Chesapeake Tide

by Jeanette Baker

Libby smiled at Verna Lee. “Thanks for the coffee.” She looked at Russ. “Shall we?”

  “After you. See you later, Verna Lee.”

  Verna Lee waved. “Nice to have you back, Russ. Bye, Libba Jane.”

  Russ opened Libby’s car door. “I’ll meet you back at the dock.”

  Libby looked at him. “Sometimes I think I rub Verna Lee the wrong way.”

  “I didn’t notice anything. Why?”

  Libby shrugged. “Never mind. We weren’t ever really friends. She was too far ahead of us in school. I always admired her, though. She was so exotic and confident.” She laughed. “I’m just being overly sensitive.”

  A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve changed. When did you ever care if someone disapproved of you?”

  “I’m thirty-seven,” she reminded him. “It makes a difference.”

  His eyes rested briefly on her shoulder-length dark hair pulled back into a youthful ponytail before moving down to inspect the slim lines of her legs barely covered by faded, sun-washed shorts. “You’re really honing in on middle age,” he said, keeping his face straight. “I wouldn’t have known you.”

  “Like I said,” Libby replied, refusing to banter with him,“I’ve changed.” She closed the door and rolled down the window. “If we aren’t out in the water in ten minutes you won’t have anything to show me.”

  “See you at the dock in five minutes.”

  Libby pulled out onto the road without looking back. She could feel the familiar coil of irritation begin in her stomach. She didn’t know why she was bothered, only that she was. Whether it was Verna Lee or the fact that Russ was so cavalier about this morning that he didn’t notice the time, she hadn’t figured out yet. Maybe it was Chloe’s defiant independence and her father’s supporting that defiance. Libby prided herself on her ability to analyze a given situation, isolate the problem and come up with a solution. The most difficult part, the part that prevented her from sleeping and left her feeling as if she had a hole in her stomach, was pinpointing exactly what was bothering her. She needed more than the five minutes it would take to drive back to the dock to figure it out. Until she had more time, she would chew bicarbonate for the twist in her stomach and try her best not to appear inept at her first day on the job.

  Libby hopped from the pier to the deck of the boat without help and positioned herself so that she was safely away from all moving parts.

  Russ started the engine and maneuvered away from the dock. Between sips of coffee he studied her surreptitiously. She didn’t look her age, although she had that aura women have after they turn thirty-five. No one would make the mistake of believing she was ten years younger, but she still looked good, damn good, with an ageless kind of appeal a woman on the green side of thirty just didn’t have. Libba fit the profile. She was slim and fit, with thick hair and clear, tight skin. The sun lines around her eyes were barely visible in the early light of morning. Physically, she had aged well. He hadn’t expected less. She’d always been a looker.

  Somewhere between Verna Lee’s shop and the dock, she’d put on lipstick. He noticed it right away. Not that she needed lipstick. She had the kind of face that looked good the minute she rolled out of bed in the morning. He wondered how she’d grown up so unaware of the effect her physical appearance had on men between the ages of fourteen and seventy. Most likely it was Nola Ruth’s doing. She was so afraid her daughter would lose her virginity before her wedding night, forever ruining her marriage prospects, that she’d created the opposite effect, a woman who was insecure about her own physical attributes.

  Libba was a Delacourte on her father’s side, a Beauchamp on her mother’s. She came from a long line of Mediterranean women known for their warm temperaments, long memories, and a loose and easy grace that spoke of innocence and seduction in the same breath. Nola Ruth had raised her daughter in the legacy of her ancestors, women who concealed an icy intelligence beneath the fine-boned beauty of porcelain teacups. Formal, graceful, hospitable women with steely spines who, five generations before, had seen their land razed, their homes torched and their men emasculated without losing the serene dignity that characterized southern females of a certain class. Libba Delacourte was a lady. There was no mistaking the real thing. His own mother, granddaughter of Irish immigrants who’d made good, had seemed less than she was when Libba walked into the room.

