Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  Chloe smiled a genuine smile. Gratefully, she slid into the booth. “Hi, Joni, what’s going on with you?”

  “I’m at school in Seattle, studying forestry. What about you?”

  “Marine ecosystems at UC San Diego.”

  Skylar interrupted them. “So, Chloe, how come you’re slumming this summer?”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Skyler’s eyebrows lifted. “Don’t you live in California?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I had a choice between San Diego and Marshy Hope Creek, I sure wouldn’t be here.”

  “My mother lives here. She married Tess’s dad. Both of us come here in the summer.”

  “How is that working out?” asked Skylar. “I mean, isn’t it weird that your mother is married to Tess’s dad?”

  Chloe looked at Tess. She wasn’t saying anything. “I’m not sure what you mean by weird.”

  Skylar sipped her drink, something pink with an umbrella in it. “It just seems strange, that’s all. You’re Libba Jane’s daughter. Tess is Russ’s daughter. Libba and Russ are married and now there’s Gina Marie. That makes you and Tess stepsisters and at the same time, Gina’s half sisters. How do you keep it all straight? Isn’t it sort of incestuous?”

  Why wasn’t Tess saying anything? Come to think of it, she’d never said anything around Skylar. Why were they even here? Chloe drew a deep breath and leveled the full focus of her cool blue gaze on Skylar. “I don’t have trouble keeping it straight and neither does Tess. What I’m wondering is, why it’s any of your business?”

  Beside her, Joni choked and pressed her napkin to her lips. Tess looked miserable and Scott Owens laughed.

  Chloe smiled sweetly and stood. “Excuse me. I have to find a bathroom. If the waitress comes while I’m gone, I’ll have the shelled shrimp and a beer. If they ask for an ID, order a Coke.”

  It was inky black in the narrow hallway. Chloe pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was the one-stall kind. She locked the door and leaned against the sink, castigating herself for allowing Tess to talk her into coming. She’d never liked Skylar Taft and her circle of genuflecting disciples and she resented Tess for telling her they’d changed. Her stepsister turned into someone Chloe didn’t care to know whenever she was around the steel magnolias. There was no way of getting out of this evening until Tess was ready to leave. Once again she’d blown it by not driving. Granddad would have loaned her his car if she’d asked.

  She stared into the mirror, wiped a dark smudge from under one eye, washed and dried her hands and smoothed her hair. Immediately she felt better. She looked good tonight, exotic and unusual in a lime green top with spaghetti straps that emphasized her tan, and tight white jeans. Her confidence restored, she opened the door into blinding darkness.

  The door of the men’s room opened at the same time. Someone stepped out. She waited for him to pass. When he didn’t, she assumed the initiative and moved into the hall, only to feel a firm grip on her arm.

  “Let go of me,” she said tersely. “Let go or I’ll scream.”

  “Keep your claws in, Chloe. It’s only me,” said a familiar voice.

  “Bailey?”

  “In the flesh. What are you doing in a place like this?”

  Chloe’s eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. “I came with Tess and I wish I hadn’t. What about you?”

  “Hell, these are my old digs.” He grinned and she saw the white of his teeth. “This is the real Bailey Jones. All those other places, Manhattan, London, Paris, they mean nothing. This is it, the real me, Bailey Jones right here in Cybil’s Diner.” He slurred his words.

  She drew back. “You’re drunk.”

  “So is everybody else. You can’t hold that against me. That’s the point of coming here.”

  “It is not. I can’t believe this. What’s happened to you?”

  “Don’t be such a prude, Chloe. At least I’m of age. That’s more than you can say about that little group you’re sitting with.”

  Her mouth dropped. “You knew I was here all the time. You came after me.”

  He leaned back against the wall as if he needed the support. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Why do you have to be like this, Bailey? Why didn’t you just come up and ask to join us?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “You’re afraid of them, aren’t you?” Her lips tightened contemptuously. “You’re afraid of those snobby kids who haven’t done half of what you have.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything, Chloe, not anymore. You, of all people, should know that.” He no longer sounded drunk.

  “Prove it.”

  He moved closer, looking down at her. The irises of his eyes were so black they merged with the pupils, twin dark orbs filling the centers. “You won’t let it be, will you?” he said softly. “You’ve got to take a stand, make a scene, expose their bigotry so they can’t squirm out of it.”

  “Why not? They deserve it.”

  He reached out and tucked a wing of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught. She couldn’t remember when Bailey had voluntarily touched her.

  “Chloe, Chloe.” His voice was amused, warm, filled with concern. “Why won’t you ever learn? They’ll hate you for it. Your family lives here. Your mother, your sister. Are you really that selfish?”

  She jerked away, from him, from the rush of emotion, the revealing, vulnerable tears, and stumbled down the hall toward the bar. How dare he? How dare he pretend to care and then crush her with a single humiliating word? Why did he continue to have this power over her? He was right. She never learned.

  He followed. “Let’s dance,” he said, gripping her arm once again.

