Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  Tess changed the subject. “I could use a nap. Let’s skip dessert and go home. Chloe and I are going out tonight and I don’t want to fall asleep on her.”

  “By all means, cut lunch short with your mother so you don’t inconvenience Chloe Delacourte.”

  Tess frowned at her mother. Had Tracy always been like this, or was she getting worse with age? “Her last name is Richards, Mama, not Delacourte. You keep forgetting that.”

  “On the contrary. I never forget anything.”

  Verna Lee paid careful attention to her appearance, standing in front of the mirror and craning her neck to check the panty lines beneath her white capri pants. She’d decided against wearing a thong. They were just about the most torturous things invented, right next to high heels, and she’d heard, on one of those talk shows her grandmother listened to, that nine out of ten men preferred seeing the lines of a woman’s panties under her clothing. Tonight, she would oblige. Wade was going to see panty lines and plenty of skin. The pants hit just below the knee, a very sexy length for someone with long, brown legs. Her top was cropped, cut in at the shoulders and red. Verna Lee liked red. It suited her, as did the messy, butterscotch ringlets that spilled down her back. She sprayed Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue on her pulse points, slid into a pair of white sandals and grabbed her purse.

  Ready as she would ever be, she let herself out the front door, locked it behind her and made her way to her car. Now, if only she could control the nerves twisting her stomach, maybe she could make it through the night. “It’s only Wade,” she told herself. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  She’d driven past the turnoff to Wade Atkins’s house on her way to Chincoteague Island many times, but she’d never actually seen it. The back of the house faced the road. Curious, she climbed the steps and rang the bell.

  “Come on in,” he called out. “Door’s open.”

  Admiring the gleaming wood floors and custom windows, she followed the sound of his voice and the smell of burning charcoal to what was really the front of the house. Stepping out on to the deck, she looked around and gasped with pleasure at the low-hanging trees, the still water and the sea grass growing along the edges of the marsh. “This is gorgeous. You have an incredible view.”

  He handed her a chilled glass of white wine. “Thank you. It suits me.”

  “It would suit anyone. How long have you lived here?”

  “About five years. It’s small, but it’s paid for and, like you said, you can’t beat the view.” His glance moved up from her legs, lingering on her lips. “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks.” She sipped her wine, working to hold back a laugh.

  He wasn’t fooled. “Go on. Tell me. I can take it.”

  She nodded at his ragged cutoffs and T-shirt. “Is this your typical entertaining attire or did you dress up for me?”

  Wade held out his arms. “This is me, entertaining or otherwise.” He thought a minute. “Come to think of it, I can’t remember if I’ve ever invited a woman home before. Most likely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Until I met you, no one appealed to me enough to disturb my privacy.” He waved his arm to encompass the air, the marsh and the water surrounding them. “It’s pretty spectacular here. I love the seclusion.”

  She looked at him steadily, the wine loosening her inhibitions. “Why me, Wade?”

  “I’ve always had a serious crush on you, even when I was a kid.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “No,” he said, surprising her. “I don’t.” He topped off her wineglass from the bottle on the small table. “I’m hoping to change that. Have a seat.” He patted the back of a canvas-slung chair.

  Verna Lee sat. She watched him tilt the bottle of beer so the liquid flowed down his throat. “How?”

  He swallowed and sat beside her. “By asking the right questions. Is that okay?”

  She noticed that his accent wasn’t so pronounced. “That depends on why you’re asking the questions.”

  He leaned back and smiled. “What if I said my interest was strictly personal?”

  “I’m not sure I’d believe you. Honesty will get you a whole lot further than flattery.”

  “Help me out, Verna Lee.” He was no longer smiling. “I’d like to know you better, but you’re like a stick of dynamite, ready to explode no matter which way you’re lit. Questions between two people starting out are normal, even if one of us is a police detective. I’m curious about your life after you left Marshy Hope Creek. Nothing’s set in stone. Tell me to stop if you’re not comfortable.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What inspired you to be a teacher?”

  Verna Lee relaxed. This was all right. She could handle his questions. “I like children. I communicate well. It’s an important job.”

  “Why aren’t you teaching anymore?”

  She shrugged. “I lost interest, I guess.”

  He looked at her, the steely blue eyes cool and assessing. “You never considered teaching here in your home state?”

  “No.” She met his gaze without blinking. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “As if I’m a science experiment and you’re about to dissect.”

  “No reason, Verna Lee,” he said, his accent thick and southern again. “No reason at all.” He changed the subject. “I imagine you were shocked to learn who your mother was.”

  She studied her wineglass for a minute before speaking. “Drusilla told me about Nola Ruth a long time ago. By the time everyone else found out, it was old news for me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “Who was I gonna tell, Wade? The woman gave me up for adoption. By keeping silent she made her preferences clear.”

  “I know a few people who would take advantage of the information you had.”

  Verna Lee shrugged. “Possibly. What good would that have done?”

  “Payback, maybe.”

  “I didn’t want to be paid back. I just wanted to know who my family was.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Did you look for him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know his name. Nola Ruth and I worked our way to a relationship, such as it was. I had a feeling my questions wouldn’t have been appreciated.”

