Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  Cole Delacourte looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I was beginning to think I’d starve to death.”

  “You could have eaten without me.”

  He pretended indignation. “Not a chance, especially when my granddaughter has come all the way across country to visit me.” Cole pulled off his gloves and wiped his forehead. “Come on. Let’s eat out back and look at the bay.”

  They walked arm in arm, the tall, spare old man and the petite, golden girl, through the gracious colonial home that had housed five generations of Delacourtes, out the back door and across a deep, velvety lawn that curved down to the mighty Chesapeake, “the protein factory of the South,” her mother had once described it.

  Serena had set the table under the canopy of two enormous oak trees. What Chloe would have called pretentious for a Monday-morning breakfast in Southern California, the cloth napkins and white tablecloth, the shining silver and crystal goblets seemed just right here in the shade of her grandfather’s house. It was cooler this close to the water. Chloe felt the first stirrings of an appetite. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “So, Granddad, give me the latest gossip.”

  Cole poured dark, chicory-flavored coffee from the carafe into their cups. “Nothing much has changed around here. Your mama and Russ have their hands full with Gina Marie.”

  “I guessed as much from Mom’s phone calls. Gina’s not exactly the typical three-year-old, is she?”

  Cole’s lips twitched. “Spit it out, Chloe. What are you trying so politely not to say?”

  “She’s spoiled rotten.”

  Cole threw back his head and laughed so loudly that Serena, bearing platters of crepes and sausage, heard him from inside the house. “Someone open this door for me,” she called out. “I’ve only got two hands.”

  “I’ll go,” Chloe said, moving as quickly as the heat would allow. She crossed the lawn, climbed the back steps and opened the door. “You’ll make me fat, Serena.” She reached for the crepe platter. “I never eat this much at home.”

  The black woman raised her eyebrows and gave Chloe’s slender legs and concave stomach an appraising look. “You could use a little weight, honey. I doubt you’d tip the scales at a hundred pounds.”

  Chloe’s cheeks flushed a warm apricot. “I’m not very tall,” she murmured just as they reached the table.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re Gina Marie’s sister,” the woman continued. “Now, that one, she’s the image of your mama.”

  Chloe winced. She didn’t need reminding that Gina, with her bewitching smile and terrifying temper, was turning out to be more of a Delacourte than Chloe would ever be.

  Noticing that her grandfather’s eyes were on her face, she recovered quickly and set the plate down in front of him. “These are the most delicious crepes on the planet. I’m having two.”

  “One will do for me, thank you,” said Cole. He nodded at his housekeeper. “We’ll take it from here, Serena.”

  Waiting until she was well inside the house, he cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it, Chloe, but you look a great deal like my mother did when she was your age. In fact, you resemble the Delacourte side of our family far more than your mother or sister. They’re Beauchamps through and through, just like Nola Ruth.”

  A backwash of affection for this dear man flooded her chest. “It’s okay, Granddad. I don’t mind that I didn’t get Mom’s looks.” She grinned impishly. “I did get her brains, though. Even Dad admits to that.”

  Cole wiped his mouth. “Well, now, I think I can take some credit for that. After all, Libba Jane is my daughter.”

  Chloe laughed. “Be careful, Granddad. I’ll tell her you said that.”

  Cole Delacourte sat for a minute, content to simply look at his granddaughter’s vivid face, the Siamese-blue eyes and high-boned cheeks, the small, slightly arched nose and wide sensitive mouth, all framed by that straight swath of floating silvery hair.

  When, he wondered, would she discover her power? She was twenty years old, young, but definitely grown. Still, there was an innocence about her that reminded Cole of the women from his own youth. “I hope your mama doesn’t mind that you’re staying here with me and not at Hennessey House.”

  Washing down a mouthful of crepe with a swig of coffee so rich and strong she could feel the heat of it all the way to the center of her stomach, Chloe shook her head. “Mom knows I love it here. Besides, there are only two bathrooms at Hennessey House. You have more room and I don’t want to put any stress on Russ. It’s hard to share your house with someone else’s child.”

