Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  “Last night,” the doctor said, “she told me about the hunting incident.”

  “Well,” Clea said, holding Peter’s hand. “Then you know.”

  Just then the doctor’s beeper went off. He gave everyone an apologetic look, shook Augusta’s hand, and hurried down the hallway. Everyone watched him go. Caroline had expected her mother to look relieved at his departure, but instead her pallor had increased. She had a thin film of sweat on her brow.

  “Augusta, sit down,” Peter said, leading her to a cluster of chairs at the end of the hall.

  “It was an accident,” Augusta said out loud. Her tone was quiet, almost humble. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands trembling, she pulled at her pearls.

  “It was,” Caroline said quietly.

  “Skye was just a child,” Augusta said to Peter, her eyes wide. “She had no business shooting a gun in the first place. Haven’t I always said that?”

  “Yes, Augusta,” he said. “You have.”

  “Skye wouldn’t hurt a soul. She never meant to harm that man. A hunting accident, that’s all it was. No one ever suggested otherwise, there were never charges brought.”

  “Skye isn’t bad,” Caroline said. “No one is saying that.”

  “He called her an alcoholic!” Augusta said.

  “She drinks,” Caroline said.

  “Dad’s drinking changed,” Clea said, “after it happened.”

  “It was a tragedy,” Augusta said, “a horrible thing that happened a long time ago. But there’s no reason Skye should pay for it the rest of her life.” Bewildered, she looked at Caroline. “Is there?”

  Caroline shook her head. She was picturing the young man. She had heard the gunshot and Skye’s scream, and she had been the first to find him. It had been fall, a bright blue day with yellow leaves covering the trail. He lay on the ground, the blood pouring from his chest. His eyes were bright and clear. His name was Andrew Lockwood, and he was twenty-five years old.

  “Tell me why,” Augusta said, staring straight into Caroline’s eyes.

  Caroline remembered taking her jacket off, pressing it into the hole in his chest. She could still feel the heat of his blood, see the question in his eyes. All the time, Skye, her voice as high as a baby bird’s, asking what had she done, what had she done.

  “Because she killed him, Mom,” Caroline said quietly. “She didn’t mean to, but she did.”

  January 7, 1977

  Dear Joe,

  I remember one of my letters to you, all about Clea and Skye and the magic of having sisters. Well, this one’s not quite so nice. Did I mention my father? He’s an artist. Okay, he’s a famous artist. He tells us that he wants us to know How the World Works. (Boys have it easy, in case you’re wondering) (according to him, anyway.) (I’m going parentheses-crazy.)

  Girls have to be tough. Learn how to take care of ourselves. So he takes us hunting on Redhawk Mountain.

  He loves us, you see.

  He wants us to learn everything we can, really taste life. We camp out, go fishing and hunting. We go pretty far out in the country, and we have to fend for ourselves. I hate the hunting part. Killing is very hard—I know he’d be upset to know how much I hate hunting even squirrels.

  At night, the woods are so dark, and we get scared. Sometimes very scared, especially Skye. I love her so much, Joe. Just writing this letter makes me cry, because if anything happened to Clea or Skye, I don’t know what I’d do. They are the best, sweetest sisters in the world.

  Write back soon. I’m starting to think you might be my best friend.

  Love,

  Caroline

  Feb 2, 1977

  Dear Caroline,

  Hunting, cool! Your dad sounds great. Okay, I’ll be your best friend. On one condition. Tell me the scariest thing that ever happened on the mountain.

  Love,

  Joe

  March 4, 1977

  Dear Joe,

  The scariest thing. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s how I feel. My father made Skye shoot a gun. She didn’t want to, Joe. I’m so mad at him. He took something innocent and destroyed it. So I’m scared by how much I hate him right now. Hunting’s not cool, not the way you said. It’s horrible. Do you still want to be my best friend? Probably not. Even I don’t.

