by Luanne Rice
“Really?”
“Really. The Cambria went down on a shoal, so you’d think the water would be shallow. But she slid into a trench, one of the deepest in Long Island Sound.”
“Trench?”
“A geological feature of the sea bottom,” Sam explained apologetically. He wasn’t being a showoff, Caroline could see. He was a young nerd, pure and simple. He and Joe might have shared the same field, but their styles were completely different. Looking at this bespectacled scientist, she thought of Joe, his dark tan and sun-lightened hair, his pirate eyes and sexy arms, and she smiled at how different—yet the same—two people could be. Like herself and her sisters.
“So, the hole is deep, but Joe has the equipment. The tides and currents are fluky. The water’s cold, and most of Joe’s crew are southerners. The wreck is unstable—the bow lies on rock, and the stern’s wedged in muck—he has to constantly analyze how the structure behaves under stress….”
“Sounds impossible to me,” Caroline said, laughing nervously.
“Does to other salvage teams too. That’s why it’s good for Joe. He’s got the best boat going, and a crew to match. The site happens to be excellent for his area of geological interest. First and foremost, my brother’s an oceanographer. He takes risks no one else would, and it always pays off for him.”
“Were those the other factors you mentioned before? The risks?”
“No,” Sam said, blinking his owl eyes. “The other factor is you.”
Caroline felt her face redden. She looked down at her shoes, then back at Sam. His face was kind, as if he had just broken some hard news to her and was waiting for her to absorb it.
“Me?”
“Well, yeah. You must know that. Whatever happened between you guys wigged him out big-time. Coming anywhere near you had to carry a lot of weight in his decision to salvage the Cambria.”
“Wigged him out,” Caroline mused.
“Yeah. Frankly, I’m surprised we’re having dinner here. At the Renwick Inn. No offense or anything. But the Renwick name…”
“Strikes fear into the hearts of pirates,” Caroline said.
“Exactly,” Sam said solemnly.
“Does that mean he won’t be joining you tonight?” Caroline asked, hoping she sounded casual.
“No, he’ll be here,” Sam said.
Caroline wasn’t sure how she felt when she saw Joe Connor park his truck and climb out. She watched him stretch. She saw his tan forearms flex, his shoulder muscles strain under his blue plaid shirt. He tucked the tails into his jeans, and she noticed his flat stomach, his broad chest. He was tall and handsome, and as she remembered kissing him on board the Meteor, she felt her face flush.
But fresh in her mind were Sam’s words: “evil and despicable,” that Caroline had “wigged Joe out” early, that he was surprised Joe would even want to eat at her inn. She felt her back stiffen.
He stood in the lobby with his feet planted wide, his rough hands in the pockets of his jeans. She felt the tingle in her neck.
“Hi, Joe,” she said.
“Hi,” he said, looking surprised to see her. “You work this late?”
“I own the place,” she said. “I’m around here most of the time.”
“Kind of like the captain,” he said, trying a smile. “You’re never quite off duty.”
“Your table’s ready,” she said, leading him into the dining room.
Everyone ordered steaks and salad, though the Renwick Inn was obviously an oyster and fois gras kind of place. Joe watched his crew swilling beer, ripping into the rare beef, telling sea stories, and he sensed the artists recoiling. Twice he told his men to lower their voices and watch their language, but the volume kept creeping up. So did the expletives.
Joe had told himself Caroline wouldn’t be there tonight, but now that he had seen her, he couldn’t stop watching for her. All his attention was focused on the dining room door. She drifted by twice, looking sleek in her long black dress. Both times, she glanced over at the big table. But that was probably because they were causing such a ruckus. Sam was telling a long story about raising research money from the National Science Foundation, and Dan kept interrupting with a tale about prostitutes in Fiji. Joe hardly heard. His eyes were on the door.
