Chesapeake Tide (10 page)

“Russ.”

“You must be new in town. I'da noticed if you'd been in before.”

Russ was recovering his equilibrium. “It's been a while.”

“Where you from?”

“Marshyhope Creek.”

“That's right around the corner,” she protested. “How come you never been here before?”

Russ grinned, a flash of white in the dark room. “I have, honey. But it was long before your time.”

She pouted and tossed her long, bottle-blond perm. “You're not that much older than me. Besides, I like older men. They're better in bed.”

Russ, who'd guessed her age to be just past jailbait, didn't contradict her. Let her think what she wanted. The little lady had drop-dead curves and a voice like honey, but he wasn't planning on harvesting her crop. He made a point of staying away from schoolgirls. He preferred women nearer his own age. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the dance.

Insinuating his leg between both of hers, he tightened his arms and dipped her backward. The music changed. Willie Nelson's
You Were Always On My Mind
blurred the edges of his resolve. He pulled her close again and pressed her head against his shoulder. Locked together, they barely moved until the song ended. Someone dropped another quarter into the jukebox.

Russ's eyes adjusted to the gloom. Two women walked in and sat down in a corner booth. The dark-haired one turned and looked directly at him. He winced and then realized her eyes probably hadn't adjusted to the dimness and she couldn't see well enough to recognize him. What was Libba doing in a hole like this?

“My break's over, handsome.” The blonde laved his ear. “If you're still here at closing time, I promise it'll be worth it.”

She was cute, but he knew he'd regret it. “It's not that you aren't tempting,” he said gently, “but I'm afraid not.”

She sighed. “Why is it all the good ones are already taken?”

He tweaked a curl. “Don't give up.”

“I won't,” she promised. “It's my ticket outta here.”

Russ walked off the floor and took a seat at the end of the bar. The night promised to be interesting.

Libby sipped whipped cream off the top of her Irish coffee. She was definitely uncomfortable. The diner had never appealed to her. She wished Shelby had chosen another place to catch up on old times.

“Libba Delacourte, are you hearin' a word I said?” Shelby Sloane asked indignantly.

Libby smiled. Shelby had been her oldest friend. They'd known each other since birth and hung out with the same crowd in high school, but it wasn't until after graduation that their friendship deepened. Libby believed, although Shelby denied it, that they'd both been in competition for Russ. After he left town, Libby needed a friend and Shelby stepped in to fill the gap. Flame-haired, blue-eyed, reed-thin and gorgeous, two parts loyal to one part crazy, she spoke her mind and was a self-proclaimed gossip. Still, she was the only one from her high school crowd that Libby still considered a friend. Years could pass, but when they reconnected it was as if they had seen each other the day before. “Why don't we go someplace else?” Libby suggested.

“Good Lord, Libba Jane. This is the only place in town that has a liquor license. I'm askin' if you think Fletcher's cheatin' on me. I think that deserves a drink.”

Libby sighed impatiently. “Fletcher is not cheating on you, Shelby. He's crazy about you. Just because a man joins a baseball league does not mean he's tired of you. If you're really worried, why don't you watch him play?”

Shelby's long manicured fingernails clicked against the tabletop. “I hate baseball. Fletcher knows I hate baseball. If I went down there to the field, he'd know somethin' was up. He'd probably think I was checkin' up on him.”

“Well?” Libby said pointedly.

“For Pete's sake, Libba Jane. I can't have him think I'm jealous. It gives a man a terrible advantage.”

“You've been married for fifteen years. Don't tell me you're still keeping score. Give the guy a break, Shelby. He'd be flattered.”

Shelby's perfectly shaped eyebrows quirked. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

“Okay, I'll do it.” She lifted the bottle of Moosehead to her lips. “Won't ol' Fletch be surprised when I show up tomorrow night?”

“Care to dance?”

Libby glanced up from the scuffed cowboy boots, past the patched jeans to a sun-lined face and thinning brown hair. “No thanks,” she said, smiling gently.

“I would.” Shelby slid out of the booth and stood before him, hands on her hips. “Care to take second best?”

The man grinned and his eyes moved boldly up the length of her tanned legs, revealed by the short denim skirt. “You're a pretty thing. I feel lower than a snake's belly that I didn't ask you first.”

Shelby shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn't bother me. I'm used to it, at least when I'm with Libba. Do you want to dance or not?”

He slipped his arm around her waist and maneuvered her to the middle of the floor where several other couples were already circling.

