Firefly Beach (15 page)

Caroline yawned, shrugging.

“You look tired,” Clea said.

“I am,” Caroline admitted. “I hiked up Serendipity Hill last night—”

“Caroline,
Jesus,
” Clea said.

“What?” Caroline asked, surprised by Clea’s expression.

“I hate thinking of you on those cliffs at night…You could fall. Besides, you never know who else might be up there. You could get raped. I just read about two girls hiking the Appalachian Trail, they were raped and murdered—”

“Clea, it’s okay. I didn’t get into any danger on Serendipity Hill.”

“No, but you’d fly to Scotland to avoid having dinner with a man on his boat.”

Caroline opened her mouth to speak, paused, stopped.

“What?” Clea asked.

“You caught me,” Caroline said, smiling. “I was just working out flight times in my head.”

“I brought some old pictures,” Augusta said to Skye.

“Mom, I’m tired,” Skye said. She lay in her hospital bed. They had cut her pain medication down to Tylenol. But she felt so tired, so lethargic, all she wanted to do was sleep.

“These will cheer you up,” Augusta said.

Skye stared at the picture album. Her parents had taken pictures of everything. Skye wasn’t one of those youngest children who complained her parents had taken photos of the older siblings but lost interest when she came along. No. The Renwicks had four albums full of Skye alone. Each album was identical, Moroccan leather monogrammed
H & A
.

Augusta turned the pages. This selection of photos covered the early seventies, when Skye was very young. There were the girls on the beach, on the carousel, in a rowboat. Hugh at his easel, appearing young and intense.

“He looks like Simon,” Augusta said, pointing. “You and I have the same taste in men.”

“Mmm,” Skye said.

A nurse came in. Shifts were changing, and she had to get Skye’s vital signs. She slapped on the blood pressure cuff, gave the black bulb a few hard squeezes.

“What do we have here?” she asked, looking at the album.

“Family pictures,” Augusta said, beaming.

“Beautiful,” the nurse said. She wrote on her pad, stuck a thermometer in Skye’s ear, glanced at the reading, and wrote it down.

“That’s your patient, age two,” Augusta said, tapping a photo of Skye holding a paintbrush.

“Quite the artist!” the nurse said.

“You have no idea,” Augusta said proudly. She turned the page. “Those are Skye’s sisters. They adored her, as you can see. That’s her father…there he is again. Oh, don’t look, that’s me with short hair. God, what a mistake that was! That’s my husband on his horse, that’s the barn…there he is painting on the Quai de Tournelle…”

“Who are they?” the nurse asked, bending down for a closer look.

The black-and-white photo depicted a group of men wearing tuxedos. They appeared elegant and proud, some holding a paintbrush, a palette, or a small canvas. Others held rifles, bows, and arrows. They stood outside a massive stone building, reminiscent of a French château.

“Oh, they’re members of a men’s club,” Augusta said with a concerned glance at Skye. Sensing Skye’s discomfort, she seemed about to turn the page, but then her eyes lit on Hugh. Augusta sighed. Her fingers trailed across the plastic sleeve, caressing the photo.

“There’s my husband, right there,” she said softly.

The nurse peered at Hugh Renwick, standing in the center of the second row. His big shoulders filled his dinner jacket; his face was set, his eyes focused on the camera as if he wanted to attack it. He held a sable brush like a scepter. Glancing at the picture, Skye recognized where it had been taken and felt her heart start to race. She closed her eyes.

“They look so elegant,” the nurse said. “So old-fashioned.”

“Yes, courtly,” Augusta said, furnishing what she considered the proper word. “They met twice a year, always wore black tie. They’d talk about their work, I suppose. They all had rather substantial careers. My husband was quite a well-known painter, you know.”

“What’s the place?” the nurse asked. “It’s gorgeous. Is it in Europe?”

“No. New Hampshire, actually. Way up in the mountains, the Redhawk Club. It had marvelous gardens and secret places to paint. Places to hunt. Quite a few of the men enjoyed shooting.”

“Only men?”

“Yes,” Augusta said, and her voice took on a strange note of pride and self-defense. “Although my husband thought it was ridiculous. Our girls could shoot as well as any man.”

Skye felt her heart pounding out of her chest. Her eyes were shut tight. She wanted a drink, she wanted a shot of morphine, she wanted to get out of where she was at that moment.

“Artists and hunters?” the nurse asked. “Seems like an interesting combination.”

“They share an ecstasy for life,” Augusta said. “My husband thought the two went hand in hand,” Augusta said. As if she had just remembered Skye, the effect this conversation might be having on her, she quickly turned the page.

Skye breathed, and it came out a gulp.

The nurse, who had been taking her pulse, frowned and tightened her grip. As if she couldn’t believe that her patient, lying down, could have such a quick heartbeat. Skye’s eyes were shut tight. Her head was on the pillow, her face turned away. She tried to think of Caroline, to stop her heart from racing.

“Let me do this again,” the nurse said, adjusting her grip on Skye’s wrist. Skye felt the nurse’s fingers on her vein, moving gently to find the right spot. “I got so sidetracked looking at those handsome men, I must have counted wrong.”

