Chesapeake Tide (21 page)

Coleson Delacourte picked up the phone on the first ring. Quickly, Libby described the interchange with the police officer.

“Where is Drusilla now?” her father asked.

“No one seems to know.”

“I'll see what I can do. Call me if she shows up.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” She handed the phone to Verna Lee.

The black woman dialed her grandmother's number and twisted the gauzy fabric of her skirt in her fingers. She bit her lip and shook her head. “No answer. I'll have to leave a message.” After a minute, she spoke into the phone. “This is Verna Lee, Gran. Call me as soon as you get in.”

She replaced the phone and looked at Libby. “What did your father say?”

“He wants you to call him when Drusilla contacts you.”

Verna Lee paced the length of the shop and back again. “I should have paid more attention. She shows up every other day or so, but she's so damned independent. I've asked her to come live with me, but she won't hear of it. She goes to those hovels the sharecroppers live in and God knows what she does there. She hasn't been herself in a long time. I thought it was nothing more than aging.”

“You don't know what it is. Let's wait and see.”

“You heard Earl. He said she needed a lawyer.”

Libby hesitated. “Am I in the way, Verna Lee, or do you want me to stay?”

“Please stay. I don't want to be alone right now.”

Libby found the Closed sign and positioned it in the window. Then she refilled Verna Lee's glass and sat down beside her. “So,” she began conversationally, “tell me where you lived in California.”

“San Francisco,” Verna Lee replied automatically. “I went to school at Berkeley, got a degree in art history, worked for an advertising company, made some money, came home and bought Perks. I always wanted to own my own business.”

“I don't blame you,” Libby said admiringly, looking around at the painted walls and brightly colored prints.

“What about you, Libba Jane?”

“Me?” Libby shrugged. “I don't know. I think I had visions of taking Hollywood by storm.”

“Cliff said you were good.”

“Cliff's reference point is Marshyhope Creek's high school drama club. I wasn't good, not at all. It took me about three weeks to figure that one out. After that I turned to something far more satisfying and much more likely to help me find employment.”

“Not making it in acting must have been hard for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everything always came so easily.”

Libby's face reddened. “Not everything.”

“Is that why you came home, because you thought it would be the same?”

“I came home because my father called to say my mother was ill and because of Chloe.”

Verna Lee's eyebrows rose. “Chloe?”

Libby nodded. “I can't manage her alone and Eric wasn't much help. I had the misguided idea that children can't get into trouble here.”

Verna Lee's rich laughter caught her off guard. “You can't be that naive.”

Suddenly it was all too funny and Libby laughed with her. “Apparently so.”

Libby didn't know when she first realized they weren't alone. It was more of a presence than anything she heard.

Verna Lee felt it, too. Together the two women turned in the direction of the kitchen. A small dark woman hovered in the doorway. Verna Lee breathed a sigh of relief. “Gran,” she said, rushing to hug her. “We've been so worried. Where have you been?”

“I've been at home workin' in my garden. Where do you think I've been?” She nodded at Libby. “How are you, Libba Jane? It's good to see you.”

“I'm fine, Drusilla.”

Verna Lee took her grandmother's shoulders in her hands and shook her gently. “What's going on? Tell me what happened?”

“You're squeezin' me too hard.” She tugged at the hands gripping her shoulders. “What's got into you, Verna Lee?”

Libby watched Verna Lee visibly control herself. Her grip gentled. Her voice calmed. “The police were here, Gran. They want to ask you some questions. Do you know anything about that?”

The old woman's expression didn't change a bit. “I ain't done nothin', Verna Lee.”

“Are you sure? Think very hard. Is there anything you might have forgotten or that could have been taken the wrong way?”

Drusilla tilted her head, an indication of deep thought. Then she shook her head. “Not one thing.”

Verna Lee sighed, released her grandmother and sat down heavily beside Libby. “We have to call the police, Gran. It's the only way to find out what's going on.”

Drusilla's lips tightened stubbornly. “I ain't goin' to no police.”

Verna Lee spoke soothingly. “Libba Jane called her father. You won't be alone. We'll both be with you. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding.”

“I ain't goin' to no police, Verna Lee.”

A knock sounded on the door. Verna Lee's hand moved to her throat. Her eyes went wild. “Dear God.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Libby ordered. “This is ridiculous. It can't be all that bad if Drusilla doesn't even remember.” She crossed the room, moved the curtain aside and looked out the windowpane. “It's my father.” She opened the door. “Hi, Daddy. What did you find out?”

