Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

“Yes,” Caroline said, thinking of Andrew Lockwood.

  “Come out to the boat,” he said. “Tell me there.”

  “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to, but I have a ridiculously busy day.”

  “I want you there when we bring up the gold. I want you to see.”

  “What’s it like?” Caroline asked, holding his arm, gazing at the river. “Finding the treasure?”

  “I wish I could describe it,” Joe said, bending down to pick up a stone. It was flat and smooth; he rubbed the surface with his thumb. “But you wouldn’t believe me. You’d have to see for yourself.”

  “Is it more beautiful than this?” Caroline asked, taking the cameo out of her pocket, holding it to the light.

  “When Marco Polo returned from China, he told about the wonders he’d seen,” Joe said. “Because they were beyond the comprehension of the people of his own city, they accused him of lying. When he was dying, they asked him to confess his lies, because he was about to face God. And Marco Polo said, ‘I never told the half of it.’ ”

  Joe took Caroline’s face in his hands, looked her deep in the eyes.

  “That’s how it is for you?” she asked, her heart pounding. He was telling her why he went to sea, the wonders he sought and found, the reasons he would always have to leave.

  “Come out with me so you can see for yourself.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Tonight? Tomorrow? I’ll send the launch for you.”

  Caroline hesitated. She thought of the things Skye had said, about how she never let people close. About how she always lived her sisters’ lives instead of her own. And of what Joe had told her: Generosity sometimes involved taking.

  “I have things I have to do this morning,” she said slowly, “but I can come out this afternoon.”

  “We’ll pick you up at Moonstone Point,” he said.

  They walked back to her house. She held the cameo in her hand the entire way. Even when she kissed him good-bye, she didn’t let it go.

  Someone had been in Augusta’s kitchen while she was out yesterday. She found beach stones scattered on the floor. Pictures shifted on the table. Two water glasses in the sink. Augusta had a suspicion, and she didn’t like it. It was late morning, and she was waiting to ask Skye.

  “Sit down,” Augusta instructed, offering her cheek for Skye to kiss, hustling her into a place at the table. “I have breakfast all ready for you.”

  “Oh, Mom, I can’t eat,” Skye said. “I just want coffee.”

  Augusta just pretended she hadn’t heard. When Skye smelled the muffins, when she realized Augusta had picked tiny wild blueberries from the bushes at the top of the beach stairs, she would change her mind. The muffins were small, their tops golden brown. Augusta took four from the oven, where they had been warming, and placed them in a lovely basket lined with a checkered napkin. She set the basket in front of Skye.

  “Dear, I wish I could tell you this juice was fresh-squeezed,” Augusta said, filling a glass, “but that is only partially true. I realized too late that I didn’t have enough juice oranges. So I mixed it with canned.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want—”

  “I’ll be desolate if you don’t drink your juice. It’s full of vitamins, you know.”

  “Mom, my stomach is a little—”

  “We could make screwdrivers,” Augusta suggested, assuming Skye was hung over. She knew that Skye should get her drinking under control, but maybe just this once it would actually help.

  Yesterday’s ride with Clea and Skye had left her anxious and tired. They had invited her along, but they spent the whole day acting nervous and distracted. Augusta had ridden in the backseat, doing her needlepoint, knowing something was wrong. Arriving at home, she felt like Mama Bear: Someone’s been sitting in my kitchen.

  “Who was here?” she asked when Skye had taken some sips of coffee.

  Skye didn’t reply.

  “Was it your sister?”

  Holding her cup with two hands, Skye looked down.

  “Tell me, Skye. I want to know.”

  “Shouldn’t she feel welcome to come and go?”

  “Not if she’s with Joe Connor. Was he here? Answer me, Skye.”

  Skye couldn’t speak because she didn’t want to lie. Augusta felt the truth bowl her over, and she clutched her black pearls.

  “I knew this would happen. Why else would he be in Black Hall, if he didn’t want to come snooping around? I knew the instant I saw him at the ball.”

  “Maybe he wanted to visit the place where his father died,” Skye said slowly. She took a bite of her muffin. Her tremor wasn’t as bad as it had been the last few days. Still, Augusta couldn’t bear to look.

