Firefly Beach (24 page)

“Oh,” Caroline said, wondering what he said.

“He was crazy, those times. Out of his mind, not knowing what he wanted, what would help.”

“You must have been very young,” Caroline said, feeling sorry for the little boy watching his older brother self-destruct. But was it any easier for a grown woman? She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Yeah. It sucked.”

“Well…Joe had some bad things happen,” Caroline said slowly, thinking of their conversation on board the
Meteor
. “That I suppose didn’t affect you. But…” She spoke very carefully. “Why Skye and not me? We had such similar childhoods. The same bad things happened to both of us. Or almost.”

“Maybe it’s the ‘almost,’ ” Sam said.

Caroline had never known how to cry for help. When the bad things happened, she was always the one reaching out her hand. She wouldn’t change that, wouldn’t have it any other way, but right now she felt very off balance.

“Who knows?” Sam went on. “I know only one thing, and that’s that they have to stop on their own. We can’t do it for them.”

“Everything okay?”

At the sound of Joe’s voice, Sam handed Caroline his handkerchief. She blew her nose. The sound was so loud, it scared the ducks in the river. They took off, their webbed feet paddling the water.

“She’s okay,” Sam said. He sounded oddly proud, as if he had been appointed Caroline’s guardian, reporting back to Joe.

“Yeah? You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Caroline said.

“Worried about your sister,” Joe said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

Joe nodded. Dim light slanted through the trees. The ducks had circled around, were coming in for another landing. They were silhouetted against the moon. Across the river, a whippoorwill called.

“Would have been better if she’d decided to drink somewhere else,” Sam said helpfully. “Instead of Caroline’s inn.”

“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Joe said.

Caroline nodded, feeling miserable. She wanted to go back to the inn, but she was afraid to see Skye. She felt scared and angry and hopeless. Sam took a step toward the inn. Joe and Caroline faced each other. Tree branches blocked the moon, but his face looked pained in the half-light.

“What are those for?” Sam asked, pointing at the Japanese lanterns.

One entire string was illuminated, stretching from the inn’s back porch to the barn. The lanterns hung still, as if caught in the trees, sparking the windless night with colors of persimmon, amber, turquoise, and scarlet.

“They’re for the Firefly Ball,” Caroline said.

“What’s that?”

“Just a party,” Caroline said, swallowing hard. Joe was staring at her, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Thinking of Skye, tears welled in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. Sam was gazing at the lanterns, and he didn’t see his brother reach for Caroline’s hand and hold it. Caroline’s fingers brushed Joe’s scraped knuckles, and she wondered what it was costing him to make the gesture.

“Do you have it every year?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“Can we come?”

“Sam,” Joe said harshly, looking away from Caroline just long enough to miss seeing the smile pass across her eyes.

“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”

“Just me? Or Joe too?”

“All of you come, okay? The whole crew. It’s a costume ball.”

“What should we come as?” Sam asked.

“Pirates, of course,” Caroline said, staring straight into the hooded blue eyes of his older brother, the toughest pirate of all.

January 6, 1979

Dear Caroline,

How to get you to Newport…that is the question. I was going to surprise you, drive down to Connecticut and pick you up, but I’m sort of grounded. A bad combination of beer, my mother’s car, and my little brother.

The thing is, I really want you to come. I’ve got plenty of charts, and I’ve thought about sailing down to get you. Narragansett Bay, to Block Island Sound, to Fishers Island Sound, past the Thames River, to Black Hall.

And Firefly Hill.

Shit, who am I kidding? It would take so long to get to you, and it’s the middle of winter. I was an idiot, doing what I did to get grounded. The thing is, idiots usually do the same thing again. Miss you, C.

Love,

Joe

February 4, 1979

Dear Joe,

If you got hurt or if you hurt Sam in that grounding incident, I’d never forgive you. You have to come get me! It’s the only way I’ll get to Newport to be with you. I miss you too, so much I can hardly stand it. How can I, when we don’t even know each other? Or do we? Hurry, J.

Waiting impatiently,

C.

I
N THE SUNROOM
, A
UGUSTA WAS SEWING LONG CURLS OF
black felt onto a pair of ballet slippers. She had an art book on the hassock in front of her, open to one of Picasso’s harlequin paintings, copying it with studious diligence. She adored harlequins. So secretive, so playful: mysterious jesters! She congratulated herself again on her inspiration.

A character by Picasso would be recognizable. She didn’t want to insult any of Caroline’s less sophisticated guests by attending the soiree as anything too obscure. She could have chosen to be a character in a painting by Karsky or de Cubzac, artists no one had ever heard of, then spend the whole night explaining herself to people. Forget that.

And Augusta knew she had a good figure. The harlequin was long and slender, like Augusta herself, and she would look marvelous and sleek in the checked suit. It would be attractive, amusing, and witty.

The only problem was, Hugh had loathed Picasso.

As an artist, Hugh had admired his work. Who didn’t? Who could look down on the man who had single-handedly revamped the twentieth century, who was the master of line, who had conjured cubism? Who could feel disdain for the artist who viewed a human face head-on and saw the profile instead?

No, Hugh had envied Picasso
for his life.
To Hugh Renwick, Pablo Picasso was “Pablo,” an equal. And since the English translation of Pablo was Paul, Hugh had privately referred to Picasso as Paul. To call him Pablo, or, worse, Picasso, was to kowtow to an arrogant Spaniard.

