Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  Libba leaned against the sink. “It isn’t that I don’t like him, it’s just that his upbringing has been so unconventional.” She appealed to Russ. “How can he know what to do?”

  “People know, honey, sometimes with less than Bailey has.”

  She sighed. “It’s ridiculous. Chloe’s young. I’m worrying for nothing.”

  “That’s my girl. Is there anything else you want me to do before I start cooking?”

  She shook her head.

  Carrying the ribs, he headed out toward the grassy patch where the barbecues were set up, lifted the lid of one, arranged the slabs of meat over the smoldering wood chips and closed it again.

  “Yoo-hoo. We’re here.” Shelby Sloane’s shrill voice called out from the road. “Something smells really good.” She nudged her husband, a tall balding man with a protruding belly. “Doesn’t it smell good, Earl?”

  Earl Sloane bent over the ice-filled bucket of drinks and pulled out two beers. He tossed one to Russ. “Mighty good. I heard your little darlin’ caught herself a fish the size of Texas.”

  Russ popped the top of the beer can. “Almost. Libba said she was quiet as a mouse waiting for it, too.”

  “She’s a chip off the old block.”

  Shelby looked around. “Lordy, it’s a hot one. Where’s Libba Jane?”

  “Did I hear my name?” Libba, balancing two platters of food, opened the screen door with her foot.

  Shelby held out her arms. “Hand one of those to me. Why don’t you open your mouth and ask for help when you need it?”

  She handed a platter to Shelby. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Hi, Mom.” Chloe walked up the bank, her arm tucked into her grandfather’s.

  Libba smiled warmly. Chloe looked lovely in a white cotton dress, her tanned shoulders and legs a striking contrast to the delicate material. There was no sign of Bailey Jones. “Hi, sweetie. Hi, Daddy.” She kissed both her father’s cheek and her daughter’s. “Help yourself to whatever you like. I have iced tea inside.”

  Cole headed for the door. “That sounds perfect.”

  “Chloe Richards,” said Shelby. “You look wonderful. How do you manage to stay so cool in this scorching weather?”

  Chloe lifted a delicate eyebrow. “Granddad has air-conditioning.”

  Shelby groaned. “Don’t tell me that. I might just scratch out your eyes I’m so jealous. Do you hear that, Earl? Cole has air-conditioning.”

  “When I’m as rich as Cole Delacourte, you’ll get air-conditioning, too.”

  Shelby rolled her eyes. “I guess that means never.”

  “I like the heat,” Libba announced.

  “That’s because you and yours tan up like the trunk of one of those oak trees.”

  “It’s cooler on the porch,” said Libba. “Let’s have something to drink and get out of what’s left of the sun.”

  Gradually the deep lawn filled with people. Soft laughter floated on the breeze rising off the bay. Alcohol-slurred voices carried across the cut grass. Women in white shorts and skimpy tops clustered on the steps. Men in long, loose shorts and polo shirts gathered around the barbecues, their voices lowering in direct proportion to the crudeness of their jokes. On the porch, Gina Marie held court over three small children, their lips and hands stained Popsicle blue.

  Libba, happy with the success of her party, filched a carrot from the vegetable tray in the kitchen.

  Shelby followed her inside. “I have some gossip,” she announced.

  “Oh?” Libba stirred blue cheese into the sour cream. “What gossip?”

  “Wade arrested Quentin Wentworth today.”

  Libba set down her spoon, her vegetables forgotten, and stared at her friend. “What are you talking about?”

  Shelby, delighted with the results of her disclosure, climbed onto a bar stool and crossed her legs. Libba’s undivided attention was something she relished. “Earl went into town this morning and ran into Blake Carlisle. The body the geologist found in the swamp is Amanda Wentworth.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  Shelby shook her head. “I’m not. You know Blake Carlisle. He isn’t one to keep anyone in jail without a good reason.”

  “People are innocent until proven guilty, Shelby.” She turned away. “I don’t want to hear this. Gossip is dangerous.”

