Chesapeake Summer (23 page)

Russ pulled the door shut behind him, walked across the room and took his wife into his arms. “What's going on, Libba Jane?”

“Quentin Wentworth is Bailey's father.” The unbelievable words choked her throat. “He killed his wife. The body they found in the marsh is really Amanda Wentworth. God alone knows who's buried in Amanda's plot in the cemetery.”

“Hey, hey, Libba Jane.” He stroked her shining hair. “Calm down. It's okay. Wade will have it all under control.”

“What about Bailey? He was a little boy. He saw everything.”

“Bailey's okay. He's done well for himself. Pull yourself together, Libba Jane. Quentin Wentworth is a horse's ass. He always was. Lizzie's been dead for four years. Bailey's made a success of his life. Everything's fine.”

She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. “I'm worried about how this will affect Chloe.”

“Chloe could do a lot worse than take up with a successful artist who can afford to live in New York City. Now come outside. Mingle with your guests. They're asking for you. Verna Lee could use some help with Shelby.”

“Verna Lee can hold her own against a roomful of Shelbys.”

“It's our party. She's your sister and she shouldn't have to.”

“All right.” Libba waved him away. “Give me a minute. My mascara's all over my face. Hold them off a little while longer.”

“Promise you'll be outside in five minutes.”

“I promise.”

It was considerably more than five minutes before Libba joined her guests outside. Russ had found Verna Lee. Wade was seated across from her on an Adirondack chair facing the water. Fireflies lit the air like tiny sparklers around their heads and the moonlight turned the chop on the bay a luminescent silver.

Libba sat beside Russ, leaning against him, grateful that, for her, everything
was
settled.

Wade nodded at her. “It's a great party, Libba Jane.”

“Thanks. You got here late. I didn't think you'd make it.”

“I had a few things to finish up.”

Verna Lee looked at him. “What things?”

“I made a few phone calls, finished up a report, nothing important.”

“For pity's sake, Wade, you're the worst liar. Why don't you just tell us what's going on?”

“I can't do that, Verna Lee,” he explained calmly. “It comes with the job.”

Libba couldn't keep silent. “Does it have to do with Quentin Wentworth?”

His face was smooth and polite. “How would you know that, Libba Jane?”

“You know how this town is, Wade. Even the best-kept secret is one that no one knows about until the next day.”

“It's unprofessional to discuss the details of my job at a social gathering. Why don't we grab some of those ribs, a couple slices of watermelon and another beer and settle down with a more interesting topic of conversation.”

Libba's eyes met Verna Lee's. “I'll save your seats. Why don't the two of you bring us back a plate.”

Wade held out his hand. “Verna Lee?”

There was much more at stake than food. Libba held her breath and didn't release it again until Verna Lee reached out and met him halfway.

Standing beside Wade, Verna Lee smiled. “Chicken or ribs?” she asked.

“Whatever's left,” replied her sister.

Later, after peach cobbler and hand-cranked ice cream, brandy and coffee, rum-soaked cigars and lingering goodbyes, groups of two and three collected their belongings and their children and made their way home in the humid, jasmine-scented darkness.

“Did you drive or walk?” Wade asked Verna Lee.

“I walked.”

“May I drive you home?”

Riding in the car beside Wade, she spoke very little until he pulled in to her driveway and walked her to the door. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“Do you grind your own beans?”

“Of course.”

Wade looked up at the star-studded sky. “Are you gonna grill me on why I arrested Quentin Wentworth?”

She turned the key in the lock. “I didn't know you had.”

“He's Bailey Jones's natural father.”

“I figured that.”

“You're kidding.”

She shook her head. “Lizzie Jones was my friend. Even if she wasn't, my grandmother knows everything that goes on in this town. People talk. Quentin played around. Lizzie's reputation wasn't exactly a secret and she was beautiful. Isn't that the way it usually works, the powerful and the beautiful?”

Wade followed her into the kitchen. “I wouldn't know about that.” He waited while she ground the beans, spooned the granules into the filter and added water. “I suppose you want to know why I arrested him.”

“Adultery and fathering a child without benefit of marriage isn't exactly a crime, although maybe it should be,” she said as an afterthought.

Wade considered putting her off and decided against it. Libba was right. It would be all over town by tomorrow anyway. “Amanda Wentworth found out about the affair. She came after him with a gun. To make a long story short, she died in the struggle and he hid her body in the swamp.”

