Chesapeake Tide

by Jeanette Baker

  “Let me know.”

  Libby found Shelby seated outside under an enormous umbrella, a gin and tonic in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She was striking in a black-and-white sundress that revealed her bronze shoulders and sculpted cleavage. Two women, one blond, one brunette, sat beside her.

  Slowly, Libby approached the table. “Hi,” she said.

  “Well, finally,” Shelby greeted her. “I thought you were gonna cancel.”

  “Sorry. I got held up.”

  “It must be such a drag to have to work,” one of the women said.

  Shelby held up her hand for the waitress. “Libba Jane likes to work. She’s got one of those fancy degrees to prove it.”

  “My hat’s off to you, Libba,” the brunette said.

  Libby stared at her curiously. The voice was familiar but the face was not. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “My God, Libba Jane. I’m Angie Ferguson. Have I changed that much?”

  Libby’s mouth dropped. Hastily, she attempted to recover. “Y-you look wonderful,” she stammered. “Have you done something with your hair?”

  Angie patted the helmet surrounding her face. “I color it now and then.”

  She’d also lost fifty pounds, but politeness kept Libby from mentioning it. “That must be it,” she said.

  The blonde spoke up. “You remember me, Libba. I know you do. We shared a locker all through senior year.”

  Libby nodded and sat down in the empty chair. “It’s good to see you again, Beth Ann. How are you?”

  “Busy. I’m divorced with three kids under ten. Buck pays me every month, though. He’s a good daddy even if he was a lousy husband.”

  “Gin and tonics all around,” Shelby said to the waitress, who’d materialized at her elbow.

  Libby spoke up. “I’ll have iced tea, please. I have to get back to work later this afternoon.”

  Shelby removed her sunglasses. “You gotta have priorities, Libba Jane. This is Saturday at the club with the girls. Work isn’t part of it.” Without pausing for breath, she turned to her friend. “I don’t know why y’all are surprised that Buck didn’t work out, Beth Ann. With a nickname like hound dog you shoulda known he wasn’t gonna stay put.”

  “I thought I’d be the one to change him,” Beth Ann said dreamily. “We still get together now and then. Maybe he’ll come back. I wouldn’t say no.”

  Angie laughed. “If you don’t mind his tomcattin’ around.”

  Beth Ann tilted her head. “Actually, I don’t. As long as I don’t know about it, there’s no problem.”

  Libby stared into her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Verna Lee, spectacular in a red bikini, reading a magazine. She looked serene, cool and intelligent. Biting her tongue, Libby resigned herself to at least an hour of tedious conversation.

  “What’s Verna Lee doin’ here?” Angie asked.

  “Sunbathing,” Shelby answered.

  “That makes no sense,” Beth Ann observed. “She’s dark enough as it is. I still can’t believe they allow those people in here. Nothin’s the same as it used to be.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Libby said honestly.

  Shelby nodded. “Libba’s right. Verna Lee always did take the eye even now when she’s almost long in the tooth.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Shelby,” Libby snapped, “she’s five years older than we are.”

  “Nothin’s the same as it was,” said Beth Ann.

  Libby desperately wanted to go home.

  “I think you need a drink, Libba Jane,” Shelby observed. “I’ve never seen you so jumpy in your life. You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  Either she was terribly obvious or Shelby’s instincts had improved. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind that. Look who’s here.”

  Libby started to turn around.

  “No, don’t look now.” Shelby clutched her hand painfully.

  Libby winced and stared straight ahead.

  “Don’t say a word, ladies. This one’s mine.”

  Obeying Shelby’s order, Libby focused on Verna Lee turning magazine pages on the other side of the pool.

  A shadow fell across the table and Russ Hennessey’s amused voice greeted them. “Ladies, what a pleasant surprise.”

