Chesapeake Tide (15 page)

Before either of them could speak, Cole had returned. “Beau, I'd like you to meet my bride, Nola Ruth Delacourte. Nola, this is Beau Hennessey.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said breathlessly.

“You look familiar,” Beau said.

Nola's heart stopped. “Really?”

Beau nodded but didn't elaborate.

Nola lifted a hand to her forehead. “I'm a little dizzy, Cole. Would you mind if I went home?”

“Of course.” Coleson slipped his arm around her waist. “I knew this heat would be too much for you.”

Beau called after them. “If you think it's hot here, you should visit the Louisiana Delta. Nice seeing you, Nola Ruth.”

After that, she didn't see much of Beau. She had no idea if she'd met him years ago in New Orleans, but she lived in fear of finding out and avoided him as much as possible. She ran into his wife, Cora, occasionally, but the two families didn't socialize. She'd sent a gift when Cora's twins were born and received one of similar value when Libba made her appearance six months later, but that was all, until Libba entered grammar school.

Retribution. That was the way Nola Ruth justified her daughter's attachment to Beau Hennessey's son, an angry God doling out justice for the sins of her youth, the confessions missed, the novenas ignored, the penances not taken.

Serena came back into the room. “Are you ready now, Miz Nola Ruth?”

“Yes.” She smiled with half of her face. “I've seen enough of this day. How about you, Serena?”

The black woman groaned. “I've been on my feet for sixteen hours today. I'll be ready for my bed quicker'n you can say St. Joseph.”

Two hours later, Nola Ruth gave up on sleep and allowed Russ Hennessey to return to her thoughts. He was an appealing child, she admitted, with the freckled cheeks and sharply hewn features of his Irish wood-sprite mother and the blue eyes and lean-hipped, athletic grace of his father. It was more than his startling good looks that attracted Libba. Russ had the easy confidence, the absence of fear, the innate charisma that heroes are made of. From the time he was a small child, people noticed when he entered a room. On the dock, in the boats, on the football field, he stood out like newly minted silver in a stack of copper pennies. No woman, especially a book-loving, romantic, only child like Libba, could have withstood his appeal.

From their earliest acquaintance, Nola Ruth could feel their tension. It stretched between them like a tightly wound string. The worry of it kept her awake at night. Libba was brilliant and beautiful, sensitive and refined, a child of warmth and light and laughter. There were no hidden, dark-blooded stirrings to mar the perfection of her character. Nola Ruth wanted more for her than Marshyhope Creek, and she was desperately afraid that Russ Hennessey stood squarely, immovably in the way.

In the end she'd underestimated her daughter. Libba was twenty, two years into college and home for the summer when she succumbed to the inevitable, a breath of fresh air, an unfamiliar face, a casual, free-spirited liberalism that could only have come from outside the confines of Marshyhope Creek. It was difficult for Nola to admit, but she'd made a dreadful mistake. In her efforts to spare Libba from passion and despair, she'd discouraged Russ Hennessey's suit. He would have been a much better choice for Libba. At least he would have kept her at home. Perhaps he still would. She no longer knew. The truth was she really didn't recognize Libba Jane. The wide, melting, light-touched smile that characterized her daughter's face had disappeared. In its place was a dignified remoteness, a pleasant, correct expression that bothered Nola Ruth every time she looked at her. And Libba was thin. She'd always been thin, but not like this, not so the bones of her face stood out, giving her an exotic, hollow-cheeked quality. Nola remembered the curvaceous, long-legged beauty of her teenaged child and shivered.

Could it really be coincidence that sent Russ back to Marshyhope Creek at exactly the same time as Libba? The news of his arrival had thrown Nola Ruth into a state of self-absorption. She remembered the way her husband had looked at her oddly when she motioned Serena to pour coffee into his cup at the breakfast table. Cole was an herbal tea drinker who hadn't touched caffeine since the Kennedy years.

When the gardener announced that the ferns Nola had ordered for the greenhouse had come and the driver needed to be paid, she stared blankly at the man as if she'd never spent hours painstakingly designing and ordering the flora of her custom-built hothouse. Cole, who hadn't seen his checkbook since the day he married, left the room to deal with the driver. When he returned, it was to find Nola Ruth still aimlessly stirring the sugar she'd poured into her coffee more than ten minutes before.

