Firefly Beach (11 page)

Both sisters seemed engrossed in the loop of thread. Skye wove it back into the blanket so seamlessly, Caroline couldn’t detect where it had been. After a few minutes, Skye closed her eyes and faked being asleep. Caroline sat quietly at her side, wondering what to say. A candy striper walked in, wheeling a cart of flowers. She placed a large vase of beautiful flowers on Skye’s table.

“Look,” Caroline said, causing Skye to open her eyes. She handed her the small card.

“Oh,” Skye said, frowning at the flowers. She read the card, then smiled up at Caroline. “They’re from your boyfriend.”

Caroline read the small card: “ ‘Get well soon. Call me when you want to talk again. Joe Connor.’ My boyfriend? Not quite.”

“He has nice handwriting,” Skye said, grabbing the card. “Very masculine. Here, let me analyze it for you.” She squinted, examining the words.

In spite of herself, Caroline was curious. Skye was no handwriting expert, she was just playing around. Even so, Caroline’s interest was piqued. “What?” she asked.

“He is very lonely,” Skye said, trying to sound mysterious. “He has no one to talk to. He searches for treasure to replace that vital thing missing in his life.”

“Which is?”

“Hope? Love?” Skye asked. “His long-lost sweetheart. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. That will be three dollars.”

“Sorry, I forgot my checkbook,” Caroline said.

“It’s okay,” Skye said. “I owe you anyway.”

When Caroline pulled up to Firefly Hill, her mother’s car was gone. She walked up the porch steps and went in through the kitchen door. Homer was lying on his rug. At the sound of Caroline, he glanced over. Without actually moving, his eyes changed expression and he looked deeply happy to see her. Then his tail began to wag. It swished once, twice, across the tile floor. He clambered to his feet, wobbling on his legs. Then, with a little forward momentum, he came across the room to greet her.

“Hi, boy,” she said, rubbing his head. “Good dog. You’re a good dog, Homer.”

He carried a faded blue hand towel in his mouth. The towel, or one like it, had been his toy ever since he came to live at Firefly Hill fourteen years ago. Her father had given him the first one. Caroline tugged the towel. Homer tossed his head, playfully pulling back.

“You win, Homer,” Caroline said.

He stood at the door, waiting to be let out. Caroline walked across the yard, and he stayed close by: Today wasn’t a day for one of his mystery sojourns. The ships were visible on the horizon, Joe Connor searching for treasure. Caroline stared at them for a minute, but Homer was eager to get to the beach.

He left his towel at the top of the tall stairway leading down the grassy bluff. It was painful to watch how slowly he moved, how every step seemed to tire his legs and hurt his back. His thick golden coat had turned thin and brittle, bald in patches. Watching him descend the steps, Caroline remembered him as a grief-stricken young puppy, his face dark with his owner’s blood.

They walked down Firefly Beach, along the high-tide line. Bits of dry kelp and eelgrass stuck to his tufty fur, but he didn’t care. He was happy to be outside with Caroline, the human he had loved most since Andrew Lockwood. When they turned back toward home, Caroline heard someone call her name.

It was Maripat. Her niece was nine, and she came running full tilt down the beach, holding a book in her hand. Homer barked, overcome with joy at the sight of another family member. His back leg faltered, and he went down. But he was up in time, panting happily, when Maripat got there.

She wore blue shorts and a tee-shirt Caroline had brought her from Nantucket. Her silky brown hair was long, pulled back in a French braid. She had the Renwick eyes, wide and clear, and she wore glasses with enameled green wire rims.

“Brought you something,” Maripat said, kissing her aunt and patting the dog.

“For me or Homer?” Caroline asked.

“For you,” Maripat said, smiling.

“What is it?” Caroline asked, accepting the book Maripat held out to her.

“Mom told me about your friend,” Maripat said, “the pirate. Is he really a pirate?”

“He says so,” Caroline said. “That’s him, out there.”

Maripat shielded her eyes, looking at the big white boats shining in the late sun.

“They look like yachts to me,” she said doubtfully.

“Modern pirates,” Caroline said. “They don’t know what they’re missing. Too much luxury and not enough creaky old planks. What’s the book?”

“The ship that sank?” Maripat said, her eyes bright as she got to tell her aunt something she didn’t know. “The
Cambria?
Well, she was an English barquentine, or brigantine, the one with more masts, I forget which.”

“Barquentine, I think,” Caroline said, thinking back to third grade.

“The captain was a rat,” Maripat said. “Considering he went to the lighthouse and fell in love with the lady who lived there. And that she was married to the light-keeper.”

“What a stinker,” Caroline agreed.

“The lady had a little girl,” Maripat said.

“That’s right. I forgot,” Caroline said, watching Homer dig a hole in the cool sand and lie down in it. “What were their names again?”

“The captain was Nathaniel Thorn, and the lady was Elisabeth Randall. The little girl was Clarissa.” Maripat paused, her eyes shining, her excitement so palpable, there might have been an imaginary drumroll. “And that’s her diary!” She thumped the book.

“Whose diary?”

“Clarissa’s! Some old lady, her husband was in the Coast Guard and took over the light, found the diary, and had it printed. I’d kill my mother if she ever did that to me. But we had to read it in school, and when Mom told me about the treasure guy, I said oh-my-God. Read it!”

