Firefly Beach (44 page)

“It’s not?” Joe asked, surprising himself by the way his voice lifted at the end.

“Is that a question?” Caroline asked.

“I guess not,” he said. “Too bad you have your business to run. Otherwise I’d tempt you into coming to Greece with me. You keep telling me you love to travel.”

Caroline lifted her eyes. Her expression was direct and sharp, not soft at all. She didn’t smile. “Don’t tease me,” she said.

Easing out of Joe’s arms, she lifted their empty water glasses. She walked barefoot into the house, and he heard her moving around the kitchen. He sat very still, wondering how it would feel to live there. To not be planning the next treasure hunt. His shoulder throbbing, he shifted on the glider.

The old dog looked up at him. Reaching down, Joe petted his head. Homer leaned into his hand, making friends. They had a lot in common, loving Caroline. Joe stroked the brittle fur, gentle and rhythmic.

“Should we go find her?” Joe asked. Homer struggled to his feet, limping into the kitchen.

Joe paused behind Caroline. She stood at the sink, rinsing the glasses. He could tell by the way she stood that she was upset, that he had hurt her.

“Caroline,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t move. She stood there, the water running over her hands. Joe put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. Her cheeks were wet and there were tears in the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were stern.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “I’m just a little sad, okay? Aren’t I allowed to feel sad?”

“You’re allowed,” Joe said. Because he felt sad too.

Homer stood beside Caroline. He gazed up at her, sensing her mood. As if he understood her need for comfort, he nudged her thigh with his head. She reached down to pet him, then lowered her head to his. Joe watched for a moment, realizing there was something eternal in the relationship between them. Homer was very old, past the age most dogs lived, and it hurt Joe to think he would soon die.

“Have you had him since he was a puppy?” Joe asked.

Caroline stayed where she was. Lovingly Homer bumped her head. When she stood, she wiped her tears.

“Not quite,” she said. “I got him when he was about a year old.”

“He must have been a beautiful young dog,” Joe said. “Why did his first owner give him up?”

“He died,” Caroline said.

“Oh, no,” Joe said, petting Homer’s back. His spine was visible through the reddish coat, and he arched into Joe’s hand. Caroline reached for something on the table. It was Skye’s hospital bracelet. She had cut it off her wrist earlier, leaving it on the kitchen table before going to her room for a rest.

“Skye killed him,” Caroline said quietly.

“God,” Joe said.

“We were hunting. She was only seventeen, and she thought she was shooting a deer, but it was a man.” Caroline bowed her head.

“I’m so sorry,” Joe said.

“She’s never gotten over it,” Caroline said. “It was just an accident, but that doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Joe agreed, stunned.

“I was with her. She was beside herself—couldn’t believe what she had done. I sat with him while she stood there. Poor Skye,” Caroline said.

“He died there in the woods?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Caroline continued on. “I held his hand. He had such bright eyes. He was lying there, on the trail, and I remember thinking he looked so nice and
bright
. That’s the word I kept thinking. So bright.”

“Caroline,” Joe said, moved beyond words. She had seen both his father and that young man die. He loved a woman who was so kind and sensitive, and all these years he had resented her for not telling him faster. Her father had sent them hunting because of something his father had started. “What was his name?”

“Andrew Lockwood.”

“Homer was his dog?”

“Yes. It was a beautiful day, and they were just out for a walk. Homer was kissing him. Licking his face all the while, trying to make him better. When Andrew’s eyes closed, Homer just licked his eyes. He never wanted to stop.”

Joe looked at the dog’s white face. He could see him kissing his dying master, and knew why Caroline loved him so much. And why the dog loved Caroline.

“How’s Skye?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know,” Caroline said. “It’s with her all the time.”

“Do you think she’d go to an AA meeting?”

Caroline paused. She glanced from Joe to Homer in that blank way of someone who had lost hope that a tragedy could be averted. She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I doubt it.”

“It helps me,” Joe said.

“I wish…”

“What?” he asked.

“That it could help her,” Caroline whispered.

“Caroline,” Joe said. Something was building inside him, and he had to get it out.

“What?” she asked.

“Come with me.”

“To a meeting? But—”

“No, to Greece.”

She looked shocked. Did she think he was teasing her like before? He pulled her into his arms. He said it again, looking straight into her gray eyes. “Come to Greece with me.”

“Don’t joke,” she said.

“I’m not. Tell me one reason why it wouldn’t work.”

“My family,” she said, “I can’t leave them. And I have an inn to run.”

“You love to travel, everyone knows it. Michele knows how to run the inn. And your family—”

She waited. She wanted him to finish the sentence: will be fine. But they both knew such predictions were impossible, that fate played tricks on people, that keeping watch was just an illusion. You could be standing right beside your sister, and she could kill a man. You could be ten feet away, and something terrible could still happen.

“Your family knows you love them. You’ll be back.”

“I will?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to the guys at Yale. Not this fall, but maybe next year. I’m thinking of Sam too. Watching you with your family makes me want to do better with him. I’ve been on the run for a long time.”

Caroline stepped away from Joe. Homer had retreated to an old blue blanket in the corner of her kitchen, and she leaned against the counter, watching him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and her sudden attention made him raise his head, bang his tail on the floor. Caroline leaned over to pet him, and to reach into a fold of the blanket. She pulled out a small towel, battle-scarred from many play sessions. Homer bit one end while Caroline held the other.

“My father started this,” she said, tugging on the towel.

“With Homer?”

“Yes. When we first brought him home, he was so upset. He cried all the time, and he wouldn’t play with any of the toys we gave him. Balls, bones. Then my father gave him an old towel. It was soft, and I guess it smelled like us.”