  Shelby fluttered her eyelashes and leaned over to better display her cleavage. “Why, Russ Hennessey, as I live and breathe, aren’t you the most gorgeous hunk? But then you always were.” She pretended to pout. “I can’t believe you’ve been in town for nearly a month and never once looked me up. I’ve been over to the office lots of times just to see you but you’re not there. I know Libba Jane’s seen you. I asked her to tell you to call me, but you never did, or she never did. I’m beginnin’ to thing y’all are avoidin’ me.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Shelby.” Russ kissed her cheek and looked at Libby. “I didn’t realize I had messages to call you.”

  “No one ever told me, either,” Libba replied. “Shelby, I believe your nose is growing.”

  Missing the joke entirely, Shelby gasped and covered her button nose with a beautifully manicured hand. “Libba Delacourte, it’s cruel of you to be pokin’ fun at my nose.”

  “I think she’s referring to a literary character who stretched the truth,” Russ offered.

  Libby stared at him. The Russ Hennessey she remembered had no interest or knowledge of literary references.

  Shelby sighed with relief. “Thank goodness for that. It’s bad enough havin’ to watch every little thing that goes into my mouth without worryin’ about my nose, too.” She smiled and lowered her lashes. “You have no idea how difficult it is tryin’ to keep yourself up when you’re on the wrong side of thirty. Just ask Libba.”

  Russ took one look at Libby’s outraged expression and laughed. “I don’t think I’ll do that.”

  “You remember Angie and Beth Ann.” Shelby waved at them.

  “Of course,” Russ said smoothly. “How are you, ladies?”

  “Will you join us, Russ?” Beth Ann asked.

  “Actually, I’m just passing through. Thanks, anyway.”

  Libby watched him scan the pool area, nod his head and walk out through the club entrance.

  Shelby sighed. “No wonder you never want anyone to see him, Libba Jane. He’s too good to be true.”

  “What are you talking about?” Libby asked furiously. “Russ Hennessey is an old boyfriend. The operative word is old. What was all that about telling him to call you? You never said a word. You’re acting like a cat in heat and that Scarlett O’Hara routine is ridiculous. What about your husband?”

  Shelby waved her hand vaguely. “Fletcher’s always around, but he hasn’t been too attentive lately. He’s got somethin’ else on his mind. I think I’m gonna forget all that advice you gave me about staying married and go after Russ. Lord, Libba, he was gorgeous when we were kids, but who’d ever think a man could look like that in his late thirties?”

  “Amen,” agreed Angie.

  “He’s not any older than we are and we don’t look all that bad, either,” Libby returned.

  “My looks take hours in front of a mirror. I bet he rolls outta bed like that when he wakes up in the morning.” Shelby gave Libby a speculative look. “Not that you’d know what he looks like first thing in the mornin’, or do you?”

  “Of course not.” Libby’s hands clenched. “And I want you to stop being absurd. You can’t flirt with Russ like you do everyone else. He doesn’t know you anymore and Fletcher won’t like it. Russ is his friend.”

  “He looks like he could handle Fletcher.” Shelby shook her finger at Libby. “What bothers you more? That Fletch might hurt him or that the two of us might hit it off?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “If you don’t want him, why can’t I have him?” Shelby asked reasonably.

  “Because you’re married and because he doesn’t want you. He didn’t years ago and he doesn’t now.”

  Shelby smile
d. “You don’t know everything, Libba Jane. I can be mighty persuasive when I try. That is, if you don’t mind. After all, I don’t want to horn in on what’s yours.”

  “That’s very considerate of you,” Libby replied acidly. She took another look at her friend’s face and gave up attempting to reason with her. “Do what you want, Shelby. You always do, anyway. Russ isn’t mine anymore. You’re not hurting me, but you are jeopardizing your marriage. Fletcher’s a fine man. I just hope you come to your senses before any permanent damage is done.”

  Shelby placed a conciliatory hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Don’t be mad, Libba Jane. I’m just gonna have a little fun. You know I’m harmless.”

