Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  “He’s back.”

  “Where do you think he goes, Caroline?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Simon told me you’re letting him stay at the inn. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Caroline said, sipping her tea.

  “Did Joe ask about me? The reason I called?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Skye shook her head. Her face was pale, and it seemed to be getting paler. Caroline knew her sister well, and she could see that she was uncomfortable, embarrassed about the drunken phone call. Caroline’s first impulse was to comfort her, but she held back.

  “Shitfaced to the max,” Skye said. “What can I say?”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Caroline asked.

  Skye opened the drawer of the bedside table. She removed a gray pamphlet titled “Forty Questions.” Glancing at the questions, Caroline could see that they were meant to help a person determine whether or not she was an alcoholic.

  “It’s rigged,” Skye said.

  “How?”

  “It makes me seem like an alcoholic.”

  Caroline let Skye’s statement hang in the air. In the hallway, a voice came over the public address system anouncing that Dr. Dixon was wanted in the emergency room. Someone on the floor had their television turned up high. Game-show bells and laugh tracks sounded noisy and festive.

  “Dad wanted us to feel the ecstasy of life,” Skye said. “Had you ever felt it, Caroline?”

  “Yes,” she said, thinking of the moonlit nights, the cries of nightbirds. She thought of dusty trails and thorny banks, wild animals screeching in the night, adrenaline flowing in her blood.

  “It was incredible,” Skye said. “I hated it, I was so scared, but I got used to it.”

  “To what?”

  “To the surge. That feeling of really being alive. But we can’t sustain it.”

  Caroline thought of kissing Joe last night. “Maybe we can,” she said.

  “I think I’m supposed to die young,” Skye whispered.

  “You can stop drinking instead,” Caroline replied.

  “It’s complicated,” Skye said. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I don’t think it’s easy.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to.”

  “That’s for you to decide,” Caroline said, sounding peaceful but feeling the opposite.

  Skye didn’t respond. She was staring at the pamphlet of forty questions, frowning at it as if she wished it would disappear.

  Michele warned Clea: Watch out.

  Caroline was in a horrible mood. She refused to accept the salmon from the fish man, she told Michele she hated daisies on the tables in the bar, and she asked a group of rowdy young artists from Montreal to keep it down even though they were making no more noise than any other rowdy young artists over the last hundred or so years.

  Clea had pulled up with a trunkful of old clothes to ask what Caroline thought she and Peter should wear to the ball. She half considered leaving, to come back another day, but ignoring problems had never done anyone in the Renwick family any good. So she walked into Caroline’s inner office.

  “Since the theme this year is favorite paintings,” Clea said, “I thought we should go as one of Dad’s. I mean, don’t you think?”

  “If every one of Dad’s paintings burned in hell, I’d be happy,” Caroline said, furiously tapping numbers into her calculator.

  “Dad was many things, but he did make beautiful pictures,” Clea said, stepping back and lowering her voice to speak to Caroline the way SWAT negotiators speak to hothead terrorists.

  “I saw Skye this morning,” Caroline said.

  “How was she?”

  “Weighing the options. Whether she’d rather die young or give up drinking.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Dying young sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? Artistically drinking oneself to death. Too bad it’s so messy. And it makes people so mean.”

  “Like Dad.”

  “We’re not supposed to notice he drank,” Caroline said. “Or else we’re supposed to excuse it because he was Hugh Renwick.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He got away with things no one else could. He had Large Concerns. Life was dark, and brutal, and harsh, and infested with evil. You know? And he saw so deeply because he was this great artist. He couldn’t not see.”

  “Why are you in such a bad mood?” Clea asked, struck by Caroline’s intensity, by the anger in her gray eyes.

  “Lies were the truth in our family, have you ever noticed?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Dad drank because Skye shot a man. He was so broken up with guilt over letting her hunt, he shut himself up in his studio or my bar with a bottle of scotch. Supposedly because he loved us so much, right? Because he had wanted to protect us, and instead he’d ruined us. But what a lie!”