“Homer liked the game?” Joe asked, wondering what this had to do with going to Greece.

“Yes. Homer loved it. He carried the towel everywhere, and when the first one got all chewed up, we gave him another. He’d always want my father to play with him.” She paused, standing to face Joe. “My father liked it too. Till he got so sick. Then he stopped everything.”

“His cancer, you mean?”

“No,” Caroline said. “The kind of sickness that made him drink and turn away. Like Skye now. I’m afraid to leave her.”

Joe walked over to her. He felt his heart pounding. He had never wanted anything as much as this. He wanted her with him, but at the same time, he needed to help her. She was caught in a trap, trying to save someone who had to help herself. He took a deep breath, than held her face gently between his hands.

“Do you know what the opposite of love is?” he asked.

“Hate? Joe, I could never—”

“Fear.”

“The opposite of love is fear,” she said, frowning.

“We could be so fearful, we could let this go.”

“I don’t think I’m afraid—”

“You just said you’re afraid to leave Skye.”

Caroline nodded, seeing his point.

“And your father,” Joe began. Talking about Hugh Renwick wasn’t easy, especially when what he had to say was so filled with the understanding of one flawed man for another.

“What about him?” Caroline asked.

“Tell me something. How did Homer like your father?”

“He loved him,” Caroline said. “It was so sad, ironic, really, that after my father died, Homer cried for him the way he’d once cried for Andrew. For days and days. He’d disappear from the house, go off on these long walks. He’d come home and howl on the porch.”

“For your father.”

“Yes,” Caroline said, recognition dawning in her eyes.

“Even though your father had stopped playing with him. He might have turned away, but that didn’t stop Homer from loving him.”

Caroline nodded, her eyes briming. She bowed her head for a minute. Joe waited, wanting to touch her but knowing she needed to decide for herself.

“I’m not afraid,” she said suddenly, raising her eyes. They were full of tears, the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

“You’re not?”

“The opposite,” she said.

Joe grinned, knowing she meant love, that they were picking up where their letters had left off so long ago.

“When do we leave for Greece?” she asked.

“As soon as Sam’s out of the hospital,” he said, taking her in his arms.

A
UGUSTA WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL RIGHT
after Labor Day. She went straight to Clea’s house, because Clea was the daughter best equipped to give their mother the care she needed. The bad blow Augusta had suffered had affected her motor skills and she needed physical therapy three times a week. This meant driving her to a rehabilitation facility and encouraging her to do her exercises at home.

Caroline gave her a fabulous black hawthorn walking stick with a sterling silver handle, which Augusta thought was marvelous. Antique and Irish, like something Oscar Wilde would have used had he ever needed a cane. Since they had shaved her head at the hospital, she was growing to enjoy being bald—or at least she was making the most of it. Her hair would grow back, but for now she wore the beautiful and dramatic silk scarves her daughters kept bringing her. She twisted them into turbans and thought she looked quite regal. Divine, considering.

But Clea felt overwhelmed. Her whole family considered her the rock. She kept house and cooked gourmet meals. She ran her children from day camp to flute and trumpet lessons to the movies all day long. She was the minister’s wife, she stood by Peter’s side at weddings and funerals, sickbeds and prayer services.

Having her mother under her roof was making her crazy. It wasn’t Augusta’s fault. For once, her mother was being meek. She seemed grateful for every saltine, every glass of seltzer water. Her doctors had told her she couldn’t drink alcohol while she was taking anti-seizure medication, and Augusta hardly complained. Every day at five she would say, “Time for a martini!” But Clea wouldn’t bring one, and Augusta wouldn’t push it.

Mainly, Augusta stayed in her room and listened to music. It confused Clea to see her mother so quiet and contemplative. One day she called Clea to her bedside. Clea had thought she was going to ask for an extra blanket, or a glass of ice water, but instead, Augusta patted the quilt and asked Clea to sit by her side. Reaching for an English bone hairbrush, Augusta began to brush Clea’s hair.

“Tell me something,” Augusta said, slowly stroking Clea’s hair.

“Like what?” Clea said, feeling goose bumps on the back of her neck from the unfamiliar pleasure of her mother’s touch.

“Anything, honey. Just tell me a story. Anything at all.”

“Well, Maripat and Mark both want to sign up for a new soccer league.”

“About you, Clea,” Augusta said. “I love the children, but I want to hear something about you.”

“Oh, Mom,” Clea said, her throat constricting, hardly knowing where to start.

“Something about Clea,” Augusta said. “Tell me.”

“But why?”

“I’m so sorry there has to be a ‘why,’ ” Augusta said. “That you don’t think it completely natural for me to wonder about you.”

“You had Dad to worry about,” Clea said.

“Yes, I did worry,” Augusta said, brushing Clea’s hair, “that he’d find me boring, feel closed in, go off with someone else. You girls suffered for it.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Clea said. “And Caroline is great.” Caroline had announced her plans to go to Greece. While no one was totally surprised, the reality of her departure—for an entire year—felt daunting.

“But Skye’s not.”

“No,” Clea said. Skye had moved out of Caroline’s, back to Firefly Hill, where she could be alone. Clea had stopped by once with an extra pot of beef stew, and found her in bed at four in the afternoon, staring hopelessly out the window. Feeling her mother brush her hair, Clea closed her eyes. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she knew Maripat was suffering the way Skye was, and she knew her mother had a broken heart.

“What can I do, darling?” Augusta asked. “I know it’s a case of too little too late, but I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to see her this way.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Clea said, reaching back for her mother’s hand. It felt thin and frail, and when she turned around, she saw how old her mother looked. Augusta stopped brushing Clea’s hair, letting her hands fall to her lap.