Libby sighed and began searching through her purse for her car keys. Shelby didn't normally throw herself at strangers. She had quite a reputation in high school, but marriage and two children had quieted her down substantially. She must be seriously upset with Fletcher. Her fingers connected with the end of her key chain at the same time she remembered that Shelby had driven. There was nothing to do but wait until her friend grew tired of her dancing partner. Tucking her purse into the corner of the booth, she slid out of the seat and headed toward the ladies' room.

It was black as pitch in the hall. She pushed open the door and waited until the blond waitress came out of the stall. The girl was too young to have been in school with her. Without speaking, she left the room. Libby washed and dried her hands, smoothed her hair and walked out into the darkness. Someone came out of the men's room at the same time. There was barely enough space in the hall for one person, never mind two. Libby waited for the man to pass. He didn't move.

Assuming the initiative, she stepped into the hall only to have a firm hand grasp her arm and pull her back around. “Leave me alone,” she demanded furiously.

“Take it easy,” said Russ. “It's only me. What in the hell are you doing in a place like this?”

Libby blinked. “Russ, is that you? I came with Shelby.”

“That's what I thought. Well, then, what you need is the full experience.” He started down the hall to the bar, pulling her after him. Strains of Johnny Cash filled her ears.

“Let's dance,” Russ said.

“No.” Libba twisted her arm in an effort to loosen his grip. It didn't work. “Will you let me go?”

“Not a chance.” He nodded toward Shelby. “Your friend'll be out there all night. May as well take advantage of the time.”

“I don't want to dance with you, Russ Hennessey,” she hissed. “I've spent the last seventeen years doing what I didn't want to, but it's over. You better understand that now.”

“Give over, Libba. I know what you've spent the last seventeen years doing, and it so happens that I need your help and your experience. Now, I don't like to beg or threaten, but it does seem as if you owe me one or two. How about it, Libba Jane?”

Libby's eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

He pulled her into his arms. Instinctively, as if it had never forgotten, her body fit against his, filling up the spaces just like old times. Her feet moved to the music.

“I know you're a biologist. What I don't know is what kind?”

“My speciality is genetic mutations. Why?”

“I don't think I need the genetic part, but mutation is definitely up my alley.”

The box spewed forth Reba McEntire's husky lyrics.

“Please, tell me what this is all about.”

“It's the crabs,” he said. “They're horribly deformed, every one of them. It's like the water is poisoned.” His breath was harsh against her ear. “Then I found Mitch's file. Testicular cancer, environmentally acquired. I thought he had leukemia.”

Libby pulled away. “Now, wait a minute, Russ. You're jumping to conclusions. That diagnosis doesn't mean what you think it does. We're all susceptible to environmental hazards. Whether we come down with something or not depends on the health of our immune system. Besides, leukemia is sometimes environmentally acquired, too.”

“What about the crabs?”

“I don't know.”

“Will you come and see them?”

“Of course I will.” She hesitated. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“I sent Billy Dupree to the lab with some samples.”

Libby sighed with relief. He wasn't planning to hide anything.

“I never really got over you.”

Her mind, sorting out the possibilities, didn't register the words.

“Was there anything specific about the mutations?” she asked. “Was it mostly eyes or torsos or legs?”

“Did you hear what I said?” he demanded.

“Sorry. What was it again?”

“I never got over you.”

Her breath caught. She forced a laugh. “Yes, you did. You not only got over me, you married Tracy Wentworth within a year.”

She smelled wonderful, like apricots. Libba had always reminded him of fruit, warm, lush, peach-colored fruit. Her skin in the summer was incredible, rich and golden, her lips and cheeks coral-colored. “That was a mistake,” he said flatly.

“Obviously. But that doesn't mean you didn't think it was right in the beginning.”

“I married her to spite you.”

“You're drunk.”

“I never drink enough to get drunk.”

“Really? That's new.”

“When did you turn so bitchy?”

“Watch it, Russ. Just because I'm not agreeing with you for a change is no reason to insult me. I've apologized once. I won't grovel forever.”

“You called me a drunk.”

“I said you
were
drunk. I didn't call you a drunk. The two are quite different.”

“I don't see it.”

She'd had enough. The words, the song, dancing with Russ. She couldn't stand it any longer. Breaking out of his hold, she stalked across the floor to where Shelby and her cowboy were locked in an intimate clinch. “If you don't drive me home right now, I'll never go anywhere with you again.”

Shelby blinked in surprise. One look at Libba's expression convinced her. “Sorry, Vaughn.” She smiled regretfully at her partner. “I gotta get goin'.”

“Too bad,” the cowboy mumbled. “I was havin' a real good time.”

“Me, too,” she called back, and then ran after Libby.

