Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  Joe turned from the window. He shook his head, and for a moment he couldn’t talk.

  “No,” he said simply. “The last face he saw was yours. You were with him, Caroline. With him when he died.”

  Caroline took two steps, and she was in Joe’s arms. As he reached for her, she heard the pebbles he had been holding clatter to the floor. She understood his feeling because she wished she could have been with her own father at his death, but he had shut her out long before then. She felt her tears hot against Joe’s neck. His strong arms gripped her body, his hands grasping each of her shoulders. He gulped hard, swallowing his own sobs. Behind him, the sea was silver and black, a crescent moon hung over the horizon.

  “We loved them,” Caroline said of their fathers. “We just thought we’d have them longer.”

  They stood locked in an embrace. Joe’s hand stroking Caroline’s hair. She had wanted to comfort him, but here he was, holding her close, whispering her name, telling her he’d never realized before, never pictured how it had been, how close she had stood to his father, how much it meant to him that she had been there.

  The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Waves beat upon the beach, tumbling rocks in their wake. It was time to leave. Augusta would be home soon, and Caroline didn’t want to face the explosion her arrival would bring.

  Joe looked into Caroline’s eyes. He wiped his own face with the back of his hand. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he offered it to her. She dried her eyes, folded it, and handed it back. She felt his reluctance at having to leave this place where his father had died, and she stood still, waiting.

  Without another word, he just walked out the door.

  He drove her home. As they got closer to her house, Caroline knew their time together was almost over. She glanced over at Joe. The lines in his brow and around his mouth were deep. There was something going on behind his eyes.

  “Thank you for taking me there,” Joe said when he caught her looking.

  “Oh, Joe,” she whispered, overcome.

  “I’m glad I went.”

  Caroline nodded. Joe had recovered his tough reserve. A chilly breeze blew through the truck, blowing his hair into a windy mess.

  When they reached the inn, he turned into the wide drive and continued left, down the private road that led to Caroline’s house. Sharply trimmed privet hedges lined the road, and the branches of tall maples interlaced overhead. The approach felt safe and private, and at this time of day, just after sundown, it was already very dark.

  Parking the car, Joe turned to her. His right arm was stretched out along the seat back. He had a strained smile on his face, as if this were good-bye. He stared at her for a long time, and she began to feel the color creeping into her face. They had come a long way, Caroline and Joe. She wished she could say what she felt, but she didn’t believe he wanted to hear.

  “Well…” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Gulls cried. Across the river, a whippoorwill began to call. Locusts hummed in the trees. The night sounds got louder.

  “I have to get back to the boat, they’re expecting me.”

  “I know,” Caroline said, trying to smile.

  Joe stared at her. He looked out the window. A minute passed.

  “Say good-bye to Sam,” she said, her hand on the door handle.”

  “I know I should leave,” Joe said slowly. “But the thing is, I can’t.”

  Caroline looked over, her pulse quick and light.

  “We could have tea…” she began to say.

  He opened his door even before she finished the sentence. They walked up her flagstone walk, and Caroline used her key to open the front door. Augusta always left Firefly Hill wide open, but Caroline had locks and alarms.

  Joe entered, looking around. At Firefly Hill his attention had been on one spot, but here he seemed interested in everything. The rooms were spare and cool, done in the colors of dusk. Her floors were wood, stained deep brown and highly polished.

  In the living room, she had a cream-colored sofa with a heathery dark blue throw folded across the back. A matching armchair sat by the gray stone fireplace. A single mahogany table held a blue glass vase containing wildflowers she had picked on her hike up Mount Serendipity. There were no rugs.

  They walked into the kitchen, and Caroline turned on some lights. It was a cook’s kitchen with a stainless steel stove and refrigerator, copper pans from Paris, plenty of counter space for chopping. The cabinets were made of warm, pale-gold natural wood. They seemed to glow from within. The kitchen table was round, lacquered black. In its center were tiny silver salt and pepper shakers, a silver sugar bowl, and a single framed picture of Caroline, Clea, and Skye.

  Caroline filled a big copper kettle. She turned the heat on low, a ring of blue flame. Turning to Joe, she saw him studying the photo. It showed the three girls dressed in warm jackets, each holding a fish they had caught. Caroline was about eleven.

  Replacing the frame on the kitchen table, Joe continued to look around the room.

  “It’s different from your mother’s house,” he said.

  Caroline nodded, pouring milk into a silver pitcher.

  “Hers is warm and cozy, all cluttered up with life,” she said. “This place is…” She had been about to say “cool and spare, like me,” but she didn’t want him thinking she was feeling sorry for herself, looking for a contradiction. But the fact was, Caroline felt empty and alone, as if they had already had their tea and Joe was already gone.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “I was thinking it’s kind of mysterious.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah,” he said. The woodwork in Caroline’s kitchen was painted slate gray. One section of the wall was pumpkin. Joe went to the kitchen window, when he noticed six moonshells arranged there. Reaching into his pocket, he took something out. He examined it, then placed the object on the sill with the shells. He glanced over his shoulder at Caroline.