Handsome men, Skye thought. The only face she could see belonged to Andrew Lockwood, with his brown eyes and straight nose and wide mouth, dying five miles down the trail from that beautiful château. She tried to push it from her mind, cover his eyes with darkness. The black peace of a moonless night, when the creatures of the hillside are safe from the hunter.

Safe, Skye thought, lying in her hospital bed, thinking of Andrew in his grave.

June 4, 1978

Dear Joe,

So many secret places in the world…Driving through the mountains, through forests and beneath cliffs, do you ever think about where the hidden roads lead? Some rich men with too much money built a palace that belongs in Europe. They say it’s about sport and art, but it’s just about showing off. It’s so out of place, stuck right in the middle of the wilderness where there should be only pine trees and granite, not mahogany and marble. I think true artists would know better.

My sister Skye is a true artist. Not just her spirit, which is so beautiful and tender I can hardly write about it. No, not only that. You should see her work. One line from her pencil can become the beach or a cliff or a face. She is more talented than anyone I know. Even my father. How are you? As an artist, I mean.

Love,

Caroline

June 15, 1978

Dear Caroline,

Art, shmart. Secret places, though. Now, there’s a subject. Newport has plenty. I can get into any mansion on Bellevue Avenue. I know a lot of the caretakers. Those places all have wine cellars, tunnels, secret staircases.

Sam drew a picture of my boat for you, but then he spilled orange juice on it. Oh well. Me, I’m no artist. Wind’s blowing—got to go.

Love,

Joe

H
ER MOTHER HAD LEFT THE BOOK BEHIND
,
AND WHEN
Skye was alone, she opened it again, to the picture of Redhawk. Seeing it had shocked her earlier; she had forgotten the picture existed. Now she stared at it, the cold stone and the men frozen on film, and her heart barely moved. The picture hardly stirred her at all.

The Redhawk Club. It had incensed her father to belong to a club that excluded his daughters. He had taken them everywhere. Taught them to shoot better than boys, talked with such pride about their accomplishments. People would tease him, saying maybe he should have had sons, and he’d start fights.

One day Hugh had driven his daughters through the club’s wide gates, parked the car, and walked them over to the skeet range. Right in front of everyone, he had had the girls shoot clay pigeons, hitting every one. Turning away, just as the club manager walked over for a discreet reprimand, Hugh handed in his letter of resignation.

He had felt so victorious. If only they had loved his sport. Augusta had used the phrase “ecstasy of life”; Skye could hear her father saying it now. He felt wildly alive when he was painting, inspiration surging through his being, flowing onto his canvas, and the same thrill when he was on the hunt, tracking live things that fled before him under the fire of stars.

He had taught her to draw. They had studied anatomy, dissecting the creatures she had killed. She had drawn the muscle and bone and sinew while he told her that was
her;
she was an animal just like the ones they hunted. He wanted her to understand how primitive it was, that joyful surge she felt when she drew and sculpted, how closely connected to the deep and ancient need to hunt. That the burning passion of creation, when she forgot who she was,
that
she was, was no more or less beautiful or exultant than death.

Loving her father, Skye had tried to love hunting. Desiring the ecstasy and self-forgetting she knew in the studio, she fought so hard to fight her fear of the mountain. She felt shame and revulsion when she killed something, but she was afraid to tell him. Now, staring at the picture of Redhawk, she remembered how desperately she had tried to avoid those trips. Knowing how effective Caroline’s fever had been, Skye always pretended to have a sore throat, hoping her mother would keep her home.

“Hey, baby,” Simon said.

Surprised by the sound of a human voice, as if one of the men in the picture had spoken from the grave, she jumped.

“Hi,” Skye said, her voice coming out in a slight croak.

They stared at each other, husband and wife. She swallowed hard at the sight of him: so dark and sexy and concerned. She could see he hadn’t been eating right.

“What are you trying to do to me?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb, his eyes full of worry. He moved slowly toward her hospital bed, gently moving the covers aside, bending down to give her a tentative kiss.

“
Do
to you?” Skye asked, confused.

“Cracking up the car,” he whispered. “You’d kill me if you killed yourself.”

“It wouldn’t kill you,” Skye said. “Don’t say that it would.”

“Want to bet?” Now that he was with her, he couldn’t keep from touching her. Her bruised cheek, her hands, his lips against hers. She felt the heat of his body, the electricity in the air between them, and suddenly they pressed together, the skin between them an almost unbearable barrier.

“I love you, Skye,” he whispered, “more than anything. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

She didn’t want to hear his apologies. She felt his arms around her, his hands stroking her back, and she felt she had been only half alive—an animal left to die on the trail—without him in her life.

“Say something,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, because it was the only word she could imagine.

“Because I’m a jerk. Is that what you’re asking? Why I left?”

Skye didn’t know. She just wanted him to keep holding her. She felt their blood flowing together, just under their skin, and she felt the comfort of love, of affection, of human contact come over her. It soothed away her grief and despair. It pushed away her thoughts of Andrew. But because he wanted her to say something, he might pull back if she didn’t, she said, “Yes.”

“It was her fault, you know. Biba’s.” He said her name apologetically, as if the sound itself could hurt Skye. But Skye was numb. She closed her eyes and felt him rub her back. “She came at me full blast. You know artists’ models, they take off their clothes for pay. What did I expect? For her to respect our marriage?”