Firefly Beach (2 page)

It was a man with a gun.

He forced his way into the house. His gun was shaking in his hand. He closed the door behind him, as if he were a polite guest instead of a robber. Caroline and Clea huddled tight against their mother’s legs. Her voice was calm but high, and she asked the man please to leave her children alone, to let them go, to not hurt them.

The man started to cry.

He pointed the gun at Caroline. Then at Clea. Then at Augusta. The black gun waved in the air as if it had ideas of its own. It kept coming back to point at Caroline. She stared at it, its small, mean-looking hole, and she knew that was where the bullet was. Even more awful than the gun was the man crying. Until that moment, Caroline had not known adults ever cried. She had never seen her mother or her father cry. The terrible sight choked her throat. She clutched her mother’s thigh. The man’s eyes kept darting to the photograph of their house, Firefly Hill, a study for a famous painting by her father.

“He’s taken her,” the man said. “Taken her away from me. Stolen her love, stolen everything I ever wanted, and now I’ve come to take what’s his.”

“What do you mean? Who are you talking about? You’re wrong, it’s a mistake—” Augusta began, her voice stronger than his.

“Your husband, Mrs. Renwick,” he said. “I have the right man. He’s with my wife at this moment. Do you doubt me? He’s taken what I love from me, and I’m going to take what he loves from him.”

“What he loves?” Augusta asked, and Caroline noticed her mother’s hands shaking on her shoulder.

“His daughters.”

Augusta gasped. Caroline heard that horrible high sound and couldn’t believe it was coming from her mother. She pressed closer to her mother’s legs, face-to-face with Clea. Clea looked scared and worried, her lower lip pushed out like when she was a baby, her thumb inching toward her mouth. Caroline gave Clea’s thumb a small push, and in it went.

“Let them go,” Augusta said softly. “They’ve done nothing to hurt you. They’re innocent children. Let them be safe. You don’t want to hurt them. I can see you’re a good man. You’re crying, you’re a sensitive person. They’re just little girls….”

“We have a son,” the man said. He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to a picture. His hand fumbled, and the picture fluttered. At the sight of it, the man choked and sobbed. “My boy,” he cried. “Oh, God.”

Caroline saw the smiling face of a little boy about her age. He had blond hair and big blue eyes, and he looked like his father. “He’s her pride and joy. We were so happy, all of us together. So happy. Oh, the day he was born…” The man hung his head and wept.

“What’s his name, Mr….? What’s your little boy’s name?” Caroline asked suddenly.

“Joe. Joe Connor. That’s his name. Come here,” the man said, roughly grabbing Caroline’s arm and pulling her away from her mother. He held her tight, and she heard a click come from the gun.

“No,” Augusta wailed. “Please, Mr. Connor. Don’t hurt her!”

“Shut up,” the man said.

Caroline had never heard anyone tell her mother to shut up before, and she recoiled as if she’d been slapped. She looked up at the man and wondered if he was crazy. His eyes were terribly sad, sadder than any picture or real-life person Caroline had ever seen. Because of the excruciating sorrow in his blue eyes, she didn’t feel afraid. She felt sorry for him instead.

“Don’t say shut up to my mommy,” Caroline said firmly.

“I want my sister,” Clea cried, reaching her arms toward Caroline as their mother restrained her.

“Joe wouldn’t want you to do this, Mr. Connor,” Augusta said. “He wouldn’t want you to scare my little girls, he wouldn’t like to think of his father with a gun…. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll make my husband stop seeing her. You have my word.”

“What good is a person’s word,” the man asked, “when her husband doesn’t love her anymore? When he loves someone else? You might as well promise me you’ll stop the year from ending. It’s over. It’s all over now.”

Caroline stood with the man’s arm around her. She watched her mother’s face. It melted like a warm candle. Her eyes drooped and her mouth frowned and tears poured down her cheeks. Caroline was watching her mother cry, now the second adult she had ever seen, and the sight of her mother’s tears, more than the man’s threat, suddenly filled Caroline with real panic.

“Take me,” Augusta begged. “Let Caroline go. Take me and the baby instead. If you have to kill someone, kill us. But let her go!”

Her mother’s voice rose on the word “go.” It soared like a scream, like the wind howling through the trees on the hill.

“Let her go,” the man repeated, blinking suddenly and swallowing his own tears. He looked at Caroline, then away, as if he didn’t really want to see her.

“Please,” Augusta said. “Take me. Take our baby.”

“Don’t say that,” the man said, staring at Augusta’s big belly.

The man gazed back at Caroline; he let himself linger on her eyes. They stared at each other, and Caroline felt herself getting less scared. A smile flickered on the man’s lips. His hands trembling, he reached down to brush the hair out of her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Caroline.”

“You’re Joe’s age.”

“I’m five now.”

“Caroline,” the man said, talking directly to her with tears running freely down his cheeks. “I came to take what your father loves, but I can’t do it. I can’t shoot a little girl like you.”

“No,” she agreed, and she had a sudden good feeling. As if everything would work out well.

“But he did this. Your father did this.”

“Did what? My daddy did what?” Caroline asked, wanting to understand. Her mouth was dry. Reaching for the man’s hand, her fingers ruffled the picture of Joe. “My daddy did what?” she asked again.