  Shocked, Cole stared at her. “Where did you dredge up that absurd idea?”

  Chloe shrugged, assuming an offhand insouciance. “Mimi and I had a heart-to-heart the last time I stayed at Dad’s.”

  Cole’s mouth tightened with uncharacteristic temper. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I were you, honey, I wouldn’t take your stepmother’s babblings as the Amy Vanderbilt of familial relationships. Whatever misguided philosophies are practiced in California, remember that this is the South. Nothing is more important to us than family.”

  She tilted her nose and showed him her profile. “Misguided philosophies and familial relationships,” she mimicked. “You sound like a lawyer.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Chloe frowned, all teasing aside. “I’m guessing that you don’t care for Mimi.”

  “I’ve never met her and, believe me, I doubt that it’s my loss.”

  “Don’t say anything to Mom.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Chloe leaned over and kissed him. “I’m going now. I love you, Granddad.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Don’t forget your bike.”

  Chuckling at the four-year-old memory of her need to appear “cool” at the expense of a convenient bike ride into town, Chloe found her bicycle in the shed, swung her leg over the crossbar and headed toward the service road that led to the street.

  After the shade of her grandfather’s yard, the blast of humidity hit her like a wet blanket. It was three miles into town as the crow flies, a bit longer on the road. Despite the cool promise of the forest, thick with summer foliage and tall trees, hickory, oak, beech, white ash and elm, within two minutes sweat trickled down Chloe’s forehead, between her breasts and the insides of her thighs. Gritting her teeth, she tried turning her thoughts to something else, but the brackish, metallic odor of the Chesapeake, the smells of fish and pine and salt and dirt and a billion species of underwater life, assaulted her senses.

  Despite her California roots, which Chloe now realized was a brief aberration in her mother’s life, a period to be endured until Libba Jane was drawn back to Marshy Hope Creek with its relentless sun, its thick, wet air and its infinite spaces of marsh and woods and dark creek water, all by-products of the mighty Chesapeake, this was home to the Delacourtes. And, whether she liked it or not, Chloe, too, was a Delacourte.

  Behind her, the sound of an approaching car interrupted her thoughts. Chloe hugged the side of the narrow road, allowing the driver to pass. Her eyes widened as a late-model silver-gray Porsche, more at home on the expensive beachfront streets of Malibu than here in Marshy Hope Creek, drove past. She caught a glimpse of the New York license plate. She wasn’t surprised. Who would own a Porsche in this backwater town? Marshy Hope Creek’s more comfortable citizens thought in terms of Lincoln Town Cars and Cadillacs, gas guzzlers for patriotic Americans who bought only Fords and Chevrolets and who believed in conservation except when it applied to them.

  The road veered to the left. Chloe turned the corner, squeezed the hand brake and pulled up abruptly, jumping off in time to avoid a collision with the Porsche, idling in silver splendor by the side of the road. Leaning against the door, black hair falling over his forehead, cigarette dangling from his lips, was a young man with dark hooded eyes and a face so bladed and severe and beautiful it could have graced the cover of
a magazine.

  “Need a ride?” he asked.

  The years rolled back. Chloe drew a long, quivery breath. Bailey Jones hadn’t changed much, except for the car and the Rolex and the Gucci shoes. “It’s been a long time, Bailey.”

  “I guess it has.”

  “You could have called.”

  “So could you.”

  “I needed a number. You had mine.”

  He drew deeply on the end of his cigarette, dropped the stub and ground it into the dirt. “Do you want a ride or not?”

  She looked down at the bike and then back at him. “Nice car, but we wouldn’t fit.”

  “Throw the bike in the bushes. You can come back for it later.”

  Chloe considered her options. On the one hand was burning curiosity, on the other was her completely understandable desire to show Bailey Jones that spending time in his company was her lowest priority. Curiosity won.