  “All this digging up the past,” Augusta said. “It’s horrible.”

  “The man was his father, Mom.”

  Augusta felt stung, and she wanted to strike out. She pictured Skye’s studio, the new sculpture she was doing. She envisioned the talismans Skye had set out on her worktable, and she thought of the loathing she felt for them. To Augusta, they symbolized the wreckage of the painful past, everything wrong with Skye.

  “I cleaned up your studio,” Augusta said casually. “While you were sleeping.”

  “What do you mean?” Skye asked, looking up sharply.

  “Those junky things. That dusty old blue ribbon, that horrible rattlesnake skeleton you had.”

  “Mom—”

  “I threw them out.”

  “No.”

  Augusta nodded emphatically. “Surrounding yourself with negativity, no wonder you’re depressed. How can you expect to do good work, lead a meaningful life, with snake bones lying right in front of you?”

  “A snake bit me once,” Skye said, her eyes piercing.

  Augusta breathed steadily, poured more juice. “Don’t be so dramatic. Not that snake—”

  “It was poisonous,” Skye said, her voice a little louder. “It happened on the mountain, when you let me go hunting with Dad. Caroline sucked the poison out.”

  “It wasn’t poisonous. If it was poisonous, I would have known. You would have been hospitalized, and if you think I’d let you go to the hospital without being right there at your side, you’re crazy.”

  “Oh, God,” Skye said, starting to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You weren’t by my side, Mom,” Skye said. “Caroline was.”

  “No, Skye. I think—”

  “At the campsite, where it happened, and at the clinic later. And she was with me when I shot Andrew Lockwood, and she was with me when the police came, and she was with me when his parents walked into the inquest room and I had to look them in the eye.”

  “I was right here, waiting for you!” Augusta said.

  “But Caroline was with me,” Skye said quietly. “She always was. She was like a mother to me.”

  “I’m your mother,” Augusta said, feeling panic rising inside her.

  “But you weren’t there, Mom. You never were. I was in trouble, and I needed you. Facing Andrew’s parents was so hard.”

  “It was an accident, Skye. Even they knew that….”

  “You could have come. Didn’t you think about how awful it was for me, seeing the people whose son I killed? I wanted to disappear, Mom. That’s all I could think about.”

  “Darling, I was terrified for you. That you could be charged with murder. That was my only thought, that you couldn’t go to jail.”

  “Mom, I killed someone! I wasn’t thinking about jail. I was thinking they’d never see their son again. It was a beautiful sunny day, and he was dead.”

  “Beautiful sunny day? Well, I was thinking about you. Going to jail, with God-knows-what for a cellmate, no freedom, no liberty, no beautiful sunny days. I was paralyzed.”

  “I know,” Skye said. “But Caroline wasn’t. She was there.”

  It hit home, hard and suddenly. Augusta had never been present for Skye. She had wanted to, planned t
o, imagined that she was, but she hadn’t.

  Trembling, Augusta pulled out her needlework. She had been hiding this from Skye, intending to keep it a secret until Christmas.

  “Look what I’m making for you, Skye,” she said, solemnly, showing Skye this symbol of her love, wanting it to obliterate the horrible past. She wanted to return to the comfort of good talismans instead of snake bones, to the old ways that had always let her pretend she had a happy family.

  Spread out on the table was Augusta’s nearly finished needlepoint pillow: Swan Lake with its mysterious forest, blue lake, graceful swans, enchanted castle. At the bottom were two dates—Christmas of two different years, thirty years apart.

  “Do you see the significance?” she asked, her voice shaking. Her arms wrapped around Skye’s shoulders, she traced the dates with her index finger, as if she were talking to a small child. “The Christmas my father took me to Swan Lake, and the year your father took you and your sisters.”

  “I’m falling apart, and you want to give me a pillow,” Skye said.

  “Darling, you’ll be fine!” Augusta said, so afraid to hear the truth. She hugged Skye, practically shaking the needlework in her face, wanting her to see it and be happy, praying it wasn’t too late.

  “Mom, don’t!” Skye said. “Swan Lake reminds me of Redhawk.”

