Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  They faced each other. Caroline’s heart pounded. He looked so small, the size of a miniature collie. He bared his teeth. Lunging once toward Caroline, he flicked his tail and then sprang over the wall. Caroline wasn’t afraid. She thought the fox was beautiful. Seeing wild animals up close was one of the best parts of hiking, and she tried to imagine how she had ever killed them. It was never a part of her personality. Yet she could recall perfectly the smell of gunsmoke, the feeling of her eyelashes against the sight.

  At home, Caroline stood in her kitchen, breathing hard. She drank a glass of cool water, trying to calm down. Haunted by the memory, by the spirit of that fox, she stared out the window.

  She wore khaki shorts and a long-sleeved blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. Kicking off her hiking shoes, she peeled off her clothes. She was thinking of how good the shower would feel, how she would make the water really hot, when the phone rang. Naked in her bedroom, she answered it.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Caroline. It’s Joe.”

  She hadn’t expected to hear his voice. She held the phone in her hand but couldn’t speak.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “How’s your sister?”

  “I don’t know,” Caroline said. She hadn’t seen Skye since the altercation on the beach.

  “I hated to leave her the other night, and I’m sorry about what happened at your ball. I didn’t mean to ruin it—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I should have told my mother you’d be there. Somehow I had thought I could keep you two apart.”

  The phone line crackled, and she imagined the static was normal for a call coming from out at sea.

  “Our families. That’s partly why I’m calling,” he said. “I’d like to see Firefly Hill.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said, understanding why that would be important to him.

  “Do you think it would be possible? I know your mother doesn’t want me there, and I don’t blame her. But I want to visit—” he began, then stopped himself.

  “I can arrange it,” Caroline said. Did this mean he was getting ready to leave the area? “When would you like to go there?

  “Soon,” he said. “Tomorrow we’re going to bring up the main chest. That should take all day. But once we get it, we’ll be done. Anytime after that.”

  “How about Wednesday?” she asked quietly.

  “Wednesday would be fine.”

  They arranged to meet at her place, and Caroline would drive him over to Firefly Hill. She would make sure her mother was out, so there wouldn’t be any dramatic confrontations.

  “Hey, Caroline—” he said all in a rush.

  “Yes?”

  The line was silent except for the static. It buzzed for a moment, neither one of them saying anything.

  “Thanks,” he said finally. Then he hung up.

  Two nights later, Simon didn’t even bother to sneak in. The old Porsche came up the driveway with the stereo playing so loud, it woke Skye out of a sound sleep. Entering the back way, he let the door slam behind him. He opened the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of something. When he was ready, he tromped upstairs.

  When he entered their room, he had the good manners to move a little more quietly. Not suspecting Skye was wide awake, he stood at the window for a moment, drinking wine as he surveyed the moon on the water. Probably he was thinking of the painting he would do. He would call it Nocturne #62—or whatever number he was up to—because he called all his paintings Nocturne-something. He was probably setting a price for it in his mind.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, then ran his hand over his bare chest. Half turning from the window, he started unzipping his jeans. He was lost in thought. He sipped his wine. His face, illuminated by moonlight, was contemplative. Maybe he was thinking of how famous he would be. Or maybe he was thinking about the waitress he had just left.

  “Did you have fun?” Skye asked from her spot in the bed, making him jump.

  “Oh, you’re awake?” Simon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Usually you’re not.”

  That stung. Skye knew he meant that usually she was passed out from drinking too much. But she had not had anything to drink that night. She was shaking a little, her hands trembling under the covers. Her body was detoxing, and it wasn’t easy. She had a dry mouth. A headache. But it was worth it. She wanted to pay attention. She wanted to see things—everything—even her husband coming home late from his tryst. Skye was tired of hiding.

  “I’m awake now,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah. Well.”

  “Where were you?”

  “What am I supposed to do? Give you an account of every move I make? If you wanted that sort of husband, you should have married Peter.”

  “I realize that now,” Skye said, “but I want to know anyway. Where were you?”

  “In my studio. Painting in the barn.”

  “Those aren’t your painting clothes,” Skye said.

  “How would you know?” Simon asked, laughing. “They were right about the rehab, Skye. You do have a problem. You’re too drunk most of the time to notice what the hell I wear to paint.”

  “I’m not drunk tonight,” Skye said calmly.

  “Whatever,” Simon said.

  “I want a divorce,” Skye said.

  That silenced him. He finished undressing. He drank a little more of his wine. She imagined that he might be wondering how he could continue to have it both ways: He wanted Skye and the comfort of her money and the prestige of her name, and he also wanted to go to bed with anyone else he desired.

  Simon stood naked in the moonlight. He was tall and thin, and the blue light made his body look wet. Again he sipped his wine, stroked his chest. He started coming toward Skye. He sat on the edge of the bed, offered her a drink from his glass. She shook her head. Placing it on the table, he reached under the covers.

  He slid his hands up under her nightgown. He brushed her skin, caressed her breasts. Skye hadn’t been touched that way for so long. She bit her lip and arched her back. He kissed her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin. It felt so good, Skye thought she would moan. But she didn’t.

