by Luanne Rice
“Good point,” Joe said, kicking a stone down the road. “But what about you? You gonna give me your blessing?”
Walking slowly, Sam caught up with the stone. He tried to kick it, missed, scutting his sneaker on the tar. His vision was off. He closed one eye, kicked again, connected with the pebble.
“It’s not forever,” Joe said. “My permit’s only for thirty days.”
“Thirty days in the Aegean, then on to—where?”
“Lamu,” Joe said. They rounded the bend and came upon a break in the trees. The Sound glittered in the sunlight, sparkling dark blue.
“Where’s Lamu?” Sam asked, giving the stone an angry kick.
“The Indian Ocean. You know damn well.”
“Is Caroline going with you?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
Sam took a big breath of sea air, felt pain shoot down his neck. He was flying to Halifax the same day Joe and Caroline were leaving for Athens. His doctors told him his vision would improve, the pain would subside, and he’d probably never have another seizure again. But he had long ago lost the only girl who ever mattered, and he didn’t look forward to missing Joe.
“You’ve got my blessing,” he made himself say.
“Thanks,” Joe said. He picked up the pebble they’d been kicking and handed it to Sam. Sam looked down at the small rock in his hand, then back up at Joe.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Objects are important,” Joe said. “They remind us of things, you know? Like all that loot I brought up from the Cambria. Like my old man’s watch—still don’t know where it got to.”
“What’s a stupid stone supposed to remind me of?” Sam asked.
“Black Hall,” Joe said.
“What about it?” Sam asked.
“A place to look forward to.”
“We’re here now. What’s to look forward to?”
“Jobs,” Joe said.
“I’ve got a job,” Sam said. “On a research vessel out of Nova Scotia.”
“I’ll write to Yale from Greece, you do your part from Canada, we’ll meet back here same time next year.”
Sam stopped to stare at Joe. His mouth must have been hanging open, because Joe reached over to close it for him.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Joe asked, chucking Sam under the chin.
“I heard. You’re full of shit.” Sam stood his ground. He felt like charging his brother like a bull, knocking him over, pounding his face in the dirt. Joe had teased him unmercifully as a kid, and Sam felt he was doing it once again.
“Believe what you want,” Joe said, shrugging.
“You take it too lightly,” Sam said roughly. “Family ties. You’re what I have left, with Mom gone. So don’t play around—” Sam stopped, watching Joe’s smile widen. For the first time, he began to believe that maybe Joe wasn’t kidding.
“I’m not playing around,” Joe said.
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
“Yale? You really think I should pursue the position there?”
“If you want to hang out together, yeah.”
“You think I’ll get a job?” Sam asked, his throat aching right into his ears.
“Probably not,” Joe said.
Sam laughed, blinking at the bright sun that was making his eyes water.
“Why would they want to give the job to a biologist who doesn’t even know a mako when he sees one?”
“Blacktip,” Sam corrected.
“Mako,” Joe said.
Caroline and Clea visited Skye, and together they walked Firefly Beach. Homer explored the high-tide line for dead crabs and old lobster buoys. The sisters knew they were saying good-bye. It wasn’t time to say the words yet, but the feeling was in the air. They strolled along, feeling the hot winds of summer give way to the cool breezes of autumn, full of gratitude that Skye seemed to be getting better. Secretly they were all trying not to worry that Skye would tumble without Caroline there to catch her.
With each AA meeting Skye attended, her desire for drinking lessened. But that first meeting remained sharp, so clear in her mind.
Quivering from alcohol withdrawal for the second time that summer, Skye had gone to that first meeting with Joe. The room was small and dingy, in the basement of a white church in Eastbrook. Signs covered the walls, those little sayings she and Simon had once made fun of: One Day at a Time; First Things First. Skye had felt so scared, so nervous. But the people were friendly and kind. They made her feel welcome right away. Joe had never been to that particular group, but he spoke to one woman, telling her Skye was new, and the next thing Skye knew, she was surrounded by women, all giving her their phone numbers, all telling her things would get better, that she never had to feel this way again.