Shelby was worried. Libba had burst into tears the minute she'd turned on the ignition and didn't stop until they'd pulled into the driveway of her family home. Libba never cried and certainly not the way she had tonight, dry, retching, wounded sobs that spoke of desperation and lonely highways and country roads leading nowhere and, most of all, loss, aching, permanent loss, the kind Shelby would never have believed that Coleson Delacourte's elegant, sophisticated daughter could possibly have known.

“Can I help you, Libba Jane?” she asked tentatively.

Libby shook her head.

“It can't be that bad, honey. You'll see, everything will look better tomorrow.”

“I've made such a mess of things, Shelby. I'm thirty-seven years old, alone, living with my parents, nothing to show for my life, and all because of a stupid mistake. What kind of example am I for Chloe?”

Shelby thought a minute. “That's just plain dumb thinkin', Libba Jane,” she said after a bit. “What about all your education? What about Chloe? If it weren't for that little mistake, who I'm assuming is your ex-husband, you'd probably be married to Russ Hennessey, have ten kids and a whole lot of resentment because he stifled your gifts. Besides, we all make mistakes. Most people marry wrong the first time. Why do you think we all watch
Oprah?”

Libby blinked at her friend. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. You lit outta town for a reason, Libba Jane. Think about that. At least you married an outsider. Think about poor Russ and Tracy. They have to look at each other all the time. That could be damn awkward.”

“I never thought of that,” Libby admitted.

“Well, start thinking about it and be grateful. You're in the prime of your life, Libba Jane. You still have your looks and your figure. You're smart and educated. If you want to start where you left off, you should be nicer to Russ.”

“That's ridiculous, Shelby. I don't want to start where I left off. What good would that do?”

Shelby twisted a red curl around her painted fingernail. “Somebody, I can't remember who, said something about protesting too much.”

“His name was Shakespeare,” Libby said dryly.

“Whatever. I always thought there was something in that.”

Libby pulled the door handle and climbed out of the car. “Good night, Shelby.”

“Good night, darlin'. Keep your chin up. Women our age shouldn't make a habit of cryin'.”

Stifling a gurgle of laughter, Libby watched her friend drive away.

L
ibby turned to inspect herself in the mirror, smoothed the skirt of her cream-colored linen suit and picked off a nonexistent piece of lint. It wasn't an official interview, but she decided to dress as if it was. She'd pulled her hair back in a twist, brushed her lids and cheeks with peach blush, applied gel to her lips and critically examined herself in the mirror. Six extra pounds or not, this was as good as she got.

Chloe's voice, sharp and demanding, came from the doorway. “Where are you going?”

Libby quailed. All her instincts recoiled at the thought of lying to her child. On the other hand, the truth would wreak havoc with her plans. Chloe would become hysterical and Libby would have to forgo her meeting with Cliff, or she would leave Chloe to her own tantrum and be accused of neglect. She decided on the middle ground. “I'll tell you later, when I know for sure.” She changed the subject. “What plans do you have for the day?”

“I'm going with Granddad into Salisbury. I begged him to take me. Otherwise I'd do what I always do. Read to Grandma, listen to her lecture on the fine points of being a lady, eat lunch, help Serena in the kitchen and he out on the sundeck for a full five minutes before my skin blisters.”

“Sounds good,” Libby said, hearing none of it. She hooked her purse over her shoulder, pecked her daughter's cheek before easing past her and ran down the stairs.

Her father opened the door for her. “You're in a hurry.”

“I have an appointment.”

“Is it a secret?”

“Bless you, Daddy. I'll tell you everything when I get home.”

“When will that be?” he called after her.

“Lunch. I'll be home for lunch.”

“It'll be a hot one,” he warned. “It's not even eight o'clock and the temperature's over eighty.”

Cliff Jackson believed in casual. He wore a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read Save the Whales. The office was equally as casual. The walls were covered with travel posters of beautiful people, smiling mammals and clean, white-sand beaches. Track lighting hung from the ceiling and a desk with a banker's lamp faced the window. There was a single stool and one comfortable chair behind the desk. Plants in colorful pots leaned toward the sun. A detailed map of the bay covered an entire wall, and the smell of rich coffee swirled through the air. Libba sniffed appreciatively.

“Mornin', Libba Jane.” He nodded toward the coffeepot. “Coffee?”

“I'd love some. How are you, Cliff?”

He looked her over. “Not up to my usual, but then I never was a morning person. You're serious about coming to work with me?”

“I have a few questions.”

He looked surprised. “Fire away.”

“How long will this job last?”

“There may not be enough work here in Marshyhope Creek to sustain a permanent office. How does Washington, D.C. sound to you?”

Libby shook her head. “I came home for a reason. I don't want to live in a big city and I don't want to uproot Chloe again. She's starting high school.”