“Are you all right, Nola?” he'd asked, eyeing the half-empty sugar bowl. Nola Ruth, ever figure-conscious, allowed herself jelly on toast or sugar in her coffee, never both.

She looked her husband in the eye. “How long have you known Russ Hennessey was back?”

He'd smiled and covered her hand with his own. “Beau Hennessey was my client. I knew the terms of his will. It was only a matter of time before Russ came home. He took a little longer than I expected, but he had to settle other matters. He's a Hennessey. I don't think he wanted his father's life, but his family loyalty is strong. He's the only one left. It's up to him to keep the company going. I imagine he wasn't too happy about settling into the same town where his ex-wife lives.” He left the coffee, found another cup on the sideboard and poured hot water over his tea bag. “Why do you ask?”

“He and Libba Jane were seeing quite a bit of each other before she left with Eric.”

Cole chuckled. “That was a long time ago, Nola. They both married other people. Surely whatever they had between them is over.”

Nola Ruth had slipped back into her reverie without bothering to answer him. Men were such fools, even brilliant, thoughtful ones like Coleson. Because Cole was a man of exceptional character, he judged all others by himself. As if it were unheard of for a woman to still be in love with a man simply because she had married someone else.

T
he rich coffee smell emanating from Perks drew Libby inside. Two teenage girls sat at a table drinking smoothies. A man hunkered over the counter reading a newspaper, holding a ceramic mug. A woman with a baby on her hip talked with Verna Lee at the cash register. Libby lined up behind her.

Verna Lee looked over the woman's shoulder. “May I help you, Libba Jane?”

“I'll have a cup of your coffee of the day to go, please.”

“I don't serve my coffee in paper cups,” Verna Lee said. “It's bad for the environment. I would have thought that would matter to you, with your new job and all.”

Libby's cheeks flamed. There was no mistaking the woman's tone and she wasn't going to let it go unchallenged. “I don't know what side of the bed you got up on this morning, Verna Lee, but I'll have that coffee in the same kind of cup you gave Russ Hennessey the other day.”

Verna Lee filled a bright orange mug and handed it to Libby. “Feel free to take it with you. I know where to find you.”

Libby dropped two dollar bills on the counter, hooked her fingers through the handle of the mug and left the shop with her coffee. She was steaming. For pity's sake, what ailed the woman? She hadn't said more than a sentence to Verna Lee Fontaine in her entire life. Why the woman should have taken such a dislike to her she had no idea, and more to the point, it wasn't worth finding out. She had more to worry about than Verna Lee's odd fits of temper. She'd spent a restless night. Her mother's confession had rattled her. It was as if the mother she'd grown up with had disappeared, leaving this stranger in her place. Then there was Chloe and her unwillingness to try to settle into a life here.

She unlocked the office door and glanced over at the blinking light on the fax machine. The lab reports on the stunted crabs should be back by now. Pulling the paper from the cradle, she turned on the desk lamp, settled into the chair and began to read. At the end of the page, she breathed a sigh of relief. The news wasn't good but it wasn't terrible, either. Fishing in the cove was prohibited, but shad and crabs near Smith Island remained unaffected. Water samples were clean. She frowned. Would Russ think it was good news? Blue Crab spawning grounds at Smith Island were nearly fifty miles away, a good two hours by boat. She checked her watch. It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. More than likely she would find him at the dock.

He wasn't alone. Libby heard the heated exchange even before she saw the woman. Tracy Wentworth was still small and blond with delicate features, a Marilyn Monroe voice and skin that was already showing her age. The woman greeted her warily.

“So,” Tracy began, “you're here permanently.”

Libby smiled noncommittally. “We'll see. It depends on a number of things, Chloe for one.”

“Tess is looking forward to meeting her,” Tracy said politely.

“Thanks for inviting her, but she won't be attending the party.”

Tracy frowned. “Why not? Tess went to a considerable amount of trouble to get her invited.”

“I think that's the problem. Chloe doesn't want to go where she isn't wanted.”

“Isn't wanted?” Tracy's eyebrows flew up. “How does she know she isn't wanted?”

Loyalty to Chloe kept Libby from agreeing with Tracy. “She appreciates the invitation, but she'd rather make friends on her own.” Her eyes met Russ's. “Thanks for trying to help, both of you.”