One woman had said, “I wish you a slow recovery,” and that was what was happening. Baby steps. She went to a meeting every day. Sometimes she went with Joe, sometimes she called one of the women she had met that first night, but mostly she went alone. One day at a time, Skye was not drinking.
That in itself was a miracle. She cried a lot. A lot. Some days all she could do was eat popcorn, lie on the sofa in the fetal position, and cry. She would talk to her sponsor, an older woman who had been sober for sixteen years, whom Skye already loved more than just about anyone but her sisters and mother, and who understood everything Skye was going through because she was an alcoholic too. Skye would cry as if it were the end of the world, and her sponsor would say, “Yes, but did you drink?” “No,” Skye would say. “Then you’re having a good day!” her sponsor would say, sounding jubilant, and Skye would know she was right.
“Are you all packed?” Skye asked Caroline.
“Almost.”
“What do you need for Greece?” Clea asked. “A bathing suit?”
“Two, I think,” Caroline said.
“None,” Skye said. “Just you and Joe and the sea and sun. Naked.”
Caroline smiled. She picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the shallow water: seven quick jumps. Clea tried: three blooping ones. Skye found a perfect scaler and sent it surfing the sea: eight jumps. Her hand didn’t shake at all.
The sisters turned toward the steep stairway and began the trek up. Homer went first. He moved stiffly, but then he got the rhythm. He took the steps one at a time; when he came to Firefly Hill, he had taken four at once.
“You leave tomorrow,” Skye said.
“I know.”
“Mom’s coming home, and we’ll be fine. We’ll be together,” Skye said to set Caroline’s mind at ease.
“That’s great, Skye.”
“Are you excited?” Clea asked.
“Yes, very,” Caroline said. But she didn’t sound it. Her voice was hesitant. She was trying to smile, but her forehead looked worried. Homer brushed against her as if he knew they didn’t have much time left together.
“What’s the matter?” Skye asked.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something,” Caroline said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Now she really smiled, as if she had been caught in her old pose: oldest sister, perfectionist, worrywart. She was leaving for Greece with the man of her dreams. She had to just let herself go.
“Well, you have till tomorrow to figure it out,” Clea said.
“That’s right,” Skye said. “Mom’s coming home, you’re leaving home. We’ll have a little party.”
Having reached the top of the steps, they paused to catch their breath. Skye looked out to sea, feeling free. She didn’t hate herself anymore. It was so new, life without drinking. The blue water sparkled, empty without Joe’s white ships. Forgiveness was possible, even for herself. Her heart felt calm, she was taking everything as it came. For now anyway. For today.
“I can’t believe it,” Caroline said. Suddenly she smiled, as if it were sinking in. “I’m going away with Joe.”
“It’s about time,” Clea said.
“The longest love story I’
ve ever heard,” Skye said, “because no one will ever tell me it didn’t start when you were five.”
“Good-bye,” Caroline said, “will be very hard to say.”
Homer had been lying on the grass, taking a rest. But suddenly his head lifted, and his sleepy eyes turned eager. He sprang to his feet, his sore legs buckling only slightly. Perhaps he had heard a bird, or an animal in the brush, because his scruffy mane bristled, and he let out a sharp yelp. Then, like the young dog he used to be, he ran across the wide field toward the pine forest and disappeared into the trees.
“Where does he go?” Caroline asked.
“The secret life of Homer,” Skye said.
“He probably has a girlfriend in Hawthorne,” Clea said.
“A pretty girl Lab who loves to swim and doesn’t mind slobbery old towels,” Skye said.
“Someone for Homer to love,” Caroline said, sounding so unlike the Caroline from before, Skye had to turn away, to keep her sisters from seeing the tears in her eyes and getting worried all over again.