  “You’re no fun,” Shelby continued. “I never did like Wentworth. Amanda always looked scared to death. Earl says Quentin was having an affair with Lizzie Jones. He says that Bailey—”

  The screen door opened. Horrified, Libba recognized the black-haired young man who stood beside Chloe. “Shelby!” she cried out an instant too late.

  Shelby turned. Her green eyes widened, but only for an instant. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you.”

  Libba couldn’t read Bailey Jones, but she knew her daughter. Chloe was fighting pure, unrelieved rage.

  Blindly, Libba stepped into the maelstrom. “Please,” she whispered. “This isn’t what it seems. Shelby was telling me about Judge Wentworth’s arrest.”

  Chloe’s voice was bitter. “That isn’t all she was telling you.”

  Bailey didn’t speak. Instead, he took Chloe’s balled fist in his hand.

  Libba recognized the gesture, the sheer power of its statement. History, she vowed silently, would not repeat itself. “Please,” she said, placing one hand on Chloe’s shoulder, the other on Bailey’s. “Please, stay. You’re welcome here. You’re both welcome here.”

  “Don’t fret, Miz Hennessey. I’m not runnin’ away.”

  Shelby slid off the bar stool. She cleared her throat. “Listen, you two. You can think what you like, but the truth is, I mean no harm. If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.” With that, she picked up the cauliflower salad and left the kitchen.

  Libba drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to meet Bailey’s gaze. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have listened.”

  “From what I heard, you were trying not to.”

  “I encouraged her. I have no excuse. It was just so shocking.” She pressed her palms against her flaming cheeks. “Never mind. I’m making it worse. Please, stay and enjoy the party.”

  Chloe hadn’t spoken. Her lips were pressed tightly together. Bailey’s thumb moved back and forth across Chloe’s knuckles. His voice was expressionless. “You may as well know, she was telling the truth. The sheriff arrested Quentin Wentworth. He’s my natural father. He and my mother had an affair. She took money from other people for sex, but not from him. She loved him. He didn’t share the sentiment. His wife found out and came after him with a gun. There was a struggle and Mrs. Wentworth died. He took the body away and buried it in the marsh.”

  Libba didn’t think she’d ever heard such painful words spoken with less expression. Her hand moved to her throat. “My God. What about Amanda’s funeral? How—who—”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m sure Atkins does, but I doubt he’ll say anything.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Bailey’s dark eyes didn’t waver. “I was there.”

  Libba moaned and closed her eyes. Fifteen years ago, Bailey was a little boy.

  She felt his hand on her arm and opened her eyes. He was standing directly in front of her. “Take it easy, Miz Hennessey. I’ve been livin’ with this for a long time. Nothing’s changed for me except that now other people know.”

  “All those years you said nothing. How awful for you. Did Quentin know you were his son?”

  “He knew.”

  Libba’s eyes filled. “I’m so sorry, Bailey. I’m sorry you had to go through this. Is there anything we can do?”

  “Your family’s been good to me, ma’am. Your daddy gave me a life. I like your husband and I guess you know your daughter’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Libba sniffed, searched for a tissue, dabbed at her nose and laughed. “I’m getting the point. Why don’t you go outside and socialize until the food’s ready. Save
me a place at your table. Maybe, after tonight, you’ll like me, too.”

  Bailey grinned. “I’m sure, when you set your mind to it, you can be fairly persuasive.”

  Chloe wasn’t as easily pacified. “We’re not staying late.”

  Libba’s heart sank. “You need to eat.”

  “Granddad doesn’t like to stay out late anymore. I made peach cobbler for the three of us at his house.”

  “I won’t complain if you leave after dinner.” Libba handed a platter of sliced watermelon to Chloe. “Would you mind putting this on the long table for me? Oh, and say hello to Gina Marie. She misses you.”

  “She’d rather be with you.”

  “Of course. I’m her mother, but she loves you, too.”