  He waited while she stowed the bike out of sight of the road, hiked up the embankment and slid into the soft leather of the passenger’s seat.

  “So, Bailey,” she began. “How have you been?”

  He pulled the car out onto the road. “I can’t complain. You?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “What brings you back here?”

  “This is where I come every summer. My mother lives here. She married Russ. I have a sister.”

  Bailey nodded. “I heard. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. What about you? I thought you’d wiped the dust of Marshy Hope Creek from your shoes forever.”

  She saw the leap of muscle in his cheek.

  “That was the plan. I’m here to sell my land. Weber Incorporated made an offer I can’t refuse.”

  Chloe stared at him. “You can’t be serious. Those wetlands are home to thousands of native species.” What she left unsaid was huge, important, an impassable, unspoken chasm between them. His hand was steady on the wheel. “I’m dead serious.”

  “It’s not as if you need the money,” she burst out. “I’ve seen your Web site.” She stopped, biting her lip, conscious of her mistake. He was too quick to miss it.

  “My Web site has an e-mail address.”

  “I know.”

  “So, why didn’t you write?”

  He had a point. She hadn’t contacted him. But she was two years younger and he’d become an overnight celebrity in the art world. She changed the subject. “Don’t they have fax machines in NewYork?”

  His black eyebrows drew together. “I’m not following you.”

  She explained. “If you hate it here so much, why did you come back? People don’t have to go places anymore. They have e-mail and faxes.”

  “I have a few loose ends to tie up before I sign the papers. Besides, I thought I’d look in on Cole. Without him, I’d be in jail.”

  Mollified at the mention of her grandfather, Chloe tried again. “Bailey, those wetlands are priceless. You can’t really mean to sell. Weber builds condominiums.”

  “So?”

  “What about your mother? What would she say if she knew you were thinking of selling?”

  “She’s dead,” he said flatly, “and I’m not thinking of selling, Chloe, I’m definitely selling. All that land didn’t do my mother any good. She died out there in a miserable little trailer without plumbing or running water. She was blind, in terrible pain and she didn’t have enough money to check herself into a hospital, or even pay for a goddamn morphine drip. So don’t get sentimental on me, okay?”

  Chloe’s throat choked up. Poor, pathetic Lizzie Jones, stubbornly loyal to her own sense of morality. “She kept the land for you,” she whispered. “She thought it was important.”

  “And it paid off. It’s worth millions. I’m cashing it in.”

  Chloe stared at him. “What happened to you, Bailey? When did you get to be such a cynic?”

  “Why don’t we talk about you,” he suggested.

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t you let me out right here, just like you did four years ago, and I’ll walk into town on my own.”

  She expected him to argue. The Bailey Jones she remembered would have argued. But this one didn’t. Instead, he jerked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes, waiting, while Chloe fumbled with the seat belt clasp, pushed open the door and stood in injured silence while he sped away.

  Seven

  Sheriff Blake Carlisle leaned back in his chair, as close to the window-mounted air conditioner as possible, and contemplated the clock. Nearly an hour to go before he could reasonably meander down the road to Perks and order his usual ham-and-cheese sandwich with those little-bitty pickles Verna Lee knew he liked.

  Meanwhile, he could copy an accident report the insurance company was waiting on and mail it out, or he could head over to Taft’s Hardware and pick up a new lock for the cell door. Neither was a pressing concern. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to lock the cell and, as for the report, Millie Cooper had backed her 1967 Chevy station wagon into her front window. No one was hurt, her son had fixed the front window, the car wasn’t worth repairing and Millie was ninety-four years old, too old to be driving anyway.

  Maybe he’d eat early today. He liked visiting with Verna Lee before the lunch rush, when she wasn’t too busy to talk. As soon as he heard from his deputy he’d be on his way, shooting the breeze with the locals, checking things out, improving public relations. Blake was big on public relations. He thought of himself as a public servant in the truest sense and he wasn’t shy about reminding whoever would listen.

