Firefly Beach (22 page)

“Wash these,” Joe said, thrusting the coffee mugs at Sam. “What kind of sailor are you anyway, waiting for someone to clean up after you?”

“Sorry, captain,” Sam said, grabbing the mugs so Joe could get changed. But he didn’t sound sorry at all. He sounded affectionate, slightly condescending. As if he knew Joe’s gruff manner was an act. As if he suspected that behind the cranky exterior was a good brother, a decent man, a lonely guy who would forgive if he could.

Skye and Simon went for a walk in the hospital garden. The paths were full of white-garbed nurses pushing people in wheelchairs. A few big maples provided shade, and the paved paths were lined with low boxwood hedges. Rows of lemon-drop marigolds and brilliant zinnias filled the geometrically positioned flower beds. Skye had rarely seen a garden she didn’t want to paint, but this was one.

When they found an unoccupied stone bench, Skye sat down gingerly. She had been on her feet for less than ten minutes, but she felt exhausted. The effort made her so dizzy, she had to bend over. If there had been a patch of grass, she would have curled up on it.

Simon reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. He lit it, blowing the smoke over Skye’s head. She could hear the annoyance in his exhalation. She looked up.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He shrugged.

She tried not to worry. She was the sick one, the person needing care. But she was so attuned to Simon’s moods, to his needs and tempers. When he wanted something, she had trained herself to give it.

As a child, she had watched her father bang around his studio in a rage, or sulk in silent scorn for days on end. No matter how he acted, her mother would jump to attention. And so had Caroline, Clea, and Skye.

“How much longer are you going to let them keep you here?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know. Now that my injuries are better, they’re trying to talk me into signing into rehab.”

Simon gave a slight laugh, an appreciative expression in his eyes. “With all the drunks and junkies?”

“Yes. The substance abuse unit.”

“You’re not seriously considering it, are you?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

“It’ll fuck with your art, Skye. Turn you into another middle-of-the-road mediocre conformist. So you drink too much. You’re not a little housewife with a carpool and a mortgage. You’re a sculptor.”

“Half the time I’m too hung over to sculpt,” Skye said, staring at her hands, trying to remember the last time she had touched clay.

“Look at the artists who drank. The writers. You’re emotional, and it shows in your work. If drinking pushes you over the top, I say let it.” He moved closer to her on the bench, nudged her with his hips. “I don’t want to lose my drinking buddy.”

“I know,” Skye said. It was one of the things she feared: If she was sober, how would she and Simon get along? So much of their relationship involved drinking. Wild nights with the ideas flowing faster than the scotch, decadent Tuscan lunches with wine and grappa when they pretended they were back in Badia on their honeymoon. Then again, there were the vicious, drink-induced fights, the nights when fine wine turned into booze. She wouldn’t miss those.

“Lets you know you’re alive—” Simon said, “—a great bottle of Calon-Ségur. Or a nice, fresh spring wine from Portugal. Remember that trip to the Algarve? We stayed naked for six days eating shrimp and drinking that cool white wine?”

“I remember,” Skye said.

He pulled out pencil and paper and spread it out on his knee. Then he glanced at Skye and started to sketch her.

Skye leaned back on her arms and tried to relax. He was a good artist. He felt high today, because a major collector had praised his work and agreed to visit his studio. Skye felt guilty though, because the art world considered her work superior to his. She knew it bothered him, and she suffered for it.

Her eyes closed, she heard his pencil flying across the paper. It seemed like such a loving gesture—a return to their early days—him drawing her outside on a sunlit day. She had boxes full of beautiful sketches he had done of her, just as her mother had so many pictures done by Hugh. It made Skye feel proud and lovely, to be loved by an artist. Her blond hair was tangled, and she knew her face was pale, but she decided to trust Simon.

“Here,” he said finally.

The sketch was beautiful. Simon’s style was spare, his lines simple; the body horizontal, the hair flowing down, the eyelids closed. He had drawn Skye in death, lying on a tomb.

“You’re killing yourself, staying here,” he whispered. “Closed off from the world, from your inspiration.”

“I need help,” Skye whispered.

“You need to make art,” Simon said. “That’s your gift. Don’t waste your passion trying to fit in with the rest of the world. Express it in clay. Otherwise you’re just choking yourself. Come with me now. Walk straight out of this place.”

“I can’t,” Skye said.

“You can,” Simon said, reaching out his hand. “Do it. We need each other. Haven’t we always?” He had passion in his eyes.

Skye nodded. His words were true, the path was clear. His picture was a portent of things to come, and it terrified her. Skye could not stay here alone. She would try to stop drinking on her own.

He held out his arms, and as Skye walked into them, somehow she knew she was letting her sisters down. How did Caroline do it? Never compromise for love? On the other hand, Caroline was alone. Their father had warned them to protect themselves. Their mother had taught them to sacrifice everything for men.

Skye took her husband’s hand. Together they walked out of the garden.

Clea was just throwing a load of laundry into the washer when the telephone rang. She poured in the detergent and ran to answer.

“Hello,” she said with a don’t-hang-up breathlessness.

“Clea, it’s me,” Caroline said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Skye left the hospital. Just walked away without telling anyone.”