  Caroline

  March 21, 1977

  Dear Caroline,

  I can tell you’re upset by the way you didn’t sign your letter “love.” It’s a little thing, but we best friends can be pretty sensitive. The gun thing sounds lousy. Poor Skye. I don’t even know her, but since she’s your sister, I figure she’s okay. Your dad should forget about hunting and go back to painting. Or better yet, treasure hunting. He can teach you to dig for gold doubloons.

  Love,

  Joe

  P.S. I’m only joking to make you smile. So smile!

  P.S. again: Thought I forgot about the Cambria, didn’t you?

  P.S. double again: Smile, C.

  CAROLINE WAS PREOCCUPIED.

  Michele Brady saw it right away, the way Caroline strode into the inn so purposefully, past the guests eating breakfast in the parlor, grabbing the phone messages off Michele’s desk with barely more than a “good morning.” Caroline looked gorgeous, as always: sleeveless black linen dress, black sandals, silver hoop earrings, silver necklace. She smiled, but it seemed forced.

  Or pained, Michele thought, concerned. From certain phone messages, she had gathered that Skye was in the hospital again. That girl certainly gave Caroline plenty to worry about. Her whole family did. Even Clea, whom everyone in town considered to be the picture of respectability, was always calling Caroline for something. And Augusta didn’t butter her toast without phoning Caroline for a consult.

  Michele had been Caroline’s assistant for ten years. At forty-two, she was just enough older than Caroline to feel rather protective of her. She was always telling her husband Tim about Caroline’s crazy family, the things that went on. He was a professor of English at Connecticut College. Tim would listen with wry detachment, amusedly saying that Skye was New England’s answer to Zelda Fitzgerald, or that the Renwick girls were like three divas in three different operas on the same stage.

  Michele couldn’t help laughing at Tim’s take on the family, but she loved Caroline nonetheless. Caroline had hired her the year she opened the inn. They had spent the last ten years in separate offices, side by side, and although Caroline didn’t specifically confide in her, Michele had been privy to the major moments in her life. She had watched Caroline transform from a…well, crazy Renwick girl into an astute and respected businesswoman. Caroline had always been loyal and kind, and those qualities had served her well.

  Michele answered the phone, so she knew the general workings of Caroline’s love life, business life, and family life. Over time she had watched Caroline build the Renwick Inn from a quirky little artists’ retreat into an inn that attracted guests from all over the world. Some came for the location, others for the charm, still others because of the Renwick name.

  Caroline’s father was famous in a way usually reserved for actors or politicians, a man whose work hung in museums in New York, Paris, and London and whose wild nature had made him a favorite of magazine writers. One story in Esquire had called Hugh Renwick “the Hemingway of twentieth-century landscape painters.” The author cited his bravery in World War II, his drinking and adultery, violence and self-destruction, the way his talent seemed to engulf everything—and everyone—in his life.

  Doing the story, the author got drunk with Hugh. So did the photographer, who was famous in his own right. Their drunken escapades became part of the piece. They photographed him in a hunting jacket, with a rifle, somewhere in the woods at the edge of a bay in Maine. Hugh had told the story of an intruder that made it into the piece, a man who had entered his home and held his family hostage, finally blowing his own brains out.

  Michele remembered Hugh’s fury. It had saturated the magazine story: his home had been violated, his d
aughters threatened. He couldn’t protect them twenty-four hours a day, but he could damn well teach them how to shoot a gun. He was sorry about the event on Redhawk Mountain, the hunting accident involving his daughter Skye. As Michele remembered it, the story didn’t actually mention the name of the man she killed. All Hugh’s sorrow and self-doubt had been edited out of the piece, leaving only rage and bluster.

  Michele knew differently. Hugh Renwick was heartsick. As much as he had loved hunting, he celebrated life more. He loved nature. His adored his daughters. The world couldn’t hold his passions; he had wanted excess and abundance for everyone, especially his family. But after the accident he turned inward. Michele had watched him mourn that young man every day, drinking alone in a dark corner of the Renwick Inn bar, his head bowed in silence.

