Firefly Beach (21 page)

“To shut me up,” Caroline said. “Animal instinct, I don’t know. I think he wanted to rip my throat out, but he kissed me instead.”

“You’ve missed him,” Clea said.

Caroline nodded, miserable.

“Don’t be ashamed about that,” Clea said softly.

“It’s still there, the connection,” Caroline said. “We read each other. He knows about Skye, that she drinks. I didn’t want to tell him too much, but he guessed. She’s broken, Clea. I saw her in the hospital today, and I don’t think she’ll ever be okay again.”

“She will be,” Clea said.

“How do you know?”

“Because we love her,” Clea said. “And love is all there is.”

Caroline looked up. Clea smiled, filled with tenderness for Caroline. Clea watched Caroline’s face change. “I told Skye the opposite today. That love can’t fix everything.”

“Then you were wrong,” Clea said. She believed in love. She believed in it hard and strong, with everything she had. With all the grief in their life, the methods of violence, she knew that their love for each other had saved them so far. It had made them strong. And watching Caroline right now, Clea knew that her big sister had suffered as much as Skye.

Maybe even more than Skye. And Clea believed that the love Caroline needed, the one that was going to help her, was sitting offshore right then. In a boat, on the waves, over a murderous reef within sight of the house where it had all begun, Caroline Renwick’s true love was waiting. Clea knew it. Gazing at her sister, she glowed with such tender affection, she thought her face would crack.

“He has a brother,” Caroline said. “I met him.”

“I’m happy for him,” Clea said. “Sisters are better, but brothers are good.”

Caroline was silent after that. She looked everywhere except at Clea.

“So,” Clea said. “Joe Connor finally kissed you.”

“Hmmm,” Caroline said, wiping her eyes. “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” Clea said, smiling even wider. But even as she said it, she knew she had just told a lie. She had used the wrong word; she should have said “everything.”

On the porch that night with Peter, Clea sipped lemonade and watched her children chase fireflies. It was time for bed, but they were keyed up, and they ran though the side yard with wild abandon. They swooped and yelled, trying to stave off bedtime for a few more minutes. When they stopped, when she and Peter tucked them in, their eyelids would flutter and close within seconds.

“Why are you so quiet?” Peter asked, his rocker creaking on the wide floorboards.

“I’m worried about my sister.”

“Skye? She’s getting the help she needs—if she’ll take it…you know it’s up to her in the end.”

“Not Skye. Caroline.”

“Why?”

Clea’s eyes filled with tears. “She’s so armor-coated. Ever since we were little she’s been that way. So busy looking out for us, making sure Skye and I were happy and taken care of.”

“She’s a good sister.”

“The best,” Clea said.

“So why are you worried about her?”

“I want her to fall in love,” Clea said.

“She will when it’s time.”

A picture of Caroline, her eyes haunted, her arms around Skye, came back to Clea. They were at Redhawk, and Skye had just shot a person dead. “Caroline’s always been there for us,” Clea said. “Both times…”

“Both shootings?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Clea said. She had been only three when James Connor had come into their house, but she remembered Caroline holding her, standing between Clea and the gun, shielding her with her own body.

“That’s because she loves you,” Peter said.

“Why did God put such violence in our lives?” Clea asked, taking his hand. “Such terrible things? Why did He put those deaths in our lives?”

“Maybe to show you how much you love each other,” Peter said, using his handkerchief to dry Clea’s eyes.

“We do,” she whispered, thinking of Caroline, wishing and praying that she would let down her guard, let someone love her the way she loved them.

“Caroline has been afraid,” Peter said. “I think we know that’s what her traveling is all about.”

“She acts so brave, but she’s not.”

“No, she’s not,” Peter agreed.

“How lucky we are,” Clea said, sniffling. “You and I.”

Peter didn’t reply, but he held her a little tighter. Words weren’t necessary just then. Clea looked up at the sky in time to see a shooting star. It made her suddenly feel so happy, she had to hold back tears.

August 30, 1978

Dear Caroline,

Had any good dreams lately? Maybe you don’t like motorboats. I’m wondering if that’s why I haven’t heard from you lately.

I went spearfishing off Breton Point yesterday. The surf gets pretty crazy there, and I got really pounded. The America’s Cup boats were sailing by, and I started wondering if you like sailing. Or if maybe you’d want to come to Newport to see the Cup boats. They’re Twelve-Meters, really sleek and beautiful. My dad used to take me to see them. The next race is in 1980. I’m hoping I can find a way to crew on one.

Write soon. Hey, are you going out with anyone?

Still your friend,

Joe

November 24, 1978

Dear Joe,

Sorry I haven’t written lately. Actually, I was embarrassed about telling you my dream. I’d never told anyone that before. No, I’m not going out with anybody.

I’ve never seen the Twelve-Meters in person. My father has painted them before, and he’s hung out with some of the sailors. He talks about Ted Hood and Baron Bich, and this brash young guy named Ted Turner who reminds my dad of himself. He says art collectors love the Twelves.

That’s a long way of saying yes. I’d really love to come to Newport. But how?

Love,

Caroline

“M
AN
,
YOU ARE EQUIPPED
,” S
AM SAID
,
DRINKING HIS
morning coffee in the chart room with Joe. His eyes were big, his tone admiring as he carefully examined the
Meteor’
s electronics. He looked over the satellite equipment, from communications to engine room monitoring. He noted the airtime access routes via nautical programs like INMARSAT and AMSC and nodded approvingly.