She closed her eyes briefly and offered up a silent thank-you. Lizzie was innocent after all. “Good Lord! How medieval,” she said out loud. “Are you sure?”

“He confessed.”

Deep in thought, Verna Lee reached for the mugs and set them on the counter. “What about Amanda's funeral?” Her eyes widened. “He's a superior court judge. Surely he wouldn't have murdered an innocent person to take Amanda's place.”

“He claims the woman came from the morgue.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not entirely.”

“In other words, you believe some of it, but not all?”

He accepted the mug of thick, rich coffee. “Something like that. I've been thinking about it. Quentin was a powerful man. Still is.” He shrugged. “The facts will come out eventually. It's up to the district attorney.”

“Quentin rubbed elbows with all of them down there at city hall for a very long time. Do you think there's even the remotest possibility of finding an impartial jury?”

“Probably not,” Wade admitted. “The defense will ask for a change of venue. Whether it will be granted remains to be seen.” He sipped the hot coffee. “Excellent.”

“Thank you.”

“I shouldn't have told you, you know.”

“Why did you?”

“My defenses collapse when I'm around you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

His gaze rested on her lips, lush and full. He set down the coffee mug and pulled her close. “I'm still evaluating,” he said before his mouth came down on hers and he no longer remembered whether it was good or not.

Verna Lee wasn't about to get caught up in the throes of emotion no matter how attractive and available the man happened to be. She'd done that several times already and promised herself that if she ever got another chance at a real relationship she would do things differently. Chemistry would have no place in her decision making. There wasn't a man alive who kept the pheromones hopping more than two years. This time she wanted stability and appreciation, kindness and a sense of humor. She wouldn't be in any hurry, either. She was past the age when she had to think about her biological clock. There would be no children, hence no need to rush into permanence. Marriage was for optimists, or for those who feared growing old alone. She was neither. In fact, she liked living alone, having control of her own money, liked spreading out in the center of her bed, snuggling under exactly the right number of blankets, reading until the wee hours, liked drinking tomato juice and eating a hardboiled egg for dinner. Women got comfortable in relationships. They started on cream-filled foods. They gained weight and exercised less. She didn't need Wade Atkins and his Sunday manners and his house of windows on the bay. Her life was going in the right direction. She was making progress at her own pace and it suited her just fine.

Why, then, did her lips part to admit the intimacy of his tongue? Why did she twine her arms around his neck and press against his chest? Why did that involuntary sound, something very like a moan, rise from her throat when he found the pulse point at the base of her throat, and why did she make not a single protest when he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed where he proceeded to make love to her so thoroughly that she forgot all about pheromones and chemistry and the fact that the lust factor between a man and a woman could only last, at the most, two years?

C
ole Delacourte wasn't a man to turn tail and run from a respectable wager. But he wasn't a fool, either. Lost causes held no appeal for him. Besides, he didn't care for Quentin Wentworth, never had, and, even though it wasn't a charitable thought, he had some stake in seeing justice served.

So, when Tracy Wentworth appeared at his door asking him to represent her father, he refused. Retirement was a reasonable excuse. He was an old man and the rigors of a court battle were sure to shorten what time he had left. He didn't weaken, not even when she pleaded. There were other attorneys, he'd assured her, attorneys, young and ambitious, who would see this case as a challenge. She'd left, pale and chastened but convinced that he wouldn't change his mind. Cole hadn't counted on her recruiting Libba Jane to the cause.

Several hours later, Libba came calling, Libba, his daughter, who reminded him more and more of Nola Ruth, the same dark hair and eyes, golden skin, slender bones and long spectacular legs. God, if ever a woman was missed, she was Magnolia Ruth Beauchamp.

The memory of their first meeting all those years ago was plain as day in his mind. He was home, on his first real vacation in much too long. He had planned to drink bourbon until he was dizzy, dress in worn shorts and a favorite, moth-eaten shirt, fish the finger lakes of the Chesapeake and roast his catch over coals buried deep beneath the sand. He'd thrown out his line, intent on the test that tightened the instant it hit the water. At first he didn't notice the girl with the wind-whipped dark hair and gorgeous legs. But then he did. For the first time in his life he'd been unable to find words.

Nola Ruth Beauchamp held out her hand. “I've never seen you here before,” she said in her sultry, delta-flavored voice.