  He liked the idea that Libba would dress up for him, even if it was only lipstick and earrings. Deep in his soul, Russ Hennessey harbored a craving for beauty and elegance. Instinctively he’d known, even as a boy, that possessing Libba would go a long way toward satisfying that craving. When he sat down to dinner in Coleson Delacourte’s eighteenth-century dining room so many years ago with its intricately wrought wood, carved chimney and silver serving dishes, where books lined the shelves and hand-blown decanters glowed under muted light from crystal chandeliers, when the lawyer nodded approvingly at something he’d said, when he looked across the mahogany table at Libba’s austerely beautiful face, he felt revitalized, born anew. This world of propriety and refinement, of cultivated taste and understated elegance, where ideas, politics and philosophy were discussed as naturally and casually as his father discussed fish counts and the price of diesel, was a world as foreign, as tantalizing, and far more desirable than any he could have dreamed up in his imagination.

  Elizabeth Jane Delacourte was the Madonna of Marshyhope Creek, the town’s golden girl, completely loved, unconditionally accepted, the acknowledged center around which the limited social life of the Cove revolved. Because he had always been secretly afraid of losing her, Russ had staked his claim early, in the only way he knew how. He’d taken her virginity. Somehow he knew that despite the sexual revolution sweeping through the sixties, a girl like Libba wouldn’t give herself to a man unless she was committed. He made her love him and, in so doing, tied himself to her as tightly and irrevocably as the cinch knots in his father’s fishnets.

  Those were the years Libba glowed from within with a flame-lit, shimmering brightness that gave Russ the swaggering confidence that earned him his reputation on the tidewater. The memory of that brightness had wreaked havoc on his mind, his love life and, eventually, his marriage. He’d fallen once, early and hard. For Russ it was Libba or no one. She was the reason he’d left Marshyhope Creek, the reason he’d married so suddenly and disastrously. Now he was home again and so was Libba. The possibilities were interesting. This time Russ was in no hurry. He’d learned through painful experience that the inevitable would happen one way or another. Rushing relationships led to ties that strangled, to pity that turned to contempt and to hefty child support payments and a terrifying loss of control. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  When he was well out into the bay he checked the coordinates on the Loran, set the speed control and lit a cigarette.

  Libby spoke for the first time since they’d left the mooring. “You really should give those up. How long has it been? Twenty years?”

  Russ blew out a stream of smoke. “Just about.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “They could.”

  “It’s a fact, Russ.”

  “Well, now, let’s explore that for a minute. My daddy fell off a trawler in one of his daily binges, and if I heard correctly, his liver was so swollen it looked like a twenty-pound bowling ball.” He stopped to suck in another lungful of smoke. “As for Mitch,” he continued, “he was thirty pounds overweight, kept a stash of whiskey in his desk at the dock and looked twenty years older than me even before he came down with cancer. As far as I can tell, I’m the healthiest Hennessey my family produced.”

  Libby sighed. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But under the circumstances—” She stopped.

  “What circumstances?”

  She could barely hear him over the hum of the motor. “Let’s look at the crabs first and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Russ kicked up the s
peed and Libby laughed with delight. Skimming over the water, the spray cool on her face, was almost like flying. Too soon, Russ cut the engine speed and moved into the vicinity of the trotlines.

  Libby frowned. “I hope you’re not considering doing any fishing here, Russ. If I’ve read the coordinates right, this isn’t legal.”

  “Yeah, and now I know why. I hope you have a strong stomach,” he said grimly, hooking the first line and pulling it up over the side. “I brought you here because I want you to see exactly where this is happening. Maybe you’ll notice something in the area we’ve missed, something we might have in common with the Great Lakes or the Hudson. Those areas are all contaminated with runoff from farm waste. If we knew—”

  Libby took one look at the pulsing, mutated mass that couldn’t possibly be a Maryland blue crab and thought of the ramifications on the human population of the bay. Suddenly she felt a lightness in her head that meant an abrupt departure of blood from her brain. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and gagged.