After dinner they took over the bar. Several artists from New York called them to their table. They compared tattoos. The artists had flowers, butterflies, and barbed wire. The sailors had women’s names, ships’ insignias, and serpents. More beer flowed. A few guys supplemented theirs with shots of Southern Comfort. Joe remembered the old drinking days, could practically feel the hot burn going down. He watched Sam drink a shot and realized he had never drunk with his brother.
Without telling anyone, Joe stepped outside. The fresh air felt good. Standing around bars didn’t feel right anymore. The old desires came back strong. Being at sea, he didn’t get to enough AA meetings. He knew it, and he tried to keep himself out of slippery places.
Joe stood in the herb garden. The heady smell of thyme and verbena reminded him of Greece. The summer night was warm, the breeze still. The inn was brightly lit. Music and loud voices came from the bar, and he had the familiar sense of being apart from the action. Watching through the old glass windows, he saw Caroline walk into the bar. She glanced around, and Joe wondered who she was searching for. He thought maybe she was looking for him. For just that second the scent of herbs grew stronger, made him dizzy.
An old Porsche pulled up. Two people got out. They clutched each other, wobbled against their car, kissed long and hard. Pulling apart, they laughed and hurried into the inn. They stumbled into the bar, and ordered drinks. The girl was beautiful. Small and slim, she looked like Caroline, only blond. She raised her glass to clink the man’s, but Caroline stepped between them. Curious, Joe went inside.
“Don’t, Skye,” Caroline was saying, her hand on the girl’s wrist. “Do you remember Dad standing in this exact spot? Do you remember how it made us feel to watch him disappearing?”
“Caroline, she’s a big girl,” the man said, too cool to register any expression in his eyes. He was skinny, dressed in black, with long, dark hair falling across his sickly, pale face. Some of the artists knew him; they had walked over, then faded back at the first sign of an altercation.
“Stay out of it, Simon,” Caroline snapped.
The glass was full of champagne. Joe saw it catch the candlelight. The bubbles flowed in a thick stream to the surface. The girl wavered. She looked from Caroline to the skinny artist and back again.
“It’s just one glass,” she said.
“Think of Dad,” Caroline said, her voice catching in her throat.
“This has nothing to do with him,” Skye said, fixing her sister with a wild stare. “Leave me alone.”
“We can leave,” Simon said. “If that’s what you want. We arranged to meet friends here—inn guests, as a matter of fact. Trent and Anya, you must know them. They live on St. Marks Place, take their two weeks here every summer….”
“Simon, shut up,” Caroline said dangerously.
“I hate when you fight,” Skye said. “Don’t fight.” She took a sip, and another. With something that sounded like a sob, Caroline walked out of the bar.
Joe started to follow her. But Sam beat him to it. Joe watched his younger brother follow Caroline Renwick out the double glass doors. She hurried through the herb garden, down the path that led to the river, and Sam was right behind her.
“Caroline!”
Moving fast, Caroline heard the man’s voice. She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to face anyone. Ten minutes ago she had been looking for Joe Connor, but right now he was the last person she wanted to see. She didn’t want anyone trying to help her. Her eyes brimming, she started walking faster.
“Caroline,” she heard again.
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to compose herself. She turned to look at him, forcing herself to stay calm, and was startled to find Sam bearing down on her
instead of Joe.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she repeated. Being caught off guard by Sam undid her completely, and she welled up.
“You’re not fine. You’re a wreck,” he said.
“No, I’m—”
“You can’t stop her, you know,” he said.
“I could have refused to serve her,” Caroline said. “That’s what I should have done. Told my bartender to shut her off, not even give her that one glass…”
“She would have gotten it somewhere else. Who is she, your sister?”
Caroline nodded. She wiped her tears with the backs of her hands. With Skye in the hospital, she had begun to feel safe. Like maybe Skye would get some help, maybe there was hope. But then Simon had come back, she had walked out of the hospital, and now she was back to drinking.
“I know how it feels,” Sam said. “I watched my brother nearly kill himself for years.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah. I probably shouldn’t tell you, he used to have a drinking problem.”