He said something. He must have, or she would have laughed at him and walked away. Whatever it was didn't matter. For Cole, in the throes of what the poets called
love at first sight,
had inadvertently stumbled across his destiny.

That was more than forty years and a lifetime of compromise ago. She'd returned his love, but not to the same degree, never that. There was always one-half of a couple who cared more, gave more. Nola Ruth wasn't a giver. She was honest and righteous, alluring and mysterious. He'd never doubted her loyalty. Still, she had secrets. They followed her to the grave. Someday soon he would do something about one in particular. Right now, it was Libba Jane, not her mother, who waited for his answer. He loved this only child of his, her mother's daughter, but she wasn't Nola Ruth.

Smiling regretfully, he shook his head. “I'm not up to this, honey. Not anymore.”

Disappointed, she'd kissed his cheek and left the house that was no longer hers, the house that had seen five generations of Delacourtes, and was now his alone, except for Chloe, his granddaughter.

In the end it was Chloe who convinced him and if anyone wondered why, it made perfect sense the way she did it. She spoke of values he'd buried deep inside himself in the interests of keeping what he had. She spoke of facing challenges, especially unpleasant ones. She reminded him that all men run scared and few end up without tallying a regret or two, but they still deserve a competent attorney. She spoke of old age and Bailey Jones and how four years ago Cole had changed his life for the better. She spoke of her friend and stepsister, Tess Hennessey, and how Quentin had sat by her hospital bed, his eyes closed, head bent, his thoughts his own.

It was the thought of Quentin, Tess's grandfather, that changed Cole's mind. He'd looked at Chloe, petite Chloe, with her small Delacourte bones and her blue Delacourte eyes, and her mind like his own and suddenly, what he must do all became completely clear.

Bailey knew he was not alone long before he saw her walking toward him. The years spent living alone with his mother, surrounded by nothing but swamp, had honed his senses. He heard the snapping of twigs and the slight rustle of decaying leaves under her feet. Then, all at once, she stood right in front of him, a small girl with tanned shoulders, pale hair and the bluest eyes he would ever see.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi.” He took her hand and linked his fingers with hers. “So, is everything set?”

She nodded. “I got all my classes and reserved my flight. I leave next week.” She tilted her head. “Will you drive me to the airport?”

“I'm not much for goodbyes.”

“This isn't goodbye.”

“Isn't it?”

“I'm not letting you go this easily, Bailey. You can pretend all you want, but I know how you feel. I'm not going to let you lose me again.”

“Sometimes I think you're too smart for me.”

“That doesn't matter, either. I'm going to write to you and you're going to write back. We'll e-mail and talk on the phone. I'll come to New York for Christmas and then we'll both come back here for food and presents.”

He couldn't help laughing. “You have it all figured out.”

“You bet I do.”

“What do you think your mother'll say when she hears your plans?”

“My mother knows how it is with us. Besides, it isn't her life. She has Russ and, for the time-being, Gina Marie. This is my life and yours. We'll see how it goes, somewhere else, away from here.”

“What if it doesn't work out like you planned? What if something happens?”

She smiled at him, the smile she'd inherited from Libba Jane and Nola Ruth. “No matter what, we'll always be friends.”

He relaxed. “I'm rushing things.”

“A little.”

“Friends.” He thought a minute. “That's good.”

“It's very good.”

“I don't have a lot of friends.”

“Neither do I.”

He looked at her, his gaze thoughtful, considering. “Do you mind if I hold out for more?”

Chloe's heart lurched. This was a
moment,
the kind people wrote about, one of the ones that no matter how many others she had, or what her future held, this was the one she would come back to. It would stay in her memory to be pulled out and gone over, smoothed out and relived when she was an old woman and the air was quiet and the nights long and all she had left were memories. “I was hoping you would,” was all she said.

“I have a surprise for you.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I've decided not to sell the marsh. It's home. Marshy Hope Creek is my home.”

She laughed. “I was hoping you'd say that, too. Verna Lee will be pleased.”

Wade rang the doorbell and hid the roses behind his back. They were red and long-stemmed, complicated, the kind he associated with Verna Lee. He heard the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors.

She opened the door. He would never get used to how beautiful she was, her wild hair, the golden eyes, the way her clothes fit her lush figure. When he could think again, he presented the flowers with a flourish and enjoyed the sudden widening of her eyes.

“Thank you. They're beautiful. I'm honored.”

“You're beautiful.”

