“I couldn’t bear the humiliation.”
“You’ll be dead,” Libby said bluntly.
“It would all have been for nothing. Can’t you see that?”
The question loomed between them. Finally, not wanting to know but not able to help herself, Libby voiced it. “Have you kept in touch with this person?”
“I’ll tell you, Libba Jane, but not now, not yet. I need to hold on to something.”
“You said you didn’t keep anything from Daddy. Surely he doesn’t know this.”
“He knows.”
Libby stared at her mother, imagining her as she must have been, younger, lovelier, with the same rebellious spirit as her own and Chloe’s, only magnified a hundred times more. She stood and nearly fell over. Her legs and back ached with tension. “I think I’ll go upstairs,” she said slowly. “Good night, Mama.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Libba Jane?”
Libby hesitated. She was angry, but she wasn’t clear why. She felt raw and betrayed and not at all like bestowing a gesture of affection on the one responsible for those feelings. Forcing herself, she brushed a brief kiss on her mother’s cheek.
Nola Ruth accepted the salute. “Sleep well,” she said, and pretended not to watch her daughter leave the room. They’d all left her, Coleson and Libba Jane and Chloe, forgetting that she couldn’t move. It would be Serena who lifted her into her chair and wheeled her to the downstairs bedroom that was hers alone. Cole didn’t sleep there with her. In the beginning, he’d tried to, but she wouldn’t have him. She refused to have him feel sorry for her. Pity turned so quickly to contempt. She couldn’t bear for Cole to hold her in contempt.
She rang the bell and in a moment Serena was by her side. “You here all by yourself, Miz Delacourte? What are they thinking of leaving you alone like this?”
Nola Ruth dismissed their neglect. “It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. She wanted to be alone. Her reverie had stirred the memories. Libba knew enough now. Any more wouldn’t be prudent. But there were more tantalizing tidbits from the past and she wanted to finish them. Deliberately, she removed her mind from the present, remaining passive while Serena’s cool hands settled her into her chair and wheeled her down the long hall, across the Persian carpet and into her bedroom. “I’ll sit awhile, Serena,” she said.
The black woman nodded and positioned the wheelchair by the window. “Shall I check you in an hour or so?”
Nola Ruth nodded. “Sooner, I think. I just had coffee.”
Serena found Nola’s cell phone, punched in a number and left it on the small table within reach. She patted her own pocket. “Press the button if you need anything.”
Nola didn’t answer. She was far away again. Anton Devereaux had exacted his revenge. He’d stolen her passion and her spirit, the luminous, quivery brightness that set her apart. Desire she’d felt again, but never the heady, reckless, mind-stealing heat that came over when he ran his hand down her spine.
There had been one startling encounter at the Fourth of July picnic after she’d married Cole. It was a stifling, heat-baked afternoon in the town square. Clothing clung to sweat-soaked skin. Flies swarmed around tepid lemonade glasses. Hats wilted and drooped. Noses burned and conversation lagged. Nola Ruth threw her hat on the grass and languidly waved her accordion-folded napkin. A white halter dress flattered the deep gold skin of her back. Heat didn’t bother her. Summers in New Orleans were far worse than in Maryland. Cole had gone for another beer. She could see him from her seat under the trees, deep in conversation with a neighbor. A breeze from the bay cooled her bare shoulders and lifted her hat, carrying it several feet from where she sat. Before she could move, a lean, masculine form retrieved it. “I believe this is yours,” the man said.
He wasn’t Anton, but she knew the type, or rather, she felt his pull. The magic, the desperate sexual addiction she’d felt for her first love, had begun just this way, a smoldering glance, a brushing of skin, a casual question that wasn’t casual at all. Nola reached for her hat with her left hand. She didn’t miss his gold wedding ring.
Before either of them could speak, Cole had returned. “Beau, I’d like you to meet my bride, Nola Ruth Delacourte. Nola, this is Beau Hennessey.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said breathlessly.
“You look familiar,” Beau said.
Nola’s heart stopped. “Really?”
Beau nodded but didn’t elaborate.
