Chesapeake Tide (28 page)

“That isn't unusual, Russ. Statistically, most men, and women, too, want their first child to be a boy.”

He reached across the wooden table and linked her fingers with his. “You're pretty good with those statistics.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Let me ask you this. What are the chances of two blue-eyed people producing a brown-eyed child?”

She looked out across the bay, unable to meet his gaze.

“Answer me, Libba Jane.”

“You know the answer to that, Russ. We both took first-year biology.”

He sighed. “Any chance for error?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Why ask me this now? You've had years to ask questions.”

He was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke. “Mitch died of leukemia. Mutations are occurring all over the bay. We've got an unusual number of birth defects in a town this size. I've checked it out.”

There was something he wasn't telling her. She could feel it.

“I've been to a urologist.”

She waited, heart pounding, wanting to help and yet not wanting to hear.

“My sperm have no motility. I can't father a child outside of a test tube. It's quite a common phenomenon for Vietnam vets in the sixties and seventies who were exposed to Agent Orange. Tess isn't my daughter, Libba. I don't know whose daughter she is and now I wonder if it matters. Not that I don't want to murder Tracy. All those years of child support, making me feel guilty because I wasn't here and the kid isn't even mine.”

Libby gripped his hand. “Don't jump to conclusions, Russ. There are other possibilities.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Maybe Tracy went to a sperm bank.”

“Why would she do that? We were only married two years.”

“Maybe there was something wrong with her and she didn't tell you. Maybe there was a reason for her to choose genetic selection. I have no idea. The point is, you already know it doesn't matter. If you suspected this from the beginning you should have done something earlier. Now it's too late. Tess is your daughter. You love her and she loves you. She has no other father. The courts see it that way, too. They won't order a DNA test after a child is eighteen months old. Emotional bonding is more important than a shared gene pool. You know that.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. “You're right. There's no point in confronting Tracy. She'd use it against me with Tess. The part that galls me the most is that I can't even tell her I know. She has the satisfaction of believing she's pulled something over on me.”

Libby shook her head. “I doubt it. If it were me, I wouldn't be thinking that way, not after all this time. I'd be thinking you and I share a daughter, that's all.”

Russ looked at her, a creamy-skinned woman with whiskey-brown eyes. If it had been her, they wouldn't be having this conversation at all. “Let's take the day off tomorrow and go to the beach,” he said.

“We're taking a day off today,” she reminded him.

“Tomorrow will be better. We'll take the boat and go over to the island like we used to.”

Libby hesitated. It was terribly appealing, but there was so much work to do.

“Your watermen wouldn't approve if they knew I was slacking off while they're working.”

“Write off the day if it makes you feel better.”

“I'm not independently wealthy, Russ.”

“Don't tell me your daddy makes you pay rent, because I wouldn't believe it.”

“All right,” she said recklessly. “Maybe, to make it legitimate, we could do a little investigating on the way.”

“We could,” he agreed easily. “Shall I pack a lunch or will you?”

“I'll do it if you pay today.”

“You're on.”

C
hloe was very subdued that evening and Nola Ruth said nothing at all. Dinner was strained, nearly without conversation, even though Libby and her father tried valiantly to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Eventually, Chloe excused herself to finish her homework, Cole disappeared into his study, and Libby wheeled Nola Ruth into the den to watch the news.

“Would you like me to stay here with you, Mama?” Libby asked.

Nola Ruth looked at her for the first time that evening. “We should probably talk sometime soon, Libba Jane, but not tonight. I'm exhausted.”

Libby nodded.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

Libby drew a deep breath. “Actually, I do. I'm going to the beach with Russ Hennessey.”

“Don't you have to work?” asked her mother.

“I'm taking a break.”

There was a silence and then a cool “I hope you know what you're doing, Libba.” Nola Ruth's Louisiana accent was very pronounced, a sign that she was troubled.

Libby frowned and lowered her voice. “I never realized that you disliked Russ as much as you do.”

“It isn't Russ that I disapprove of.” Nola Ruth pronounced her words carefully. “I just wish you would involve yourself with someone other than the Hennesseys.”

“No one else is breaking down my door.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You've always had your sights in Russ Hennessey's direction. I guess nothing's changed. I just don't want any more of my family hurt.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It isn't just you anymore. There's Chloe to consider. If she attaches herself to Russ, she'll be hurt all the more if it doesn't work out.”

“What makes you think it won't?”

Nola Ruth dismissed her question. “I won't argue with you. Just don't get so mule-headed that you can't see what's plain to everybody else.”

Libby was speechless. Never, in her entire adult life, had her mother been less subtle. The lovely southern charm so characteristic of Nola Ruth was bluntly, unpleasantly absent “What are you talking about?”

“There's a stubborn streak in you, Libba Jane. Not too many women would run off and, except for a few brief visits when Chloe was little, stay away for seventeen years. You certainly have your share of pride and that isn't a compliment.”