Tracy shrugged. “It sounds like you have a handful for a daughter, Libba Jane. Thank goodness Tess has never given me a moment's trouble.” She glanced at Russ, who was staring at her with narrowed eyes. “I think we're finished here. I trust that little matter we discussed won't be brought up again.”

“Don't count on it,” Russ said bluntly.

Tracy's cheeks pinkened. “Be careful, Russ.” She nodded at Libby. “Nice seeing you again, Libba Jane.”

“You, too, Tracy.”

Libby sat across from Russ and waited until she heard the sound of a car engine. She tilted her head. “Good morning.”

“It was at first,” he acknowledged.

“Does she come around often?”

“More than I'd like.”

“Why not tell her to stop?”

“She has full custody of my daughter.”

“How did that happen?”

“Her daddy's the judge.”

“What about a change of venue?”

“This is Marshyhope Creek, Libba. You've been gone a long time.”

She considered his answer and realized how far she'd come. Small southern towns administered their own form of justice. The legal system in California would never allow a judge to rule over his own daughter's divorce proceedings. “There must be something you can do. She's your daughter.”

Russ didn't answer. He was tired of thinking about what he could do about Tess and even more tired of Tracy. How he could have been sucked into marriage with her was beyond him. He felt as if it had happened to someone else in another lifetime. The weariness was weighing him down, preventing him from going about his life. He wanted to feel alive again, to take pleasure in good food, good wine, conversation, friendship, possibly even attempt a real relationship.

He glanced at Libba, his eyes lingering on her wine-dark hair and ivory skin, her mink-brown eyes with their flecks of gold and that mouth—she had the most incredible mouth. Libba's smile would stop people on the street. It took him down memory lane all over again.

She was staring at him, a worried look on her face. That face had haunted his dreams and been the object of every adolescent fantasy he'd ever had. He'd never once looked at Tracy Wentworth, never even noticed she was alive, when Libba was part of his life. If he stretched it a bit, he might be able to blame Libba for the current state of his life. He tapped his pencil on the wooden desk. Hell, she might even owe him something. What would it take to get her to pay up?

“You haven't said a word in five minutes,” Libby said. “What are you thinking?”

He decided to go for it. “I'm thinking that it's about time we had our heart-to-heart.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I spent the better part of five years trying to figure out why you dumped me. I figure you owe me an answer.”

He saw the color rise in her cheeks. It pleased him that she was uncomfortable. He'd intended to make her uncomfortable.

“I didn't dump you, Russ. I fell in love with someone else.”

He dropped the pencil, pushed his chair back and walked around the desk, leaning against it, arms crossed, expression formidable.

She backed away from him until she felt the wall against her back.

“I was under the impression you were in love with me,” he said relentlessly. “Do you know
why
I was under that impression, Libba Jane?”

She swallowed, knowing what was coming next.

Slowly, he pushed away from the desk and walked toward her, coming closer and closer until he was near enough to breathe her air. She could smell him, tobacco and soap and a faint woodsy odor that she would forever associate with Russ and home. He was too present. It was hard to draw breath. She turned her head to avoid looking at him. His hands on either side of her held her captive.

“This is ridiculous, Russ.” Her voice was low, controlled. “Let me go.”

Black hair fell across his forehead. Blue eyes burned. “I asked you a question. Aren't you going to answer it?”

“No, I'm not.”

“I hashed it over a million times. A girl like you, a nice girl, the kind a man waits for and treats with respect, doesn't drop her white cotton panties for just any guy. You held out for a long time, Libba Jane. Why, when everything was going right for us, did you jump ship?”

Trembling with anger, she looked directly at him, her eyes so dark the pupil and iris blended together. “I don't wear white cotton panties anymore and maybe you didn't know me as well as you think you did. You certainly didn't appreciate me.”

“Say that again?”

She opened her mouth but the words wouldn't come. Every ounce of southern hospitality drilled into her from birth melted away. Once again in the slow-dance cadence of her life, in yet another defining moment when she could have set things right, Libby Delacourte was rendered speechless. Her throat closed. Dear God, she prayed silently. Make him go away. Make this not be happening. She squinted through her lashes, hoping against hope for the impossible. No such miracle for the likes of her. She shrank back, making herself as small as possible. She knew what he wanted, but she would die before she gratified his ego. She refused to touch him. No power on earth would make her touch him. She would pass out first. She would just hold her breath until she turned blue and fell on the floor.

