by Luanne Rice
“Not the last time,” she said out loud now.
Haze hung over the stream, and Skye balanced on the log. She held the silver flask in her hand. Music from the ball came through the trees; she could almost imagine she was at the ballet. Skye was in the ballet; standing on one foot, she twirled to the music and took a sip of vodka. Russian vodka, appropriate for Swan Lake.
Fireflies blinked in the trees. Skye took another drink. Knowing how worried Caroline was, how much she wanted to keep Skye from drinking, Skye had brought her own. She didn’t want Caroline to feel compromised, serving Skye liquor she believed would harm her.
On the other hand, Skye did not want to be observed swigging from a flask. So here she was in the woods, dancing on a fallen log, remembering the first and only time their father had taken them to the ballet. Swan Lake. The dying swan. Wishing he’d taken them to more ballets, fewer hunts, Skye paradoxically hated Swan Lake. Tragically beautiful, it rang too many bells.
“The dance is over there.”
The deep voice came from the shadows. Skye was so startled, she nearly fell off the log. Backing away from the sound, she felt the panic in her chest.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
A man stepped forward, watching her with racy blue eyes. Tall, with a ripped shirt that revealed tan shoulders, he appeared menacing. He was dressed like a pirate; he didn’t even seem to be wearing a costume.
“Don’t fall,” he said.
“Stay away,” Skye said.
“I will.”
Skye weaved on the log. The water was only six feet down. If he came toward her, she could jump. The black water would close over her head. She could hold her breath, swim for shore. The dying, stupid swan. She could play that role. The vodka she had already drunk made her dizzy.
“Sit down,” the man said.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned. Was he trying to help? Or would he grab her from behind, rip off her dress, hold his hand over her mouth to stifle her screams? The thought, blasting out of nowhere, made Skye turn and run. Her foot caught on a broken branch, and she started to fall.
The man caught her. He took two steps, and he was there. His arms around her, trying to steady her. Skye fought. She screamed, scratched him, tore at his eyes. They thrashed on the log, the man somehow keeping balance for both of them.
“Get away from me,” she cried, grabbing his face.
“Skye—”
“I swear, I’ll kill you, don’t think I won’t—” Skye said. Had he just said her name?
“Skye, sit down,” he said. “It’s okay, you’re safe. Just sit down, for God’s sake.”
“Who the hell are you?”
The man gripped her upper arms. Skye’s feet were barely touching the log. He held her steady. She had scratched his face; he was bleeding. Shaking uncontrollably, she looked into his face. It was familiar. Skye didn’t know how she knew him, but she had seen him somewhere.
“Sit down, okay?” he asked cautiously. He touched his cheek, looked at the blood.
Skye’s head throbbed. Her throat ached. Her stomach lurched, and she retched into the water. She didn’t trust him for a second, but she didn’t have a choice. Drunk, she felt wobbly and sick. She wanted a fast slug of vodka, but she had dropped her flask. The man helped her sit on the log.
Skye sobbed.
The man reached into his pocket, then handed her a handkerchief. “Here,” he said.
Skye shook her head. She opened her eyes, looked around for the flask. Maybe it hadn’t fallen into the stream.
“It’s gone,” the man said. “I saw it go in.”
Skye gave him a desperate look. How did he know what she was looking for? Leaning forward, she saw the blood running down his cheek. She covered her eyes and moaned.
“Let’s get off the log,” he said. Offering her his hand, he waited for her.
“Why do you look so familiar?” Skye asked, trying to decide.
“I saw you at the inn the other night. You were at the bar with your husband.”
Skye stared at him. That wasn’t it. She knew his face, and she had known it for a long time. He was older now, but those blue eyes…the strong jaw, the straight nose. She blinked at him, trying to remember. She reached through the haze of vodka, past the fear of his unexpected presence.
