Chesapeake Tide (13 page)

Libba was a Delacourte on her father's side, a Beauchamp on her mother's. She came from a long line of Mediterranean women known for their warm temperaments, long memories, and a loose and easy grace that spoke of innocence and seduction in the same breath. Nola Ruth had raised her daughter in the legacy of her ancestors, women who concealed an icy intelligence beneath the fine-boned beauty of porcelain teacups. Formal, graceful, hospitable women with steely spines who, five generations before, had seen their land razed, their homes torched and their men emasculated without losing the serene dignity that characterized southern females of a certain class. Libba Delacourte was a lady. There was no mistaking the real thing. His own mother, granddaughter of Irish immigrants who'd made good, had seemed less than she was when Libba walked into the room.

He liked the idea that Libba would dress up for him, even if it was only lipstick and earrings. Deep in his soul, Russ Hennessey harbored a craving for beauty and elegance. Instinctively he'd known, even as a boy, that possessing Libba would go a long way toward satisfying that craving. When he sat down to dinner in Coleson Delacourte's eighteenth-century dining room so many years ago with its intricately wrought wood, carved chimney and silver serving dishes, where books lined the shelves and hand-blown decanters glowed under muted light from crystal chandeliers, when the lawyer nodded approvingly at something he'd said, when he looked across the mahogany table at Libba's austerely beautiful face, he felt revitalized, born anew. This world of propriety and refinement, of cultivated taste and understated elegance, where ideas, politics and philosophy were discussed as naturally and casually as his father discussed fish counts and the price of diesel, was a world as foreign, as tantalizing, and far more desirable than any he could have dreamed up in his imagination.

Elizabeth Jane Delacourte was the Madonna of Marshyhope Creek, the town's golden girl, completely loved, unconditionally accepted, the acknowledged center around which the limited social life of the Cove revolved. Because he had always been secretly afraid of losing her, Russ had staked his claim early, in the only way he knew how. He'd taken her virginity. Somehow he knew that despite the sexual revolution sweeping through the sixties, a girl like Libba wouldn't give herself to a man unless she was committed. He made her love him and, in so doing, tied himself to her as tightly and irrevocably as the cinch knots in his father's fishnets.

Those were the years Libba glowed from within with a flame-lit, shimmering brightness that gave Russ the swaggering confidence that earned him his reputation on the tidewater. The memory of that brightness had wreaked havoc on his mind, his love life and, eventually, his marriage. He'd fallen once, early and hard. For Russ it was Libba or no one. She was the reason he'd left Marshyhope Creek, the reason he'd married so suddenly and disastrously. Now he was home again and so was Libba. The possibilities were interesting. This time Russ was in no hurry. He'd learned through painful experience that the inevitable would happen one way or another. Rushing relationships led to ties that strangled, to pity that turned to contempt and to hefty child support payments and a terrifying loss of control. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

When he was well out into the bay he checked the coordinates on the Loran, set the speed control and lit a cigarette.

Libby spoke for the first time since they'd left the mooring. “You really should give those up. How long has it been? Twenty years?”

Russ blew out a stream of smoke. “Just about.”

“They'll kill you.”

“They could.”

“It's a fact, Russ.”

“Well, now, let's explore that for a minute. My daddy fell off a trawler in one of his daily binges, and if I heard correctly, his liver was so swollen it looked like a twenty-pound bowling ball.” He stopped to suck in another lungful of smoke. “As for Mitch,” he continued, “he was thirty pounds overweight, kept a stash of whiskey in his desk at the dock and looked twenty years older than me even before he came down with cancer. As far as I can tell, I'm the healthiest Hennessey my family produced.”

Libby sighed. “Ordinarily, I'd agree with you. But under the circumstances—” She stopped.

“What circumstances?”

She could barely hear him over the hum of the motor. “Let's look at the crabs first and then I'll tell you what I think.”

“Fair enough.”