Cole Delacourte stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He went right to Drusilla and took her hands in his. Her face went blank.

“What is it, Mr. Delacourte?” asked Verna Lee.

“Tell me about the baby, Drusilla.”

“What baby?”

“The one with missing parts.”

Verna Lee gasped.

Drusilla shook her head and looked at the floor. “She was in a bad way, Mr. Delacourte. Only the little head was normal. The rest of her—”

“What did you do, Drusilla?”

Tears spilled over and dribbled down the woman's face. She looked at her granddaughter. “It was an act of mercy, Verna Lee.”

Cole Delacourte's voice, warm, soothing, insistent, pierced the quiet. “Tell me, Drusilla.”

“She was breathin',” the old woman sobbed. “She wouldn't stop breathin' so I put my hands against her throat and squeezed.”

Libby caught Verna Lee's body as it sagged against her. “Easy, Verna Lee. Easy now,” she said soothingly, bracing her hip against the black woman's.

“Call the police, Libba Jane,” her father said. “Tell them Drusilla is coming into the station and that I'll be representing her.” His hand rested on Verna Lee's shoulder. “You go home with Libba Jane. Everything will be all right.”

Verna Lee shook her head. “I'll be fine right here, Mr. Delacourte. Take care of Gran and bring her back here as soon as possible.”

“I'll have her back by morning,” he said.

T
he air conditioner in the small EPA office didn't work as well at night after running all day. Libby turned off the computer, twisted her hair back and lifted it off the back of her neck. The blinking light on her message machine indicated two missed calls. She stared at the phone, decided to take a chance, picked it up and dialed Cliff's number. Incredibly, he answered. Tongue-tied at the sound of a human voice instead of a message machine, she hesitated.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“It's Libba,” she said quickly. “Something isn't right, Cliff. I need to run it past you.”

“What's on your mind?”

“I don't think PCBs are the culprit.”

“Why not? Paint and steel manufacturers, companies producing farm products and home appliances, nearly every business that requires a smooth finish and a nonstick surface produces them.”

“I know that, but levels have been seriously reduced, and they haven't been linked to the kinds of serious mutations evident here in the Tidewater. I think somewhere along the freshwater tributaries of the Rappahannock or in the shallow blue crab spawning grasses of the Patuxent something else is leaking, something far more serious.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “Spit it out, Libba.”

“I'm thinking it might be radiation.”

“That's ridiculous,” he said quickly. “The lab reports dispute that.”

If only she had the authority to order in inspectors. Only Cliff could do that. She was already regretting her phone call. “I suppose you're right,” she said. “It was just a thought.”

“Get some rest, Libba Jane. You're working too hard.”

“Good night, Cliff.”

She looked at her watch. It was late. She'd lost track of time and missed dinner for the third time this week. One of the messages on the machine was probably her mother. She pressed the button. Two messages. She smiled when she heard Chloe's voice. “Grandma said to call. She wants to make sure you have something to eat because you're so-o-o skinny. I'm going to the movies in Salisbury with Granddad. We'll be home about eleven.”

The next message gave her cause to sit up. “Libba, this is Russ. I've thought of something and I need your help. Call me.”

She picked up the phone and dialed the old Hennessey number. The phone rang, once, twice, three times, four times. There was no answering machine. Libby replaced the receiver. Russ's house was on the way. She would stop by before returning home.

She'd left the car windows open. Sliding behind the wheel, she breathed the hot, muggy air that smelled of peaches and fish, hot tar and wet earth and sweet grass. Turning the key, she felt the engine engage and moved out on to the road. A hot wind lifted her hair. She was restless, on edge. Her mind returned to the last time she'd seen Russ, composed, loose-limbed, square-jawed, deceptively relaxed, blue eyes narrowed, faded jeans hugging his lean frame. He'd very diplomatically turned what could have become an argument. He was different, somehow, from the boy she remembered. She couldn't put her finger on it, but his new maturity was attractive. She'd been unprepared for his blatant appeal.

Libby had worshipped at his shrine since she was seven years old, a shy, serious little girl, spoiled by adoring parents who'd instilled in her that the worst possible fate was to be unexceptional. Because she was her father's daughter, Libby achieved. Because she was her mother's daughter, achievement came easily. Riding trophies and academic awards adorned the walls of her bedroom. Piano was twice a week at four, ballet and deportment at five-thirty, sketching and watercolor on alternate Saturdays. When her regimen of lessons was over and the long daylight hours of spring and summer loomed ahead, there was Russ.