“No,” she said. She still felt afraid, but something about his blue eyes steadied her, reassured her that he wouldn’t hurt her. She gave him her hand. He helped her off the log. The ground felt steady under her feet, but the sky moved overhead. She swayed,
“Skye, I know you can’t hear me right now,” he said roughly.
“I hear you,” she said.
“No, you’re drunk,” he said. “But later, when you sober up, I want you to remember something.”
“I’m not drunk—” Skye said.
“Yeah, you are. But tomorrow, when your head’s pounding and you’re throwing up and you want to die, remember something, okay?”
“What?” she asked, her fingers trembling.
“You never have to feel this way again.”
“Don’t—”
“There’s a way out,” he said.
The man’s eyes were deep and direct. He held Skye by her shoulders, and even though his voice was rough, it came out kind. He looked calm. Skye knew she knew him from somewhere, but the strangest part was, he sounded as if he knew her even better. She almost had it; she stared, trying so hard to remember.
They walked back to the party. The man held back branches so Skye could pass. They emerged from the woods, and almost immediately Caroline came walking over. She looked at Skye, then past her at the man. His eyes changed then. They had been hard, almost angry in their intensity, but they softened when Caroline came into view.
“Skye,” she said, and Skye stepped into her arms.
Holding Caroline made her feel safe. Skye trembled from the vodka she had drunk and the shock of meeting a strange man in the woods, from dancing to Swan Lake and from remembering another time Caroline had held her close in other woods.
“You found her,” Caroline was saying.
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said. Skye’s head was against her sister’s chest, and she could feel Caroline shaking.
“Who are you?” Skye asked. “I know you…”
“Skye, this is Joe Connor,” Caroline said.
The name sparked something deep inside. Skye tilted her head, looked at Caroline. She may have been holding Skye’s hand, but Caroline’s eyes were for the man. Overhead, the Japanese lanterns bobbed on the wire, bathing them in blue and red light.
“Oh, I do know you,” Skye said, her eyes filling with tears.
Joe didn’t smile or move. He stood very still, bleeding from where Skye had scratched him. She thought of that smiling boy in the picture, his wide-open face, his missing-tooth smile, the freckles across his cheeks.
There was nothing wide-open about the man who stood before her now. He’s tough, Skye thought. That’s what’s so different, why I didn’t recognize him at all. Life has made him wary. Skye knew, because it had made her that way too.
“Are you okay?” he asked guardedly.
Skye nodded.
“Try to remember what I said. Tomorrow.”
Skye lowered her head, ashamed that he had seen her drinking from the flask.
“You were always one of us,” Skye whispered.
“What?” Joe asked.
“One of us. You know…like a brother. I knew Caroline wrote to you, and I always imagined you knew what it was like.”
“Only some of it,” he said. “I was on the other side.”
Skye shook her head. “No, you weren’t. Our parents were, but not us. You were one of us.”
It all made such perfect sense now. The summer night was hot, and fireflies were flickering through the trees, and she was standing in a tight circle with Caroline and Joe Connor. They were united by gunshots, other people’s deaths.
>
Her mother was coming across the lawn. Simon was with her, a sullen expression on his face. Skye could feel his anger from there, and it made her stomach tighten. She would pay for his humiliation later. Clea and Peter were right behind them. Tagging along was a young man, bedecked in his pirate kerchief and black eye patch.
“Good God, where was she?” Augusta said. “I looked up, saw her stumbling out of the woods with this pirate—”
Skye saw her mother glaring at Joe.
“First I see him dancing with Caroline, and the next thing I know, he’s coming out of the woods with Skye!” Augusta said.
“Mom, he helped me,” Skye said quickly to stop the innuendo. “I nearly fell in the water.”
“What the fuck, Skye,” Simon asked, yanking her arm. “A liaison in the woods?”
“Watch your mouth, tough guy,” Joe said, calmly prying Simon’s fingers off Skye’s arm.
Simon was high. Skye could see it in his eyes. They glittered with violent rage, but he was too shocked by the rebuke to reply.