  Slowly she approached. Her heart was beating fast. Caroline’s desire for order was reflected in the shells, spaced at three-inch intervals in a straight line. Exactly three inches past the last shell, Joe had placed a cameo. Caroline stared at it.

  “It’s from the Cambria,” Joe said in a low voice. “It belonged to Clarissa’s mother.”

  Caroline, moving to touch the cameo, looked at Joe first. He took it off the sill and placed it in her hand. She stared at the fine rim of gold, worn to a thin line. The cameo itself was incandescent.

  Held to the light, the carving was ivory, the background translucent pale green glass. The woman looked noble, with strong cheekbones and a straight nose, her hair drawn back, her chin tilted up.

  “She looks like Clea,” Caroline said.

  “She looks like you,” Joe said.

  Caroline could barely see. For the second time that evening, she wiped away tears. She was incredibly moved, holding this jewel that had belonged to a family she had come to care about. She thought of Elisabeth Randall’s bones lying in the eel grass, the tides sweeping in and out. The cameo felt light in her hand. It was so fragile and delicate, yet it had survived underwater for two hundred years.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, handing it to him.

  “I want you to keep it,” he said, pressing it into her palm.

  Caroline was stunned. She looked into Joe’s eyes, and she saw the beginning of a smile. “I can’t,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “Why?”

  “Shouldn’t it go to someone else? Clarissa’s descendants? Or the town?”

  “There aren’t any Randalls we can find. And the town…it doesn’t work that way.” He laughed. “I’m a treasure hunter, remember? I filed my claim and got my permit, and this is treasure.”

  “Your daughter—”

  “I don’t have a daughter,” Joe said.

  “Well, if you ever do.”

  Joe was staring into Caroline’s eyes, his blue eyes dark
and unflinching. His wide lips wanted to smile; she could see it in the corners. He was amused with the awkwardness of her gift-taking, but she was always like this. At Christmas she felt uncomfortable when it was her turn to reach under the tree.

  “I don’t—” she began, looking at the cameo in her hand.

  “You have to,” he said a little roughly.

  She was thinking of all the reasons she shouldn’t accept anything from Joe Connor, all the anger and hurt that had passed between them, the way they had tried a friendship this summer, until the Firefly Ball came and his true feelings had come out.

  “Sometimes it’s more generous to take than give,” he said.

  “How?” Caroline asked.

  “To let the other person give you what he has to offer. If you’re always the one giving, you never have to feel disappointed, because you don’t expect anything in return. But it’s miserly in its own way. Because you never leave yourself open or give the other person a chance.”

  Caroline nodded, thinking of her father. And of herself: Skye was right.

  “That’s what my sister says.”

  “About you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s what my brother says about me,” Joe said.

  “Something we have in common,” Caroline said. “Smart siblings—”

  She never saw the kiss coming. He wrapped his strong arms around her, drew her body against his, and kissed her as if his life depended on it. Raising herself up on tiptoe, she reached up to hold him. She ran her fingers through his messy hair, felt the insides of her forearms around his face.

  The teakettle began to whistle.

  Joe stepped away, turned off the flame. He faced her again, breathing as if he had just run from Mount Serendipity.

  Again, he took her in his arms. His body, which had felt strong and supple when they had embraced earlier, now felt rigid with an almost inhuman tension. It feels like hugging steel, Caroline thought. She trailed her fingers softly down his spine. His blue cotton shirt seemed thin beneath her fingertips. She could feel his bones and muscle. The sexual passion between them was enormous, but she sensed something different as well.

  This was the love that had been building up between them since they were five and six. She could feel Joe Connor absorbing her warmth and love as she herself was consuming his. He wanted something from her that had nothing to do with sex; she knew that. She touched his face, softly stroking his cheek with her left hand.

  Holding his hand, she led him down the hall. The spareness apparent throughout Caroline’s house did not extend to her bedroom. This was her private place, her sanctuary. She was most herself in this room, and allowing him inside made her feel vulnerable.

  Everything was dark wood and white lace. The white lace curtains and eyelet coverlet had belonged to her grandmother. The dark mahogany four-poster was elaborately carved with roses and angels. The massive chifforobe and armoire came from Scotland. Bookcases were filled to overflowing, and the bedside tables were crowded with framed pictures of the people she loved.

  He kissed her again. His mouth covered hers, and he wrapped her tighter in his arms. He let out a moan that sounded almost like grief as he slowly lowered her down to the bed. She could barely stand the tension that felt as if it had been building since she was sixteen years old. Caroline leaned into Joe, the full length and weight of his body pressing against hers. They kissed and kissed, undressing each other all the while.

  “I’m sorry,” he said when his hands touched the bare skin on her shoulders.

  “Why?”

  “My hands are too rough for such smooth skin.”

  Joe’s hands were callused from hauling equipment, working underwater on the wreck, and the friction made Caroline’s body tingle wherever they touched her. She felt the hair on his body, silky and fine, and she nearly lost her breath with the sexy maleness of him.