WHEN THE TIME CAME FOR CAROLINE TO LEAVE, HOMER wasn’t back. Everyone else had gathered at Firefly Hill: Augusta; Clea, Peter, and the kids; Skye; Sam; Joe and Caroline. Augusta was on her best behavior, not trying to change Caroline’s mind, getting along with Joe better than anyone had dared to expect. The family was together except for Homer. Mark and Maripat had been sent down to the beach to scout around for him. Perhaps it shouldn’t have mattered so much that he be there—he was only a dog—but it did.
The men were loading the car. It was a bright September afternoon, cool and clear. The Renwick women had a few minutes alone in the kitchen, and they were making the most of it by sitting around the table for a cup of tea. Caroline wore her going-away clothes: a charcoal-gray suit, starched white shirt, the cameo at her throat. She had that overly composed, Carolinesque air to her. Augusta had come to recognize it as Caroline’s matriarch look, and seeing it twisted her heart just slightly.
“You look great, dear,” Augusta said.
“Thank you, Mom.”
“As if you have absolutely everything under control, every single detail in place. I wish I could be as collected and serene as you.”
“Really? I’m a mess inside,” Caroline said calmly. “For some reason, I feel as if I’m about to get seasick.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant!” Clea said happily.
Caroline gave her a long look, blowing on her tea. “I’m not,” she said. “I just feel funny, like I’m missing something.”
“Don’t you want to go?” Augusta asked. “You can always change your mind. It’s not that I don’t like Joe. You know that, don’t you?”
“You’ve been very nice to him, Mom.”
“Well, if you’re not in the mood to travel, you can wait here till he gets back. Although, frankly, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’m being very honest with you, Caroline. If you really love him, I wouldn’t send him off to the Greek isles alone. He’s a very charismatic man.”
“Mom, he’s not Dad,” Skye said, smiling. “And Caroline’s not you.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Augusta said. She smiled. She was being very brave about this. How could she say everything that was in her heart? Her oldest daughter was about to leave home just as Augusta felt she was on the verge of becoming a good mother.
“Mom,” Caroline said, taking her hand.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Augusta said, her voice strong. She knew what she had put her children through, knew how totally they had cared for themselves and each other over the years.
“We’ll take care of her,” Clea said.
“Or she’ll take care of us,” Skye said.
“Oh, Skye,” Augusta said. She had been holding herself together, but hearing Skye’s declaration, seeing her beautiful face nearly clear of bruises, made Augusta think she might break into pieces.
“Look what you did this summer,” Skye went on. “Got right between me and Simon. You protected me, Mom.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Augusta said with a certain amount of wonder. “I was never very good at it before though. Protecting you girls…”
“You’re good at it now,” Caroline said.
“I wish your father were here right now,” Augusta said.
“I wish it too,” Caroline said. Her throat was low, and she touched it as if it ached. “I think that’s what’s missing. Remember, Mom? We were talking about it a week or so ago? That one little piece?”
“Dad?” Clea asked.
“Dad,” Caroline said.
“I miss him terribly,” Augusta said.
“The summer’s been about him, in a way,” Caroline said. “With so much about James Connor and Andrew Lockwood, the hunts…”
“Homer getting old,” Clea said.
“And me getting sober,” Skye added.
“He was such an extraordinary man,” Augusta said.
“And I never understood him at all,” Caroline said. “So many things have become clearer this summer, but that part hasn’t. If anything, he’s farther away.”
Her sisters looked quietly into their teacups, and Augusta sniffled loudly.
Caroline knew it was time to go.
Her mother patted her scarf, adjusting it carefully. She did look stunning, like an aging film star. Her scarf-turbans went perfectly with her black pearls, her New England–Hollywood looks. But seeing her mother, Caroline could tell that Simon’s attack had taken something out of her. For the first time, Augusta looked old.
“Mom, are you okay?” Caroline asked.
“Just thinking of Hugh.”
“We loved him, Mom,” Clea said.
“It was never that we didn’t,” Skye said.