Her eyes flicked over him, noting the faded jeans and the cotton shirt worn thin at the elbows. “You dressed up for me again,” she teased.

“Actually, I did.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

She rested one hand on her hip. “I have to tell you, Wade, before this goes any further, that your taste in clothing is awful.”

“I'm open to suggestion.”

She moved aside. “That's a relief. Please, come in.”

He followed her into the living room. Her house was like her café, warm, eclectic, artfully arranged with bold colors and interesting artwork. “I like your paintings. Who's the artist?”

“Bailey Jones.”

“You're joking.”

She poured him a glass of something white in a delicately etched wineglass. “I forgot the beer. I hope this will do.”

He tasted it tentatively. As expected, it was perfect, cool and crisp, thirst-quenching.

“I'm not joking,” she continued, moving easily, purposefully, toward the kitchen. “I couldn't afford them, of course. These are his rejects.”

Wade knew nothing about art. Most modern artists' work didn't appeal to him. But these were paintings, detailed as photographs, of life in the Cove. “He's good.”

“Yes, he is.” She paused in the doorway. “Do you want to set the table or help with the dishes?”

He held the wine on his tongue for a minute before swallowing. “You don't make it easy for a man, do you?”

“I hadn't thought about it.”

“You wouldn't consider trying to impress me?”

She laughed. “Wade, the reason I keep coming back for more is because I don't have to. That's a compliment, by the way.”

He nodded. “Accepted. I'll set the table.”

It wasn't until they'd finished their meal, cold avocado soup and something with crab and cheese wrapped in a tortilla, washed down with more excellent wine, that he broached the subject he wanted to share. “I did something, Verna Lee. I hope you approve.”

“What might that be?”

“Back when I was in the middle of this investigation, I sent out some feelers. One of them came back the other day.”

She was all polite attention.

“I asked for the whereabouts of a man named Anton Devereaux.”

Her smile froze. “Why would you do that?”

She was too polite, too composed.

“He was seen here in Marshy Hope Creek fifteen years ago when he was arrested for resisting a police officer. Your mother bailed him out of jail. He didn't show up for his trial and she lost her money.”

“I know all that. Tell me something new.”

“He's alive, Verna Lee. He lives in the Bordeaux region of France. He owns a vineyard.”

“I see.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“He didn't know about you. Nola Ruth never told him she was pregnant.”

“That would have been difficult to do. He disappeared.”

“It wouldn't have worked out. The timing was wrong.”

She crumpled her napkin and left it beside her plate. “I know that.”

“He wants to see you.”

She frowned. “You've talked to him?”

“His wife died five years ago. They had no children. I told him I'd give you his phone number. Any future contact will be up to you.”

No children. She would be the one and only. There would be no competing with Libba Jane. Immediately she was ashamed of herself. Because of Libba, she had a family. “Why are you doing this?”

He reached for her hand. “It's a gift, Verna Lee. You're a beautiful, educated woman. Your parents may not have been of your choosing, but they made you. Because of them you look the way you do, you have talent and interests and accomplishments. How can it be wrong to invite your father into your life? He can't be blamed for never making contact. He didn't know you existed. He came back once, to find your mother. In my book that says he's decent. Why not give him a call? What have you got to lose?”

She was silent for a long time. Her thoughts swirled in a maelstrom inside her head. Nola Ruth Delacourte was her mother. She would never forget the day Drusilla told her the truth. The lady in the big house was her birth mother. For years her father hadn't mattered. She'd barely considered him until Nola Ruth told her story. Anton Devereaux. She'd tested the name on her tongue. He wanted to see her. Wade was right. She had nothing to lose. “He left town and forfeited bail,” she said at last. “Does that mean I have to go to France?”

“There are worse things than going to France.”

“What about my café?”

“Hire someone.”

“You have all the answers, don't you?”

“All except one.”

“You've got my attention.”

“Do you think you might consider seriously hooking up with me one of these days?”

She shook her head. “Not any time soon.”

“I'm not talking about now. Will you marry me someday? Because if I know this will eventually work out, I won't keep pestering you. I can wait.”

“All I have to say is someday? You'll accept that?”

“As long as you mean it. You have to be telling the truth.”

“I always tell the truth.”

“Not always.”

“I may not tell you everything, but what I say is the truth.”

“I love you.”

She smiled. “I believe you.”

“Do you love me?”

“I think so.”

“When will you know?”

“I think I know.”