“Well, thank you,” Augusta said properly, restoring decorum to the situation. “For helping my daughter. Mr.—?”
“Joe Connor,” he said.
The name hung in the air.
“Connor?” Augusta asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Connor.” Augusta repeated the word, the cold truth dawning in her eyes.
“That’s right.”
“Not James Connor’s son?” Augusta asked with disbelief.
“Yes. He was my father.” Joe sounded tougher than ever, as if he were ready for a fight. The anger was back in his eyes. Caroline stepped forward, trying to head off the confrontation, but Joe looked past her.
“Good God,” Augusta said, her eyes filling with pain.
“Mrs. Renwick,” Sam Trevor said, drawing himself up to his full height. He adopted the tone of peacemaker, firm but kind. “The past is the past. You have great daughters, we’re just getting to know each other. Joe and I are friends of Caroline’s. She invited us here.”
“I did, Mom,” Caroline said kindly. “Please, they’re my friends…”
Augusta gave her a strange look, as if she had just betrayed the family and did not even realize it. She glanced at Sam, trying to make sense of what he had just said. Then she put her hand on Caroline’s wrist.
“Do you remember what happened? I know you do…how terrible it was. His father hurt us all so badly. Please, walk away with me. Right now.”
“Mom, listen,” Caroline said, throwing a look at Joe, stepping forward to stop her mother from going on.
“To what?” Augusta asked desperately. “Words don’t matter. They can’t take away all the damage he did. I was a mother with young children, and he came into our house to kill us.”
“But he didn’t, Mom,” Caroline pleaded.
“Murder in his heart,” Augusta said.
“That’s my father you’re talking about,” Joe said, holding her gaze.
“Your father…” Augusta said.
“Joe,” Sam said calmly.
“I’m sorry he threatened your daughters. But I can’t have you talking about him that way. Do you understand?”
“What I understand,” Augusta said shakily, “is that I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.”
“Come on, Sam,” Joe said, turning.
“Joe, hang on, man,” Sam said, still thinking there was a chance for peace.
Joe kept walking. He did not apologize to Augusta. He did not say good-bye to Clea and Peter, did not wait for his brother. He did not throw Simon a final look of disdain. He did not remind Skye of what he had said earlier. But mainly, even through Skye’s drunken haze she could see he did not say good-bye to Caroline.
Caroline watched him go. Her hand on her breast, darkly elegant with her hair upswept and her white dress wrapping her long legs, she stood in the center of her family with an expression of total despair in her eyes, watching Joe Connor walk away.
November 1, 1979
Dear Joe,
I’ve never felt this way before. When I opened your last letter, I was ready to laugh because you’re always so funny, or learn something new about you, or hear something about Sam.
But I didn’t expect to read what I’ve been feeling. I love you too, Joe. I know we’re young, we hardly know each other, we’ve never even met. Why don’t any of those things matter to me?
Paintings are so strange. Sometimes I’ll stand in a gallery, looking at a picture of a girl. She’ll be sitting in a chair, or looking out a window, or walking on a beach, and I’ll get a funny feeling in my throat. Somehow I’ll know she’s in love. I’ve always wondered how I knew that, because I’d never felt it before.
Now I do, and I know I was right all along. When I see those paintings, look at those girls, it’s like looking in the mirror. It’s like seeing myself, thinking of you. In love with you, Joe. I am.
C.
“HOW COULD YOU, CAROLINE?” AUGUSTA ASKED.
They were in the herb garden at Firefly Hill, the scent of verbena strong in the salt air. Waves broke on the shoal, rolled into the beach with a gentle rush. Offshore, the Meteor glistened and the blue water sparkled in the bright sun. Caroline couldn’t bear to see it. She turned her back, facing her mother.
“I don’t even know what you mean, Mom. Joe’s my friend now. I wanted him there.”
