailey is Lizzie Jones’s son.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Chloe lifted her head. “What’s wrong with Lizzie Jones? I like her.”
Libby’s eyes met her father’s. How did one explain a woman like Lizzie Jones to a teenager?
“Lizzie had a hard time of it when she was young,” Cole said slowly. “She survived in the only way she could. It destroyed her reputation. I always wondered why she never left Marshyhope Creek.”
“They own the land,” Chloe said. “It’s all they have.”
Coleson nodded. “That must be it.”
“Bailey is an artist,” Chloe offered. “I saw his paintings. He’s really good.”
Libby sat down beside Chloe. “I want you to promise me you won’t go there again.”
Chloe stared at her mother. “Why not? If I have to live in this place, at least I should be able to choose my own friends.”
“You won’t have any friends if you associate with Lizzie Jones.”
“I’m associating with Bailey.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Verna Lee said I should be his friend.”
“I have no idea what Verna Lee’s motives are, but she’s not your mother and she doesn’t have your interests at heart. I want you to stay away from Bailey Jones and his mother.”
“You haven’t given me one good reason,” Chloe argued.
“Chloe,” her mother said helplessly. “This is a small town. It isn’t Los Angeles. I want you to be accepted. You can’t behave the way you did at home.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Chloe said bitterly. “You weren’t like this before. I don’t want to live here if I can’t pick my own friends.”
Again, Libby looked at her father for help.
He shrugged. “She’s got a point,” he said. “Maybe Chloe can change things around here.”
“Like you did?” Libby burst out. “You’ve been trying to change the world for forty years and nothing’s happened.”
“A great deal has happened, Libba Jane,” he said gently. “Maybe, in your eyes, fresh from California, it doesn’t look like things are different, but they are. Chloe might bring even more change. Her ways may be accepted merely because she’s not a native. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“She could be completely ostracized.”
“The Delacourtes stand for something in this town. She’ll be all right.” He smiled at Chloe. “Why don’t you say good-night to your grandma and go up to bed.”
Chloe kissed his cheek on the way out. “Thanks, Granddad,” she whispered before leaving the room.
Libby clenched her hands, stood and walked across the room to stare out the window, a slim figure in white shorts and a sleeveless blouse tied in a knot around her waist. She looked no older than her daughter. “I would rather not have Chloe be a martyr, Daddy. I want her to be happy. Why can’t somebody else pave the way?”
“You can’t control everything, Libba,” her father said slowly. “Chloe’s bright. She understands more than you think. What’s important to you isn’t necessarily important to her. You brought her here. She had no choice in the matter. Now it’s time to step back and allow her to make her own way.”
She turned around and appealed to her father. “Was it this hard for you?”
“What?”
“Raising me?”
He laughed. “Hell, no. You were about as perfect a child as anyone could hope for. I wasn’t and neither was your mama. We wondered if we had a changeling. For years we waited for the other shoe to fall.”
“And then it did,” she finished for him.
Coleson Delacourte grimaced. “I always wondered what you saw in Eric Richards. Later, I realized it could have been anyone. You wanted out.” He fixed his piercing blue gaze on his daughter. “What I never did figure out was why. It seemed as if you had the world by the tail. What was it that made you so hopping eager to leave?”
Warmth stole into her cheeks. Libby didn’t color like most people, a bright uncomfortable red that began somewhere around the chest and moved upward, leaving no one in doubt that the person suffered from miserable embarrassment. Libby’s blush was a warm, delicate apricot, a subtle dusting of the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. It became her. She shook her head. “I don’t even remember now.”
“I always wondered if it had anything to do with the Hennessey boy.”
She brushed off his implied question. “It doesn’t matter. I’m back.”
He hesitated. There was more to be said, but perhaps not now, not yet. “So you are. We’re very grateful.”
She walked past him, kissing his cheek on the way out. “I have a big day tomorrow, Daddy. Good night.”
“Good night, Libba Jane. Look in on your mama before you turn in.”
“I will.”
Libby walked to the end of the long hallway and hesitated outside of her mother’s room. It was Chloe’s voice she heard. Peering inside she saw her daughter seated on a stool beside her mother’s chair.
“I’ll do that, Grandma,” Chloe said. She took a small bottle from Nola Ruth’s hand and unscrewed the lid. “It smells good.”
“It’s the best night cream I’ve found. It’s kept my skin soft all these years. You won’t need more than a dab.”
Chloe dipped her finger into the pot and gently patted the cream around her grandmother’s good eye and cheek. “You have beautiful skin,” Chloe agreed. “It’s like Mom’s.”
“You have lovely skin, too, Chloe,” Nola Ruth observed. “It’s golden, like the Beauchamps’. You get that from me. Watch out that you don’t get too much sun, though. Even olive skin can burn.”
“I know.” Chloe dipped her finger into the pot again and reached for the disfigured side of her grandmother’s face.
Nola Ruth shrank back. “Never mind about that.”
Chloe ignored her. Softly, her fingers brushed her grandmother’s cheek and orbital bone. “Doesn’t that feel good?” she asked.
Nola Ruth nodded.
“You want both cheeks to be soft and smooth, don’t you?”
The woman stared at her granddaughter. “Doesn’t it disgust you?” she asked bluntly.
“What?”
“My eye droops and my cheek sags. It’s ugly.”
Chloe continued to pat her grandmother’s cheek. Then she leaned over and kissed it. “Nothing about you is ugly, Grandma,” she said gently. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Nola Ruth’s eyes brimmed with tears. She squeezed Chloe’s hand. “I don’t de
serve you, young lady,” she said, “but I’m so glad you’re here.”
Libby backed away, careful to tread lightly and not disturb the scene in the bedroom. Trust Chloe to break through her grandmother’s armor and set the situation straight.
Morning dawned, clear and hot. From Libby’s bedroom window, the Chesapeake flowed molten in the wake of a brilliant sun. Still exhausted after a restless night, she dragged herself to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and pulled on faded cutoffs and a cotton shirt. She didn’t bother with makeup. Brushing back her hair, she reached for her visor, slipped into her deck shoes and walked downstairs. The house was silent. The smell of sweet fritters and coffee wafted through the hallway. Fumbling for her car keys, Libby ignored the kitchen and its tempting aromas. The engine of her mother’s Volvo turned over and in less than three minutes she’d reached the dock and the offices of the Hennessey Blue Crab and Fishing Fleet. Fortified with a twice-rehearsed speech, Libby walked to the door and turned the knob. It was locked. She frowned and turned back to the gravel parking lot. The Volvo was the only car in sight.
Where was Russ Hennessey? It was after six. If she didn’t find him soon it would be too late to take a boat out on the water. Libby climbed behind the wheel again and drove back through town. A Chevy Blazer was parked in front of Perks. Coffee sounded very good. Libby pulled into a parking space, left the car unlocked and walked into the shop. Once again she was interrupting. Verna Lee and Russ were holding a conversation across the counter. Neither one turned around.
She waited a full ten seconds and decided she had been ignored long enough. “Good morning,” she said.
Both of them turned. “Good morning, Libba Jane,” said Verna Lee.
Russ merely nodded his head.
“Am I wrong, or did you leave a message at my office about getting an early start?” she asked, addressing him.
He held two cups in his hands and lifted one of them. “We did. I thought you could use some coffee. This is for you.”
She took it. “I took you at your word when you meant early.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. It isn’t personal.”
Russ grinned. “I’m all yours.”
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