“Really?” Libby said sweetly. “It sounds like it's exactly what you did except that I didn't give birth to and give up a daughter.”

The good side of Nola Ruth's mouth turned up. “It's like I said, honey. I know what I'm talking about. Don't make my mistakes.”

“Why didn't you come after me, Mama? If you wanted me home so badly, why didn't you say so?”

“You mean I should have come charging into town, dragged you home and had Eric Richards murdered?” Nola Ruth shook her head. “No thank you. That would have been history repeating itself. I didn't want that.”

“Good night Mama.”

Nola Ruth stared silently at the television.

Tonight Libby didn't want company, but it was too early to go to bed. She walked into the kitchen where Serena was washing the dinner dishes. “Can I help you with anything?” she asked.

The black woman looked up. “It looks like rain. You could take down the laundry from the line.”

Libby picked up the basket in the laundry room and headed out back. A hot wind laced with the smell of damp earth lifted the hair from her shoulders and rustled the tree branches framing the house. Rain was minutes away. Quickly she gathered armfuls of stiff, sweet-smelling clothes, dropping the clothespins efficiently into the bag hanging on the line. She piled the last shirt into her basket when the first drops fell. Lifting the clothes basket, she ran for the porch, barely making the shelter before the sky opened up in earnest. She left the basket for Serena and went upstairs to check on Chloe. She'd fallen asleep with the light on. Libby removed the book from under her daughter's cheek, pulled the sheet over her and turned out the light.

It rained most of the night, a warm, thick, frog-strangling rain that forced vehicles off the road and kept everyone indoors, leaving behind a haze that colored the water and sky an indistinguishable blue-gray.

It was just past dawn the following morning. The boat's wake was a shock of white in the unending grayness. Libby looked behind her at the disappearing dock. She broke the silence. “Where are we going?”

“To Assateague Island.”

Libby sat up. “That's a day trip, Russ. I didn't tell anyone we'd be gone that long.”

“We'll be back by six. You can call from the boat.”

“I can hardly wait to explain that to my mother,” she mumbled under her breath.

Russ grinned. “I don't have a hearing problem, Libby.”

“What you have is a lot of nerve.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to get you alone.”

She maneuvered her way to the front of the boat and sat down next to him. “Any particular reason?”

His arm circled her waist. “More than one. We'll have to wait for the fog to bum off first.” He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder. “You smell good. It's the same smell you had when you were a kid. What's it called?”

“Mimosa.”

“Don't ever change it.”

She turned to answer and never did. Her breath caught and the words left her, all her concentration on the man by her side. He faced the bay, his profile outlined against the brightening sky. Black lashes, unfairly long for a man, swept upward, framing steel-blue eyes. The lean, angular features of youth had firmed into scooped-out cheeks and jutting bones and a narrow, slightly beaked nose. Black hair fell across his forehead and curled at his neck, and his skin was dark from long days spent in the sun. He was handsome, in a masculine, undomesticated way, but it wasn't just his features or even the startling warmth of his smile that gave him his appeal. It was the way he carried himself, the implied strength in his lean, ropy body, the loose-hipped, predatory way he moved, the arch of his eyebrow, the tightening of his jaw, the sudden narrowing of his eyes. There was no one like him. There never had been, not even Mitch, and he and Russ had been as alike as two people could possibly be. She'd been insane to think that Eric Richards could fill the gap.

Russ turned his head. “You're awfully quiet. What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

“Come to any conclusions?”

She tangled her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Do you know that you're still beautiful?”

To her delight, he reddened. Russ never could take a compliment. “Thank you, ma'am, but I brought you out here to show you something that really is beautiful.” He pointed toward the shoreline. “Look.”

The sun had burned off the haze and the water was a pure gunmetal gray against the green marsh grass. Here, at the tip of the bay, pine forests grew down to the sand and only the hardiest survived. The less resilient succumbed to the salt, their white-encrusted roots face-up on the sandy shoreline, a testament to their struggle for survival. Libby felt the roll of the boat and saw the white foam of another wake cut across the inlet. The water was rich with life. Fish leaped from the depths. Insects skimmed across the surface, and black, biting flies feasted on overheated human flesh and salty blood.

In the distance, clammers, sunburned and bent over, harvested sandbars with their rakes. On the pilings, snowy egrets, brown terns, blue herons and gulls waited patiently for the humans to depart, intent on their share of leftovers from the oyster beds. The steady lapping of the water soothed Libby's spirits. Comfortably cool, she leaned against Russ's shoulder. “You love it here, don't you?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “So do you. I can't believe you spent so much time in California.”

“California's nice.”

“But it isn't home.”

“No.”

He waited, giving her time to gather her thoughts.