Together they opened the book, and Caroline read the first entry:

July 19, 1769

Today I found a finback whale which had run ashore. She was bigger than the lifeboat and the same color as the rocks of our island, and she was lying on the south shore with her eye wide open, just staring at the sky. Mama and I tried to free her for hours, until darkness fell. We kept her wet with sea water carried in the fire bucket, because Mama said if her skin dried out, she would die. And she bade me watch the whale’s blowhole, because that was where she breathed, and if water got
in, she could drown. The tide took so long to rise! Tonight my arms ache from carrying water, from pulling on her tail to free her from the rocks. But it is worth it. Mama and I watched our whale swim away when the tide finally came to its full height, with a fat orange moon full on the water.

“I like her,” Maripat said. “Don’t you? Doesn’t she sound cool?”

“Very,” Caroline said, touched that her niece had brought her Clarissa’s diary. “This wasn’t around when I was in third grade.”

“Maybe they just didn’t bother printing it back then,” Maripat said helpfully. “Did you and Mom and Aunt Skye ever free a finback whale? Did there used to be many around here?”

“No, we never did,” Caroline said, smiling. It cracked her up, the way Maripat thought her mother and aunts had lived “back then,” in olden times, historical days like Clarissa Randall, when finback whales were as thick in the water as minnows.

“Are you going to show the diary to that guy?”

“Which guy?”

Maripat pointed out to sea. She seemed to be suppressing a smile, and Caroline wondered what Clea had told her about Joe. “Him,” she said.

“I might, come to think of it,” Caroline said.

“He’s down in the shipwreck,” Maripat said reasonably. “I think he should know about the people involved.”

“That makes excellent sense. After I read it, I might let him borrow it. Is this from the library?”

“The school library. Only students can borrow there, but I signed it out till September. For you,” Maripat said with shy pride.

“Thank you,” Caroline said.

“He was like a brother to you, right?” Maripat asked, blushing slightly. “You were pen pals?”

“Sort of, when we were young,” Caroline said. She sensed Maripat wanting to ask more. Her niece came from a totally stable home, with parents who had been married to each other forever, and she seemed fascinated with her two aunts and their troubled world of men. Ex-boyfriends, stormy love affairs, even broken friendships with boys intrigued her and got her curiosity working.

“Where’s your mother?” Caroline asked.

“Up there,” Maripat said, glancing up at the house.

“Let’s go find her,” Caroline said.

Together they waited for Homer to get to his feet. Caroline moved down to the hard sand, where it would be easier for him to walk. A fly buzzed around his nose, and it made her sad to see him ignore it. Not so long ago he would have chased that fly until he snapped it in his mouth.

“Poor Homer,” Maripat said. “It’s hard for him to walk.”

“He’s sixteen. That’s old for a dog.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Maripat said. “He’s like your baby.”

“I’ve had him since he was a puppy,” Caroline said.

“A brand-new puppy?”

“Well, not quite brand new,” Caroline said.

“I wish Mom would let us get a dog,” Maripat said. “And that she’d let her sleep on my bed. I’d get a girl dog. Not that Homer isn’t nice—I know he’s a boy and all—but one boy is enough in our house. Mark drives me crazy….”

Caroline nodded, listening to Maripat chatter on, happily complaining about her brother, their lack of pets, her rival in swimming class, her father’s thinning hair, her recent discovery of lemon Popsicles shaped like great white sharks. Caroline was grateful Maripat hadn’t kept asking about Homer. Questions came as easily to the child as her next breath, and Caroline was pretty sure her mother hadn’t told her the story of Homer’s first owner. Caroline certainly didn’t intend to tell her now.

Maripat led the steep parade up the stone steps. Caroline and Homer brought up the rear. Petting the dog, encouraging him along, Caroline took one last glance at the ships at sea. Joe Connor. Telling the truth about life and death could get you in trouble, no matter which way you went.

When they got to the top, Homer paused for a moment. The western edge of the property was a nature sanctuary, a small forest of oaks and scrub pines. The woods were cool and wild, and they sounded their mysterious call. Homer cast Caroline an articulate look of love. Then he swung around, walking quickly, disappearing into the trees.

Never forgetting that she had first come upon him in woods, Caroline watched him go.

April 2, 1978

Dear Joe,

I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this, but do you have any pets? People always say it’s possible to be a cat person or a dog person, but never both. I guess that makes me weird. I’m both. The problem is, I love saltwater so much, I want my animals to, too. I taught my first puppy how to swim. He sank first, and I dove down and found him walking through the seaweed. But then he floated up and swam like a champ. (Actually, I had to rescue him—but he ran right back in!) Cats are another story. They’d rather curl up on the window seat and listen to the waves.

Time for me to listen to my sisters. They want me to stop writing you and go outside with them. Until later!

Love,

Caroline

April 15, 1978

Dear Caroline,

This has to be short because I want to go sailing and the wind’s perfect. Right now my only pet is my boat. She’s fifteen feet, very fast, doesn’t eat much. If I could live on the water for the rest of my life, I’d be happy. Maybe I will. You’re a dog person and a cat person, and I’m a boat person.

Love,

Joe

“W
HAT ARE YOU STARING AT
?” A
UGUSTA
R
ENWICK
asked, hating the silence. Her oldest daughter was standing at the big picture window facing seaward, looking across Long Island Sound with Hugh’s shooting scope. When Augusta arrived home a few hours earlier, a troubled silence had billowed in, settling on the room like a great gray fog bank and encouraging Clea and Maripat to cut their visit short.