Nola lifted a hand to her forehead. “I’m a little dizzy, Cole. Would you mind if I went home?”
“Of course.” Coleson slipped his arm around her waist. “I knew this heat would be too much for you.”
Beau called after them. “If you think it’s hot here, you should visit the Louisiana Delta. Nice seeing you, Nola Ruth.”
After that, she didn’t see much of Beau. She had no idea if she’d met him years ago in New Orleans, but she lived in fear of finding out and avoided him as much as possible. She ran into his wife, Cora, occasionally, but the two families didn’t socialize. She’d sent a gift when Cora’s twins were born and received one of similar value when Libba made her appearance six months later, but that was all, until Libba entered grammar school.
Retribution. That was the way Nola Ruth justified her daughter’s attachment to Beau Hennessey’s son, an angry God doling out justice for the sins of her youth, the confessions missed, the novenas ignored, the penances not taken.
Serena came back into the room. “Are you ready now, Miz Nola Ruth?”
“Yes.” She smiled with half of her face. “I’ve seen enough of this day. How about you, Serena?”
The black woman groaned. “I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours today. I’ll be ready for my bed quicker’n you can say St. Joseph.”
Two hours later, Nola Ruth gave up on sleep and allowed Russ Hennessey to return to her thoughts. He was an appealing child, she admitted, with the freckled cheeks and sharply hewn features of his Irish wood-sprite mother and the blue eyes and lean-hipped, athletic grace of his father. It was more than his startling good looks that attracted Libba. Russ had the easy confidence, the absence of fear, the innate charisma that heroes are made of. From the time he was a small child, people noticed when he entered a room. On the dock, in the boats, on the football field, he stood out like newly minted silver in a stack of copper pennies. No woman, especially a book-loving, romantic, only child like Libba, could have withstood his appeal.
From their earliest acquaintance, Nola Ruth could feel their tension. It stretched between them like a tightly wound string. The worry of it kept her awake at night. Libba was brilliant and beautiful, sensitive and refined, a child of warmth and light and laughter. There were no hidden, dark-blooded stirrings to mar the perfection of her character. Nola Ruth wanted more for her than Marshyhope Creek, and she was desperately afraid that Russ Hennessey stood squarely, immovably in the way.
In the end she’d underestimated her daughter. Libba was twenty, two years into college and home for the summer when she succumbed to the inevitable, a breath of fresh air, an unfamiliar face, a casual, free-spirited liberalism that could only have come from outside the confines of Marshyhope Creek. It was difficult for Nola to admit, but she’d made a dreadful mistake. In her efforts to spare Libba from passion and despair, she’d discouraged Russ Hennessey’s suit. He would have been a much better choice for Libba. At least he would have kept her at home. Perhaps he still would. She no longer knew. The truth was she really didn’t recognize Libba Jane. The wide, melting, light-touched smile that characterized her daughter’s face had disappeared. In its place was a dignified remoteness, a pleasant, correct expression that bothered Nola Ruth every time she looked at her. And Libba was thin. She’d always been thin, but not like this, not so the bones of her face stood out, giving her an exotic, hollow-cheeked quality. Nola remembered the curvaceous, long-legged beauty of her teenaged child and shivered.
Could it really be coincidence that sent Russ back to Marshyhope Creek
at exactly the same time as Libba? The news of his arrival had thrown Nola Ruth into a state of self-absorption. She remembered the way her husband had looked at her oddly when she motioned Serena to pour coffee into his cup at the breakfast table. Cole was an herbal tea drinker who hadn’t touched caffeine since the Kennedy years.
When the gardener announced that the ferns Nola had ordered for the greenhouse had come and the driver needed to be paid, she stared blankly at the man as if she’d never spent hours painstakingly designing and ordering the flora of her custom-built hothouse. Cole, who hadn’t seen his checkbook since the day he married, left the room to deal with the driver. When he returned, it was to find Nola Ruth still aimlessly stirring the sugar she’d poured into her coffee more than ten minutes before.