Augusta shook her head. She wore a long muslin dress and a straw sun hat. She huddled on the garden bench, fidgeting with her black pearls. Bending over, she pulled weeds from the bed of thyme and burnet. Then she stopped and rearranged a small cluster of scallop shells.
“Inviting him to the ball…” Augusta went on as if Caroline had not spoken. “Making him welcome when his family is responsible for so much unhappiness. So much unhappiness.”
“His family?”
“You know what I mean,” Augusta said, pulling off her dark glasses, gazing at Caroline with injured eyes. “His mother seduced your father. It’s so ugly. It hurt me so much. Your father had an affair, honey. It broke my heart, and it drove her husband crazy. Literally crazy. He came here to our house,” Augusta said, pointing at the kitchen door, “and killed himself in front of my babies.”
“How long ago, Mom?” Caroline asked sharply. “How many years ago did that happen?”
“It doesn’t matter how many years. We’re still feeling the aftershocks. I came close to ending my marriage over it, Caroline. Your father took it into his head to teach you and your sisters to shoot, and your sister killed a man. Violence begets violence, and his father started the cycle.”
“Dad did,” Caroline said. “If you want to go back that far. By having the affair in the first place.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” Augusta said.
“Are Joe and I supposed to pay for your past?”
“I’m worried sick about Skye,” Augusta said. “And now I’m worried about your judgment.”
“Don’t,” Caroline snapped.
“You’ll get hurt,” Augusta said.
“I’m strong, Mom,” Caroline said.
“I know. And we all rely on you,” Augusta said. “Maybe too much.” She reached across the garden bench to pat Caroline’s knee, and Caroline took her hand.
How could people feel such powerful and conflicting emotions for each other? How often, when she was young, had Caroline hated her parents, her sisters? While knowing, with all her heart, that she would die for them? She sat beside her mother, smelling the soothing fragrance of sage and rosemary. Her mother softly stroked the back of her hand with her thumb.
“I saw you dancing with him,” Augusta said. “Before I realized who he was.”
“You did?”
“Mmm. I did. And I thought—” Augusta paused, considering.
“Thought what?”
“Caroline’s done it.”
Caroline closed her eyes. The breeze blew off the sea, and she lifted her face to feel it. Perhaps
it had swept across the decks of the Meteor, perhaps it had passed across Joe’s boat, his skin…
“What did you think I’d done?” Caroline asked.
“Fallen in love with a dangerous man,” Augusta said.
Caroline shook her head.
“Like your father. Just as I’d done, as your sister Skye’s done…I saw the man, the way you were looking at each other. His tallness, his rough body. And that love in his eyes.”
Caroline could not move. She let her mother hold her hand, felt the soft pressure of her mother’s thumb circling her hand. Augusta’s voice broke.
“Maybe that bothers me more than the rest,” she said. “You’ve kept yourself free for so long. Free and safe. Darling, I can’t bear to think of you hurt.”
“I’m strong, Mom,” Caroline said again, her throat aching. It was true. She had learned all the lessons, and she had kept herself free and safe and strong—and alone. Her mother had nothing to worry about. She and Joe could never be together now.
“Thank God, Caroline,” Augusta said, sniffling. “Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For last night. Not for my emotions, but my behavior. For being so out of control…”
“You were shocked,” Caroline said carefully, picturing Joe’s face. Sam’s. Forgiveness is not the only point, she thought, remembering something Joe had said. First we have to face the truth. It is about understanding. She squeezed her mother’s hand, then let it go.
“I was,” Augusta said.
“Where’s Skye?”
“Inside. Asleep, I think.”
“I have to talk to her.”
Augusta nodded. She blinked at the sun. As if surprised to find herself sitting in the herb garden, she looked around. She brushed the tops of some lavender, smelled her hand.
“Your grandmother’s herbs,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “Sometimes I miss my mother and grandmother so much. They were wise women. Not like me. They were solid and old-fashioned, real mothers.”
“You’re a real mother,” Caroline said, laughing with surprise.
“But I haven’t been a very good one.”