Cliff drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you want a guarantee?”

“Yes.”

“Two years,” he said. “I can give you two years part-time and then you can renegotiate if you're not happy. With your credentials, you won't starve.”

She pulled an envelope from her purse. “I brought a résumé.”

He took it from her. “I'll keep it for the files. I've already checked up on you. You've been mighty busy since you left town.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He grinned. “When do you want to start?”

She looked around. “Today, but I'll need some furniture.”

He shook his head. “The thing is, Libba Jane, you'll be here on your own for a good part of the time. I'll be in D.C. most of every week.”

She laughed. “You're joking.”

He shook his head.

Her smile disappeared. “I'm flattered by your confidence in me, Cliff, but do you really think that's wise? It's going to take some time for me to figure everything out.”

“You'll have a computer, e-mail, a fax machine, a telephone and all the files. There's nothing here you haven't seen before. You'll be fine.”

Libby shook her head. “I don't think so. This will be a new area for me. I've got the knowledge but not much experience. I've worked for the D.A.'s office for the last four years. Environmental hazards are a different ball game. I'm going to need some help.”

“I checked out your credentials. You interned in Catalina and in the Newport wetlands. You're not as inexperienced as you think and you'll have all the help you need. I'll be a phone call away.”

“What if I need more than that?”

“I'll catch the shuttle or drive down. We're only a few hours apart.”

She groaned. “This is the other side of the world and you know it.”

“This isn't a big operation, Libba. Your being here works out for the agency. If you hadn't shown up, I'd be relocated back to the capitol, anyway, and the problems here would be prioritized. This is personal for me. I'd like to see this job finished. This is where I grew up. My family is here.”

“What's so important that you have to go back now and not next month when I'll feel more confident about what I'm doing?”

“There's a vote coming up in the Senate. It concerns opening up a wildlife reserve in Alaska to oil drilling. I need to get up there, work out some petroleum projection figures and determine just how many barrels of oil that reserve has. If it's big, you'll see oil rigs dotting the landscape from Ketchikan to Juneau.”

She stared at him. “Good God.”

“Can I count on you?”

Thoughts, thick and complicated, flitted through her mind. She could take a leave from the D.A.'s office. She would beg Chloe for understanding. Her parents already wanted her to stay. There would be no problem there. The question was,
Did she want the job? Or did she want to go back to California and read DNA tests for unfit, unwilling parents?
“I'll take it,” she said recklessly. “But you have to promise that you'll come if I need you.”

“I'll be around periodically. I've a small interest here in Marshyhope Creek myself.”

“Verna Lee?”

He laughed, his smile white as bleached bone in his dark face. “How did you guess?”

She shook her head. “Just a hunch.”

He stood. “Since you're set on starting today, take my chair. I'll pass over the open files and we can talk about them.” He looked at her pencil-slim skirt and matching jacket. “If comfort is important to you, I'd drop the fancy outfits. They aren't practical for mucking out shrimp boats and collecting water samples. Besides, you're not in California anymore. It's hotter'n a fry station at lunch hour.”

She hesitated, her mind on something else.

“Is something bothering you, Libba Jane?”

“Russ Hennessey sent some mutated blue crabs to the lab. Have you heard anything about that?”

Cliff frowned. “When?”

“Yesterday, I think. I said I'd look at them.”

“Go ahead. See what you can find out. We'll tackle the files tomorrow.”

“I'll go home to change. Chloe thinks we're going back to California. I have to break the news that I've taken a job. She won't be pleased. I only hope she doesn't slit her wrists.”

He looked startled. “Jesus. Is it that bad?”

“Not quite. She'll probably want to slit my wrists.”

He shook his head. “Good luck. Call me if you find out anything. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow.”

Nola Ruth despised the tendency toward casualness that seemed to have taken over the world. Lunch at home meant white tablecloths and linen napkins. Once, when Libba was a child, it also meant formal attire. Now Coleson wore tan slacks and a golf shirt while Chloe had on her usual uniform of cutoff shorts and a tank top. Nola Ruth prided herself on being properly dressed, in silk and pearls, her hair and makeup immaculate. She surveyed her daughter's attire and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness Libba Jane hadn't succumbed to the sloppy chic of modem young people today. She looked beautiful with her coffee-dark hair pulled back in a severe style that flattered only those fortunate enough to have good skin and the right bones. Nola Ruth approved of her clothing, too—creamy linen and pearl earrings with only the faintest touch of makeup. Libba always did have beautiful skin, ivory in color, completely poreless. And those eyes, liquid dark, with lashes like feathers. Nola Ruth sighed. She could have had anyone. How could she have thrown herself away on Eric Richards?