Leaning over the computer station, he played with the navigation software. He clicked the keyboard, displaying a chart of Long Island Sound.

“You can read the charts either north up or course up, just like on radar,” Joe explained. “The program interfaces with our depth sounder and autopilot, automatically figures in tides and currents. Under way, we can upload and download to the GPS receivers and exchange waypoint data.”

“That’s the difference between gold hunters and federal funding,” Sam said. “I’m out there tracking humpback whales on an ancient rustbucket, where the idea of modern electronics is radar and the oldest GPS in existence. Shit, Joe,” Sam said, downloading bathymetric charts, watching the graphic fly by. “Blindingly fast.”

Joe smiled, then took a big gulp of coffee. He had not seen his brother in a few months, and the first thing Sam wanted to do was check out the new technology. It made Joe uncomfortable the way Sam looked up to him so blatantly. The kid had a short break from his own research, but he had flown down from Nova Scotia to interview for university jobs and spend his free time aboard Joe’s boat. It bugged Joe, but he couldn’t pretend it didn’t please him too.

“So, what’s happening down below?” Sam asked. “You making progress on the wreck?”

“It’s slow, but yeah,” Joe said. “I’d forgotten how murky New England water is. Cold and filled with particulate, makes it hard to work.”

“Pretty funny, considering you’re a New Englander born and bred,” Sam said.

“Been a long time since I’ve lived up here,” Joe said stonily.

Sam laughed. “Yeah, but you still sound like one. All crusty and cantankerous. You want to be one of those Florida guys who gets fat walking the beach and fishing the Keys, but forget it. You’re too much of a codger.”

“A codger. Hmmph,” Joe said sternly. No one saw through him like Sam, and no one else could get away with saying the things Sam did. Joe did his best to keep the older-brother barrier up, and Sam did his best to rip it down.

“That what Caroline thinks of you?” Sam asked, laughing.

“Caroline?” Joe asked, startled by her name.

“Yeah. I was kind of surprised to see you with her. I mean, she’s a Renwick, and I know how you feel about the old man….”

“We had some unfinished business,” Joe said, his mouth tightening. “It’s finished now.”

“She seemed nice,” Sam said. “Growing up, the way you and Mom’d talk about them, I got the idea all Renwicks were bad folks. Really wicked, you know?”

“She’s not wicked,” Joe said. “She’s just the wrong guy’s daughter.”

“You gonna hold people’s fathers against them, what does that say about me?” Sam asked. Joe leaned over the computer, pushing the zoom-in key for a closer look at the chart. He punched another key for the sea-surface temperature. His mouth was dry. Joe and his stepfather had never gotten along. Sam knew it, and he was driving home a point Joe didn’t want to face.

“Drop it,” Joe said quietly.

“It’s just that I had the feeling I showed up at the wrong time last night,” Sam said. “Seemed like you two were in the middle of something.”

“I told you,” Joe said. “We’d finished what we had to say to each other. Now, you gonna get dressed, or what?”

“I’m dressed,” Sam said blankly, standing there in his shorts and WHOI tee-shirt. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide and still sleepy.

“Get into your wetsuit. I’ll take you down to the wreck, show you around,” Joe said.

“Great!” Sam said, leaving his coffee mug on the chart table as he stumbled over a spare searchlight waiting to be installed. Shaking his head, Joe carried the cups down to the galley. Sam was like a big clumsy puppy waiting to grow into his paws. But he did see things. He saw through Joe like no one else.

Passing through the main salon, Joe thought of last night. He had kissed Caroline Renwick. Right here, he thought. Her perfume lingered in the air. The ship smelled like salt, diesel, coffee, and fish, but Joe was stopped dead by the scent of jasmine. He shook his head, walked on.

Caroline. He had had no business kissing her. The point was, he hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t had much of a choice. His arms had slipped around her, his mouth had found her lips, his voice had whispered her name. It was as if Joe himself had had nothing to do with it.

Joe Connor would never kiss Caroline Renwick. Hate was a strong word, but it could honestly be said that Joe hated the Renwick family. He had drunk over it, guzzling scotch and feeling the ill will burn down with the liquor.

But facts were facts. Joe was a scientist, and he understood the irrefutable truth of certain data. He had stood in this room last night with his arms around a beautiful woman, their bodies pressed together and her tongue working hot magic, and he had wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone. She had whispered shivers down his spine, mustered the hair on his arms to stand on end. He had held her with more tenderness than he knew he had; he hadn’t wanted to let her off the ship.

That moment at the end, when she had told him how she had cared for his father and for Joe himself—how she hadn’t been able to get Joe out of her mind—had pushed him over the edge. The compassion in her voice, all directed at him, was too much to handle. He could have walked away or kissed her; too bad anger still had him by the scruff of his neck. He wanted to be done with it; he really did. That familiar lifelong resentment.

“Ready?” Sam asked, flashed with excitement. He stood in the companionway, zipping up his wetsuit. Looking at his brother, Joe thought of the youngest Renwick sister. He had sensed Caroline’s anguish, felt grateful he didn’t have to worry about Sam that way.