Russ kicked up the speed and Libby laughed with delight. Skimming over the water, the spray cool on her face, was almost like flying. Too soon, Russ cut the engine speed and moved into the vicinity of the trotlines.

Libby frowned. “I hope you're not considering doing any fishing here, Russ. If I've read the coordinates right, this isn't legal.”

“Yeah, and now I know why. I hope you have a strong stomach,” he said grimly, hooking the first line and pulling it up over the side. “I brought you here because I want you to see exactly where this is happening. Maybe you'll notice something in the area we've missed, something we might have in common with the Great Lakes or the Hudson. Those areas are all contaminated with runoff from farm waste. If we knew—”

Libby took one look at the pulsing, mutated mass that couldn't possibly be a Maryland blue crab and thought of the ramifications on the human population of the bay. Suddenly she felt a lightness in her head that meant an abrupt departure of blood from her brain. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and gagged.

Russ dropped the line back into the water, slipped one arm around her waist and steadied her. He focused on the flare of her nostrils and the tiny pores in her skin. A slight beading of perspiration dampened her forehead. She smelled like perfume, the expensive kind. “Easy does it, Libba Jane,” he cautioned. “We've just started. They're all like that. You're not much good to me if you're swooning on the deck.”

“Dear God,” she groaned. “This is terrible.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

She pulled herself together and stepped away from him. “What could have happened to them?”

“You're the expert. You tell me.”

She didn't want to tell him, not yet when she wasn't sure. “I have an idea, Russ,” she began, “but I can't say for sure, not until we get the lab reports back. Let's pull as many of these in as we can and ship them to Salisbury.”

His mouth settled into grim frown lines. “You were about to tell me something earlier. What is it?”

“I don't want to speculate about something as serious as this. Please, be patient.”

“The lab in Salisbury has our samples, but they're not telling me anything.” His voice was strained. “I want to know what you know, or at least what you suspect. A lot of people are depending on me and we're out of business until this is cleaned up.”

Libba's eyes were very dark in the pale cream of her face. His argument made sense. He would be the injured party if the bay was closed to commercial fishing. “According to the reports Cliff left me, the water samples show high amounts of toxins,” she replied. “Certain toxins—mercury, lead, et cetera—have been linked to skin diseases, birth defects, deformities in animals and cancer in humans. The worst would be to learn that it's invaded our natural water supply. Lake Michigan trout are inedible because of their chemical content. Eel fishing in the St. Lawrence has been terminated for the same reason. PCB-infested rice killed sixteen people in Japan. In this country, the FDA has the power to seize any fish it believes to be contaminated.”

“In other words, this isn't just a temporary setback. This is death to the entire industry on the Chesapeake.”

“It's also possible, although not probable, that toxins have invaded our subterranean wells. That's a longshot and I haven't run any tests of my own,” she warned him. “This is supposed to be a part-time job for me.”

Russ ignored her disclaimer and focused on the issue at hand. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Those who live outside of town and drink well water could be at an extremely high risk for cancer and birth defects.”

Suddenly he felt cold. “That's all of us. We all live on the outskirts of town.”

Libba nodded.

“What kind of cancer?”

He knew the answer before she confirmed it. The print on Mitch's medical file was burned into his memory.

Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Leukemia, testicular and ovarian cancers.”

“W
hat do you mean, you'll tell me later?” Cole Delacourte fixed his courtroom stare on his daughter. “You show up, white-faced, in the middle of dinner, and say you're not hungry. The least you can do is tell us where you've been.”

“I'm not refusing, Daddy.” Libby worked to keep her voice even. “I said I'd explain later.”

“Stop badgering her, Coleson.” Nola Ruth threw a warning glance at her granddaughter, summoned a twisted smile and pointed at the plate of piled-high crabs. “Have one, Libba Jane. You're much too thin. You know what they say, excessive dieting destroys the skin.”

“I'm not on a diet, Mama. I'm watching my weight.”

“Well, whatever. Have a crab. No, not that one.” She pushed her daughter's fork toward a meatier serving. “This one.”

