Firefly Beach (13 page)

One time she had a fever. Leaving for the mountain she had been healthy, enthusiastic. But that night, alone in her tent, she got sick. Her throat blazed, and her head ached. The hair on her head hurt. She had chills. She was fifteen, and when she got sick at home she knew how to take care of herself, but way out there she felt scared. Crying, she just wanted the sun to come up.

Her father heard her. He came into her tent, felt her head, held her in his arms while she shivered. In all the times they had camped out in their separate tents, she had thought she was all alone. Having her father come when she called was a surprise, and in her feverish state made her cry harder.

“You’re sick, sweetheart,” he said. “We have to go home right away.”

He bundled her up, told her to sit still while he got her sisters. Caroline waited, unable to believe what was happening. She was fifteen, unused to being taken care of. The hunts were her chance to be with her father, but nothing had ever made her feel so loved as having him tell her they were going home. Knowing that she was sick, and giving her what she needed.

While her sisters took down her tent and their own, Caroline’s father walked her to the car. He started it up, settled her in the front seat, frequently touching her head to see if the fever had gone down. He was so big and tough, with gray eyes that never showed his feelings, but Caroline remembered how worried he looked that night. It was after midnight; her sisters should have been sleepy, but they were excited. Leaning against her father, shivering in spite of the blasting heat, Caroline had felt so happy.

She had scarlet fever.

But then she thought of another time, years later, driving home from the same mountain after Skye had shot Andrew Lockwood.

They had spent the day at the police station. Skye was in one interrogation room, Caroline in another. So many questions: Did you know the man? Ever see him before? Was there any conversation before the shot was fired? A confrontation? Did your sister seem angry? What was her mood like?

Caroline was in shock. She understood that now, but at the time she had thought she was just tired. All she wanted to do was put her head on the desk and fall asleep. She kept seeing the man, hearing her own calm voice ask him his name. Hearing his voice say “Andrew.” His eyes, his mouth, the feeling of his hand in hers. He was hers forever; no one would ever know him as well. Thinking of Andrew, she promised herself she would take care of his dog.

After the inquest, they drove home. They climbed into the station wagon, solemn but relieved. Everyone rallied around Skye. She had just been cleared of homicide. Augusta was at Firefly Hill, waiting to greet them. But Caroline was—as always—the surrogate mother. She wrapped Skye in a plaid blanket. She settled her in the backseat and Clea sat beside her. Caroline rode in front with their father.

The way-back was for Homer. They stopped by the pound to pick him up. Walking into the concrete building, they could hear the heartbroken howling. Handing Hugh papers to sign, the attendant went to get the dog. Caroline was sick with anticipation. She was afraid he would see his master’s killers and bare his teeth. But at the sight of her, Homer stopped his noise.

Clea had the rear hatch up to let the dog into the way-back. She had made him a bed with an old beach blanket. But walking over to the car, Hugh shut the hatch door. He looked at Caroline.

“He likes you,” he said.

“I don’t know why,” she said, looking away. “I was there when—”

“You’re helping him, Caroline,” Hugh said. “Let him ride in front with you. It’ll make him feel safe.” Her father’s expression was unfamiliar, and looking back, Caroline realized she was seeing the first signs of agonized sorrow.

Homer traveled the whole way to Connecticut with his head on Caroline’s thigh. He whimpered at first, but then he stopped. Clea had her earphones on, and she recited her French dialogue to herself. Skye, Caroline, and Hugh didn’t speak at all. But every so often Hugh would reach across the seat to pat Homer’s head. To look at Caroline and try to read her eyes. To pretend to smile.

Extraordinary ways.

Joe Connor stood in the
Meteor
’s cabin, watching the calm water. The wind had been steady all day, making waves that churned up the sea column. It had died at six, and now that it was too dark to dive, the surface was glass. He gazed forward as the line of the bow tilted up to meet the sky, then settled down. Overhead the sky was a jumble of stars. Joe looked back on his day, wishing he could have done more.

Strong currents had kept his crew away from the wreck. A weather system off Hatteras was making big waves offshore, creating a dangerous undertow. Joe had sent divers down every hour, had gone down himself in the morning, and again just before dark. But the water had been moving too fast to attempt much of anything.

Yet in the short time they had been on-site, they had moved forward. They had charted the wreck, cleared mud and sand. They had taken underwater photos, analyzed the timbers, examined the ship’s construction. Their consensus was that the ship had been built in England before 1800, probably before 1750. Based on Caroline’s letter written to Joe in 1971, he knew they had located the
Cambria.

Caroline’s letter and the gold.

They were beginning to uncover gold coins. The sea bottom was treacherous, a forest of broken spars: the vessel’s splintered masts and yards. The jagged wood could snag a diver’s air hose or slice through his wetsuit to the skin. Getting through the wreckage took care and concentration, like cutting a path through dense woods. But along the way they were finding treasure.

It cost a fortune to find a treasure. Joe was paying out of his own pocket, and he hated to see a day pass without real progress. He wanted to finish this project fast. A bunch of the guys had gone ashore to carouse at the Catspaw Tavern, and he was beginning to think he should have gone with them.