  “But the ballet…your father took you. You loved it. You’d listen to the music all night if you could, way past midnight, until I made you stop….”

  “You don’t even know. You think what you want to think about everything,” Skye said.

  “Darling!”

  “Mom, I hate Swan Lake. It reminds me of Dad. It reminds me of that fall day, of picking up the gun and shooting Andrew Lockwood. That’s what I think of every time I hear that music.”

  Without speaking, Augusta reached for a pair of scissors. She found herself cutting the needlework in half, then in half again. She stared at the four pieces, two in each hand.

  JOE MET CAROLINE AS SHE STEPPED OFF THE LAUNCH. HE reached down to take her hand. Climbing aboard the Meteor, she let him pull her into his arms. He had on the bottom half of a black wetsuit. His bare chest felt warm in the sun, and salt crystals glistened in his blond hair. The crew stopped everything to watch.

  “I don’t bring girls out to the boat,” Joe explained. “Twice.”

  “I don’t take days off in the middle of the week,” Caroline replied.

  “Hey, Caroline,” Sam said, bounding over in his diving suit. He shook his head, spraying water from his hair like a wet Lab. He kissed her on the cheek, apparently thrilled to see her. “You picked the best day to come out.”

  “I did?”

  “Hell, yeah. You should see the treasure! It’s like a real-life pirate’s chest—ancient and covered with brass—and we’ve got the wires ready to hook up. Show her the winch, Joe.”

  Joe smiled at his brother’s enthusiasm. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a big stainless steel drum with quarter-inch wire spooled around. “We hit the engine and say the word, and we haul in the gold.”

  “We waited for you,” Sam added. “We were all set to go the minute Joe got back from wherever the hell he was last night, but Joe said we had to hang tight.”

  “You did?” Caroline asked, blushing.

  “Yeah,” Joe said.

  Caroline smiled.

  “Got a wetsuit?” Sam asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Let her borrow one, Joe,” he said. “You’re gonna take her down, aren’t you?”

  Joe hesitated for a second. “Do you dive?” he asked.

  “That’s okay,” Caroline said, laughing. She did dive; she had her scuba certification, and she had gone down on the local reefs before. But she was out of practice, and she wanted the operation to get under way. “I think I’ll wait for you to bring it up.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. “It won’t be long.” He zipped into the top half of his wetsuit while scanning the Sound. The blue surface was flat, painted with sunlight. It was one of those perfect summer days with no waves; the sea’s only movement was its natural rhythm, low swells forming without peaks.

  “Hey, skipper,” one of the guys shouted. “We ready to go, or what?”

  “Patience, Danny,” Joe said, strapping on his tanks. “By dinner tonight you’ll be packing for Athens.”

  “Athens?” Caroline asked.

  “His next dive’s in Greece,” Sam said. “The brothers could’ve gone to Yale, but gold is gold.”

  “You’re leaving tonight?” Caroline asked.

  Joe’s smile left his lips first, then his eyes. His eyes were clear, the color of deep water. “Not tonight,” he said. But Caroline could see that it would be soon.

  “Oh,” Caroline said. Black Hall lay ten miles across the calm Sound, hills of dark pines rising sharply behind the town. Firefly Hill stood to the north. Caroline caught a glint of light and knew it was sun striking her family’s picture window. She blinked, staring at it.

  The pirates clustered on deck. They said a few words that Caroline couldn’t hear, getting their strategy set. Then they split up and went over the side. Sam yelled good-bye, and Joe flashed her a grin. He went backward off the rail.

  Caroline stared into the water. A few bubbles, a ring of ripples, were the only signs that anyone had been there. The men had disappeared completely. Last night, when Joe had seen the trouble in her eyes, he had said everything would be okay, the bad stuff was over. How could she have imagined that that meant he would stay?

  Her father had armed them against danger, but he hadn’t warned her about this part. Once you let yourself feel love, once you let it in, you take the risk. You lay yourself open to pure fear. The thought of Joe leaving was worse than any night alone on the mountain.

  Something broke the surface. As Caroline stared, the sea began to dance with silver splashes. Two, three. A fish tail broke the surface. A sea gull circled overhead, letting out a jubilant cry. A common sight of summer: The bluefish were there. Trying to breathe, Caroline watched them feed.