In the hall, the phone rang.

Serena, ageless, mahogany-skinned, glided into the room. “Dr. Balieu's on the phone for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Serena.” Coleson wiped his mouth, excused himself and left the room.

Libby picked at her food, wondering how, after this morning, she could possibly force a bite of crab into her mouth. She watched as her daughter cleaned her plate and reached for another crab. Quickly, she picked up her water glass and just as quickly set it down again. Was there anything served on the bay that wasn't cooked, steamed or boiled? Mentally she chastised herself. There was nothing wrong with the crabs or the water that Serena had placed on their table.

Chloe glanced at her mother's face and frowned. “Are you feeling okay, Mom? You don't look very good.”

“I'm fine.” She smiled brightly. “I have a surprise for you.”

Chloe groaned. “The last time you said that, we moved.”

“It's nothing like that,” Libby assured her.

“What is it?”

“You've been invited to a party.”

“That's impossible,” Chloe said flatly. “I don't know anybody.”

“Whose party is it?” asked Nola Ruth.

“Cecil Taft's daughter, Skylar. She's turning sixteen. She's invited several girls, Tess Hennessey among them, to a slumber party. When Tess learned that Chloe was new in town, she asked if she could bring her along to the party and Skylar agreed. Isn't that nice?”

“How do they know about me?” asked Chloe. “I've never heard of either one of them.”

“Russ Hennessey is an old friend of mine,” Libby said. “I told him you were bored and lonely because of our move and he told me about his daughter. He called her, explained your circumstances, and she invited you to go with her to Skylar's party.” Libby appealed to her daughter. “What do you think?”

“I think you're insane,” Chloe replied. “I'm not going to a slumber party where I don't know anyone. Do you have any idea how pathetic you've made me sound?”

Libby's mouth dropped. “Chloe, don't be ridiculous. It isn't like that at all.”

“It sounds like it.”

Libby appealed to her mother. “Mama, help me, please.”

Nola Ruth fixed her dark eyes on the lovely, Nordic beauty of her granddaughter's face. “She's right, Chloe. Normally, I'd agree with you, but because you're Libba Jane's daughter, it won't be taken the wrong way.”

Chloe's brow wrinkled. “Why not?”

Nola Ruth's mouth turned up and she shrugged. “It's always been that way. All your mama ever had to do was show up. It didn't have anything to do with anybody else. Some would call it an aura. Personally, I think it's just plain luck. Once a reputation is established, it's hard to change it, good or bad.”

Libby stared at her mother. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know it's true, Libba,” her mother chided her. “It's the reason you came home. People who have the gumption to up and leave Marshyhope Creek for the big city don't usually itch to come back.”

Libby's face burned. She was very conscious of Chloe's regard. She could feel her sixteen-year-old mind working, measuring, digesting her grandmother's words. Libby wet her lips. “I had a wonderful childhood,” she admitted, wondering why she felt so attacked, so compelled to defend herself. “I can't think of anyone I know who grew up here and didn't.”

“There are plenty who didn't.”

“Who?” Against her will, the question popped out. She had no desire to continue the conversation.

“Lizzie Jones for one, and Bailey.”

“Who else?”

“Verna Lee Fontaine,” her mother continued, “and Russ Hennessey, to name a few.”

Chloe was immediately interested. “I know Verna Lee.”

“What was so terrible about Verna Lee's life?” Libby demanded. She didn't want to talk about Russ.

“A young girl like that, pretty and smart, raised by that dreadful old woman.” Nola Ruth shivered.

Libby frowned. “You never did care for Drusilla. Why is that, Mama? She's a harmless old lady.”

“Harmless?” Nola Ruth's knotted hands twisted the cloth napkin in her lap. “I suppose she could seem so, to some.”