He bent his head, his breath stirring the strands of hair near her ear. “Tell me you missed me, Libba Jane. Tell me nobody ever fucked you like I did.”

A million responses formed in her mind, but none of them the right one. Sweat beaded on her forehead and collected between her breasts. Minutes ticked by as the sick nausea of shock and shame and regret warred with an aching sorrow she had never quite come to terms with. Seventeen years had gone by and Russ Hennessey still believed he could charm her out of her skivvies with nothing more than a touch and a suggestive comment. She didn't need loving that badly. She would never need it that badly. A sound on the street steadied her. Visions of how their compromising position would appear to anyone who walked in spurred her to action. Suddenly, Libby was herself again. Her voice came out clear and cold, a tribute to her years with the Ventura County District Attorney's Office. “In your dreams, Russ Hennessey. I didn't miss you. Not one bit. As a matter of fact, I forgot all about you the minute I wiped the dust of this town off my feet.”

His laugh was humorless. “You're a liar and I'll prove it to you.”

His head bent and his lips came down on hers, hard. She should have objected, pushed him away, delivered a scathing diatribe belittling his methods and walked out of the office. He wouldn't stop her. But she did none of those things. Instead, everything inside of her went still. Time rolled back. She was a girl again, wanting nothing more than to exist within the sphere of Russ Hennessey's presence. Her lips parted. He deepened the kiss and her arms encircled his neck. She heard a sound, gravelly and triumphant, escape from his throat.

Recalling the incident later, Libby didn't remember who pulled away first. But all at once it was over, with no explanation, no apology or awkwardness or hint of possible future encounters. It was simply over with Russ leaning back against his desk and Libby standing against the wall with puffy lips, as if the drumming desire, the searing want, had occurred between two different people.

“You're looking mighty fine today, Libba Jane,” he said softly. “What brings you here this morning?”

She mentally pushed away the kiss.
Why had she come?
Sanity returned. “The lab report came back. Smith Island is still open for crabbing.”

“What about the bay?”

“Prohibited until more tests can be run. I'm sorry.”

He nodded. “I expected as much.”

She bent her head. He watched the dark curtain of hair swing across her cheek. “Do you have any idea how long this will take?”

“I'm sorry, Russ,” she said again. “I'm a novice here. I'll e-mail Cliff and get back to you.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“It's been—” she paused “—interesting.”

He grinned, the mocking, white-toothed grin that once would have turned her knees to jelly. “You could say that.”

She turned to go.

“Libba.”

She paused at the door. “If I were you, I'd try to talk your daughter into accepting Skylar Taft's invitation. Apparently she's the one who counts around here. Without her approval, Chloe doesn't have a chance of fitting in.”

Libby groaned. “Easier said than done. I've already told her she doesn't have to go. If I insist, she'll resent me more than she already does.”

“Why is that?”

“Chloe's a daddy's girl,” Libby explained. “Eric wasn't around much while she was growing up, so every encounter with him became special. Now that he's settled in Los Angeles, Chloe was looking forward to spending more time with him. Then I uprooted her to come here.”

“Why did you come back?”

Libby shrugged and leaned against the door. “Lots of reasons. Mostly, I just didn't fit there. I was tired of the smog and the traffic, of waiting forever on a weekend night to eat in a restaurant. Sometimes I couldn't even get into a movie unless I stood in line for an hour ahead of time. It's hard to get ahead when everything is so expensive. It just got to be too much. Then my mother got sick. It seemed like the perfect excuse to come home.”

She hadn't intended to reveal so much of herself, but his interest encouraged her confidences. It was comforting talking to someone from her past, someone who'd known her better than anyone, even if it was Russ.

“There aren't any movies in Marshyhope Creek,” he reminded her.

“Salisbury is close enough. What about you? Why did you come back?”

“I'll tell you sometime.”

“That's not fair.”

“I'll tell you everything, over dinner.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Libby considered his offer. Did she want to involve herself with Russ Hennessey again? It was a question that needed more than a minute to mull over. Curiosity won out. “All right,” she said. “I'll meet you.”

“You don't want the natives to know you're slumming?”

“I don't want Chloe to know I have a date,” she corrected him. “Eric and I haven't been divorced that long.”