  Artists would approach him. He would be polite, sometimes let them buy him drinks. He could stare at the spot on the bar between his elbows for hours, watching the level of scotch in his glass rise and fall. Although he chose to drink at her inn, he couldn’t stand to be with Caroline. It had killed Michele to watch her approach him, try to talk to him. He would turn surly, even belligerent. It was as if she reminded him of what was most precious in life, what he had failed to protect again and again. More than once, Michele heard him say that he had ruined Skye’s life.

  Three of his paintings hung in the bar. Hugh had done them when his daughters were young. Vivid and pure, they left no doubt about the love he had for the girls. Hunting scenes, set on Redhawk Mountain, each portrait depicted a different season, with each subject holding a different dead creature and weapon. Clea, in spring, held a rainbow trout in one hand and a fly rod in the other. Skye, in autumn, held a large knife and a writhing snake.

  But it was Caroline in winter who took your breath away. Cradled in her arms was a small red fox. Blood dripped from its mouth. Snow covered the mountain and Caroline’s cheeks were red. Her black hair blew across her eyes, but they showed through, clear blue and haunted. In her left hand she held the rifle that she had used to kill the fox. Her father had caught her compassion and regret; he had flooded the portrait with love for his oldest daughter. Michele shivered every time she looked at it.

  Caroline walked out of her office. She had on her half-glasses, which gave her the look of a sexy librarian.

  “What’s this message?” she asked, ruffling a sheet of paper.

  “Oh,” Michele said, reading it. “He called first thing this morning. He left some rather complicated instructions about dialing ship-to-shore. I think he’s one of those sailors who was here last night, drinking in the bar. They have Rooms Six and Nine, but I guess he’s out on his boat.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?” Caroline asked.

  “No. Just for you to call.”

  “Thanks,” Caroline said. She walked into her office and closed the door.

  Caroline dialed the marine operator and asked to be put through to the R/V Meteor. She held the line while the connection was made, staring out her window at the Ibis River, at egrets striding the shallows. She watched a kingfisher dive straight down, craning her neck to see what he came up with.

  “This is Research Vessel Meteor,” a man’s voice said, the transmission crackling with static. “Over.”

  “This is the high seas operator. I have a call for a Mr. Joe Connor.”

  “Hold for Captain Connor,” the man said.

  A minute passed. Finally Joe’s voice came over the line. The operator signed off, and Caroline said hello.

  “It’s Caroline,” she said. “I got your message.”

  “Is your sister okay?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?” Caroline asked, surprised that he would know.

  “She left a message at the dock office,” Joe said. “Last night. Something about needing to see me, it was important.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Not in person. She said she was coming right over, but she never showed up. I wasn’t sure where to reach her. So I called you.”

  “She’s in the hospital,” Caroline said tensely.

  “Oh, no,” Joe said, shocked. “What happened?”

  “She had an accident,” Caroline said.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said. “Is she okay?”

  “Not yet,” Caroline said, her eyes welling up. His voice was kind. Speaking to him about Skye reminded her that they had once been close friends. She didn’t feel friendship now, but the memory of their letters was powerful.

  “Why did she want to see me? Do you know?”

  “She was confused,” Caroline said, not wanting to tell him more.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said again.

  “Thanks,” Caroline said.

  The dream had been so real, she had been back on the mountain.

  She could smell the gunsmoke. The mountain air was fresh and cold, the yellow leaves twinkling down like falling stars. Skye was holding her breath, standing just behind her. Caroline crept through the brush until she saw the deer Skye had shot. Big and brown, crumpled in a heap. She didn’t want to look at it, but she made herself, for Skye’s sake.

  It was a man. He wore a brown corduroy jacket, the color of a buck. His hair was red, glinting in the sun. His eyes were wide, so amazed at it all. They held Caroline’s as she crouched beside him. She knew she had to look into the man’s eyes and never away, so she barely glanced at the wound in his chest, the blood pumping out of it like a natural spring.

  She heard Skye start to whimper and then cry. She felt the man’s dog, a young golden retriever, bumping against her with his wet nose, trying to kiss his owner and the stranger bending over him. She felt the cold air as she unzipped her red jacket, pulled it off. She felt his blood on her fingers, so incredibly hot as she pressed the jacket into the wound.