  “Um, Simon?” she said.

  “Yeah?” He kept licking and sucking her neck, touching her hips and belly with his warm hands.

  “Get out of my bed.”

  “You know you don’t mean that,” he growled.

  “Get out of my bed,” she said again. “Get your sleazy clothes off my floor, and get out of here now. Do you really think I want you to touch me after you’ve been with another woman? Didn’t you hear me before? I want a divorce.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he said. “You can’t be serious.” He sat up straight, staring down at her.

  “I’m serious,” Skye said, her throat aching.

  He yanked himself off the bed. He tore into his clothes, slamming around the room. He was swearing, hate on his tongue. He wasn’t getting his own way with her. He never would again. Somehow the courage Skye had found on the beach with Caroline and Clea was following her into the rest of her life. She was putting an end to anything that hurt her.

  Simon left the room. Skye heard his boots on the stairs, and then she heard the door slam behind him as he walked out of the house. Trembling, Skye reached for the telephone by her bed.

  It was five in the morning on Wednesday—nearly dawn—but she dialed Caroline’s number anyway. That’s the way it was between them: Anywhere, anytime Skye needed her, Caroline would be there. They hadn’t spoken since their fight on the beach, but Skye didn’t care. She had to reconnect with her sister. Trying to hold the receiver steady she heard Caroline’s sleepy voice answer.

  “It’s me,” Skye said.

  “Are you okay?” Caroline asked, worry immediately in her voice.

  “I’m fine,” Skye said. “Caroline, I’m so sorry to call you so early.”r />
  “I’m glad you did,” Caroline said.

  “I just asked Simon to leave,” Skye said. “It just happened, and I wanted to tell you. Can you believe it? I told him I want a divorce. I’m just so sick of it.”

  “Oh, Skye,” Caroline said. “I’m glad.”

  “I just want to get better,” Skye said. As she spoke, she felt her voice getting hoarser. She knew that what she was saying was so true, but so hard. Getting better: It should be the easiest thing in the world, but at five in the morning, trembling and desiring a drink to block it all out, to obliterate the pain, she had never imagined anything harder.

  “I want you to get better,” Caroline whispered.

  “I haven’t had a drink all day,” Skye said.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Caroline said. And Skye remembered all the other times Caroline had been proud of her: At her spring concerts, her school plays, when she was six and did the best cartwheel in first grade, when she was twelve and made her first sculpture, when she went to college, when she moved to Rome, when she had her first one-woman show in New York.

  Caroline had always been there, and Caroline had always been proud. Skye gripped the receiver harder to quell the trembling in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Skye said. “About the things I said on the beach.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Caroline said. “It kills me to admit you have a point.”

  “You mean…you’re sorry?”

  “Did I say that?” Caroline asked, gentle laughter in her voice.

  “I’m lucky to have you,” Skye said.

  “Took the words out of my mouth,” Caroline said. “I’m lucky to have you too.”

  “I’m going to try to sleep now.”

  “Do you want me to come over?” Caroline asked. “Do you need me to sit with you?”

  “No,” Skye said, hanging on. She knew this would pass. She knew it would.

  “Are you sure?” Caroline asked. “I’ll just be with you if you like. We can walk down to the beach and maybe go for a swim.” But even as the words came out sounding sure and positive, Skye heard her stop. She was doing it again, trying to make everything better when Skye had to do it herself.

  Skye laughed, and this time Caroline really laughed back.

  “That’s okay,” Skye said. “I’m fine by myself.”

  “I know.”

  “Anyway…” Skye trailed off, tired now. “Everything will be okay, just as long as you…”

  “As long as I what?” Caroline asked.

  “Love me,” Skye whispered.

  “That’s the easy part,” Caroline whispered back.

  CAROLINE STOOD INSIDE THE SCREEN DOOR, WHERE SHE had been watching for Joe’s truck. She wore a buttermilk linen sundress and flat beige sandals, things she might wear to work. As Joe walked up the steps, she felt her pulse jump. Seeing him made her nervous, and as he approached the door, she wished she had not offered to do this.

  Standing on the other side of the screen, he looked nervous himself, as if he weren’t sure what he was doing there. He gave her a dazed smile. She noticed the lines around his eyes and mouth; he spent a lot of time smiling out in the sun. He wore chinos and a blue oxford shirt. Although the collar was frayed, the shirt was freshly pressed.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Caroline had planned to ask him in, but she realized there really wasn’t any reason for it. So she grabbed her bag. He held the door for her. Their hands brushed, and their eyes met. Caroline blushed, remembering their kiss. When they got to his truck, he put his hand on the passenger door handle.

  “I’ll take my car. You can follow me,” she said, thinking it would be faster for him to return to the dock from Firefly Hill.

  “That’s okay,” he said, pulling open the truck door. “You’re doing this for me. The least I can do is drive.”

  He backed out of her driveway, circled past the inn, and headed east down Beach Road. They passed the Ibis marshes, where the river turned brackish and flowed toward the Sound. Stopping at Black Hall’s only traffic light, they watched four teenagers fly by on their bikes. Sea gulls perched on the roof of the gas station.

