Chesapeake Tide (5 page)

“It's possible. The EPA has more than one role.”

“As I was saying,” Nola Ruth interrupted impatiently, “Russ Hennessey is coming back to town and he has his work cut out for him.”

“Why is that?” Libby was surprised. “Russ is a born fisherman.” There was much more she could have said. She could have added that before he was twelve he could maneuver a trawler in seas that would make a lesser man lose his lunch, and by sixteen he could find the best netting spots on the bay without using a loran. Before he was eighteen years old he could out-harvest and out-shuck every fisherman on the water.

But she said none of those things. Her interest would be too obvious and there would be questions she didn't care to answer. But the memories were strong and private and deeply personal. Russ Hennessey was as close to a legend on the water as an ordinary mortal could be. He'd handcrafted his own fishing lines and fought his first shad at six years old. He'd worked as a deckhand on his daddy's trawlers, pulling up bucket after bucket of soft-shelled crabs, glistening wet and cobalt-blue as they squirmed on the dock in the shimmering heat of summer afternoons. And somewhere, after his first shad and before his first beer, not too long before, he'd tasted the softness of Libby Delacourte's mouth. And later, much later, in a sweltering vortex of heat and need and pubescent longing, he'd stepped across the line separating childhood from adolescence and pulled her along with him, leaving the former behind forever.

Russ Hennessey had loved her. It was as simple as that. He'd loved her from the time she was seven years old, and she'd repaid his devotion by leaving town with Eric Richards, without so much as a word of explanation or even a goodbye. She'd carried the guilt of her behavior around for years, imagining a dozen different scenarios by which she could absolve herself. It appeared that her time was nearly at hand.

“I never did like that girl he married,” Nola Ruth said, stringing out the words with her Louisiana drawl. “You remember her, Libba. She was a schoolmate of yours, the Wentworth girl.” She appealed to her husband. “What was her first name, Cole?”

“Tracy.”

“That's it. Cheap thing.” Nola Ruth fanned herself. “They had a child, a daughter, but Cora Hennessey had her doubts.”

Libby drained the last of her lemonade. “About what?”

“Never mind,” answered her mother. She nodded at Chloe. “Little pitchers—”

Chloe rolled her eyes and stared at the bay.

Her grandfather laughed. “What she means is Russ and his wife tried for years to have a child. When they finally gave up, Tracy announced she was pregnant.”

“It happens that way sometimes,” said Libby.

Nola Ruth stared at her husband over her daughter's head. Their eyes met and he shook his head slowly. Only Chloe noticed and wondered at the unspoken message that passed between them.

V
erna Lee Fontaine hummed as she wiped down the counters of her health food/coffee shop. The herbs she'd hung from the ceiling in the back room were dried and ready to grind, and she'd decided to keep them in containers beneath the glass counter where people could see them. Occasionally, she would break into song, her rich, throaty alto filling the empty spaces in the room and rattling the prisms dangling from the tree branch that served as a jewelry stand.

Her grandmother hobbled in from Verna's house in the back and lingered in the doorway, smiling at the picture the younger woman made. She was tall and lush, with full breasts, narrow hips and long, lovely legs that just now were exposed through the slit of the calf-length, flowered skirt she'd knotted around her waist. She had golden eyes, a small pert nose and a thick mass of tawny ringlets twisted on top of her head and secured with a chopstick. Only the caramel color of her skin and the fullness of her lips revealed her African heritage. Verna Lee was approaching forty-two, but no one looking at that vivid, expressive face would have marked her as a day over twenty-five.

Drusilla sighed. Watching Verna Lee flit effortlessly from door to windows to stairs and back to the door again was a reminder of her own age and its limitations. There was something about Verna Lee that drew the eye, something raw and primitive and vital. She shook away her woolgathering and remembered her errand. She had a message to deliver. “Mornin', Verna Lee,” she called out.

Verna Lee stopped singing and smiled. “Good morning, Grammy. I didn't hear you come in.”

“You was singin'.”

“Yes.” She twisted a ringlet around her forefinger. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Hours ago.”

“Good.” She crossed the room and kissed the old woman's weathered cheek. “I didn't want to make you any, anyway.”

“I could use some coffee.”

“Why don't you make some for the two of us? Put in some of that New Orleans chicory I brought back with me. It'll take out the bitterness.”

“My coffee ain't bitter.”

“You only think it isn't. Sometimes it is.”

Drusilla grumbled as she made her way to the kitchen. Verna Lee watched her grandmother with an anxious wrinkle between her brows. “Is your arthritis bothering you?” she called after her. “I wish you wouldn't insist on living all by yourself. I have plenty of room.”

“No, it ain't botherin' me.”

“Why are you limping?”

“I walked to the market yesterday and stopped by the Delacourtes on the way back.”

Verna Lee's lips tightened. “What for?”

“I had sweet potatoes left to sell. Mr. Delacourte always buys 'em from me.”