Augusta nodded. She looked tired and resigned, as if, like Caroline, she had spent too much time searching for the missing piece, the explanation that would weave it all together.
“Remember chasing fireflies?” Caroline asked. “Dad could do that with us for hours. It was always dark and hot, the middle of summer, and the stars were always out.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Augusta sighed.
Caroline stared at her mother, trying to memorize her face. She would take it with her wherever she went, the image of her mother’s eyes. She felt the pull of love, the eternal conflict of being a daughter.
“Remember when you were six,” Clea said. “You caught a firefly, and you were so excited, you fell and squished it?”
“I started to cry,” Caroline said steadily. “My firefly was dead, and Dad came off the porch. I remember him walking through the field, through the tall grass. He looked so gigantic.”
“Hugh couldn’t bear to hear you cry, Caroline,” Augusta said. “Ever. When you were an infant, he’d pick you up at the least whimper. The nights he was home, he would walk you for hours, up and down the hall, just to keep you happy.”
Caroline nodded, touching her lips. For some reason, she could almost remember that too. It was as if the family ghosts or angels had cast a spell on the table, made it possible to remember impossible things. Closing her eyes, she could feel herself in the palm of her father’s hand, smell his scent of cigarettes and oil paint, hear him singing her a lullaby. Driving her home the time she had a fever. But none of those things was the missing piece.
“Chasing fireflies,” Augusta said. “It wasn’t just when you were young. I vividly remember the summer Homer came to live with us, your father running through the salt hay with him, on the trail of anything that blinked.”
“I loved Dad for that,” Caroline said. It was true, she thought: With all the later hurt, during the years he spent drinking, she forgot the total love. “And I wish Homer would come back to say good-bye to me.”
After a moment, Augusta reached for her cane. She motioned for the girls to stay where they were. She stood painfully, got used to her feet, and left the room. Caroline heard her thunking up the stairs, along the upstairs hall. She wondered how long her mother would
keep the house. Firefly Hill was big and rambling, and maybe someday it would start to make sense for Augusta to live somewhere else. Somewhere smaller, more manageable.
Or maybe she would stay there until she died.
“I’m going to drive the mailman crazy,” Skye said, “asking him for letters from you.”
“You have to call from absolutely everywhere,” Clea said.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Caroline said. “I’m not going. Joe will have to find someone to take my place.”
“Excellent thinking,” Clea said. “Shall I tell him to move along?”
“Caroline?”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Caroline turned around. Augusta leaned on her silver-topped hawthorn stick, a gentle smile on her face. Clea and Skye stood still. Their mother seemed weakened by the exertion, but happy, content in a way Caroline had never seen her before.
“Go get them,” Augusta said, nodding to Skye. “Please?”
“Who?” Skye asked.
“Joe and Sam,” Augusta said.
Surprised, Skye stood still. Then she ran out the door as fast as she could. They watched her run barefoot to the car, say something to Joe.
“What, Mom?” Caroline asked.
“I have something for your friend.”
“Joe?”
Augusta nodded. She touched her black pearls, then she reached out her frail hand and touched Caroline’s cameo. Caroline had found a length of black velvet ribbon and threaded it through the fragile gold clasps.
“Beautiful things,” Augusta said, “from people we love. Objects matter.”
“I know,” Caroline said. She didn’t know what was happening, but it began to dawn on her: Her mother was honestly making peace with Joe.
The screen door opened. The September evening was cool and a small burst of wind blew in. Skye stood there, smiling. Sam burst through the door, followed by Peter. Very cautiously, Joe followed. Caroline felt her heart quicken at the sight of him. He looked so handsome and tall, his white shirt tucked into his jeans. He smiled and said hello.
Augusta put out her hand. She stood tall and regal, her face stoic and dignified. Caroline watched Joe glancing around. His gaze lit upon the old kitchen table, the terra-cotta tile floor, old family photos, clay handprints of each of the girls. But Caroline knew he was thinking about his father. Caroline reached for Joe’s hand, and he held tight.