  Libby had lost her appetite and she certainly didn’t need this. She downed her tea and stood. “So far, you’ve been harmless. I wish you’d listen to me. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. This is a small town and you of all people know what that means. Fletcher has to live here and so does Russ. I’ve got to get back to the office.” She smiled woodenly at Beth Ann and Angie. “Nice to see you. Let’s do this again when I have more time.”

  “Don’t leave, Libba,” Shelby begged. “I’m sorry. Lordy, you’re touchy. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  “You didn’t make me mad. I have things to do.” She gathered her belongings, met Verna Lee’s amused glance from across the pool and walked away.

  Libby turned on the ignition and twisted the air conditioning dial to full blast. With her mind on auto-pilot, she pulled out of the parking lot and instinctively headed west toward the Chesapeake.

  She was thirty-seven years old. Seventeen years had passed, yet the idea of Shelby and Russ was still as painful as it had been when she’d run into Mitch at the dry goods store and he’d casually revealed what she’d been the last to know. Shelby and Russ. Russ and Shelby.

  That was the summer Eric Richards had shown up in Marshyhope Creek. Eric with his blond good looks and his Hollywood smile. The rest was history. If only she could turn back time. She would handle it all so differently, or would she?

  Sighing, she checked her rearview mirror, reduced her speed and turned the car in the direction of Marshyhope Creek. Regrets were pointless. She had work to do.

  Eighteen

  Libby sat outside on the porch swing slapping at the blackflies that bit her ankles. It was early evening. By midday the mercury had risen to a stifling ninety degrees and heat still hung oppressively over the Maryland side of the Chesapeake. Dinner had been difficult. Nola Ruth had been uncharacteristically silent and Chloe predictably sullen. Her father carried the conversation, teasing Chloe out of her mood and forcing answers from his preoccupied wife. Libby tried to match his mood, but she couldn’t manage eye contact with her mother and in the end the effort had been too much and she’d retreated to the porch. Her leave from Ventura County would be over soon and Chloe would start school next week.

  Her afternoon at the club, brief as it was, had unsettled her. No one had been unpleasant or unwelcoming, but if she never saw Beth Ann or Angie again, it would be too soon. The fact was she had nothing in common with any of them, Shelby included. Libby tucked a leg beneath her and pressed her bottom lip with her finger. How had her mother managed? She was an intelligent woman, educated, well read, with strong political opinions. Was she ever bored with the empty conversations around her or had her husband been enough?

  She heard Chloe in the upstairs bedroom and time rolled back. It was odd hearing noises from the room that had been hers as a child. On her fifteenth birthday, Libby had graduated from the yellow room with the white canopy to the back of the house and the room with the mahogany four-poster. She hadn’t regretted the move, but the yellow room had always been her favorite. It was perfect for a girl Chloe’s age, young and bright, hopeful and feminine, a room designed as a refuge, a private retreat, a place for sleeping late on lazy mornings.

  Libby smiled, remembering how hard it had been for Russ, an early riser, to wait until after nine to see her on a weekend morning. He’d been up before sunrise working his daddy’s trawlers and was anxious to begin the pleasure part of his day. Phone calls were useless because her mother refused to wake her. Russ would drive to the end of the Delacourte’s long, dirt-packed driveway, sneak behind the house and position himself below her room in the center of a lush flower bed. There, he bellowed as loudly as he could. “Wake up, Libba Jane, or I’m leaving without you. The day’s half gone.”

  Libby would crack open the French doors and poke her dark, sleep-tousled head over the balcony. “It’s the crack of dawn, Russ Hennessey. Go away and come back at a decent hour.”

  “Ten minutes,” he had replied. “Ten minutes is all the time you’ve got.” Inevitably, she would be down the stairs, sunny-faced and scrubbed, well within the allotted time. Libba had loved her sleep, but once, a long time ago, she had loved Russ more.

  Cole Delacourte’s voice interrupted her. “You’re mighty quiet tonight, Libba Jane.”

  “Everyone’s quiet tonight.”

  Cole pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and spit it into the shrubbery. “I’m not.”