  Russ dropped the line back into the water, slipped one arm around her waist and steadied her. He focused on the flare of her nostrils and the tiny pores in her skin. A slight beading of perspiration dampened her forehead. She smelled like perfume, the expensive kind. “Easy does it, Libba Jane,” he cautioned. “We’ve just started. They’re all like that. You’re not much good to me if you’re swooning on the deck.”

  “Dear God,” she groaned. “This is terrible.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  She pulled herself together and stepped away from him. “What could have happened to them?”

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  She didn’t want to tell him, not yet when she wasn’t sure. “I have an idea, Russ,” she began, “but I can’t say for sure, not until we get the lab reports back. Let’s pull as many of these in as we can and ship them to Salisbury.”

  His mouth settled into grim frown lines. “You were about to tell me something earlier. What is it?”

  “I don’t want to speculate about something as serious as this. Please, be patient.”

  “The lab in Salisbury has our samples, but they’re not telling me anything.” His voice was strained. “I want to know what you know, or at least what you suspect. A lot of people are depending on me and we’re out of business until this is cleaned up.”

  Libba’s eyes were very dark in the pale cream of her face. His argument made sense. He would be the injured party if the bay was closed to commercial fishing. “According to the reports Cliff left me, the water samples show high amounts of toxins,” she replied. “Certain toxins—mercury, lead, et cetera—have been linked to skin diseases, birth defects, deformities in animals and cancer in humans. The worst would be to learn that it’s invaded our natural water supply. Lake Michigan trout are inedible because of their chemical content. Eel fishing in the St. Lawrence has been terminated for the same reason. PCB-infested rice killed sixteen people in Japan. In this country, the FDA has the power to seize any fish it believes to be contaminated.”

  “In other words, this isn’t just a temporary setback. This is death to the entire industry on the Chesapeake.”

  “It’s also possible, although not probable, that toxins have invaded our subterranean wells. That’s a longshot and I haven’t run any tests of my own,” she warned him. “This is supposed to be a part-time job for me.”

  Russ ignored her disclaimer and focused on the issue at hand. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Those who live outside of town and drink well water could be at an extremely high risk for cancer and birth defects.”

  Suddenly he felt cold. “That’s all of us. We all live on the outskirts of town.”

  Libba nodded.

  “What kind of cancer?”

  He knew the answer before she confirmed it. The print on Mitch’s medical file was burned into his memory.

  Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Leukemia, testicular and ovarian cancers.”

  Thirteen

  “What do you mean, you’ll tell me later?” Cole Delacourte fixed his courtroom stare on his daughter. “You show up, white-faced, in the middle of dinner, and say you’re not hungry. The least you can do is tell us where you’ve been.”

  “I’m not refusing, Daddy.” Libby worked to keep her voice even. “I said I’d explain later.”

  “Stop badgering her, Coleson.” Nola Ruth threw a warning glance at her granddaughter, summoned a twisted smile and pointed at the plate of piled-high crabs. “Have one, Libba Jane. You’re much too thin. You know what they say, excessive dieting destroys the skin.”

  “I’m not on a diet, Mama. I’m watching my weight.”

  “Well, whatever. Have a crab. No, not that one.” She pushed her daughter’s fork toward a meatier serving. “This one.”

  In the hall, the phone rang.

  Serena, ageless, mahogany-skinned, glided into the room. “Dr. Balieu’s on the phone for you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Serena.” Coleson wiped his mouth, excused himself and left the room.

  Libby picked at her food, wondering how, after this morning, she could possibly force a bite of crab into her mouth. She watched as her daughter cleaned her plate and reached for another crab. Quickly, she picked up her water glass and just as quickly set it down again. Was there anything served on the bay that wasn’t cooked, steamed or boiled? Mentally she chastised herself. There was nothing wrong with the crabs or the water that Serena had placed on their table.