Libby's curiosity had been whetted. She wanted the conversation to continue, but she was very conscious of Chloe seated on the other side of the table, drinking in every word. This heart-to-heart with her mother would have been unheard of seventeen years ago. Nola Ruth Delacourte was a private person who believed in preserving one's dignity. “Keep it to yourself, Libba Jane,” she always said. “The world has a way of punishing those who disclose too much.”

Serena walked into the room carrying a silver coffee pot. She poured coffee for Libby and Nola Ruth, a rich dark brew heavy with chicory. Then she began clearing the dinner plates. “Mr. Delacourte said he was finishing up some work in the study and to go ahead and have your coffee without him.”

Chloe pushed her chair away from the table. “I'm going for a walk.”

“What about the party?”

“What about it?”

Libby summoned hidden reserves of patience. “Are you going?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do.”

“Then, no. I'm not going.”

“Chloe,” her mother pleaded. “You might like it. Don't condemn something you haven't even tried.”

Chloe folded her arms against her chest. “You said I had a choice. If you didn't mean it, just tell me I have to go.”

Libby wanted to strangle her. How could this lovely child with her silvery angel's hair and bluer-than-blue eyes inspire such a rage in her? Libby's voice was sharp-edged, cold. “All right. Suit yourself. Don't go.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said, smiling sweetly.

“Don't go far,” her mother called after her, “and take my cell phone.”

Chloe didn't answer.

Libby sighed and sank back in her chair.

Nola Ruth sipped her coffee, offering no comment. That would have been unusual enough in itself to draw a question from Libby, but she was too preoccupied with thoughts of Chloe. “What do you do, Mama, when everything seems more than you can bear?”

“You have no idea what a woman can bear, Libba Jane,” her mother said dryly. “The idea that you think you're at rock bottom amuses me.”

The verbal slap took Libby aback, but only for a moment. She wasn't a child and she refused to be intimidated. Her mother had alluded to secrets and she wanted a part of them. “I'm not at rock bottom. That's a relative judgment that no one can make for anyone else. I'm curious, Mama. What do you do when times are hard?”

Her mother's dark eyes flickered. “I pray.”

“You aren't even religious. I thought you didn't believe in God.”

“Being religious has nothing to do with it. When you need to pray, there's always a god.”

“Isn't that a bit too convenient?”

“That's the beauty of it.”

“What matters, Mama? In the end, what really matters?”

Nola Ruth pulled back her lips in an attempted smile. “You matter, Libba Jane. You and Chloe. Our children matter. That's all.”

Suddenly the urge to bare the truth became overwhelming. “I know you lied to me,” Libby began. “Your parents died well after I left Marshyhope Creek. When Eric and I drove through New Orleans, I was curious. I wanted to know about them. I found out they were living exactly where you said you'd grown up.”

Nola Ruth nodded but she didn't seem bothered to have her deception uncovered. “Did you stop in to see them?”

Libby shook her head. “I wasn't thinking of family just then. It wasn't until later, after Chloe was born, that I contacted them. Your mother invited me to visit. I never did.” Her mother's eyes were deliberately vacant, veiled against her. “Does Daddy know?”

“Shame on you, Libba Jane, to think I would keep anything from your father. Of course he knows. He knows everything. It's time you did, as well.”

“I don't understand.”

Nola Ruth leaned back in her chair, leaving the coffee to grow cold. “It isn't a pretty story, but it's mine. I want you to know because it's your right. I handled things the way that was good for me. I don't know whether or not the same way will be good for you and it certainly won't be for Chloe. You'll have to decide.”

“I'm listening.”

“Pour yourself a cup of coffee, Libba. It's good New Orleans coffee. This story will take a while and it isn't one I'm proud of. I won't blame you if you hold it against me. I will blame you if you don't do as I ask.”