  “How?”

  “Because if he really loved us, he would have stayed in our lives. He was here, but he was gone.”

  “He lost hope,” Clea said quietly.

  “But why?” Caroline asked. “We still loved him. I don’t know about you, but I still needed him. More, if that’s possible.”

  “I know.”

  Caroline squeezed her eyes shut. Slashing the tears away with her index fingers, her chest shook with repressed sobs. Clea watched; Caroline would never just let it out. This was the thing they couldn’t understand, the way their father had just decided to depart. He was right there, sitting in plain sight, but he was a million miles away, in a haze of scotch.

  “He’d brought daughters into such a barbaric world,” Caroline said. “So much for ‘the ecstasy of life.’ Too bad his philosophies were in such dire conflict. He forced us to hunt our entire childhood, and suddenly he never took us to the mountains again. It was over.”

  “It wasn’t over,” Clea said. “He was sick. That’s how I see it—sick with grief.”

  “You’re more understanding than I am,” Caroline said.

  “Feeling bitter doesn’t work,” Clea said, covering Caroline’s hand. Caroline allowed it; no one could say the things to her Clea did. Maybe because she hadn’t seen Andrew die, Clea was softer, more trusting and unguarded, than either of her sisters. She didn’t suffer in the same way as Caroline and Skye.

  “He wanted to be near you, Caroline,” Clea said. “It’s why he came to your inn.”

  “To drink!” Caroline said, holding back a sob.

  “What’s wrong?” Clea asked. “You sound awful.”

  “Am I aloof? Do I stop people from caring about me?”

  “Not exactly,” Clea said, alarmed by how frantic Caroline sounded.

  “ ‘Not exactly?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re…competent. That’s what it is. You handle everything so well, you give people the idea you don’t need them.”

  “I need them plenty,” Caroline said angrily, crumpling up her paper, starting over. “I need Skye to get a grip on herself.”

  “Uh-huh,” Clea said, seeing the contradictions in her sister, the fact that even in a fury she could still not express her own needs—Caroline once again projecting her own feelings outward onto those she loved.

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “But if you’d heard Skye, you’d understand. She is in bad shape. We have this whole family legend going about art and drinking. Skye and Dad. What a lie.”

  “Maybe that’s why I married a minister,” Clea said, smiling at Caroline. “Finally, a man I can trust.” But even as she said the words, she knew they were true. She could never love an ordinary man, one who thought white lies were okay, who might believe a secret affair was acceptable if no one found out, who could lie to himself and his family about drinking himself to death.

  Caroline turned her attention to her calculator and stack of receipts. Clea watched her flip through invoices, her fingers skipping over the keys. This was Caroline in action, Ca
roline being excellent. Clea had observed all her sister’s escape attempts, and this was one of the most effective.

  “Did you have fun last night?” Clea asked.

  “What?” Caroline asked, her fingers stopping mid-click.

  “Last night?” Clea asked, smiling. “Did you have fun?” When Caroline didn’t reply, she went on. “You did go to the Meteor, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said. She closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts. Her gray eyes flew open, and she exploded, “You should have heard him, he’s just as crazy as Skye. Even more so! You’d think I’m to blame for every single person’s crummy childhood from here to Boston.”

  “You’re not to blame for mine,” Clea said.

  “He wanted an account of what happened the night his father died. It was horrible.”

  “It sounds it,” Clea said soothingly.

  “He basically grilled me. I told him what I could, and he started off being very high-and-mighty, saying I could not know how he felt. But he must have felt sorry. I think he did, because he pulled me over—so hard, it hurt my shoulder—and kissed me.”

  “Kissed you?” Clea asked.

  Caroline nodded, miserable. She stared at her hands. Clea sat back, not wanting to say the wrong thing. Caroline never reacted to men this way. She was so guarded, she set herself so apart, she never let them get to her. Their father had schooled them in the ways of men and women, and Caroline had chosen her armor carefully and early. But it was off right now, Clea could see, plain as day.