  She pulled away. “I don’t want to dance and, if I did, it wouldn’t be with you.”

  He laughed and pulled her into his arms, fitting his body against hers. The band, such as it was, crooned “Love Me Tender.” “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do. I hate you. I’ve always hated you.”

  “Shut up, Chloe,” he muttered. “Shut up and dance with me. You smell good. You always smell the same, do you know that, like those bushes that grow outside your granddad’s front porch.”

  “Honeysuckle.” She could barely get the word out. Her face was pressed against his shoulder.

  “No, the other one. You know, those little white flowers that die the minute you pick ’em.”

  “Gardenias.”

  “That’s it. Gardenias. You’re like one of those gardenias, small and perfect and sweet-smelling.” His arms tightened around her.

  Her heart hurt. She had questions, a million questions, but she couldn’t manage a single one.

  Libba removed her tennis shoes on the porch. Dropping them by the front door, she opened it and stepped into her living room. It was dark. She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Was everyone in bed already?

  She walked down the hall to the large back room they’d converted into a den. Russ sat on the couch with Gina Marie nestled in his arms. Both were sound asleep. On the television screen, Finding

  Nemo played to an unconscious audience.

  Libba tiptoed across the room and turned off the power. Then she turned back to her husband and kissed his forehead. He stirred and opened his eyes.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  Libba held her finger against her lips. “Shh. It’s just after nine,” she whispered. “You’re wiped out. Put Gina to bed. I’ll take a shower and join you in a few minutes.”

  Russ yawned. “I almost forgot. Your daddy called. He said for you to check in with him the minute you got home.”

  Libba groaned. “I forgot. I was supposed to stop in and see him on the way. So much happened today that it slipped my mind. I’ll call him now.” She looked back at her husband. He seemed to be drifting off again and she wasn’t in the least bit tired. “Go to bed, Russ. I’m still kind of wired from the day. I think I’ll drive over and talk to Daddy in person.”
/>
  Russ’s eyes opened. “It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

  It was late, but it was mid-summer and the last lingering rays of sunlight hadn’t yet disappeared into the bay. “Maybe he’ll still be up.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Slipping into a pair of sandals, she grabbed her purse and left the house. Rolling both windows down in the car, she backed out of the driveway, increased her speed and let the wind cool her cheeks and lift the hair off her shoulders.

  Her father’s house was dark as pitch except for the porch light. Maybe Chloe was still awake. Parking the car, Libba climbed the stairs, rolled back the azalea pot, found the spare key and unlocked the door. She flicked on the hall light. Her father’s bedroom was upstairs at the back of the house, not too far from Chloe’s. The light wouldn’t disturb them.

  Libba climbed the stairs quietly. Chloe’s door was open and obviously empty. She frowned. Where was she? She debated whether to go home, wake her father or wait for her daughter. Just then the door to her father’s bedroom opened. Cole Delacourte, wearing striped pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, stepped out into the hall. He saw Libba and rubbed his eyes.

  “Libba Jane, is that you?”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “What on earth are you doing here at this hour?”

  She bit her lip. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry for coming so late, but I just got home and you said you wanted to see me. I thought I’d spend a little time with Chloe if you’d already gone to bed.”

  “Chloe’s out with Tess. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I thought I’d have some of Serena’s peach cobbler and a glass of milk. Care to keep me company?”

  Libba smiled. “The thought of peach cobbler makes me drool.”

  Together, they walked into the kitchen. Without having to think, Libba opened the cupboard to the right of the refrigerator and found two bowls. The ice-cream scoop was in the dishwasher and the spoons in the flatware drawer.

  Serena’s cobbler, delicately browned and thick with peaches, sat in a covered glass bowl in the refrigerator. “Do you want yours warmed and topped with ice cream?”

  “Always.”

  Within minutes, they were digging into heaping bowls of the rich dessert. It wasn’t until they couldn’t eat anymore that Libba remembered why she’d come. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Cole swallowed his last bite and pushed his bowl away. “It’s about the investigation. A few interesting things have come up.”

  “Such as?”

  “Did your mother ever tell you about Verna Lee’s father?”

  Libba frowned. “Nothing specific.”

  “She never told you his name or where he was from?” Cole prodded.

  “What is this about, Daddy?”

  “His name was Anton Devereaux. His father had a dry-goods store somewhere in Virginia. According to Nola Ruth, he disappeared. After your grandfather chased them down and forced the annulment, she never heard from him again.”

  “That’s right. What about it?”

  Cole sighed. “I’m not sure. Apparently her version wasn’t entirely accurate. Fifteen years ago, a man by the name of Anton Devereaux came to town and was arrested for a speeding ticket.”

  “A speeding ticket?” Libba’s eyebrows rose. “How can that be?”

  “He refused to sign the ticket. I don’t know the details. The point is he was taken to jail and bailed out by your mother.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “My sentiments exactly. He jumped bail and never showed up for the arraignment.”

  “When did you find out about this?”

  “Your mother told me right after we attended Amanda Wentworth’s funeral.”