“Did he buy them this time?”

“Every last one.”

“I hope they were a bad batch.”

Drusilla finished measuring out the coffee and put the water on to boil. “Shame on you, Verna Lee. Mr. Delacourte's been good to me. He even asked after you. He wants more of your sleepy tea.”

Verna Lee returned to her counters. “He knows where to find it.”

“That's what I told him.” She tilted her head. “Libba Jane's comin' home.”

“So?”

“I just thought you'd want to know.”

“Libba Jane Delacourte was always too curious for her own good. Sometimes, I thought—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“She's bringin' her child with her, a girl.”

Verna Lee's hands moved in slow circles on the glass, “That's nice. It will give Nola Ruth someone else to persecute.”

Drusilla poured two cups of thick, chicory-rich coffee and walked back into the shop. “You're in a sour mood today, child.” She handed her a cup. “Here. Maybe some coffee will help.”

Relenting, Verna Lee pulled up a stool, accepted the peace offering and sat down, crossing her spectacular legs. “What's she like?” she asked, despising herself for her interest.

“Who?”

“Libba's daughter.”

“Don't know. I heard the news from Serena.”

“I wonder why she's coming home after all this time?” mused Verna Lee.

“Nola Ruth nearly died,” Drusilla reminded her.

Verna Lee's hand tightened around her cup. “That's right. I remember now, not that Mrs. Delacourte and I run in the same social circles.”

“Should you?” her grandmother asked pointedly.

Verna Lee released her breath. “No. Of course not. I don't know what's the matter with me today.”

“Full moon?” suggest Drusilla.

“Possibly.” Verna Lee's eyes had a dreamy quality. “I wonder if Libba Delacourte is as gorgeous as she was in high school.”

“Don't waste any time over it. You'll see her soon enough.”

“I doubt she'll ever set foot in this shop.”

“Maybe she will and maybe she won't.”

“She won't be here for long, anyway. No one in her right mind would trade California for Marshyhope Creek.”

Her grandmother didn't mention that Verna Lee had done exactly that. She simply nodded. “Libba was a nice little gal, all dark eyes and dark hair and a smile that lit up the world.” She glanced at her granddaughter. “Just like you. Nola Ruth went into a decline when she left with that boy.”

“Where is
that
boy?” Verna Lee asked.

Drusilla shrugged. “Ask her when you see her.”

“I just might do that.”

“No reason why you shouldn't. You had the same schoolin'.”

“No one knows that.”

“That's your fault, Verna Lee. You always were a smart one. No one would be surprised to find out you came home with an education.”

Verna Lee left the room and came back with the coffeepot. She refilled their cups. “Things are fine the way they are, Grammy. I love this shop. It's a whole lot better than being a wage slave and haggling over hours and raises and pension plans. It suits me. I've never deliberately kept the fact that I have a degree from anyone. Because no one expects a black woman from Marshyhope Creek to have a college degree, it just doesn't come up.”

The old woman eyed her shrewdly. “If you say so.” Verna Lee smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “So, do you have any other gossip to tell me?”

“Russell Hennessey's comin' home to run his daddy's fishing fleet.”

The younger woman's eyes widened. “Well, well, well,” she said softly. “Libba and Russ home at the same time. It won't be dull in Marshyhope Creek this summer.”

Russell Tremayne Hennessey pulled his Ford Explorer over to the side of the road, removed his sunglasses and stared across the gold-tipped waters of the Chesapeake. The sun sat on the bay like melted copper. Trawlers and single-manned boats would all be docked by now, leaving what they hadn't caught to the brown pelicans and giant blue herons and an occasional migratory loon on its way to the colder, cleaner ponds of Maine. As a child, Russ had dreamed of birds and what it would be like to feel that lifting, soaring, tightening-of-the-stomach sensation at the surge of an updraft, to experience the power of wind beneath spread wings and know that the world was miles below.

He wondered, not for the first time, how he could have left. Seventeen years ago it seemed reasonable to put the pain and disappointment behind him and move on. But now, in retrospect, he'd been a fool. The pain had abated in its own time, and the memories had followed him on that mad, diabolic flight out of Marshyhope Creek, away from the light-struck, water-bright bays of Maryland, west through the smoky Blue Ridge Mountains and the red-earthed flatlands of Virginia, north across the Mason-Dixon Line into the rolling green farmlands of Pennsylvania, breaching for the first time in his life the boundaries where no self-respecting Southerner would willingly exile himself. How he'd come to believe the flight syndrome was the only way to deal with the downward trajectory of his life was a mystery.

As close as he could tell, it had all started when Libba Delacourte ran off with a boy too wet behind the ears to know what to do with his hanging body parts. Her defection had shocked Russ. Mitch had told him, albeit reluctantly and by mail and after all other topics had exhausted themselves, that Libba had run off with a Yankee and then, rubbing his nose in it even deeper, married him.