“He told me himself.”
“He was so miserable,” Sam said. “He drank to feel better, but it only made everything worse. I didn’t see him that often, but sometimes…He’d be home for Christmas, or one time he took me to Maine, sailing for summer vacation…” Sam’s eyes clouded with the memory. “He was like Jekyll and Hyde. The best brother in the world one minute, a lunatic the next. That’s when he talked about you most. When he was drunk.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, wondering what he said.
“He was crazy, those times. Out of his mind, not knowing what he wanted, what would help.”
“You must have been very young,” Caroline said, feeling sorry for the little boy watching his older brother self-destruct. But was it any easier for a grown woman? She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Yeah. It sucked.”
“Well…Joe had some bad things happen,” Caroline said slowly, thinking of their conversation on board the Meteor. “That I suppose didn’t affect you. But…” She spoke very carefully. “Why Skye and not me? We had such similar childhoods. The same bad things happened to both of us. Or almost.”
“Maybe it’s the ‘almost,’ ” Sam said.
Caroline had never known how to cry for help. When the bad things happened, she was always the one reaching out her hand. She wouldn’t change that, wouldn’t have it any other way, but right now she felt very off balance.
“Who knows?” Sam went on. “I know only one thing, and that’s that they have to stop on their own. We can’t do it for them.”
“Everything okay?”
At the sound of Joe’s voice, Sam handed Caroline his handkerchief. She blew her nose. The sound was so loud, it scared the ducks in the river. They took off, their webbed feet paddling the water.
“She’s okay,” Sam said. He sounded oddly proud, as if he had been appointed Caroline’s guardian, reporting back to Joe.
“Yeah? You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Caroline said.
“Worried about your sister,” Joe said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
Joe nodded. Dim light slanted through the trees. The ducks had circled around, were coming in for another landing. They were silhouetted against the moon. Across the river, a whippoorwill called.
“Would have been better if she’d decided to drink somewhere else,” Sam said helpfully. “Instead of Caroline’s inn.”
“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Joe said.
Caroline nodded, feeling miserable. She wanted to go back to the inn, but she was afraid to see Skye. She felt scared and angry and hopeless. Sam took a step toward the inn. Joe and Caroline faced each other. Tree branches blocked the moon, but his face looked pained in the half-light.
“What are those for?” Sam asked, pointing at the Japanese lanterns.
One entire string was illuminated, stretching from the inn’s back porch to the barn. The lanterns hung still, as if caught in the trees, sparking the windless night with colors of persimmon, amber, turquoise, and scarlet.
“They’re for the Firefly Ball,” Caroline said.
“What’s that?”
“Just a party,” Caroline said, swallowing hard. Joe was staring at her, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Thinking of Skye, tears welled in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. Sam was gazing at the lanterns, and he didn’t see his brother reach for Caroline’s hand and hold it. Caroline’s fingers brushed Joe’s scraped knuckles, and she wondered what it was costing him to make the gesture.
“Do you have it every year?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
“Can we come?”
“Sam,” Joe said harshly, looking away from Caroline just long enough to miss seeing the smile pass across her eyes.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“Just me? Or Joe too?”
“All of you come, okay? The whole crew. It’s a costume ball.”
“What should we come as?” Sam asked.
“Pirates, of course,” Caroline said, staring straight into the hooded blue eyes of his older brother, the toughest pirate of all.
January 6, 1979
Dear Caroline,
How to get you to Newport…that is the question. I was going to surprise you, drive down to Connecticut and pick you up, but I’m sort of grounded. A bad combination of beer, my mother’s car, and my little brother.
The thing is, I really want you to come. I’ve got plenty of charts, and I’ve thought about sailing down to get you. Narragansett Bay, to Block Island Sound, to Fishers Island Sound, past the Thames River, to Black Hall.
And Firefly Hill.