“Out here on the water it's an angler's paradise,” she said at last, “and it's green, so green it's an assault to the eyes. I'd forgotten all about the green. It's not something I thought about until I came back, green trees, green grass, green corn, every imaginable shade of green.” She looked up at the sky. “The heat does it. The heat and rain produces a country that God most likely modeled after heaven.”

He kept silent, afraid to break the mood. She had never talked like this to him before. She sounded almost poetic.

“They don't have graveyards west of the Mississippi River,” she announced.

He laughed. “Of course they do.”

Libby shook his head. “Not real graveyards. Westerners hide their dead behind stone walls and wrought-iron gates. Not seeing the headstones is a way of denying age. Death won't come if you aren't reminded of it. Yuppies fight aging. It's a veritable youth culture out there in California.”

“Were you surprised at the changes when you came home?”

“I wasn't thrilled to see that every fast-food chain in America had discovered the Chesapeake. Who needs another hamburger stand?”

“Chloe wouldn't agree with you.”

Libby laughed. “I wouldn't expect her to. It's called the price of progress.”

Several hours later, Assateague Island, Virginia's famous wildlife preserve, materialized in the distance. The forest looked black against the white sand beach. Russ increased his speed and within minutes had pulled up close to the deserted shore. He dropped the anchor, picked up the lunch basket and held out his hand. “Let's go.”

Libby stepped out of her shorts, adjusted her bathing suit and slipped into the water. She took Russ's hand and followed him to the beach, splashing through the warm water.

“Shade or sun?” he asked when they had reached the deserted sand.

She looked speculatively at his skin. “You're dark enough to stand a little sun, I think, and it'll keep the bugs away.”

He dropped the basket where he stood and pulled her down beside him. “What'll you have?” He rummaged through the food she'd packed. “If you aren't hungry yet, we've got beer, iced tea and lemonade.”

“I'm hungry, all right,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Startled, he turned around, blue eyes wary, assessing the look on her face. What he saw surprised and delighted him. “Why, Libba Jane, I do believe you are hungry, but not for food.”

Her voice was husky, sensual. “You always were a fast learner.”

Russ stood and held out his hand. “Let's move to the trees.”

“Why?”

“I'll fry out here. My cheeks are whiter than a baby's butt, or haven't you noticed?”

Libby pulled the elastic out of her hair and shook it over her face to hide the wave of red creeping up from her chest. Suddenly she was off the ground, cradled in Russ's arms. He walked toward the trees.

“After all this time, I can still embarrass you,” he murmured. “It's amazing.”

She locked her arms around his neck. “What's so amazing about it?”

“We've known each other since we were kids. I'm surprised that anything I could do would still make you self-conscious.”

“I think you like it,” she said. “For some reason it gives you pleasure to unsettle me. It always has.”

He set her down in the shade. She faced him, hands on her hips. “Am I right?”

His glance took in every detail of her trim, rounded figure. It always surprised him to realize how small she really was. From a distance she seemed taller. She was right. When they were kids, he had worked at shaking her poise. It made her softer, more vulnerable, and it made him feel stronger. Now it seemed childish. That air of calm reserve she wrapped around herself was nothing more than a shield against pain. He'd learned that just recently. It was important that she know it, too.

“There's only one way I want to unsettle you now, Libba,” he said softly. “Will you let me?”

Her mouth went dry and she nodded. He stepped closer and slid his hands up her arms. Then he bent his head to her lips, moving against them until they parted.

Her skin was smooth and hot and the feel of her tongue in his mouth was driving him insane. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and pulled her against him. Her body molded bonelessly to his and the sensation of soft breast and taut nipple against his chest altered his breath. He wanted her and he didn't want to wait.

His hands shook as he pulled down the straps of her bathing suit, sliding it down over her hips. She kicked it away and then moved back to him. He lifted her chin, holding her gaze while his hands sought the fullness of each breast, the dip of her waist, the smooth skin of her bottom and, finally, the heat between her thighs. When he kissed her again, it wasn't slow and sweet like the first time, it rocked her with its need and she answered it with her own, her mouth and fingers playing over tight skin, lean planes and sharp angles, tasting moist, salty skin, teasing earlobes and pulse points and pebbled nipples, her palms seeking out the pleasure spots only she knew how to find, moving beneath the waistband of his trunks, touching the fullness of him, lightly, teasingly, until he gasped and gripped her wrist painfully.

“Stop,” he rasped in a voice that was low and winded as if he'd run a great distance.

His heart pounded against her chest. She waited, clinging to his shoulders. Seconds passed. She lifted passion-dark eyes to his face. His mouth was tight and careful and very close to hers.

“The hell with it.” He lowered her to the sand, his head and the width of his shoulders blocking out the canopy of trees. “There's no reason to wait.”

She laughed and pulled him close. His lips opened over hers. Libby no longer felt the heat, the flies, the scrape of sand against her shoulder. There was nothing but this man, the sensation of lean, strong hands on her breasts and the heat radiating from the pit of her stomach to every nerve ending in her body.