With him she learned to laugh, to free her mind, to reach for the pure, indulgent pleasure of feeling good. He made her dizzy with a constant, rushing, room-spinning swirl of light and color and laughter and passion. She'd trusted him, loved him. And in spite of all that he'd given, she'd left him.

It was after ten and the house was dark, but the front door was open and country music played on the stereo.

Libby left the keys in her car and walked toward the house. Above the roof she saw lightning streak unevenly across the sky and counted the seconds. One, two, three, four, five... a low rumble followed. The upstairs shutters creaked and slammed together. By the time she reached the porch, heavy, tubelike drops pelted down on her head. The wind was strong, the rain warm. Libby, who'd seen a lifetime of storms, was drawn to the warm wetness of the downpour. She stood on the steps and lifted her face to the sky. Instantly, she was drenched. Her blouse clung to her body like a second skin.

Libby loved the rain. Her earliest memories included the steady drum of a spring rain against her bedroom window. It lulled her to sleep as warm milk never could. Nola Ruth had refused to countenance the research claiming that wet hair and clothing did not bring on a cold. She would not allow her daughter to arrive at school soaked to the bone. But later, when the last bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Libby would dash from the schoolyard with Russ and Mitch, delighting in the wetness that turned the potholes on Main Street into small ponds. With her hair plastered to her small skull and her face running with rain, she would take off her shoes and socks and stomp and splash her way to Hennessey House. There, Cora handed out towels and served cinnamon chocolate and graham crackers to her waterlogged sons and Coleson Delacourte's pixie-faced daughter.

Later, at Shad Landing, when Libby was much older, there was a night when rain came down in sheets and lightning crackled dangerously above the boat she and Russ had taken out on the water. Terrified that their bobbing heads would attract the hissing electricity, Libby pressed her palms together and murmured Hail Marys while Russ calmly rowed toward shore. When a zigzag streak of light hit the bow, Libby screamed and began to breathe in the shallow rasping way that all watermen knew and dreaded.

Russ took one look at her pinched white face, threw the oars into the boat and pushed her down until she lay flat in the hull. Then he lay down on top of her, covering her completely, murmuring softly into her ear. The boat rocked crazily, but Libby was warm and, soon, no longer afraid. Her arms came around him and this time her trembling had nothing to do with fear. His mouth tasted like clean wind and warm rain, and for the rest of her life, when thunderheads appeared, Libby's breathing quickened and she would remember.

She remembered now, as if it were yesterday. She felt the sensual touch of warm water on slick skin, saw the smeared edges of a crescent moon behind dark clouds. The lightning was miles away. Libby stepped out of her shoes and dropped them on the porch. Laughing, she lifted her arm to an imaginary partner and began swaying to the strains of a Garth Brook's refrain.

She hummed and circled the porch, losing track of time and inhibitions, making up her own version of the country singer's lilting ballad.

A square of light appeared in the distance and disappeared. She ignored it, her feet moving to the music. She twirled wildly, grabbed at the porch pillar to steady herself, and then she saw him.

He stood there quietly, watching her, heedless of the downpour soaking his shirt.

The music changed from Garth Brooks to Willie Nelson. She could feel his eyes on her, narrowed, probing. Her mind felt detached from her body. The rain pounded on the roof. Gutters ran, the sky crackled with light, and the hypnotic lyrics of a country music hit poured from the stereo speakers.

He walked toward her, unhurried, careful, feral, a lethal mix of grace and wildness. She watched the light play across his face, handsome, murderously so, highlighting the prominent bones, the square chin, throwing into shadow the hollow cheeks, the narrowed, all-seeing eyes, the beautiful, guarded mouth. She watched him come and she couldn't move. The lightning, the rain, the music and the dryness of long empty years held her there, waiting, wanting.

Russ climbed the porch steps, not quite trusting what he saw. Was she real? Or was this the familiar apparition he conjured up when his tortured nerves could no longer stand the mental images of the woman he ached to touch, the woman who should have been his, sharing another man's life?

He was close enough to see the blood pounding in her throat. She lifted her head and looked directly at him. Her eyes were dark, so dark the iris and pupil were one color. Her pull was strong. He reached for her and bent his head.

