Firefly Beach (17 page)

The words hung in the air, reminding Caroline of the failures of love. People tried so hard, but they often missed the most important connections. Slowly she looked out to sea, toward the white boat shining in the sun. She thought of Skye drunk, wanting to see Joe. Their tragedies were linked, there was no getting away from it.

Not even by taking the night flight to Scotland.

“This is lovely. Thank you for coming over to swim with me,” Augusta said.

“It was my best swim of the summer,” Caroline said, wishing she could give her mother something bigger, something more.

“I’m tired,” Augusta said, gathering her things. “It’s been so nice, sitting on the beach with you. Being together. That’s all that counts, Caroline. When all is said and done, being together is the only thing that matters.”

Augusta struggled to stand. Her feet slipped a little in the sand, but she caught her balance. As Caroline reached out her hand to help her to her feet, she was filled by a surge of love for her mother, for the way her mother lived, for the fears her mother tried so hard to bury, for the things her mother would never know. Caroline felt such tenderness for her mother, growing old, she bit her lip.

Homer must have seen the women approaching. He was on his feet, and he let out a joyful bark. Standing on the top step, atop the ledge, he was the sentry of Firefly Hill. He barked again and again, full of greeting and expectation.

“He must be hungry,” Caroline said.

“No, dear,” Augusta said, smiling as she checked to make sure her black pearls were still around her neck. “He’s just happy we’re on our way home.”

Caroline didn’t say anything, and the expression on her face didn’t change. But walking along the beach, she felt strangely joyful. Soon the fireflies would come out, begin their nightly dance. There was the
Meteor,
across the sea to her right; she had no idea what tonight’s meeting would be like. But the sand felt cool under her bare feet, walking just below the tide line, and she had to hold herself back from taking Augusta’s hand. She was thirty-six years old, but it still made her feel so happy when her mother sounded like a mother.

July 7, 1978

Dear Joe,

I know we keep wishing for treasure from the Cambria to surface, but yesterday something great did happen. My mother and I went swimming, and I saw some gold glinting in the sand. Just as if a firefly had dropped down! I ran to pick it up, and it was a bracelet. Not from the Cambria, but from my very own family! My father had given it to my mother a long time ago, and she had lost it last summer. So it sat under the sand all winter, safe and sound, waiting for us to find it.

Don’t give up hope, Joe: next time it’ll be gold coins, and I’ll send you one.

With love,

Caroline

July 15, 1978

Dear Caroline,

That sand is keeping more than your mother’s bracelet safe. Those old ship spars are probably still in perfect condition. It’s really great about the bracelet though. I wish I could go walking on a beach and find my father’s gold watch. He always wore it, and sometimes I wish I had it.

Things are weird. If you’re not careful, you can start missing things you barely remember.

Take care, C.

Joe

P.S. You really
do
have magic fireflies.

T
HAT NIGHT
,
JUST BEFORE EIGHT O
’
CLOCK
, C
AROLINE
sat in her car at the dock waiting for Joe to pick her up. The evening had turned cold and crystal-clear, the sea flat calm without a whisper of wind. The sun had just gone down, and the horizon was deep red and purple, the sky darkening through shades of silver to violet to jet. The ocean was a sheet of onyx.

Caroline watched the launch approach fast, its running lights glowing against the sunset. She walked down to the dock, feeling nervous. The chill stirred her blood, heightened her awareness. Her father had taught them to pay attention to fear, to rely on their instincts. The back of her neck tingled, but it could have been the night air.

Wary, she raised a hand in greeting. Joe reached up to help her down from the dock to the skiff, and she handed him the bottle of wine she had brought. She wore jeans and a soft beige cashmere sweater over a silk tee-shirt; she slipped on the thick navy wool jacket she had carried from the car.

“Good idea,” he said, nodding. “It’s cold out on the water.”

“Thought it might be,” Caroline said.

“Clear and fine,” he said, looking at the sky.

“Clear nights are sometimes the coldest,” Caroline replied, wondering if they’d be talking about the weather all night. She tried a smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for sending me the diary,” Joe said, smiling back.

He gunned the engine. The eighteen-foot skiff took off so fast, it nearly knocked Caroline off her feet. She hung on to the side rail, maintaining her balance. She was not going to let Joe see her hit the deck. She had a sailor’s pride, and she made note of the fact he was driving like a jerk.

Spray flew back from the bow, tickling Caroline’s face. The loud engine made conversation impossible. Joe stood at the console. All his concentration was on driving the boat. She found herself staring at his wrists. He was wearing a dark green chamois shirt with most of the nap worn off, and he had pushed back his sleeves. His wrists were bare, sturdy, covered with curly blond hair. They were safer to look at than his face. Glancing across the water, she spotted Firefly Beach, its grasses glowing with green-gold irridescence.

Several larger boats appeared in the distance. Bright lights illuminated the stem of one, and the plume of sand Caroline had seen from Firefly Hill was arcing out of the sea. People milled about on deck. Joe throttled back, said something she could not hear into the microphone. Someone replied, more static than human voice. Joe slowed down even more, so their approach was a quiet slap, slap over the small waves.

Red-and-white diving flags dotted the surface in two places. Joe steered the long way around to avoid them. He made the skiff fast to a ladder in the stern of the smaller boat. They climbed aboard.

The scene was exciting, the aftermath of chaos. A compressor thumped like a steam engine; the force of sand and seawater spitting twenty feet into the air rasped like a geyser. Divers in scuba gear lined the boat rail. Others swam between the boat and the flags, their sleek black heads glossy, like seals. Two people sat on deck, using soft brushes to clean sand off what looked like barnacle-encrusted baseballs.