  “What does that mean?” Libba wondered aloud.

  He leaned forward. “I’m not sure, but I have a hunch. Let’s say Anton Devereaux did come to town. Maybe he threatened to expose your mother’s secret. Think how terrified she must have felt.”

  “Yet she bailed him out.”

  “Maybe that’s why. It’s possible he blackmailed her. Lord knows he had no reason to protect her.”

  “Why didn’t she tell you? You knew all about him. She had nothing to hide from you.”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s a bit late to ask.”

  Libba swallowed. “What are you thinking about, Daddy?”

  “That body on Bailey’s land.”

  Libba’s hand moved to her throat. “You can’t mean—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Mama isn’t a murderer. You lived with her for forty years. You’d know if she was capable of something like that.”

  “You never know that, honey. Desperation changes people.”

  “Someone would have had to help her. Mama wasn’t that big. How could she murder someone and transport the body all the way out there. It isn’t possible.”

  “Probably not,” Cole agreed. “I’m a foolish old man with an overactive imagination. It’s just strange, the timing and all. Nola Ruth wouldn’t hurt anybody. It nearly killed her to spank you.”

  “I don’t remember that she ever did, except once when I ran out into the street.”

  Cole nodded. “I don’t remember who cried more, you or your mama. I wasn’t around much then, was I?”

  Libba smiled. “You’re making up for it.”

  His smile was forced. “Forget all about this, honey. It’s absurd. Talking it through made me see that. Leave the dishes. Serena will get them in the morning.”

  Libba walked around the table and wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “It doesn’t help to worry about this, Daddy. Mama’s gone.”

  “I’m thinking about Verna Lee. I wonder if your mother said anything to her. It sure would make me feel better if I knew she’d been in contact with her father sometime during the last fifteen years.”

  Libba kissed the part of his head where his hair had started to thin. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll ask her.”

  “Can you do that, Libba Jane? Would you feel comfortable?”

  His look of relief stiffened her resolve. “Of course,” she lied. “I’ll make a point of getting her alone. We’ll get to the bottom of this and put it behind us.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” he said gently.

  “What’s that?”

  “She might tell you that she’s never been in contact with him, or worse, that all communication stopped fifteen years ago.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean it has anything to do with Mama.”

  Cole smiled. “You’re a smart girl, Libba Jane, and a loyal one. Your mama would have been proud of you.”

  Sixteen

  Chloe stood very still and stared at the brown column of Bailey’s throat, the part that was level with her eyes. All around her couples, locked together on the dance floor, swayed to the beat of the country band. A wealth of emotions passed through her, the foremost of which was confusion, followed by embarrassment. Bailey was obviously drunk and, she rationalized, not in any condition to be reasonable. She spoke into his ear. “Give me your keys. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered, pulling her off the floor.

  Too relieved to protest, Chloe stumbled after him, out the door and across the dirt lot to where the cars of the diner’s customers were haphazardly parked. Bailey’s silver Porsche stood out among the Dodges and Chevys like a newly minted dime on a stack of vintage pennies.

  He was pulling her at quite a clip. A stitch began in her side. “Where are we going?” she gasped.

  “Right here.” He pushed her against his car and lifted her chin so that she looked directly at him. “We need to talk.”

  She swallowed. “Okay.”

  “I’m tired of arguing with you.”

  Deliberately she widened her eyes. “Were we arguing?
”

  “We’re always arguing, ever since we met up again. That’s not the way I want it to be with us.”

  “Us?”

  He shook her slightly. “Come on, Chloe. Stop playing games.”

  Gently she broke his grip by pushing against him with her arms. “I’m not playing games. Except for a few brief encounters, we haven’t spoken in four years. What do you mean by us?”

  “We used to be friends.”

  She raised one skeptical eyebrow. “Friends keep in touch.”

  He swore and turned away so that only his profile was visible. At every angle, Bailey Jones was beautiful.

  “So, what are you saying? You don’t want to have anything to do with me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He looked at her and grinned. Once again, she felt that crazy drop in her stomach, the tingling, sharp-edged awakening of her nerves that only Bailey could bring.

  “Maybe you don’t know that most girls would die to be in your position.”

  “My position?”

  “Out here, with me.”

  The edges of her temper curled. “Do you have any idea how arrogant you sound?”

  “When we were kids you hung around me like a fly on a honeycomb.”

  “Maybe so,” she admitted, “but that was a long time ago.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from his back pocket, struck the match and bent his head to inhale. “So,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke, “what do we do now?”

  Chloe shivered and rubbed her arms. The temperature had to be somewhere in the nineties but she was cold. “What do you want from me, Bailey?”

  He looked bewildered, as if it was the last question he expected her to ask. “What is it?” she demanded. “Sex? Do you want to sleep with me?”

  “God, no! I can’t believe you said that.” He shook his head and looked up at the sky. “If that’s what you think, you really are naive. It isn’t that at all.”

  “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somehow, but I’m not hearing it. So, what is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”