“Killed my family,” the man said with a sob just as he raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

The shot exploded in Caroline’s ears. The burning smell of gunpowder made her gag, and the weight of the man crushed her to the floor. Blood poured out of his mouth and from the hole where he had shot out the side of his head. Her black hair was wet with it. She couldn’t breathe because his body was on top of her. She screamed for her mother, crying with terror.

But her eyes were on the boy. Smiling up at Caroline was Joe Connor, six years old, his picture lying on the floor right under her face. The little boy whose father had just killed himself instead of Caroline or Clea or their mother and the new baby, whose mother didn’t love him enough, who would never see his father again.

When Augusta Renwick, weeping, managed to pull the man’s dead body off her daughter, she clutched Caroline to her breast and wiped some of the blood off her face and tried to hear what Caroline was saying to the picture of the little boy.

“I want my daddy,” Caroline was crying. “I want my daddy now.”

December 30, 1969

Dear Joe Connor,

I am your friend. Because your father came to our house and showed me your picture. I am sorry that he died, very very sorry.

Sincerely yours,

Caroline Renwick

January 14, 1970

Dear Caroline Renwick,

My father showed you my picture? He was nice and laughed a lot. We played baseball at Cardine Field. My father had a heart attack with you. I am glad you were with him.

Your friend,

Joe Connor

JUNE 2000

I
T WAS THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR
. T
HE FULL MOON
was rising out of the sea. The old dog lay on the grass beside Caroline, his chin resting on folded paws. Caroline, her mother, and her sisters sat in white wicker chairs. The gathering had an edge; family ghosts were circling around.

Caroline Renwick felt like a matriarch, but she was just the oldest sister. She loved her family. They were strong yet vulnerable, ordinary women who happened to be exceptional. Sometimes she felt she spent too much time with them, shepherding them along like a flock of eccentric sheep. Whenever that happened, she would jump on a plane, go on a business trip. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was far enough away to give her mind a rest. But for right now, she was home.

As the moon rose, it grew smaller and colder, lost its pinkness and became silver. Stirred and panting, Homer raised his head from his paws…to watch. “Oh, girls,” Augusta Renwick said, looking at her three daughters once it was entirely up.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Augusta asked, staring out at Long Island Sound.

“A full moon on the longest day of the year,” said Caroline. “That has to be a good omen.”

“You’re always looking for signs,” Clea teased. “A full moon, shooting stars…”

“The North Star,” Skye said. “Caroline taught me how to find it the last night I was ever really happy.”

“The last
what?”
Augusta asked, smiling.

“Mom…” Caroline warned.

“My last happy night,” Skye said sadly. She stumbled slightly on the words, making Caroline wonder how much she had already had to drink.

“You’re happy
now,
darling,” Augusta said. “Don’t be ridiculous. How can you say something like that?”

“Easily,” Skye said softly, staring at the old dog Homer.

“Mom…” Caroline started again, racking her brain for something light and conversational.

“Oh, Skye. Stop now,” Augusta said, looking wounded. “We’re celebrating the summer solstice! Let’s get back to talking about stars….”

“The North Star…” Clea said, laughing. “I don’t need it anymore. If I want to go somewhere, I’ll call my travel agent. No more hiking, no more hunting for this girl.”

“Don’t need
any
stars,” Skye said.

“We all need stars,” Augusta said. Then she said it again, as if it were very important: “We all need stars.”

“We need cocktails,” Skye said. “Isn’t it time? The sun’s down, the moon’s up. There: I’ve got signs too. It’s the cocktail hour. Right, Homer?” The ancient golden retriever thumped his tail.

“Well, it is,” Augusta agreed, checking her small gold watch for added confirmation. She glanced at Caroline and Clea as if she expected them to interfere. Watching her mother, Caroline was reminded of a teenage girl on the brink of doing something her parents would disapprove of, daring them to stop her. Hearing no objections, Augusta walked into the house.

“Cocktails,” Skye said to Homer.

“Drinking’s not the answer,” Caroline said. Instead of acting offended, Skye blew her a kiss. After all this time, their roles in life were clear: Skye misbehaved, and Caroline cleaned up.

Caroline shifted in her chair. She felt an unease deep down, worry mixed with fear. Lately she had been restless, cranky, dissatisfied with her bountiful life. She looked at Skye and saw a person she loved throwing herself away. She had to fight to keep from saying something sharp. For all these years, Caroline had been the glue holding her youngest sister together, and she felt as if Skye might finally be coming undone.

“Simon’s not back, is he?” Clea asked, referring to Skye’s scoundrel artist husband. “He’s not coming tonight?”

“No, is Peter?” Skye asked, referring to Clea’s husband, a hospital chaplain.

“No, he took the kids out for pizza,” Clea replied.

“Peter’s such a good guy,” Caroline said, “wanting a night out with his kids.”

“Caroline, how was your date the other night?” Clea asked.

“Fine,” Caroline said, smiling as she shrugged.

“Who, that poor investment banker who drove all the way up from New York just to learn he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell—” Skye began.

“Okay.” Caroline laughed, getting up. “Enough.” Thirty-six and never been married. The only Renwick girl never to tie the knot or even come close, she knew her sisters wished they could do something about her die-hard singleness.

“Seriously,” Skye teased, tripping over the “s’s.” “Two hundred miles in his 500SL to find out you don’t kiss on the first—”

“I’ll see what Mom’s up to,” Caroline said, walking away so she wouldn’t have to hear how drunk Skye sounded.