  Sunlight infused the top layer of water, and it twinkled above with plankton and particles of sand. The divers aimed down, flipping on lights to guide them into the murkier deep. Sam followed Joe. Diving always made him euphoric, and he’d start breathing too fast just when he was supposed to be cool and calm. Think Tibet, he told himself. Meditate and focus on spiritual matters. Think anything but this.

  This. Who could believe Sam was diving with his big brother on a big-league wreck with major treasure? Sam had grown up idolizing Joe. He made no bones about it. Sam had never been good at hiding any feeling—not one—that he’d ever had. That Yale stuff, for example. Sam had been so disappointed when Joe had said he wasn’t even considering the job. He had tried to act as if he didn’t care, but Joe could see that he did. Sam had really blown it that time.

  Just thinking about Yale made Sam’s breathing go crazy. A year they could finally spend near each other, down the drain. Like all the other times Sam would show up and Joe would leave. Don’t take it personally, he told himself. That’s just the way Joe is. Sam’s chest hurt. He pushed Yale away, straight out of his danger zone. Exhaling a long stream of bubbles, he narrowed his eyes. He peered through the dark water; ahead he could see the spars of the Cambria.

  The wreck was a magic forest of broken timber. The divers swam in a line along the reef, circling around to swim the length of the old ship. She lay on her side, wide and austere as a great dead whale. The ribs of her black wooden belly curved out, the bow and stern tapered in. The masts had snapped off; they spiked out of the sand connected to the ship with evil loops of wire. Blackfish and cunners swam in and out.

  Joe turned to face Sam. He gestured for Sam to stay put. Sam nodded assent even though he wanted to swim into the wreck behind Joe, watch the operation up close. But he wasn’t in Joe’s league as a diver. Sam’s work off Canada’s Maritimes didn’t require much scuba action, and Sam knew he was present b
y his brother’s grace alone.

  In the precarious cave of the wreck, Sam would be in the way.

  Joe was saying something. Sam squinted, looking through the celadon water. Air bubbles were flowing out of Joe’s mouth. Mask to mask with Joe, Sam read his lips: Black Hall.

  No way. Joe couldn’t be saying what Sam thought he was. Sam himself had mouthed the same words a few dives back, teasing Joe, wanting to tempt him to stay in the area, sign on at Yale, move into the town where Caroline Renwick lived. Sam had watched the way Joe changed when he was around her.

  Black Hall. Sure as hell, that’s what Joe seemed to be saying. But he couldn’t be. Sam grinned, letting a whole passel of air out and shrugged to indicate he wasn’t getting the message. Reading the word was wishful thinking on Sam’s part. Sam’s brother was a loner, a pirate, a treasure hunter. He’d never let anything like a woman or a brother hold him back.

  Turning, Joe grabbed the cable. It ran from the winch on board the Meteor straight down to the wreck. Joe and Dan would attach it to the reinforced chest, bolstered by support and wrapped in straps, and they’d pull the gold out. Joe swam into the wreck. One by one the other divers followed. Engineers, geophysicists, archaeologists, professional salvage guys, they belonged in there, carrying out the delicate business of easing a chest of gold from the delicate labyrinth of old wood.

  Sam had a different place in the sea. He was a biologist. He studied sea plants, ocean creatures. Once they got the gold, he’d hop a plane and return to his post up north. The cetaceans of Newfoundland needed to be counted. Seals needed to be observed. Herring stocks assessed. In the murky depths of Moonstone Reef, he tried to forget his dream of him and Joe at Yale.

  Trying to remain patient, Sam Trevor saw a school of menhaden. The tiny fish flashed outward like an explosion of silver. Behind them came the bluefish, pewter torpedoes, eating machines. They pursued the bait fish, mouths open. The biologist hung back, observing the fish and tried to stop wondering whether his brother had actually been saying Black Hall.

  In her studio at Firefly Hill, Skye worked on her sculpture of the three sisters. She wore a black ballet top and faded overalls, and she was covered from head to toe with a thin film of clay. Beside her was a bottle of Absolut and a crystal glass. The glass was full.