“Hey, skipper,” one of the men called. Motioning for Caroline to follow, Joe walked over. He bent down to hear what the guy was saying. He nodded, replied. Reaching down, he handed one of the balls to Caroline. Small enough to fit in the palm of Joe’s hand, it appeared to have been underwater a very long time. Barnacles and mossy green seaweed covered its entire surface.

The ball weighed more than a barbell. It tugged Caroline down, she nearly lost her grip. Joe spoke, but she couldn’t hear him over the compressor. She shrugged. Joe was grinning, possibly at how she had nearly dropped the weight on her toe.

“A cannonball. We found it today,” Joe said, his lips against her ear.

“Wow,” Caroline said, excited in spite of herself. She bent down for a closer look at the objects. There was a pile of coins, similarly covered by sea growth. Joe picked one up. He slid the coin into her hand. The barnacles were sharp and felt rough against her palm.

“From the
Cambria,
” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

She turned it over, examining it. She tried to give it back, but Joe closed his hand around hers, giving it a rough push. His grip was so hard, it made the barnacle dig into her hand.

“Keep it,” he said.

“Thanks,” Caroline said, peering at her scraped palm.

The lights illuminating the sea were blinding, white-blue. The two large boats were rafted together; Joe helped Caroline climb over the rails, stepping from the smaller of the two boats to the larger. It was seventy feet long, sleek and magnificent, equipped for work. Everything was gleaming white fiberglass, stainless steel, aluminum. Caroline glanced into the wheelhouse, saw instruments and gauges blinking everywhere. It reminded her of the lair of some futuristic, mad oceanographer.

Everyone was busy, but they were noticing her and Joe. He led her from group to group, shouting introductions. Caroline nodded pleasantly, shook a lot of wet and cold hands. She was aware of the fact people were sizing her up. Did that mean they were comparing her to other women Joe brought out there? Or was she unusual, did he rarely bring women out at all? What difference did it make?

She stood in the wheelhouse while Joe called everyone together on deck. He gathered them in a huddle, said a few words, and the next thing she knew, the compressor was being shut down. The lights were turned out. En masse, like revelers leaving a party, the crew climbed aboard the smaller vessel. Someone started it up, and someone else moved the skiff, tying it off to a cleat at the stern of the big boat. Then everyone waved, and the boat chuffed away.

“That’s better, don’t you think?” Joe asked. “Now I can hear you. It was really pretty noisy.” He was about six inches from Caroline. His hair was tousled and nearly as wet as if he’d been diving himself. He had a careless, rakish smile, a sharp expression in his dark blue eyes.

“What just happened?” she asked.

“I sent them to your inn,” he said. “Gave them the night off.”

“Really?” she asked, suspicious. “Alone at sea with Joe Connor. Are you planning to throw me overboard?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I just thought we had a few years to catch up on, and I didn’t want the whole crew listening in.”

“You didn’t have to do that on my account,” Caroline said, although she was secretly happy. To have a man cease and desist operations just so they could have a quiet conversation together was nice.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Joe asked, and Caroline realized that he was holding the bottle she’d brought in his left hand. “Or something else?”

“Wine, please,” Caroline said. “That would be fine.”

He disappeared below for a moment, returned with a wineglass, a corkscrew, and a glass of what looked like juice for himself. They went up out on deck, into the cold night air. It felt brisk and sharp. The stars were just coming out, sparks of fire in the sky.

They leaned against the rail. With everyone gone, the ship was suddenly silent and very dark. Small waves splashed the hull. The generator hummed down below, but the sound was unobtrusive, even comforting. Green light from the loran screen glowed serenely in the wheelhouse, along with the warmth of a brass lamp. Caroline felt tension in her shoulders.

“This is beautiful,” she said.

“You always loved the water,” he said. “Saltwater.”

“I still do.”

“Me too.”

“It’s great that you’re able to make your living out here. When did you first get the idea, hunting for treasure?”

“When I got your letter about the
Cambria,
” he said.

She laughed, sipping her wine. “No, I’m serious.”

“So am I. But the thought grew stronger when I was in graduate school. I did my first cruise in the Indian Ocean, on a small oceanographic ship researching sediment and salinity. But we snagged a wreck in our dredges, a ship dating back a thousand years or so, and it piqued my interest. A lot of gold came up that day.”

“A thousand years?”

“Yeah. A Turkish ship in the silk trade, loaded with sapphires and rubies, gold medallions, statues, and ingots. Amber beads. Coins from the year 990.”

“Amazing,” Caroline said, imagining the thrill of Joe’s first time on a ship that brought up treasure. “Did you ever actually work as an oceanographer?”

“For a few years. I worked at Scripps, in La Jolla, then at Woods Hole. But in my free time, all my reading seemed to be about wrecks. You know, local legends, failed dive attempts, anything I could find. On my vacations I’d travel to the most likely sites, size them up. I saved some money, did a real dive, and came up with enough stuff to sell and finance the next one.”

“And you gave up oceanography altogether?”

Joe shook his head. “Never. I use it all the time. In some ways I practice it more now. I’m just not attached to an institution.”

“And here you are, diving on the
Cambria,
” Caroline said, staring at the black water.

“I never forgot it,” Joe said. “All this time, no matter which ocean I was in. I’d think of the
Cambria,
lying in New England water, and I knew I had to come here.”

“Is it what you hoped for?”

“Yes,” Joe said, staring at the black water as if he could see through it.