  She lay back, letting him explore the soft curves and hollows of her body with his mouth and hands. He wanted her to stay still. He wanted her to lie back so he could love her, and he let her know this. “Shhh,” he whispered, holding both of her hands just behind her head with one of his. “Please,” she whispered, trying to get loose. “Please,” he whispered back. She could neither touch him nor wrangle away. He made her lie there while he used his mouth all over her body.

  He was steady and slow, and Caroline squirmed under the pressure of his tongue. Her nipples hardened. She arched her back, willing him to touch her breasts, finally reaching down to drag his hands up. His callused fingertips pinched and rubbed her nipples, sending a tense thrill straight between her legs. She clutched his head, encouraging him, bringing her hips up to meet his tongue. Everything exploded in red and blue stars behind her eyelids, and she gave out a shuddering breath.

  He moved up the bed, his hands now gripping her shoulders, his flat, hard body pressing against her. She felt him enter so easily, water splashing against rock. She was so wet from her own excitement and from his mouth, and he was so hard. He moaned again. Caroline had not known a person could make such a sound of need and love and sex. She had never heard anything like it before.

  They clung together, the blood pounding in Caroline’s head making her feel in rhythm with Joe, their bodies hot and moist and full of fire, her legs wrapped around his waist, their love so intense, Caroline went deep inside, where she felt the connection they had always had and never really lost.

  “Caroline,” Joe said into her neck, his arms wrapped around her, “I love you.”

  “I love you,” Caroline said back as Joe’s eyes locked onto her gaze.

  She touched his face. People weren’t made to get this close to each other, she thought, scared by the depths of it. She was lying on the edge of the tallest and narrowest precipice she had ever known; if she moved left or right she would go over and never stop falling.

  She had never felt this way before. She had let herself get physically close to men, but her emotions had never kept up, rarely even followed. But she and Joe had said “I love you” to each other and meant it.

  “Joe,” she said, again looking straight into his eyes, rocked at what was happening.

  “I know,” he said, smiling. His face glistened with sweat, his eyes sparkled in the cool light of night.

  But what do you know? she wanted to ask. She wanted him to tell her. She wanted him to say the words, to name the moment, to tell her what she meant. But he couldn’t do that. Only Caroline could. The feeling was there, just as it had been practically her whole life, ever since she had sent Joe that first letter. He was the boy who was everything to her, the one she had saved this feeling for her entire life.

  “Look,” she said, pointing.

  Joe raised himself up on his elbow, looked toward the bedside table to where she was pointing. There, in the front row of framed photos, was the picture of him as a child.

  “I knew I loved you all along,” she said.

  “I don’t know why,” he said, his voice rough with regret. “I made everything so hard.”

  “So did I,” Caroline said, her throat aching, thinking of things Skye had said. “But here we are.”

  Lying next to Joe, she felt the truth: She had fallen in love. For the first time in her life, Caroline had given a man the power to hurt her. Her heart skipped. Joe could kiss her good-bye. He could sail away, go to sea in search of a different treasure, and there would be nothing she could do about it.

  “What?” he asked, seeing her expression change.

  Caroline couldn’t speak. His eyes were so clear and blue, like the open ocean in October after a storm has blown through but a solid month before the first snow would fall. She felt so scared, she was frozen in place. Was this what her father had in mind? Teaching his daughters how to protect themselves against life, was it this feeling of absolute love and need?

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” Joe said, still smiling into her eyes, “it’s going to be okay. It is, Caroline.”

  “How
do you know?”

  “Because it’s over,” he said gently. “The bad stuff is over.”

  WHILE THE COFFEE BREWED THE NEXT MORNING, Caroline walked barefoot to the inn to see what was for breakfast. A few of the guests were up early, but she breezed past them into the kitchen and filled a basket with peach muffins. Returning home, she covered the porch table with a damask cloth. The dawn light was turning from silver to rose to blue-gold, and she wanted Joe to see it. But when she went into the bedroom to get him, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into bed.

  After a while they got dressed and walked down to the water. Fish were jumping and ospreys were hunting. A kingfisher, sturdy and blue, dive-bombed a school of minnows and came up with a beakful of silver. Joe held Caroline’s hand. They stopped to kiss under the big willow tree. Walking a little farther, they stopped to kiss in a grove of pines.

  “I have to get back,” he said finally. “I didn’t expect to be away this long.”

  “Will Sam be worried?” she asked.

  “Sam, no. But some of the other guys will want to kill me. We’re a few days behind, and they can taste the gold. I never do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Leave the boat overnight. Hold up the operation.” He shook his head. “No one will be surprised though. They all saw it coming.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At the ball, the way you looked…I had to break a few heads—the comments they were making. They’re nothing but a bunch of sea dogs, got the manners of hoodlums. Then they got on me for defending you, saying you’d hooked me good. But you did look beautiful. Girl in a White Dress.”

  “What?”

  “The portrait,” he said. “It’s the only painting by Hugh Renwick I can stand. I told you, I saw it once. I was walking through the gallery where it hangs, and it was there at the end of the room. I couldn’t move. It was like being in the room with you. Only I wanted to know what you were thinking. There was something about your eyes….”

  “He painted that after we stopped writing, you and I.”

  “Did something happen?”