“Where is she?” Clea asked, feeling cold.

“I don’t know. I stopped by, and she was gone. No one saw her leave—”

“Oh, Caroline.” Clea heard the panic in her sister’s voice. Their grip on Skye was so tenuous. Clea heard a tone on the telephone line, indicating that she had a second call waiting.

“Just a second,” she said. “Maybe she’s calling now.” Clicking off, Clea took the other call. “Hello?”

“Darling,” said Augusta.

“Mother, can I call you back?” Clea asked, her heart skittering. “Have you heard from Skye?”

“Heard from her? She’s up in her room right now. She’s had enough of the hospital, and she came home, where she belongs. With Simon. Now, listen. We have to talk about our costumes.”

“Costumes? I’ve got Caroline on the other line. Let me tell her about Skye. She’s frantic.”

Clea returned to Caroline’s line. “She’s at Mom’s. Safe and sound.”

“What happened? Why’d she leave the hospital? If that idiot Simon’s trying to svengali her into doing something crazy, I’ll kill him. Is that her on the other line? Tell her I want to talk to her. Can you link us up?”

“It’s Mom. I’ll make it quick,” Clea said. “Sit tight, and I’ll get back to you with the whole story. Okay?”

“Goddamn it,” Caroline said, signing off.

“That was Caroline on the other line—” Clea repeated to Augusta, adjusting her tone accordingly.

“Marvelous,” Augusta said. “I need to tell her as well. I’ve worked out what I’m going to be for the Firefly Ball.”

“The ball?” Clea asked, wiping her brow. “Mom, what about Skye? Caroline and I are so worried about her.”

“I am so thrilled you girls are close,” Augusta said with profound warmth. “I am so very grateful. Do you know how lucky you are to have sisters? Did I ever tell you how much I wanted sisters when I was a little girl, how I used to play with my dolls all alone and feel so sad?”

“Yes, Mom, but—”

“Now, darling. About the ball. I thought I’d go as something from Picasso’s rose period. A harlequin, in fact. Everyone will expect me to dress as a painting of your father’s—they’ll all just take it for granted—and I’ll shock them to death! It will be the most fantastic surprise!”

“A harlequin,” Clea said, giving up.

“Is it too playful?” Augusta asked. “Too whimsical for a woman my age? I mean, who would expect Hugh Renwick’s widow to dress as a Picasso? A harlequin, at that!”

“It sounds perfect,” Clea said.

“I’m envisioning the little black mask, the bold checks, the curly-toed slippers. Really divine…”

Clea listened and talked for another few minutes, until her mother was done. Augusta was at her most brittle. Focusing on the ball was easier than thinking about Skye walking out of the hospital, and Clea was glad Caroline was not there to hear it.

“You’ll look great,” Clea said.

“Mmmm,” Augusta said.

Silence filled the line. Clea took a deep breath. Just as she was about to bring Skye up again, Augusta headed her off.

“Would you and Peter and the children like to come over for cocktails?” Augusta asked. “I could call Caroline. We really need to do something to welcome Simon back into the fold. As much as I despise what he did to Skye, he is her husband.”

“Not cocktails, Mom,” Clea said.

“A barbecue, then. Something festive.”

“Maybe she should rest,” Clea said.

“She’s
fine,
” Augusta said. “You should see her. As bright as ever. God, I’m glad to have her home.”

“I know, Mom,” Clea said.

“Let’s not mollycoddle her,” Augusta said. “She needs our strength and support, not a lot of tiptoeing around. She needs to get back on her feet, back to life again.”

“She’s been ill,” Clea began, realizing how painful it was for Augusta to accept that Skye needed to recover from something beyond her injuries.

“And she’s well now. She’s pulled through with flying colors. She’s all better in time for the Firefly Ball. Won’t Caroline be thrilled? She’d be so let down if Skye wasn’t able to be there.”

“I don’t think Caroline would mind,” Clea said, knowing how hard it might be for Skye, newly sober, to mill around a party where liquor was flowing freely, bottles of champagne chilling in tubs all over the lawn, trays of drinks being passed all night.

“Well, if you change your mind about tonight,” Augusta said, “we’d love to have you all over. We could have a lovely time, planning our costumes for the ball.”

“Don’t drink in front of Skye, Mom,” Clea said.

“Even her doctor didn’t suggest anything as ridiculous as that,” Augusta said shakily. “My God, Clea. Do you think the world stops just because your sister got drunk last week?”

“No, but I think it should,” Clea said. She said good-bye and hung up. Then she called Caroline to tell her the details.

By the time Caroline called Augusta to throw in her warning, it was too late. Cocktail hour was under way. All was well. Augusta and Simon were having martinis, as usual, but Skye was drinking a diet Coke. Skye knew she could not drink. She didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, Augusta said, she had insisted that her mother and husband not forgo martinis on her account. That would have upset Skye more than anything.

Several nights later a bunch of guys from the
Meteor
converged on the inn for dinner. They had booked one table, but when they arrived, it was obvious they needed two pushed together. While they waited in the bar, Caroline helped Michele rearrange the dining room. They had to ask a party of four to switch tables, but they bought them a round of drinks to smooth the move.