  Chloe glanced at her mother’s face and frowned. “Are you feeling okay, Mom? You don’t look very good.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled brightly. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Chloe groaned. “The last time you said that, we moved.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Libby assured her.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve been invited to a party.”

  “That’s impossible,” Chloe said flatly. “I don’t know anybody.”

  “Whose party is it?” asked Nola Ruth.

  “Cecil Taft’s daughter, Skylar. She’s turning sixteen. She’s invited several girls, Tess Hennessey among them, to a slumber party. When Tess learned that Chloe was new in town, she asked if she could bring her along to the party and Skylar agreed. Isn’t that nice?”

  “How do they know about me?” asked Chloe. “I’ve never heard of either one of them.”

  “Russ Hennessey is an old friend of mine,” Libby said. “I told him you were bored and lonely because of our move and he told me about his daughter. He called her, explained your circumstances, and she invited you to go with her to Skylar’s party.” Libby appealed to her daughter. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re insane,” Chloe replied. “I’m not going to a slumber party where I don’t know anyone. Do you have any idea how pathetic you’ve made me sound?”

  Libby’s mouth dropped. “Chloe, don’t be ridiculous. It isn’t like that at all.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  Libby appealed to her mother. “Mama, help me, please.”

  Nola Ruth fixed her dark eyes on the lovely, Nordic beauty of her granddaughter’s face. “She’s right, Chloe. Normally, I’d agree with you, but because you’re Libba Jane’s daughter, it won’t be taken the wrong way.”

  Chloe’s brow wrinkled. “Why not?”

  Nola Ruth’s mouth turned up and she shrugged. “It’s always been that way. All your mama ever had to do was show up. It didn’t have anything to do with anybody else. Some would call it an aura. Personally, I think it’s just plain luck. Once a reputation is established, it’s hard to change it, good or bad.”

  Libby stared at her mother. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You know it’s true, Libba,” her mother chided her. “It’s the reason you came home. People who have the gumption to up and leave Marshyhope Creek for the big city don’t usually itch to come back.”

&
nbsp; Libby’s face burned. She was very conscious of Chloe’s regard. She could feel her sixteen-year-old mind working, measuring, digesting her grandmother’s words. Libby wet her lips. “I had a wonderful childhood,” she admitted, wondering why she felt so attacked, so compelled to defend herself. “I can’t think of anyone I know who grew up here and didn’t.”

  “There are plenty who didn’t.”

  “Who?” Against her will, the question popped out. She had no desire to continue the conversation.

  “Lizzie Jones for one, and Bailey.”

  “Who else?”

  “Verna Lee Fontaine,” her mother continued, “and Russ Hennessey, to name a few.”

  Chloe was immediately interested. “I know Verna Lee.”

  “What was so terrible about Verna Lee’s life?” Libby demanded. She didn’t want to talk about Russ.

  “A young girl like that, pretty and smart, raised by that dreadful old woman.” Nola Ruth shivered.

  Libby frowned. “You never did care for Drusilla. Why is that, Mama? She’s a harmless old lady.”

  “Harmless?” Nola Ruth’s knotted hands twisted the cloth napkin in her lap. “I suppose she could seem so, to some.”

  Libby’s curiosity had been whetted. She wanted the conversation to continue, but she was very conscious of Chloe seated on the other side of the table, drinking in every word. This heart-to-heart with her mother would have been unheard of seventeen years ago. Nola Ruth Delacourte was a private person who believed in preserving one’s dignity. “Keep it to yourself, Libba Jane,” she always said. “The world has a way of punishing those who disclose too much.”

  Serena walked into the room carrying a silver coffee pot. She poured coffee for Libby and Nola Ruth, a rich dark brew heavy with chicory. Then she began clearing the dinner plates. “Mr. Delacourte said he was finishing up some work in the study and to go ahead and have your coffee without him.”

  Chloe pushed her chair away from the table. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “What about the party?”

  “What about it?”

  Libby summoned hidden reserves of patience. “Are you going?”