  Bailey took the platter from Chloe. “I’d like to see the little terror again myself.”

  “Gina’s not a terror,” Libba said indignantly. “She has personality.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  The door closed behind them. Libba breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close call, no thanks to Shelby.

  Russ poked his head into the kitchen. “The food’s ready. Verna Lee’s here and she’s giving Wade a wide berth. Shelby’s sucking down Jack Daniel’s like it’s lemonade. We need you outside.”

  Libba shook her head. “Were people always like this around here, or do we notice because we left and came back?”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Shelby’s drama. Quentin Wentworth’s hypocrisy.”

  “I won’t disagree with you there. Quentin always was a son of a bitch, but now he’s no longer my father-in-law, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “He’s Tess’s grandfather.”

  Russ pulled the door shut behind him, walked across the room and took his wife into his arms. “What’s going on, Libba Jane?”

  “Quentin Wentworth is Bailey’s father.” The unbelievable words choked her throat. “He killed his wife. The body they found in the marsh is really Amanda Wentworth. God alone knows who’s buried in Amanda’s plot in the cemetery.”

  “Hey, hey, Libba Jane.” He stroked her shining hair. “Calm down. It’s okay. Wade will have it all under control.”

  “What about Bailey? He was a little boy. He saw everything.”

  “Bailey’s okay. He’s done well for himself. Pull yourself together, Libba Jane. Quentin Wentworth is a horse’s ass. He always was. Lizzie’s been dead for four years. Bailey’s made a success of his life. Everything’s fine.”

  She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. “I’m worried about how this will affect Chloe.”

  “Chloe could do a lot worse than take up with a successful artist who can afford to live in New York City. Now come outside. Mingle with your guests. They’re asking for you. Verna Lee could use some help with Shelby.”

  “Verna Lee can hold her own against a roomful of Shelbys.”

  “It’s our party. She’s your sister and she shouldn’t have to.”

  “All right.” Libba waved him away. “Give me a minute. My mascara’s all over my face. Hold them off a little while longer.”

  “Promise you’ll be outside in five minutes.”

  “I promise.”

  It was considerably more than five minutes before Libba joined her guests outside. Russ had found Verna Lee. Wade was seated across from her on an Adirondack chair facing the water. Fireflies lit the air like tiny sparklers around their heads and the moonlight turned the chop on the bay a luminescent silver.

  Libba sat beside Russ, leaning against him, grateful that, for her, everything was settled.

  Wade nodded at her. “It’s a great party, Libba Jane.”

  “Thanks. You got here late. I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “I had a few things to finish up.”

  Verna Lee looked at him. “What things?”

  “I made a few phone calls, finished up a report, nothing important.”

  “For pity’s sake, Wade, you’re the worst liar. Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on?”

  “I can’t do that, Verna Lee,” he explained calmly. “It comes with the job.”

  Libba couldn’t keep silent. “Does it have to do with Quentin Wentworth?”

  His face was smooth and polite. “How would you know that, Libba Jane?”

  “You know how this town is, Wade. Even the best-kept secret is one that no one knows about until the next day.”

  “It’s unprofessional to discuss the details of my job at a social gathering. Why don’t we grab some of those ribs, a couple slices of watermelon and another beer and settle down with a more interesting topic of conversation.”

  Libba’s eyes met Verna Lee’s. “I’ll save your seats. Why don’t the two of you bring us back a plate.”

  Wade held out his hand. “Verna Lee?”

  There was much more at stake than food. Libba held her breath and didn’t release it again until Verna Lee reached out and met him halfway.

  Standing beside Wade, Verna Lee smiled. “Chicken or ribs?” she asked.

  “Whatever’s left,” replied her sister.

  Later, after peach cobbler and hand-cranked ice cream, brandy and coffee, rum-soaked cigars and lingering goodbyes, groups of two and three collected their belongings and their children and made their way home in the humid, jasmine-scented darkness.

  “Did you drive or walk?” Wade asked Verna Lee.