  Joe drove with his elbow sticking out the open window. His blond hair flew in his eyes, and he kept brushing it back. He turned on the radio, then turned it off. Caroline stared out the window, feeling so tense, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Did you get the chest of gold yesterday?” she asked finally.

  “We didn’t, actually,” Joe said. “We tried, but the sea wouldn’t cooperate. The wind kicked up yesterday morning, and then the currents shifted. My guys are thinking of mutiny, they’re so ready to finish the job.”

  “What about today?” Caroline asked.

  “Today I had plans,” Joe said. “Besides, the currents are still fluky.” He tried to smile, but his mouth was tight. His gaze slid over to Caroline. His face was drawn, and she noticed the bluish circles under his eyes.

  They were on their way to Firefly Hill, the place where it had all started.

  “Did you tell your mother I was coming?” he asked.

  “I thought it was better not to.” Caroline said. “But she won’t be there. My sisters took her to Providence for tea.”

  “They know?”

  Caroline nodded. “I told them. They’re glad to help.”

  “No use upsetting your mother,” Joe said.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. He glanced over, then back at the road. They were on the stretch where it hugged the rocky shore. The driving was treacherous, but Joe didn’t seem to be able to keep from glancing over at Caroline.

  “This is it,” she said as they rounded the bend. She directed him to turn into the driveway, up the hill into a thicket of dark trees. At the top they emerged back into bright sunlight. Caroline wanted to point out the Meteor, which was visible on the horizon, but Joe was staring at the big white house standing between him and the sea. He must have been thinking of his father, his last hour. James Connor had driven up that hill, parked on the rough grass, walked across this very yard.

  At the sight of Caroline, Homer trotted over with his towel. He dropped it to say hello, panting up at her with love in his eyes. Joe obviously knew dogs. He offered Homer his hand. The dog sniffed it, then turned quizzically back to Caroline. She took his big head between her hands, shaking it gently. Crouching down, she touched the top of her head to his.

  “It’s okay, Homer,” she said.

  “He wants to make sure I’m not going to hurt you,” Joe said.

  “He knows,” Caroline said.

  They walked across the back porch, into the mud room. The wainscoting needed paint. The linoleum was old and cracked. Framed fingerpaintings by all three girls hung on the walls. Caroline could have brought him in the front way, through the big hall with its sweeping stairway, but this was how the family always entered. It was the way his father had come in.

  The kitchen was open and airy. Big windows gave onto the lawn, sloping to the ledge that dropped to Long Island Sound. Red clay tiles covered the floor. The big oak table had two coffee cups on it, left from Augusta’s and Skye’s breakfast. One wall was covered with pictures of the family in other places: Paris, Siena, St. Lucia, Colorado. Between two windows curved a silver fish, stuffed and mounted. It was a landlocked salmon, caught by Caroline at age thirteen.

  Joe looked around the room. Caroline could see the pulse beating on the side of his neck. His blue eyes were steady, taking everything in. He stood in the middle of the room, a question on his face.

  “Here,” Caroline said, taking his hand. It felt big and rough, covered with scars and calluses. No matter what, she would have known the man it belonged to worked on the sea. Pulling gently, she led him to the spot where his father had died.

  “Right here?” Joe asked. His tone was neutral. He might have been asking about some historical site that had nothing to do with him. But as Caroline nodded, his eyes began
to betray him. They clouded over. His lashes lowered so she couldn’t see.

  “I don’t remember everything,” Caroline said, “but I remember thinking he loved you and your mother.”

  Joe made a sound deep in his throat. “At five years old?”

  “Yes. Too young to understand what was happening—” Caroline paused, trying to say it right. Her throat felt dry. “But I understood the tears.”

  Joe wasn’t looking at her. He leaned against the kitchen counter, examining some pebbles someone had left lying there.

  “He was crying?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said, because she couldn’t lie to him.

  “And angry?”

  “At first, yes,” she said, trying to remember. She could see the man’s red face, the gun wobbling in the air over her head. “But then he just seemed…sad. Very, very sad.”

  Joe moved to the kitchen window. He stood looking at the sea, dark blue against the bright sky. His hands were jammed in his pockets. Beyond the breakers, across a long stretch of water, lay the Meteor. He stared at it intently, as if he wanted to fly away from Firefly Hill and be safely back on it. He shot a quick glance at Caroline.

  “Where were you?” he asked with his usual wariness.

  “That night?” she asked, surprised. She pointed at a spot eighteen inches from where his father had stood. “I was right there.”

  “A lot for a little girl,” he said, still cradling the pebbles.

  “Nothing compared to what it was like for you.”

  Again, a violent breath of air. “I wasn’t even here.”

  “Do you think you should have been?” she asked softly. “Do you think you could have stopped him?”

  A shrug. He turned back to the window. The sun was going down, and the cliff’s shadow fell across the wide bay. Staring at him, Caroline could read his thoughts.

  “He had your picture,” Caroline said gently. “He was holding it, and for a minute we held it together, he and I. I’ve always thought—” She stopped herself.

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve always thought your father had you with him. The last face he saw was yours. And he loved you so much.”