Russ had gone into such a decline that he no longer attended classes, was put on probation and subsequently kicked out of the Citadel. That led to a stint in the army as a private, a return to Marshyhope Creek, a bad marriage, another flight as far and as fast as his wherewithal would take him, another attempt at college, successful this time, and a career he'd tired of, given up and sold out in order to come home. It was a crapshoot, giving up a successful architectural company, starting over at his age, but the way he saw it, he had no other option. He'd come for Tess, his love, his only child, his fifteen-year-old daughter, whose recent behavior had forced his ex-wife to break down and ask for his help.

Russ acknowledged that he'd been a disappointment as a father. He hadn't wanted a child, not at first, and not with Tracy. The idea of having a child with Tracy Wentworth left him shuddering. She was dangerous, spoiled and self-absorbed, and she had no concept whatsoever of child-rearing. As long as Tess was obedient, dressed well and disappeared when her mother was occupied, all was well. But now that Tess was growing up, now that she had opinions and preferences and a will of her own, Tracy couldn't cope. Russ had sued for custody, but Judge Wentworth, Tracy's father, had influence.

Not only had Russ been denied custody, he hadn't even been awarded normal visitation privileges. Throwing up his hands, he'd left town, preferring to see his daughter on rare occasions when Tracy needed a break, rather than haggle over alternate holidays and weekends. It wasn't his first mistake. He realized that now. Tess needed something solid in her life. She needed a role model, someone other than her frazzled, hysterical mother, a woman who had no interests, served no useful purpose and had difficulty concentrating on a serious conversation.

Russ turned off the engine, climbed out of the car and walked down the bank to the water. The Chesapeake— America's giant protein factory, environmentalists had called it in earlier, richer days. It was no longer true. Commercial harvests of American shad had almost disappeared in the Virginia and Maryland portions of the Chesapeake. Valleys of underwater greenery, life support for dozens of species of fish and fowl, simply vanished. Pollution and commercial fishing were cited as the primary causes. The environmentalist's answer was to remove the fishing pressure and allow the spawning stocks to rebuild, a harbinger of death for the watermen of the bay.

He hoped the fishing lobbies had enough power to hold them off. If not, he was doomed before he ever took over the Hennessey Blue Crab and Fishing Fleet.

Cupping his hands, he bent down and dipped them into the sun-warmed water, then tasted it. Nostalgia flooded through him. He'd swallowed his first mouthful of salt-tinged bay water when he was only three years old. Clutching Mitch's hand, he'd waded in up to his waist under the anxious gaze of his mother and the approving one of his father, and lost his balance. He'd been under for a full ten seconds before he was pulled, waterlogged and gasping, up on the beach. Four years later, he'd pulled in his first shad. Libba was there by then. She'd been there when he'd captained his first trawler, nursed his first hangover, brought down the largest harvest of the summer and beat his daddy's shucking record. She'd been there for every first he'd ever had, first date, first dance, first kiss, first—

He stood abruptly and walked back to the car. That kind of thinking served no purpose. The pain had dissipated long ago, leaving nothing more than a slight regret. He'd moved on. Better to leave it at that.

A single car with a yellow decal signaling a Hertz rental hugged the road ahead of him, moving at the speed limit. Obviously, the driver was a woman. Deciding against passing, he resigned himself to a tedious three miles or so until the road forked into two lanes near town. He fiddled with the radio, reduced his speed and settled into a reasonable following distance when the car turned down a private road. Russ stared after it curiously. He knew that road better than anyone except for the three people who called it home. Who would be calling at dinner hour, especially now that Nola Ruth was bedridden? He was intrigued enough to think about calling at the Delacourtes' himself. But sanity returned before he could act on his thoughts. He'd never been a favorite of Nola Ruth's and he wanted to see what was left of the Hennessey Blue Crab and Fishing Fleet before the sun went down.

Russ parked on a side street, turned off the engine and opened the car door. The blast of humidity permeated his skin. The Chesapeake in July. Crossing the railroad tracks, he climbed over the dunes and down to the dock where the headquarters of the Hennessey Blue Crab and Fishing Fleet had stood for more than a century. The condition of the building reflected hard times. The same splintered planks and railing, the cheap aluminum door and shingled roof that he remembered from childhood greeted him. Cracked white paint peeled in an uneven pattern and the single window was still whitewashed shut from the penance duty of countless Hennessey heirs.

He stopped at the door, inhaled deeply and pushed it open without knocking. A gray-haired woman sat behind a meticulously kept desk. She did not immediately look up. Russ quelled his impatience. He wasn't going anywhere. When she finally deigned to notice him, her eyes widened and a smile of unmitigated joy lit her face.

“Russ Hennessey?” Her voice rose and cracked. She pushed back her chair and walked around the desk to throw her arms around his neck. “Land sakes, child. As I live and breathe. Is it really you?”

Russ grinned and kissed the woman's cheek. “In the flesh. How are you, Effie?”