  “Did I shoot him?” Skye asked. “Did I? Did I? What have I done?”

  Caroline, who had never ignored her sister in her life, ignored her now.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, looking into the man’s eyes.

  “Andrew,” he answered. He was not much older than Caroline, the age of some of the younger teachers at her college.

  His eyes were so bright. They were calm and kind, reassuring Caroline that she was doing her best, that he understood she was trying to help. At first there was no fear in his eyes at all. Every second seemed longer than a heartbeat. Caroline felt the blood pumping out of his body, soaking her jacket, flowing through her fingers into the ground. Their campsite was only five miles down the dirt road, but that was too far. They would never make it for help. Time had paused for them, Caroline and Skye Renwick, Andrew and his dog.

  “I thought he was a deer,” Skye sobbed.

  The sky was too blue. The day was too beautiful. The dog wanted to sniff the man’s blood, kiss the man’s face.

  “Homer,” Andrew said.

  “He’s just a puppy, isn’t he?” Caroline asked, noticing the dog’s puff-ball body, his eager yellow face. He was barely full grown.

  “Yes,” Andrew said.

  “Call him, Skye. Call Homer,” Caroline said, because the dog had blood on his muzzle from kissing Andrew, and she thought Andrew would look at him and see his blood and be afraid.

  “Homer,” Skye said, her voice thin and high, trying so hard. “Here, boy.”

  The dog ran to her. Only then did Andrew’s eyes look away from Caroline. He watched his dog go, and then his gaze came back to Caroline.

  “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” he asked.

  Caroline knew he was. She saw his lips turning white, felt his blood moving slower. She heard her sister crying behind her, felt the dog return to Andrew, wriggling between them as he snuggled closer to his master. Caroline thought of Joe Connor, of the lesson she had learned about how important it was to tell the truth about death, about how it was the least one person could do for another.

  “I think you are,” she said.

  “Oh, God,” Andrew said. His eyes turned afraid. It was so t
errible to see. Caroline pressed harder on his chest, but she knew she wasn’t doing any more good. His hands clenched and unclenched. Homer made a sound like a human crying, a mournful sob that came from deep inside. Skye stood right behind Caroline, her legs shaking against her sister’s back.

  “I didn’t know,” Skye wept. “I thought he was a deer.”

  “Homer,” Andrew said.

  The dog licked Andrew’s face. There was comfort in that, Caroline knew. Even at that moment, with his life flowing through her fingers, she could see that he found peace in the presence of his dog. She could see it in the way he closed his eyes and let everything slip away. He didn’t open his eyes again.

  “A big bouquet,” Joe Connor said to the woman at the roadside stand.

  “Do you want just zinnias and sunflowers, or wildflowers too?” the woman asked.

  “Everything,” Joe said.

  He watched her work. She stood under the yellow-and-white-striped tent, pulling flowers from big buckets of water. She was heavy and very tan, dressed in a faded red housecoat, a scarf tied around her brown hair. She frowned. Watching an unhappy woman work hard reminded Joe of his mother.

  “Did you pick the flowers?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. And planted them too,” she said, smiling proudly.

  “They’re pretty,” Joe said, reaching into his pocket. The flowers cost five dollars, but he gave her a twenty. She started to make change, but Joe shook his head. The woman cast a quick glance at her husband, but he was sitting on a stack of milk cartons engrossed in the sports page. She nodded her thanks. But she put the money in the cash box instead of her pocket.

  “Hey,” Joe said, startling the man. “You should take your wife out for dinner.”

  The man grunted. His eyes were small and red. He looked mean, like a pig. Joe wanted to knock him off the milk crates.

  “You should buy her a lobster,” Joe said, “at her favorite restaurant.”

  “Yeah,” the man said.

  Joe drove away. He had problems in the area of unhappy women. He hated seeing women frown. He had watched his mother transform from a pretty, enthusiastic woman into a bitter, hurt, disappointed shadow. Working double shifts at the shellfish company, she had spent her free time waiting for Hugh Renwick to call. Drowning in guilt after her husband died. She had married again, but by then she had spent some miserable years.