Libby lifted her mouth to meet his. Again, he tasted like warm rain and clean wind. Again, she was not afraid. Her lips softened and parted under his. Before sensation claimed her, she was conscious of a single thought. He had asked her, when he first came home, if he made her nervous. She had never stopped to consider it before, but now it seemed to Libby that everyone she had ever known made her nervous. Everyone, except Russ.

Her arms came up to circle his neck. He held her against him, lifting her to fit against his chest. Her heels came up off the floorboards. She'd forgotten how tall he was, tall and solid and warm. His hand, rotating against the base of her spine, urged her closer and closer still. Every nerve came to life. She made a small inarticulate sound and pressed herself into the vee of his legs as naturally as if she'd done so only yesterday.

Russ's breathing altered and stopped. He waited for a timeless moment, his lips clinging to the softness of hers, until he'd regained the edge of his control. Slowly, tentatively, his tongue traced the edges of her lips.

“What are we doing?” she whispered against his mouth.

“What we should have been doing for the last seventeen years.”

She tilted her head, giving him greater access to her neck.

His nerves were raw. She was making him crazy, leaching the sanity from his brain. Dipping his head, he found the pulse at the base of her throat and sucked lightly. Her eyes closed and her head fell back as his mouth moved down her shoulder to the slope of her breast. He stayed there, breathing heavily, pressing down on the tempting fullness, remembering when he'd had the right to slide his hands under her blouse, lift the cups of her bra and feel the soft weight of her in his callused fisherman's palms.

Libby could feel the heat of his mouth through the clinging material of her blouse. She trembled.

“Easy, baby, easy now,” he muttered, shifting her into the saddle of his hips. He settled her against him, gritting his teeth, feeling the ache in his middle that had started when he first saw her dancing in the rain. He brushed his hand against her cheek. Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark half moons on her cheeks. Bending his head, he began to kiss her, deliberately at first, with unhurried skill and then, when the tip of her tongue touched his lower lip, with increasing intensity.

The strength of his arousal thrilled her. Refusing to think of the disaster she courted or how she would feel tomorrow, she slipped one hand inside his shirt, laying it flat against his smooth, water-slick chest. The other, she slid down between their tightly wedged bodies and cupped him.

He jerked and froze, holding her against him for agonizing seconds. Libby was aware of nothing but his deep, shuddering breaths, the incessant rain and the slamming of his heart against her ribs.

His hands tightened on her arms and he swore. “Damn you, Libba Delacourte. This time I'm not going away with a slap on the wrist.”

She released her breath. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it, wondering if it was too late, terrified that he would change his mind. Shamelessly, she wanted him, wanted him to take her here in the middle of a driving rainstorm on the floorboards of the Hennessey porch. And why not? She was an adult and she was single. No one would be hurt. “I want you,” she whispered. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you now. No regrets. I promise.”

He believed her and it was enough, more than he'd hoped for. Slipping his arm under her knees, he lifted her against him and started for the door. Light streaked across the sky, illuminating the porch and the short hall leading to the kitchen. Pushing the door open with his foot, Russ carried her through the hall to the stairs.

Standing at the top of the landing in a knee-length T-shirt, biting down on her thumbnail, was his daughter, Tess.

Libby's dreamlike trance was broken. For one horrified, humiliating moment she stared at the child. Then, succumbing to cowardice, she buried her face in Russ's shoulder. “Let's see you charm your way out of this one, Hennessey,” she mumbled into his shirt.

Russ swore under his breath. Apparently, nightmares came dressed in T-shirts with tangled curls and doe-brown eyes. The drawbacks of parenthood had never been more clear. He cleared his throat. “You're up late, Tess. Is anything wrong?”

Tess's voice shook. “The storm woke me.” She pointed a finger at Libby. “What's wrong with her?”

“The storm must have bothered her, too,” he improvised. “She got soaked and stopped by to dry off.”

A bubble of laughter rose in Libby's throat. Trust Russ to come up with a lie that was almost the truth.

“Is she sick?” Tess demanded.

“Nothing that won't fix itself by morning,” Russ answered cheerfully.

“Why are you carrying her?”

“I'm taking her upstairs. Sometimes adults need some pampering.”

Libby untangled her arms from around Russ's neck and kicked her legs from his grasp. “Actually, I think I'm okay now.” She folded her arms against her chest. “A dry T-shirt and something warm to drink would be great.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “Bad timing.”

Whose, Libby wondered, hers or Tess's?

He smiled. “How about some hot chocolate?”

“That sounds wonderful.” Libby smiled at Russ's daughter. “How about you, Tess?”

“Yes, please.”