  “What about now? She’s been dead for a few years. You have no obligation to protect the dead.”

  Again, she shrugged, a simple lifting of her honey-colored shoulder. “There doesn’t seem to be a point. He probably has a family. I’d be an intrusion, a half-white daughter he had no idea he had.”

  “Or, he might love the idea of having someone like you in the family.”

  She smiled. “It’s a risk I’d rather not take.”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  “It might not be a fairy tale ending, Wade. It’s possible that I’d face a hurtful rejection. I don’t need that.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.” He lifted his beer bottle to check the liquid level. “If someone else had information on him, would you want to know?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe, if he’s dead.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okay.” Wade stood, picked up the tongs and rearranged the charcoal.

  Verna Lee waited a full thirty seconds. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Kidding?”

  “You aren’t really going to end this conversation just like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “For pete’s sake, Wade. Give me a break.”

  “You said you didn’t want to know.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  He picked up the wine bottle and poured her another glass. “Okay. Here it is. Fifteen years ago, one Anton Devereaux, a black man traveling through town, was arrested for refusing to sign a speeding ticket. Nola Ruth
Delacourte bailed him out of jail. He skipped out before the trial and Mrs. Delacourte lost her money. Apparently, Cole never knew.”

  Verna Lee stared at him. The name was familiar. Where had she heard it before? Suddenly it came to her. The man with the Mercedes. The black man Nola Ruth was arguing with on the steps of the police station. “Are you saying that my father is Anton Devereaux?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I was hoping you’d know. You were back in town by then.”

  She cradled the wineglass in her hand. It was a long time ago. She needed time to think. “I have no idea,” she said after a minute. “Nola Ruth wasn’t into full disclosure. I never even spoke to her until just before she died. It makes sense that she wouldn’t tell me my father was here.” She looked at Wade. “Pardon me if I don’t get emotional over someone I never knew.” She set her glass on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “Now, tell me the truth. Why did you really invite me here?”

  “I told you. I’ve had the hots for you since we were kids.”

  “You hid it well.”

  He laughed, set down his glass and rose from his chair. “Don’t go away.”

  Verna Lee closed her eyes. She was flushed and warm from the alcohol and the attention. A Frank Sinatra tune floated across the deck.

  Wade stood in front of her. “May I have this dance?”

  She smiled, nodded and held out her hand. He pulled her into his arms, his palm settling low, on the small of her back. Finding her rhythm, he guided her smoothly, effortlessly, around the deck.

  Verna Lee sighed and slid her arms around his neck. She’d had little to eat that day and the wine was blurring her senses. Resting her head on Wade’s shoulder, she hummed the melody, giving herself up to the hot humid night, the red glow of ash-tipped coals, the whine of a mosquito and the deep, warbling hoot of an owl on the hunt.

  Later, much later, long after the music stopped and the cicadas took up their song, the spangled sky continued to spin and the thrumming of her body escalated to a level she recognized from so long ago it seemed like another lifetime, she lifted her head and opened her mouth to his kiss, welcoming the inevitable. After all, when a man tells a woman he’s interested, that he’s been interested from the very beginning, it puts everything into a new perspective.

  Fifteen

  Chloe sat on the floor in front of the long mirror in her yellow bedroom applying smoky-blue shadow to the crease in her eyelid. Carefully, she tapped the angled brush against her skin and then used her pinkie finger to blend in the color with the softer shade just below it. Eye makeup was all she used. Her sun-dark skin, inherited from her maternal grandmother, was good enough without foundation and the no-lipstick look accented her startling blue eyes, her best feature, especially when she lined them with navy pencil.

  Hanging out tonight at Cybil’s Diner was Tess’s idea. She said the local band was good, and a few old friends who had come home this summer would be there. Chloe was going because of Tess and the band. As far as Chloe was concerned, she had no old friends in Marshy Hope Creek, with the exception of Bailey Jones, and look how that had turned out. Her brief few months at the local high school wasn’t a memory she wanted to dredge up with regularity.

  She checked her watch. It was already nine o’clock. Her grandfather had probably fallen asleep in front of the television again. He was an early riser. By eight he would nod off in his recliner and then, not too long after, climb the stairs to his room. By the time Chloe tiptoed in, he’d be a few hours short of greeting another day. It must be age, she reflected, that made people hop out of bed before first light. She couldn’t imagine having the option of sleeping in and choosing to wake up early.

  One of the advantages to living with her grandfather was his calm assumption that she was sensible and her safety wasn’t his concern. He patted her cheek and told her to have a good time without the usual litany of admonitions her mother never failed to ply her with. Libba Jane was a born worrier: look both ways before crossing the street, wash your hands, call me no matter what time it is, don’t touch anything in public restrooms, drink lots of water, never accept rides from strangers, call me no matter what time it is, brush your teeth, take your vitamins, eat fiber, always keep five dollars in cash with you, call me no matter what time it is. The list was exhausting. The funny thing was, Chloe had never given anyone cause for serious worry. All in all, she was a fairly easy kid. There had been a year or two, during her actress stage, when she’d tested her mother, but other than that it had been smooth sailing. Gina Marie was another story. She would definitely give them all a run for their money. Chloe only hoped that her mother, now that she was older, was up to the challenge.