One of the launches was coming back. He heard the drone of the engine getting closer. He watched it circle the
Meteor
once, then tie up to the stern. Dan climbed aboard.

“Hey, skipper,” Dan called, coming into the wheelhouse.

“Forget something?”

“No, I just don’t feel like going out. Tired of everyone, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” Joe said. The crew got cranky on days when they couldn’t dive much. Too much togetherness, hearing each other complain. Everyone began to miss their shore lives, their wives and children or girlfriends or whomever they cared about, and it began to show. Joe, who had never really made himself a shore life, missed having one at all.

“These came for you,” Dan said, tossing some letters and a big brown envelope on the chart table. “The dockmaster asked me to deliver them.”

There was a letter from his brother Sam. He’d been feeling lonely, restless at sea, and the sight of the letter made him glad. At first glance the big envelope looked official. Probably lab work on the sail and timber fragments he’d sent to Woods Hole, or historical documentation from his friend in the map department at Yale. But then he saw the familiar handwriting. He would have known it anywhere. He wondered why Caroline would be writing to him now. Only one way to find out. Laying the other mail aside, he ripped open the package.

It contained a thick sheaf of photocopied papers. Joe glanced at them; they were dated 1769, written in small, neat penmanship. Caroline had sent a note on pale blue stationery. He could see by the telltale smudges that she had used a fountain pen, and he remembered that she had sometimes used one when they were kids.

Dear Joe,

My niece showed me this diary, and I thought it might interest you. It was written by Clarissa Randall, whose mother was the woman who ran away with the captain of the Cambria
.
I
haven’t read it all the way through, but it tells a little about what life was like living at a lighthouse in the 1700s, having one of your parents run away for the love of someone else and never come back home. Sounds too familiar…

It made me wonder if that’s why you’re diving on the Cambria. Not that it’s any of my business, of course. I can’t imagine how you’re going to react to getting this from me, but I hope you’ll take it in the spirit of scholarship. I do feel partly responsible for you being here, after all. Visiting my mother at Firefly Hill, I looked out the window and saw your boats. I felt kind of proud, actually.

The flowers you sent Skye were beautiful.

Yours,

Caroline

Joe glanced at the diary. Starting out, he had control of his feelings. He read the first few entries; it looked like the real thing, a faithfully reproduced handwritten account by a member of the woman’s family. It contained descriptions of the area, a little about her family life. But as the meaning of Caroline’s letter sank in, he felt the heat rising in his neck. Dan was right beside him, and Joe kept his face free of expression.

“She’s a brave woman,” he said.

“What?” Dan asked.

“Nothing,” Joe said. Brave or crazy, he thought. What the hell kind of nerve did she have, making parallels between the
Cambria
and his family? Death and infidelity. Not exactly the kind of stuff he wanted to think about. Coming up here, he knew he’d have to face complicated emotions connected to his father. But he was a grown man, sober a long time, and he had put the past behind him, regardless of what Caroline Renwick might think.

Then, to make his night complete, he opened the letter from Sam. Knowing what it said, he read it anyway. He must have groaned, because Dan looked over.

“The kid still coming?” Dan asked.

“Yep,” Joe said.

“He likes shipwrecks, huh? How’s it feel to be a role model?”

“Fucking wonderful,” Joe said, smiling ruefully.

“Kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that,” Dan said, chuckling. “You send him packing every time, but he keeps coming back for more.”

“He’s tough,” Joe said quietly.

The night was still. The
Meteor
rocked on the quiet sea. Joe stood at his chart table, staring at the letters. The green-shaded lamp threw soft light, easy on the eyes. Waves slapped the hull. Maybe he should ask Caroline out here so she could see that the excavation was about gold and scholarship, nothing messy and emotional. He wanted daylight, so he could work and dive. He didn’t want to think about the people in his life, the people who could make him feel the way he did inside right now. Sad and angry, and as though he had lost something he couldn’t quite name.

Caroline stood at the top of Serendipity Hill and stared out to sea. She was out of breath from climbing the steep and narrow trail. She gazed over the towns of Hawthorne and Black Hall, followed the Ibis River to where it met the Connecticut, then into Long Island Sound. Lights twinkled throughout the area. Caroline counted two lighthouses along the Connecticut coast and four across the Sound, on Long Island. She saw lights on a ship and wondered whether it was the Meteor.

A nightbird called up the hill. It sounded lonely and beautiful and reminded Caroline of nights on the mountain. She rested for a minute, sitting very still and trying to locate the bird in the trees. Its song was clear, coming from a grove of dark pines. The air smelled spicy. An owl swept through, its wings beating loudly.

As much as Caroline had hated the hunts, there had been parts of them she loved. The feeling of solitude, hiking up narrow paths that gave onto vistas of sweeping beauty, blue valleys heavy with summer haze. Sleeping outside, the feeling of air moving on her bare arms, had made her feel free. Caroline had always loved nature. She had loved the surprise of hiking, of coming across an animal or bird she hadn’t expected to see. She just hadn’t liked killing them.

Her father had tried to teach his daughters his sport, but you can’t impose blood lust on those who don’t have it. Caroline remembered killing the fox. She had felt like a murderer. It had been December, and that night she had seen the northern lights for the first time. She had held the fox in her arms. Its body had kept her warm.