  The door opened and a blast of hot air shot into the station, heating it up another ten degrees. Agnes Hobbs stuck her permed, blue-tinted head inside the door. “Blake, if you’re not busy, I’ve got a big ol’ box in the trunk of my car that needs to be mailed out at the post office.”

  “Not a problem, Miz Hobbs.” He stood and reached for his hat. “I’ll take it over for you. Was there anything else you needed?”

  “That’ll be all, I guess.”

  “You just let me know and I’ll be there.”

  Agnes Hobbs slipped her tongue inside her dentures, lifting them off her gums, easing the soreness. Then she dropped them back into place again. “You’re a good boy, Blake. I always did like you.”

  He took her arm and led her back out to her car. “Thank you kindly, Miz Hobbs. I appreciate that. I was wondering if Ellie Mae knows you took the car this time.”

  “I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you mean. Why should I have to tell her when it’s my own car I’m driving?”

  “Well, the thing is, Miz Hobbs, you don’t have a license and Ellie worries about you. She’s afraid you’ll hurt yourself. You wouldn’t want to worry her, now, would you?”

  The old woman pursed her lips. “I guess not.”

  “Why don’t you sit right here on this bench in the shade and let me call her for you. That way she’ll know you’re in good hands.”

  “I always did like you, Blake,” she repeated, patting his hand. “You’re a good boy.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”

  The call was over in a minute, with Ellie Mae instructing him to do whatever was necessary to prevent her mother-in-law from driving until she could get there.

  Blake set the phone down in its cradle and sighed. Sometimes he found himself wishing for a real crime now and then to keep from getting rusty.

  Ellie Mae Hobbs drove up just as he was leaving the post office with Agnes. Gratefully, he excused himself, answered the mobile call from his deputy, and proceeded with his original plan to lunch at Perks and indulge his fantasies by flirting with Verna Lee Fontaine.

  She was talking on the phone and didn’t see him, a circumstance that allowed him to look at her for as long as he wanted without embarrassing himself. Blake swallowed. There was no one like Verna Lee. Quite simply, she took the eye in a way that made it seem as if no one else was in the room. Her particular combination of lush, primitive beauty and refine
d manners was like nothing he’d ever experienced. She was tall, with full breasts and long, lovely, caramel-colored legs, exposed from the knee down through a slit in her skirt. Her hair, wildly curly and secured on top of her head with a chopstick, was the exact tawny-gold of her eyes, and her smile reminded him of those island women on the travel posters beckoning him to places he’d never been. She was a good fifteen years older than him. It didn’t bother him a bit. He liked older women especially when they looked liked Verna Lee. He felt safe knowing she didn’t take him seriously.

  Blake knew she’d been married a long time ago in California. He’d heard the gossip four years back when it came out that she and Libba Jane Delacourte were half sisters through their mother, Nola Ruth. Libba’s daddy was Cole Delacourte, descendant of a fine old southern family. Verna Lee didn’t know anything about her father, except that he was a black man.

  She hung up the phone, saw him standing just inside the door and smiled her aloha smile. “I was just thinking it was time for you to come in.”

  “Chasing after the criminals here in Marshy Hope Creek gives a man an appetite. You got any of those pickles I like?”

  “You bet. What’ll it be? The usual?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He slid into a table and looked around. Perks was a combination health food store and café. Two deep blue couches sat across from each other with a low chest in between. Small wooden tables and chairs hugged the walls and a glass case as long as the room was filled with herbs and spices all neatly labeled. Candles, colorful crockery, greeting cards, books, beads and checked window coverings gave the place a homey, interesting feel. Blake liked it here. He would have liked anywhere as long as Verna Lee was there, too.

  “Bailey Jones is back in town,” she began conversationally. “He’s thinking about selling his land.”