  Libby laughed and made room for him on the swing.

  “No, Daddy. You always have something to say.”

  He sat beside her. “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  “It is.”

  “How’s the job coming?”

  “All right, I guess. I’m not sure where the contaminants are leaking into the water or even if they’re still leaking into the water, but I’m working on it.”

  “Does it have to be local? What about pesticides from the farms up north?”

  Libby’s forehead wrinkled. “Blue crab is a local shellfish. They don’t migrate very far. My guess it’s something here.” She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “Fish are one thing, it’s people I’m worried about.”

  “Why?”

  “We have a large concentration of leukemia for such a small area. That would indicate that contaminants have been here for quite some time. I’m not getting the whole picture. I wish I had my own lab here.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We don’t drink much tap water,” Cole said thoughtfully.

  “We brush our teeth with it. We water our plants and cook with it.”

  “Should we buy a purifier?”’

  “We could, but it would be like locking the barn after the horse has already escaped. We need to find the source.”

  “Have you bitten off more than you can chew?”

  Libby sighed. “That’s an understatement. The truth is, I don’t know where to begin.”

  Cole patted his daughter’s knee. “You’ll manage, honey. If there’s anyone who can do it, you can.”

  “Cliff Jackson could do a much better job.”

  “He’s not here and you are. Don’t sell yourself short.” Cole smiled. “You always were a tenacious little thing, butting straight into a challenge no matter how tough it was.”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  It was cozy talking with her father, a man she had always admired but who had always seemed too preoccupied to carry on a conversation with his teenaged daughter. “Are you thinking of retiring, Daddy?”

  He whistled. “That’s a difficult question to answer. I suppose you could say I’m semiretired. I only take on those cases that really make sense to me.”

  Libby laughed. “You’ve always done that. It made Mama so mad. I can still remember the fights you had.”

  “I never fight with my family. I restrict my fighting to the courtroom,” her father said mildly.

  “Mama did enough for both of you.”

  Her father looked at her curiously. “Is that what you remember, Libba? Your mama and me fighting with each other?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does. It might explain a lot of things.”

  “I didn’t have
a terrible childhood, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Cole Delacourte looked at his daughter’s lovely profile, at her bare shoulders in the white halter top and the slim legs curled beneath her. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail she looked no older than she had seventeen years ago when she’d shocked the hell out of everyone and run away without so much as a by-your-leave. He’d always liked that phrase. A history buff, Coleson appreciated everything English, formal and old-fashioned. “What demons were you fighting, honey, and why did you come back?”

  Libby’s eyes were the warm brown of summer oak. She smiled. “I came back because you asked me. As for demons, I don’t remember any in particular.” She looked out across the bay and slapped away another blackfly nibbling at her ankle. She thought back to that summer and her dissatisfaction with the way her life was turning out. “I was edgy that summer and terribly bored. I felt sensitive all over, my skin, my mind.” She shook it off. “I’m not explaining very well, but everything was intensified and I couldn’t get anything right. It was as if my nerves were exposed. Nothing made sense to me.” She looked at her father. “Have you ever felt that way?”

  He nodded. “The year I met your mama.”

  Libby went completely still, willing him to continue, to finish the story her mother had begun.

  Coleson Delacourte leaned his head back against the swing’s cushion and closed his eyes. “I often wonder if I would have done things differently, but then I think of Nola Ruth and the way she was and I know I wouldn’t.”

  “You loved her very much.”

  Cole nodded. “I still do.”

  Libby hesitated.

  Her father waited. The night was soft, the air thick with the smell of gardenia.

  “Weren’t you afraid of loving someone so much?”

  “I considered myself lucky to be capable of such an emotion.”

  “But didn’t you wonder if she felt the same?”

  “There’s no wondering about it, Libba Jane. No one loves the same. Most relationships are sixty-forty. Ours is one of those. I’m the sixty, your mama’s the forty. I knew that from the beginning.”