  “I walked.”

  “May I drive you home?”

  Riding in the car beside Wade, she spoke very little until he pulled in to her driveway and walked her to the door. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

  “Do you grind your own beans?”

  “Of course.”

  Wade looked up at the star-studded sky. “Are you gonna grill me on why I arrested Quentin Wentworth?”

  She turned the key in the lock. “I didn’t know you had.”

  “He’s Bailey Jones’s natural father.”

  “I figured that.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head. “Lizzie Jones was my friend. Even if she wasn’t, my grandmother knows everything that goes on in this town. People talk. Quentin played around. Lizzie’s reputation wasn’t exactly a secret and she was beautiful. Isn’t that the way it usually works, the powerful and the beautiful?”

  Wade followed her into the kitchen. “I wouldn’t know about that.” He waited while she ground the beans, spooned the granules into the filter and added water. “I suppose you want to know why I arrested him.”

  “Adultery and fathering a child without benefit of marriage isn’t exactly a crime, although maybe it should be,” she said as an afterthought.

  Wade considered putting her off and decided against it. Libba was right. It would be all over town by tomorrow anyway. “Amanda Wentworth found out about the affair. She came after him with a gun. To make a long story short, she died in the struggle and he hid her body in the swamp.”

  She closed her eyes briefly and offered up a silent thank-you. Lizzie was innocent after all. “Good Lord! How medieval,” she said out loud. “Are you sure?”

  “He confessed.”

  Deep in thought, Verna Lee reached for the mugs and set them on the counter. “What about Amanda’s funeral?” Her eyes widened. “He’s a superior court judge. Surely he wouldn’t have murdered an innocent person to take Amanda’s place.”

  “He claims the woman came from the morgue.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “In other words, you believe some of it, but not all?”

  He accepted the mug of thick, rich coffee. “Something like that. I’ve been thinking about it. Quentin was a powerful man. Still is.” He shrugged. “The facts will come out eventually. It’s up to the district attorney.”

  “Quentin rubbed elbows with all of them down there at city hall for a very long time. Do you think there’s even the remotest possibility of finding an im
partial jury?”

  “Probably not,” Wade admitted. “The defense will ask for a change of venue. Whether it will be granted remains to be seen.” He sipped the hot coffee. “Excellent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you, you know.”

  “Why did you?”

  “My defenses collapse when I’m around you.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  His gaze rested on her lips, lush and full. He set down the coffee mug and pulled her close. “I’m still evaluating,” he said before his mouth came down on hers and he no longer remembered whether it was good or not.

  Verna Lee wasn’t about to get caught up in the throes of emotion no matter how attractive and available the man happened to be. She’d done that several times already and promised herself that if she ever got another chance at a real relationship she would do things differently. Chemistry would have no place in her decision making. There wasn’t a man alive who kept the pheromones hopping more than two years. This time she wanted stability and appreciation, kindness and a sense of humor. She wouldn’t be in any hurry, either. She was past the age when she had to think about her biological clock. There would be no children, hence no need to rush into permanence. Marriage was for optimists, or for those who feared growing old alone. She was neither. In fact, she liked living alone, having control of her own money, liked spreading out in the center of her bed, snuggling under exactly the right number of blankets, reading until the wee hours, liked drinking tomato juice and eating a hardboiled egg for dinner. Women got comfortable in relationships. They started on cream-filled foods. They gained weight and exercised less. She didn’t need Wade Atkins and his Sunday manners and his house of windows on the bay. Her life was going in the right direction. She was making progress at her own pace and it suited her just fine.

  Why, then, did her lips part to admit the intimacy of his tongue? Why did she twine her arms around his neck and press against his chest? Why did that involuntary sound, something very like a moan, rise from her throat when he found the pulse point at the base of her throat, and why did she make not a single protest when he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed where he proceeded to make love to her so thoroughly that she forgot all about pheromones and chemistry and the fact that the lust factor between a man and a woman could only last, at the most, two years?