“Are you hungry, child? It’s way past supper-time.”
“No, thanks. I’ve eaten.”
Drusilla sat on the step while her granddaughter towel dried her legs. “How’s Lizzie?”
“Well enough, I guess, considering her circumstances.” Verna Lee sat down beside Drusilla. “I wish I could do more to help her. She’s thinking about going to school to be a nurse.”
Drusilla nodded. “That’s a good thing.”
“I wonder if she’ll ever be free of Quentin Wentworth.”
Verna Lee twisted the towel into a point and began drying between her toes.
“She’ll be free soon enough.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You missed all the commotion today.”
“Commotion, in Marshy Hope Creek?” Verna Lee laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No, missy, I’m not. Miz Wentworth tipped her car over on Highway 39. She was on her way to visit her sister in Mississippi.”
“Is she hurt?”
“She’s more’n hurt. She’s dead.”
Verna Lee gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Maurice, from the dry cleaners, was carrying clean shirts back to the judge. He heard it from Camille, Miz Wentworth’s housekeeper. Sheriff Grimes and the judge identified her body. Miz Wentworth was burned bad. They knew it was her because of the car. Camille say the car flipped over and went up in flames.”
Verna Lee thought for a minute. “Highway 39 is a straight road. Was she drinking?”
Drusilla’s eyebrows flew north. “Miz Wentworth? Not on your life. Camille say she and the judge had words over Lizzie, and the missus left late last night. That road is mighty dark at night.”
Verna Lee acknowledged that it was. Still, something wasn’t right. Lizzie was keeping something to herself, Bailey wasn’t talking and the Wentworths had had a fight, serious enough for Amanda Wentworth to take off for Mississippi in the middle of the night.
Amanda Wentworth’s funeral was a by-invitation-only event. Russ Hennessey was on the guest list for two reasons only: he was Tess’s father and the interlocutory period for his divorce from Tracy Wentworth was still in progress. On paper he was legally married and therefore a member of the family, albeit an unwilling one. Already he regretted accepting the offer of the judge’s spare room.
Sliding the knot of his tie into place, he stood in front of the mirror in the guest room dressed in a pale blue shirt and black socks.
Tracy opened the door without knocking and closed it behind her.
Russ raised one eyebrow. “Do you mind? I’m not dressed.”
She shrugged. “We’re married. Surely you don’t think I haven’t seen this before?”
“We’re soon to be not married and that isn’t the point. I’d appreciate some respect for my privacy. What do you want?”
“I know you don’t want to sit with the family, but I’m asking you to reconsider.”
“Not a chance. I’m here to watch my daughter so you can deal with your family. That’s it.”
Tracy flushed. “It’s my mother’s funeral, for God’s sake. Would it kill you to be a little bit flexible?”
Russ sighed. “Everyone knows we’ve split. There is absolutely no point in making it look as if we’re one big happy family. You specifically asked that I come, although your reasoning baffles me. Your mother and I weren’t close and, personally, I think she’d rest easier if she knew I’d stayed away.” He stepped into his pants and zipped them. “I’m sorry you lost your mother, Tracy, but Tess and I are sitting with my brother.”
Two pink spots stood out on Tracy’s cheeks. “I don’t think I can stay in this house without my mother.”
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.”
Five
Nola 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 th
e 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.”
Six
Fifteen years later
It 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 a
nd 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.”
Chesapeake Summer Page 4