Chloe picked up her fork and speared a cucumber from her salad plate. Nola Ruth frowned, folded her hands and bowed her head. The child couldn't help her lack of religious training. “Coleson, please say grace before Chloe expires of hunger.”

Chloe flushed, set down her fork and crossed herself.

“Thank you, Lord, for the food and the company. Amen.” Cole Delacourte smiled kindly at his granddaughter. “Was that quick enough for you, Chloe?”

“It's just that I'm not used to praying,” Chloe explained. “We never do at home.”

Nola Ruth addressed her granddaughter. “We don't blame you for your lack of religious education, darling. Your mother was very remiss. I'm sure she sees the error of her ways.”

“There is more than one way to live a spiritual life, Mama,” Libby said, then changed the subject. “This chicken salad is delicious. I think Serena uses rosemary. Do you like it, Chloe?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Answer yes or no, darling,” Nola Ruth said. “Uh-huh isn't polite.”

Coleson's rare temper flared. “For Pete's sake, Nola Ruth, let the child eat. You don't need to educate her. She's fine the way she is.”

“Of course she is,” Nola Ruth smiled sweetly. “I'm sorry if I've offended you, Chloe. I didn't mean to.”

“I'm not offended, Grandma.” She looked at her mother. “Where did you go this morning?”

“I'll tell you after lunch.”

“Tell us now,” Coleson said. “Unless it's a secret.”

“No, it's no secret,” Libby said slowly. “There's an environmental problem here in Marshyhope Creek.” She looked pointedly at her daughter. “I'd like to talk to you about it after dinner, Chloe.”

“Why can't you talk now?”

“It affects you as well as me,” Libby explained.

“Tell me now.”

“It can wait.”

Chloe set her fork down. “I'm not hungry,” she said. “May I be excused?”

“For heaven's sake, Chloe,” her mother exploded. “You just don't know when to stop. I'd like to talk to you about this sensibly, but if you're going to pull your I'll starve myself routine, I'll tell you now. I'm going to work for the Environmental Protection Agency.”

Chloe's face was very white.

Libby hurried on. “It's not exactly permanent.”

“What does that mean?” her father asked.

Nola Ruth watched her daughter draw a deep breath.

“I don't know. It could be a few months, maybe more, depending on how long it takes.”

“No,” Chloe cried out.

“It's a wonderful opportunity, Chloe,” Libby said quickly. “You'll see. I've always wanted to work in my field. When school starts you'll make friends and everything will be fine.”

Nola Ruth glowed. “It's a wonderful opportunity. How fortunate that things are turning out the way they are.”

“You promised,” Chloe whispered. “You said I could go home. You said six weeks, tops.”

“We haven't been here for six weeks, Chloe.”

“You just said we could be here for months.”

Libby fell silent, shamed by the burning accusation in her daughter's eyes. “I'm sorry, Chloe, but this is important to me.”

“You're not sorry. If you were really sorry, you'd take it back.”

Libby's lips tightened. “What I meant is that I'm sorry you're so disappointed. It won't be as bad as you think.”

Chloe was standing now, rigid defiance stiffening her slight body. “It won't be bad at all because I'm going home. I'm calling Dad. He promised that I could come home. He'll come and get me if you don't send me back.”

“Chloe, please,” Libby pleaded. “Stop this. You can't go back to California. Your home is with me.”

“Who decided on that one?” Chloe shouted. “I don't remember being asked who I wanted to live with.”

Nola Ruth opened her mouth.
‘‘Whom,
darling, not
who.”

Almost immediately her husband's foot pressed down on hers warningly.

“Chloe, you're behaving badly,” her mother said. “Sit down and let's discuss this rationally.”

“I'm not discussing anything with someone who breaks her promises. You're a liar.”

Nola Ruth gasped. Her husband's hand clamped down on her arm.

Tears rolled down Chloe's cheeks. “Dad will come and get me. You'll see. I'm calling him now.” She ran from the room.

Nola Ruth turned on Cole. “What is the matter with you?” she demanded.

Cole resumed eating his lunch. “You were about to say something you would eventually regret. I stopped you. Chloe doesn't need us to disapprove of her. It would hurt her to admit she would rather go home than stay here. I didn't want to put her through that.”

“Are you saying that you approve of that child's behavior?”

“That child
is our granddaughter. She's angry, hurt and scared. Her entire life has been disrupted. If what she says is true, I don't blame her.” He looked at his daughter. “Look at me, Libba Jane,” he ordered. “Did you in fact promise Chloe that she could go back to California if you decided to stay?”

Tears welled up in Libby's eyes. She nodded.