“Are you all right, Nola?” he’d asked, eyeing the half-empty sugar bowl. Nola Ruth, ever figure-conscious, allowed herself jelly on toast or sugar in her coffee, never both.
She looked her husband in the eye. “How long have you known Russ Hennessey was back?”
He’d smiled and covered her hand with his own. “Beau Hennessey was my client. I knew the terms of his will. It was only a matter of time before Russ came home. He took a little longer than I expected, but he had to settle other matters. He’s a Hennessey. I don’t think he wanted his father’s life, but his family loyalty is strong. He’s the only one left. It’s up to him to keep the company going. I imagine he wasn’t too happy about settling into the same town where his ex-wife lives.” He left the coffee, found another cup on the sideboard and poured hot water over his tea bag. “Why do you ask?”
“He and Libba Jane were seeing quite a bit of each other before she left with Eric.”
Cole chuckled. “That was a long time ago, Nola. They both married other people. Surely whatever they had between them is over.”
Nola Ruth had slipped back into her reverie without bothering to answer him. Men were such fools, even brilliant, thoughtful ones like Coleson. Because Cole was a man of exceptional character, he judged all others by himself. As if it were unheard of for a woman to still be in love with a man simply because she had married someone else.
Fourteen
The rich coffee smell emanating from Perks drew Libby inside. Two teenage girls sat at a table drinking smoothies. A man hunkered over the counter reading a newspaper, holding a ceramic mug. A woman with a baby on her hip talked with Verna Lee at the cash register. Libby lined up behind her.
Verna Lee looked over the woman’s shoulder. “May I help you, Libba Jane?”
“I’ll have a cup of your coffee of the day to go, please.”
“I don’t serve my coffee in paper cups,” Verna Lee said. “It’s bad for the environment. I would have thought that would matter to you, with your new job and all.”
Libby’s cheeks flamed. There was no mistaking the woman’s tone and she wasn’t going to let it go unchallenged. “I don’t know what side of the bed you got up on this morning, Verna Lee, but I’ll have that coffee in the same kind of cup you gave Russ Hennessey the other day.”
Verna Lee filled a bright orange mug and handed it to Libby. “Feel free to take it with you. I know where to find you.”
Libby dropped two dollar bills on the counter, hooked her fingers through the handle of the mug and left the shop with her coffee. She was steaming. For pity’s sake, what ailed the woman? She hadn’t said more than a sentence to Verna Lee Fontaine in her entire life. Why the woman should have taken such a dislike to her she had no idea, and more to the point, it wasn’t worth finding out. She had more to worry about than Verna Lee’s odd fits of temper. She’d spent a restless night. Her mother’s confession had rattled her. It was as if the mother she’d grown up with had disappeared, leaving this stranger in her place. Then there was Chloe and her unwillingness to try to settle into a life here.
She unlocked the office door and glanced over at the blinking light on the fax machine. The lab reports on the stunted crabs should be back by now. Pulling the paper from the cradle, she turned on the desk lamp, settled into the chair and began to read. At the end of the page, she breathed a sigh of relief. The news wasn’t good but it wasn’t terrible, either. Fishing in the cove was prohibited, but shad and crabs near Smith Island remained unaffected. Water samples were clean. She frowned. Would Russ think it was good news? Blue Crab spawning grounds at Smith Island were nearly fifty miles away, a good two hours by boat. She checked her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning. More than likely she would find him at the dock.
He wasn’t alone. Libby heard the heated exchange even before she saw the woman. Tracy Wentworth was still small and blond with delicate features, a Marilyn Monroe voice and skin that was already showing her age. The woman greeted her warily.
“So,” Tracy began, “you’re here permanently.”
Libby smiled noncommittally. “We’ll see. It depends on a number of things, Chloe for one.”
“Tess is looking forward to meeting her,” Tracy said politely.
“Thanks for inviting her, but she won’t be attending the party.”
Tracy frowned. “Why not? Tess went to a considerable amount of trouble to get her invited.”
“I think that’s the problem. Chloe doesn’t want to go where she isn’t wanted.”