Hugh was insanely jealous of Picasso. The women, the adoration, the adulation, the South of France, the bullfights, the legend. Hugh had had his own share of women, adoration, and adulation, but coastal New England was hardly the Riviera, and bullfighting had all other blood sports beat.

Fishing and hunting just weren’t the same thing, especially since Hemingway, whom Hugh had actually known and referred to as Papa, had already made them his province. Hugh had taken the girls on his hunting trips, and Papa would have laughed. Daughters weren’t sons when it came to hunting. Especially when they were so sensitive, and life had dealt them such a shocking blow.

Hugh was never as tough as he’d thought. He had affairs, he killed animals, he tried to live like Picasso. But once his daughters were affected, he had fallen apart. Destroying himself with drink, he had left this world. And left Augusta.

Dr. Henderson might say that Augusta’s choice of a costume revealed a certain hostility for her dead husband. Her beloved—but resented—dead husband.

Quietly sewing her harlequin shoes, Augusta imagined what Hugh might think if he could see her costume. She had loved her husband with passionate intensity. She missed him more every day. In fact, she sometimes admitted to herself, it was easier to love him now than when he had been alive. Harsh realities didn’t intrude quite so much. She had been a jealous woman.

Not only of the other women, but of her own daughters. God help her, she thought, remembering how she had felt watching him paint Caroline.

Hearing the kitchen door slam, she glanced up just as Skye walked in with Simon.

“Hi, dears,” she said. As soon as she saw Skye, she knew: She’d been drinking. Her eyes were red, her hair disheveled. It was five o’clock, and she looked as if she had just gotten up: hung over and remorseful. Augusta’s heart fell.

“Where were you last night?” Augusta asked.

“We stayed at the inn,” Simon said. “Some of our old friends from the East Village are up for a few days, and we met them there.”

“Skye, would you like something cold to drink?”

Skye nodded. Augusta walked to the flower room. She filled a crystal pitcher with ice water. Surprisingly, her hands were shaking. Tipping three aspirin into a tiny ceramic bowl, she placed everything on a tray and carried it back to the sunroom.

“I’m so thirsty,” Skye said, drinking a tall glass. She filled another, took the three aspirin, drank the water down.

“What happened last night?” Augusta asked, shaken. “I thought you had decided to stop drinking for a while.”

“I did. I stopped for a week. But it seems so pointless…” Skye tried to laugh.

“Pointless, ah…my beautiful little existentialist. Shall we discuss Camus?” Simon asked, coolly lighting a cigarette.

“Only if you make some martinis first,” Skye said. “Mom, you’re ready for one, right?”

“Well, yes,” Augusta said cautiously. “But I’m not sure you should.”

“Mom, do I really want to be one of those holier-than-thou abstainers? We hate them,” Skye said, shaking her head.

“Personally, I think moderation is the best approach,” Augusta said. “But your sisters have a very definite opinion on this. They think you should stop entirely.”

“They’re jealous,” Simon said, exhaling a long stream of smoke from between his thin lips. “Of Skye’s creativity.”

Augusta’s skin crawled at his audacity, although she considered the possibility that he was right.

“Will you quit talking about that and make the drinks instead?” Skye asked, a tremor in her voice. Alarmed, Augusta noticed that her lips were nearly white. Skye rarely snapped at Simon, just as Augusta had almost never spoken angrily to Hugh. Skye had to be under severe stress to talk to him that way, but already she was retreating.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she said, passing a hand across her face.

Simon glared at her. He looked sullen and skinny, his dark eyes sunken like some dissipated raccoon’s. That he even considered himself in the same league as Hugh was pathetic, Augusta thought. She indulged him only because she understood Skye’s love for him. It couldn’t be explained, and it couldn’t be quenched.

“I’ll make the drinks,” Simon said darkly.

“Simon’s right,” Augusta said, squeezing Skye’s hand as a feeling of queasy panic rose in her chest. “You’ll feel so much better when you’re back in your studio.”

“Oh, Mom,” Skye whispered.

Nothing made Augusta feel so helpless as trying to get through to one of her girls and being unable to.

“I don’t want to be an alcoholic,” Skye said, tears sliding down her face.

“You’re not one,” Augusta said.

“I hate the word.”

“So do I.”

“I want to drink less, I know I have to. I can do that, right?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll help you. We’ll each have one, no more. Okay?”

Skye nodded. But her tears continued to fall.

Simon returned with a silver tray full of drink things. He had even remembered to bring a tiny dish of mixed nuts. The silver shaker, the vapors redolent of gin and vermouth, the three tiny olives. Skye’s eyes were dull as she watched him pour the martinis into chilled glasses. It occurred to Augusta, clear as crystal: Skye should not be drinking. At all.

Augusta felt afraid. Filled with dread, she didn’t know how to stop what she had started. Caroline would be devastated when she found out.

They raised their glasses, arms extended, to clink.

“Here’s to Skye!” Augusta said. “Home again, where she belongs.”

Caroline sat on her back porch alone. Wrapped in a shawl, she rocked gently in the glider, thinking of last night. She had walked along the riverbank with Joe and Sam while Skye got plastered in the bar. The men had told her: You can’t do anything. It’s up to Skye.