  She heard a soft knock, followed by her grandfather’s familiar voice outside her door. “I’ll say good night, Chloe. Have fun. Remember, you only live once.”

  She laughed. “Come in, Granddad. I’m decent.”

  He opened the door. “My goodness, don’t you look nice.”

  Chloe fluttered her lashes. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  Cole bent over to kiss her cheek. “Turn off the porch light when you come in tonight, and say hello to Tess for me.”

  “I will. Good night, Granddad. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  The lines radiating from his fine blue eyes deepened with his smile. “I never doubted it, sugar. Good night.”

  He closed the door, his footsteps light on the floorboards leading to his bedroom. He was getting old. No one lived forever. What would she do without him? It wouldn’t be the same as when her grandmother died. It had been different with Nola Ruth. Chloe never knew her grandmother before the debilitating stroke left her crippled and slow to speak. They’d come to Marshy Hope Creek expecting her to die. But Granddad was different. He was the heart of their family, the connection, the glue that kept all of them, Libba Jane, Chloe, Gina Marie and Russ, together.

  Chloe said as much to Tess when she stopped by to pick her up.

  Her stepsister sighed. “You’re so dramatic, Chloe. Why on earth do you think something will happen to your grandfather? He’s in good health, isn’t he?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then stop worrying. First of all, it won’t do him any good and secondly, there’s no reason for it. Has anybody ever told you that you’re a worrywart like your mother?”

  Chloe’s mouth dropped. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Now quit thinking the worst and start enjoying the evening. You hardly ever get out.” She tossed her head, turned the radio to the local country-music station and pressed the power button to roll down the windows. “Don’t you just love summer nights, even if our choice of music is limited to country and soul?”

  Chloe laughed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Warm air, thick and wet, rich with the decay odor of the marsh, slapped her cheeks and tangled the fine silky threads of her hair. Ahead, the white lines of the twisted two-lane road divided the marshland in two. A full moon illuminated the wetlands and sandbars, nesting grounds for cranes, sea turtles, crocodiles, loons and coots. The night was heavy with heat and growth and the sounds and smells of burgeoning life. Chloe could feel it on her skin like the tingle of a mild electric shock. Outside, sounds erupted from the undergrowth, hooting owls, chirping crickets, croaking frogs and, occasionally, the angry growl of a cat or the hiss of a water moccasin. “Yes,” she murmured, closing her eyes to better absorb the sensations of sound and touch. “I do love summer nights.”

  A Willie Nelson tune poured from the speakers, the brilliant, evocative words of country music’s greatest balladeer easing over them. Tess turned up the radio. Chloe leaned back against the headrest. If only she could hold on to the present, to this very minute and this feeling, to keep it and remember, to take it out and savor it when her mood changed. If she knew for sure that she could bring it up again, on demand, then it wouldn’t be so hard to accept the rest of it, the bleak hours and days when nothi
ng seemed to go quite right.

  Twenty minutes later, Tess pulled in to the parking lot of Cybil’s Diner, formerly a truck stop known to locals throughout Frenchman’s Cove, Marshy Hope Creek, Salisbury and a select few long-distance truckers who bothered to break away from the interstate highway and drive the back roads bordering the bay. Through fat years and lean, the bar managed to stay in business, recently earning the label trendy in youthful circles.

  Chloe wrinkled her nose at the stench and haze of tobacco that clouded the air. Either the manager was unaware of the no-smoking law, or he was deliberately ignoring it. Small hurricane candles on the tables and inside the sagging booths barely illuminated the shadowy darkness. A pool table dominated the center of the room, and beneath her feet Chloe could feel the distinct crunch of peanut shells. A television, its sound muted, tuned to reruns of The Simpsons, hung above the bar where the hard drinkers sat swilling, in various stages of inebriation. Garth Brooks blared from the jukebox. Two long-haired men in boots and cowboy hats were setting up near the stage. Most of the booths and tables were filled. Seated in the far corner, in the largest booth, was a group of vaguely familiar faces. Chloe followed Tess through the warren of tables.

  Skylar Taft scooted toward the center, making room for them. “Hey, Tess, Chloe. Sit down. You sure took your time.”

  “We’ve only been here ten minutes,” a blond boy protested. His face was familiar but Chloe couldn’t remember his name.

  Skylar shrugged, flipped the ends of her dark hair over her pale shoulders and stared hard at Chloe. “You remember everybody, don’t you?”

  “Not really,” Chloe confessed. “It’s been a long time.”

  As expected, Skylar made the introductions. Not much changed in Marshy Hope Creek, reflected Chloe. The queen bee still ruled. Casey Dulaine was the redhead, leaner and less freckled now that four years had passed. Scott Owens was the boy who spoke up. Chloe still didn’t remember him. Buzz Evans was recognizable. He and Skylar had been an item all through high school. Joni Marcoux was a pleasant surprise. Still athletic-looking, the curly-haired brunette had befriended Chloe on that awful first day of high school four years ago.