Libby poured her coffee, recognizing the command for what it was, a moment needed for an old woman to regroup, to settle herself, to meet her dragons face-to-face. She prepared herself to work at paying attention, to force herself to appear interested, to endure the ramblings of a woman whose brain wasn't what it had been. What, after all, could Nola Ruth Delacourte, the quintessential lady, the charming hostess, have done that was dreadful or memorable or even worth recalling? Libby could not have anticipated the nature of the story that came from her mother's memories. The words, spilling from the older woman's mouth, came quickly, sometimes unintelligibly—fascinating words, repelling words, in the soft, liquid tones of the Louisiana Delta, in third person, as if the series of events had happened to someone else.

Magnolia Ruth Delacourte had lived in Marshyhope Creek for forty-one years, but she was not a native. The Beauchamps hailed from farther south, from a city with older, richer, deeper traditions, a city whose ethnic roots were as established as the heavy wet air and spicy smells; the floating duckweed coating whiskey-colored bayou waters like melted chocolate; the wrought-iron balconies weeping Spanish moss; the yeasty smell of beignets and chicory; the filthy, colorful, authentic neighborhoods; the raw oysters, crawfish pie and gumbo; the étouffées and jambalayas; the ragtime, Cajun and jazz; the floods, the sweat, the soft, still wonder of bayou nights; the red beans and rice that could only reach consistency when cooked at the low altitudes of the French Quarter; and, beneath it all, Catholicism, entrenched and traditional, like a greedy parasite on the rim of a Baptist South.

Resting in its below-sea-level nest, shielded by levees, swept by rains in winter and summer, bearing the residue of silt from a thousand northern tributaries, New Orleans perched at the mouth of the Mississippi River, an aging voodoo priestess, familiar, covetous, mysterious, enticing, sweetly addicting in her sultry power.

This was Nola's city. It had shaped her character as inevitably as the wind and rain, the cold winters and hot, heat-stunning summers of a deeper south had shaped Anton Devereaux's. Two people with simmering passions. A girl on the verge of womanhood, molded by conflicting influences, a decadent city, an ancient religion and a heritage of aristocratic privilege and shameful self-indulgence. A young man, square-jawed, hot-blooded and hardheaded as the iron-rich Piedmont soil.

They met on a summer night in 1962. Nola, daughter of a scion of New Orleans society, had escaped the confines of the annual debutante ball. For months now, she'd sensed that the world was changing and she was restless. She wanted to change with it. The soft music, yellowed linen muted with age, gleaming silver, crystal chandeliers, young ladies dressed in white, and young men from the finest families in the city held no allure for her.

Nola was seventeen, a smoldering dark-eyed beauty with exquisite features and magnificent proportions. In that Creole city populated by French, Spanish, West Indians, French Huguenots and Native Americans, she could have been any or all of those ethnicities. Men of every race and color turned around for a second look at her and were entranced. Nola did not look seventeen. She had never looked seventeen. The night of her fourteenth birthday she went to bed a child and awoke looking like she would look for most of her life, beautiful, alluring, ageless.

Anton Devereaux was passing out leaflets for a civil rights rally. What he saw when he glanced up at the dark-haired, honey-skinned girl in the breathtaking white dress was something he hadn't the ability to express in words. He knew only that he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything before. She was beautiful, her accent proclaimed her a Southerner, and the crucifix on the slender chain around her neck told him she was a Catholic. The last was the only problem he could foresee. She had skin the color of cream-drenched coffee, black hair and dark, dark eyes. He'd seen lighter-skinned black women. It never occurred to him that she could be white. By the time he found out, the damage had been done.

Disregarding the stammering protests of the New Orleans schoolmate who was his host, he followed her down the street with but one thing on his mind, to acquire Nola Ruth Beauchamp for his own. Anton was one of a new breed of black men on his way up in the world, men who refused to stand when there were available seats in the rows labeled Whites Only, men who made it their business to read and write, to speak their passions and vote, men whose political clout and bravado would bring forth a new kind of South, a new kind of Democratic Party. What he lacked in finesse and experience, he made up with strength and conviction. If he drank more than his share he was honest and direct. If he gambled, he never cheated. If he came home more often than not with a blackened eye and split lip, no man could say he ran from a fight. His family was an honorable one.