  “He shouldn’t have done it,” Caroline said. “He can’t stand me.”

  “If he can’t stand you, why did he kiss you?”

  Caroline blinked. Her lashes were long and dark. They rested for a second on her pale cheek, then opened. Her eyes were clear, periwinkle blue, and full of distress.

  “To shut me up,” Caroline said. “Animal instinct, I don’t know. I think he wanted to rip my throat out, but he kissed me instead.”

  “You’ve missed him,” Clea said.

  Caroline nodded, miserable.

  “Don’t be ashamed about that,” Clea said softly.

  “It’s still there, the connection,” Caroline said. “We read each other. He knows about Skye, that she drinks. I didn’t want to tell him too much, but he guessed. She’s broken, Clea. I saw her in the hospital today, and I don’t think she’ll ever be okay again.”

  “She will be,” Clea said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we love her,” Clea said. “And love is all there is.”

  Caroline looked up. Clea smiled, filled with tenderness for Caroline. Clea watched Caroline’s face change. “I told Skye the opposite today. That love can’t fix everything.”

  “Then you were wrong,” Clea said. She believed in love. She believed in it hard and strong, with everything she had. With all the grief in their life, the methods of violence, she knew that their love for each other had saved them so far. It had made them strong. And watching Caroline right now, Clea knew that her big sister had suffered as much as Skye.

  Maybe even more than Skye. And Clea believed that the love Caroline needed, the one that was going to help her, was sitting offshore right then. In a boat, on the waves, over a murderous reef within sight of the house where it had all begun, Caroline Renwick’s true love was waiting. Clea knew it. Gazing at her sister, she glowed with such tender affection, she thought her face would crack.

  “He has a brother,” Caroline said. “I met him.”

  “I’m happy for him,” Clea said. “Sisters are better, but brothers are good.”

  Caroline was silent after that. She looked everywhere except at Clea.

  “So,” Clea said. “Joe Connor finally kissed you.”

  “Hmmm,” Caroline said, wiping her eyes. “What are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing,” Clea said, smiling even wider. But even as she said it, she knew she had just told a lie. She had used the wrong word; she should have said “everything.”

  On the porch that night with Peter, Clea sipped lemonade and watched her children chase fireflies. It was time for bed, but they were keyed up, and they ran though the side yard with wild abandon. They swooped and yelled, trying to stave off bedtime for a few more minutes. When they stopped, when she and Peter tucked them in, their eyelids would flutter and close within seconds.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Peter asked, his rocker creaking on the wide floorboards.

  “I’m worried about my sister.”

  “Skye? She’s getting the help she needs—if she’ll take it…you know it’s up to her in the end.”

  “Not Skye. Caroline.”

  “Why?”

  Clea’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s so armor-coated. Ever since we were little she’s been that way. So busy looking out for us, making sure Skye and I were happy and taken care of.”

  “She’s a good sister.”

  “The best,” Clea said.

  “So why are you worried about her?”

  “I want her to fall in love,” Clea said.

  “She will when it’s time.”

  A picture of Caroline, her eyes haunted, her arms around Skye, came back to Clea. They were at Redhawk, and Skye had just shot a person dead. “Caroline’s always been there for us,” Clea said. “Both times…”

  “Both shootings?” Peter asked.

  “Yes,” Clea said. She had been only three when James Connor had come into their house, but she remembered Caroline holding her, standing between Clea and the gun, shielding her with her own body.

  “That’s because she loves you,” Peter said.

  “Why did God put such violence in our lives?” Clea asked, taking his hand. “Such terrible things? Why did He put those deaths in our lives?”

  “Maybe to show you how much you love each other,” Peter said, using his handkerchief to dry Clea’s eyes.

  “We do,” she whispered, thinking of Caroline, wishing and praying that she would let down her guard, let someone love her the way she loved them.