Shit, who am I kidding? It would take so long to get to you, and it’s the middle of winter. I was an idiot, doing what I did to get grounded. The thing is, idiots usually do the same thing again. Miss you, C.
Love,
Joe
February 4, 1979
Dear Joe,
If you got hurt or if you hurt Sam in that grounding incident, I’d never forgive you. You have to come get me! It’s the only way I’ll get to Newport to be with you. I miss you too, so much I can hardly stand it. How can I, when we don’t even know each other? Or do we? Hurry, J.
Waiting impatiently,
C.
IN THE SUNROOM, AUGUSTA WAS SEWING LONG CURLS OF black felt onto a pair of ballet slippers. She had an art book on the hassock in front of her, open to one of Picasso’s harlequin paintings, copying it with studious diligence. She adored harlequins. So secretive, so playful: mysterious jesters! She congratulated herself again on her inspiration.
A character by Picasso would be recognizable. She didn’t want to insult any of Caroline’s less sophisticated guests by attending the soiree as anything too obscure. She could have chosen to be a character in a painting by Karsky or de Cubzac, artists no one had ever heard of, then spend the whole night explaining herself to people. Forget that.
And Augusta knew she had a good figure. The harlequin was long and slender, like Augusta herself, and she would look marvelous and sleek in the checked suit. It would be attractive, amusing, and witty.
The only problem was, Hugh had loathed Picasso.
As an artist, Hugh had admired his work. Who didn’t? Who could look down on the man who had single-handedly revamped the twentieth century, who was the master of line, who had conjured cubism? Who could feel disdain for the artist who viewed a human face head-on and saw the profile instead?
No, Hugh had envied Picasso for his life. To Hugh Renwick, Pablo Picasso was “Pablo,” an equal. And since the English translation of Pablo was Paul, Hugh had privately referred to Picasso as Paul. To call him Pablo, or, worse, Picasso, was to kowtow to an arrogant Spaniard.
Hugh was insanely jealous of Picasso. The women, the adoration, the adulation, the South of France, the bullfights, the legend. Hugh had had his own share of women, adoration, and adu
lation, but coastal New England was hardly the Riviera, and bullfighting had all other blood sports beat.
Fishing and hunting just weren’t the same thing, especially since Hemingway, whom Hugh had actually known and referred to as Papa, had already made them his province. Hugh had taken the girls on his hunting trips, and Papa would have laughed. Daughters weren’t sons when it came to hunting. Especially when they were so sensitive, and life had dealt them such a shocking blow.
Hugh was never as tough as he’d thought. He had affairs, he killed animals, he tried to live like Picasso. But once his daughters were affected, he had fallen apart. Destroying himself with drink, he had left this world. And left Augusta.
Dr. Henderson might say that Augusta’s choice of a costume revealed a certain hostility for her dead husband. Her beloved—but resented—dead husband.
Quietly sewing her harlequin shoes, Augusta imagined what Hugh might think if he could see her costume. She had loved her husband with passionate intensity. She missed him more every day. In fact, she sometimes admitted to herself, it was easier to love him now than when he had been alive. Harsh realities didn’t intrude quite so much. She had been a jealous woman.
Not only of the other women, but of her own daughters. God help her, she thought, remembering how she had felt watching him paint Caroline.
Hearing the kitchen door slam, she glanced up just as Skye walked in with Simon.
“Hi, dears,” she said. As soon as she saw Skye, she knew: She’d been drinking. Her eyes were red, her hair disheveled. It was five o’clock, and she looked as if she had just gotten up: hung over and remorseful. Augusta’s heart fell.
“Where were you last night?” Augusta asked.
“We stayed at the inn,” Simon said. “Some of our old friends from the East Village are up for a few days, and we met them there.”
“Skye, would you like something cold to drink?”
Skye nodded. Augusta walked to the flower room. She filled a crystal pitcher with ice water. Surprisingly, her hands were shaking. Tipping three aspirin into a tiny ceramic bowl, she placed everything on a tray and carried it back to the sunroom.