“Isn’t wanted?” Tracy’s eyebrows flew up. “How does she know she isn’t wanted?”
Loyalty to Chloe kept Libby from agreeing with Tracy. “She appreciates the invitation, but she’d rather make friends on her own.” Her eyes met Russ’s. “Thanks for trying to help, both of you.”
Tracy shrugged. “It sounds like you have a handful for a daughter, Libba Jane. Thank goodness Tess has never given me a moment’s trouble.” She glanced at Russ, who was staring at her with narrowed eyes. “I think we’re finished here. I trust that little matter we discussed won’t be brought up again.”
“Don’t count on it,” Russ said bluntly.
Tracy’s cheeks pinkened. “Be careful, Russ.” She nodded at Libby. “Nice seeing you again, Libba Jane.”
“You, too, Tracy.”
Libby sat across from Russ and waited until she heard the sound of a car engine. She tilted her head. “Good morning.”
“It was at first,” he acknowledged.
“Does she come around often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“Why not tell her to stop?”
“She has full custody of my daughter.”
“How did that happen?”
“Her daddy’s the judge.”
“What about a change of venue?”
“This is Marshyhope Creek, Libba. You’ve been gone a long time.”
She considered his answer and realized how far she’d come. Small southern towns administered their own form of justice. The legal system in California would never allow a judge to rule over his own daughter’s divorce proceedings. “There must be something you can do. She’s your daughter.”
Russ didn’t answer. He was tired of thinking about what he could do about Tess and even more tired of Tracy. How he could have been sucked into marriage with her was beyond him. He felt as if it had happened to someone else in another lifetime. The weariness was weighing him down, preventing him from going about his life. He wanted to feel alive again, to take pleasure in good food, good wine, conversation, friendship, possibly even attempt a real relationship.
He glanced at Libba, his eyes lingering on her wine-dark hair and ivory skin, her mink-brown eyes with their flecks of gold and that mouth—she had the most incredible mouth. Libba’s smile would stop people on the street. It took him down memory lane all over again.
She was staring at him, a worried look on her face. That face had haunted his dreams and been the object of every adolescent fantasy he’d ever had. He’d never once looked at Tracy Wentworth, never even noticed she was alive, when Libba was part of his life. If he stretched it a bit, he might be able to blame Libba for the current state of his life. He tapped his penci
l on the wooden desk. Hell, she might even owe him something. What would it take to get her to pay up?
“You haven’t said a word in five minutes,” Libby said. “What are you thinking?”
He decided to go for it. “I’m thinking that it’s about time we had our heart-to-heart.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I did, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I spent the better part of five years trying to figure out why you dumped me. I figure you owe me an answer.”
He saw the color rise in her cheeks. It pleased him that she was uncomfortable. He’d intended to make her uncomfortable.
“I didn’t dump you, Russ. I fell in love with someone else.”
He dropped the pencil, pushed his chair back and walked around the desk, leaning against it, arms crossed, expression formidable.
She backed away from him until she felt the wall against her back.
“I was under the impression you were in love with me,” he said relentlessly. “Do you know why I was under that impression, Libba Jane?”
She swallowed, knowing what was coming next.
Slowly, he pushed away from the desk and walked toward her, coming closer and closer until he was near enough to breathe her air. She could smell him, tobacco and soap and a faint woodsy odor that she would forever associate with Russ and home. He was too present. It was hard to draw breath. She turned her head to avoid looking at him. His hands on either side of her held her captive.
“This is ridiculous, Russ.” Her voice was low, controlled. “Let me go.”
Black hair fell across his forehead. Blue eyes burned. “I asked you a question. Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“No, I’m not.”
“I hashed it over a million times. A girl like you, a nice girl, the kind a man waits for and treats with respect, doesn’t drop her white cotton panties for just any guy. You held out for a long time, Libba Jane. Why, when everything was going right for us, did you jump ship?”
Trembling with anger, she looked directly at him, her eyes so dark the pupil and iris blended together. “I don’t wear white cotton panties anymore and maybe you didn’t know me as well as you think you did. You certainly didn’t appreciate me.”
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