  “Caroline has been afraid,” Peter said. “I think we know that’s what her traveling is all about.”

  “She acts so brave, but she’s not.”

  “No, she’s not,” Peter agreed.

  “How lucky we are,” Clea said, sniffling. “You and I.”

  Peter didn’t reply, but he held her a little tighter. Words weren’t necessary just then. Clea looked up at the sky in time to see a shooting star. It made her suddenly feel so happy, she had to hold back tears.

  August 30, 1978

  Dear Caroline,

  Had any good dreams lately? Maybe you don’t like motorboats. I’m wondering if that’s why I haven’t heard from you lately.

  I went spearfishing off Breton Point yesterday. The surf gets pretty crazy there, and I got really pounded. The America’s Cup boats were sailing by, and I started wondering if you like sailing. Or if maybe you’d want to come to Newport to see the Cup boats. They’re Twelve-Meters, really sleek and beautiful. My dad used to take me to see them. The next race is in 1980. I’m hoping I can find a way to crew on one.

  Write soon. Hey, are you going out with anyone?

  Still your friend,

  Joe

  November 24, 1978

  Dear Joe,

  Sorry I haven’t written lately. Actually, I was embarrassed about telling you my dream. I’d never told anyone that before. No, I’m not going out with anybody.

  I’ve never seen the Twelve-Meters in person. My father has painted them before, and he’s hung out with some of the sailors. He talks about Ted Hood and Baron Bich, and this brash young guy named Ted Turner who reminds my dad of himself. He says art collectors love the Twelves.

  That’s a long way of saying yes. I’d really love to come to Newport. But how?

  Love,

  Caroline

  “MAN, YOU ARE EQUIPPED,” SAM SAID, DRINKING HIS morning coffee in the chart room with Joe. His eyes were big, his tone
admiring as he carefully examined the Meteor’s electronics. He looked over the satellite equipment, from communications to engine room monitoring. He noted the airtime access routes via nautical programs like INMARSAT and AMSC and nodded approvingly.

  Leaning over the computer station, he played with the navigation software. He clicked the keyboard, displaying a chart of Long Island Sound.

  “You can read the charts either north up or course up, just like on radar,” Joe explained. “The program interfaces with our depth sounder and autopilot, automatically figures in tides and currents. Under way, we can upload and download to the GPS receivers and exchange waypoint data.”

  “That’s the difference between gold hunters and federal funding,” Sam said. “I’m out there tracking humpback whales on an ancient rustbucket, where the idea of modern electronics is radar and the oldest GPS in existence. Shit, Joe,” Sam said, downloading bathymetric charts, watching the graphic fly by. “Blindingly fast.”

  Joe smiled, then took a big gulp of coffee. He had not seen his brother in a few months, and the first thing Sam wanted to do was check out the new technology. It made Joe uncomfortable the way Sam looked up to him so blatantly. The kid had a short break from his own research, but he had flown down from Nova Scotia to interview for university jobs and spend his free time aboard Joe’s boat. It bugged Joe, but he couldn’t pretend it didn’t please him too.

  “So, what’s happening down below?” Sam asked. “You making progress on the wreck?”

  “It’s slow, but yeah,” Joe said. “I’d forgotten how murky New England water is. Cold and filled with particulate, makes it hard to work.”

  “Pretty funny, considering you’re a New Englander born and bred,” Sam said.

  “Been a long time since I’ve lived up here,” Joe said stonily.

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, but you still sound like one. All crusty and cantankerous. You want to be one of those Florida guys who gets fat walking the beach and fishing the Keys, but forget it. You’re too much of a codger.”

  “A codger. Hmmph,” Joe said sternly. No one saw through him like Sam, and no one else could get away with saying the things Sam did. Joe did his best to keep the older-brother barrier up, and Sam did his best to rip it down.

  “That what Caroline thinks of you?” Sam asked, laughing.