Firefly Beach (28 page)

Simon regarded her with bloodshot eyes. He seemed so weary. Life—drinking, art, trying to love Skye—had taken a toll on him, and it showed. His dark hair was long and stringy. He seemed to be making up his mind about something. He was letting her see his thought process: Should I stay or should I go? Simon liked to play with her mind. The worst part was, Skye felt too weak to fight him.

“This, then,” Simon said, putting down the stone and picking up the shotgun shell. “Why do you keep it?”

“To remind me of the deer it killed,” Skye said, picturing the moonlit night on the mountain, the doe thrashing against the tall rocks, the black blood pouring out of her throat, the sound of the dying deer’s hooves spasmodically clicking against the boulder. The first creature she had ever shot. For a long time, just looking at the shell could bring tears to her eyes.

“This,” he said, touching the white feather.

“It came from a swan,” Skye said. “My father gave one to each of us the night he took us to
Swan Lake.
”

“He gave you swan feathers,” Simon said, pursing his lips, fascinated by any story about Hugh Renwick, no matter how obscure.

“To remind us of nature. That nature was the great inspiration, love and nature—even for Tchaikovsky.”

“Took you to the ballet and gave you swan feathers. Awesome,” Simon said, shaking his head. “The snake.”

“The snake reminds me of danger,” Skye said. “To be careful.”

She stared at the snake’s skeleton. It was long and sinuous, the largest object on her table. Its skull was flat and triangular. From a different angle, if you could look into its mouth, you would see its fangs.

“Is that the one that bit you?”

“No,” Skye said. “One like it.”

Simon touched Skye’s head. She felt his fingers running through her hair, pushing it behind her ears. She closed her eyes and tried to prevent the shiver that shook her entire body. She remembered sleeping in her tent, feeling the snakes writhing under the polythene sheet beneath her.

“When the poison took hold,” he said, “did it feel warm and sleepy, like scotch? Like smoking a joint?”

“No,” Skye said. “It felt black, and it hurt. I felt the air being squeezed out of me, and I thought I was going to die. But Caroline sucked it out.”

Simon made his fingers feel soft and boneless against the back of her neck, as if he wanted her to think of snakes. Skye flinched uncontrollably.

“Your father left you all alone. With no one but Caroline to look after you. And Clea, only I’ll bet she never even left her tent. He should have dropped her off in the suburbs. Talk about the blind leading the stupid.”

“Stop, Simon.”

She stared at the sculpture she had started days earlier. The three sisters. Caroline, Clea, and Skye. Huddled together, three lumps of clay, protecting each other on the mountain.

“Caroline was older. She should have known that you were going to pitch your tent right over a fissure like that. Didn’t she see it?” he asked.

“It was covered with grass,” Skye said. “Soft mountain grass. She thought it would feel good under my tent, like a mattress. There wasn’t much grass on the mountain.”

“A rattlesnake den,” Simon said, beginning to touch her neck again. “You must have freaked when they came up through the hole. After dark, all alone in your tent, your sisters in theirs. Poor Skye. You must have gone crazy, feeling those things wriggling around under your sleeping bag. Hey, maybe Caroline got a kick out of it. She might have known, told you to put your tent there on purpose. Sick of being your mother.”

“She never would.”

“That’s right. Saint Caroline. What’s the blue ribbon?”

“Oh, the ribbon,” she said, not wanting to remember. “I wore it one day.”

“With another man?” Simon asked. “One you liked more than me?”

Skye shook her head.

“Where’d you wear it?”

Skye paused. “To Redhawk,” she said.

“The mountain,” Simon said. “The weekend you shot the guy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m married to a killer,” he whispered in her ear.

Skye felt the tears in her eyes. She stared at the ribbon. She had worn her hair long then, tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. So her aim would be better.

“Do you ever feel powerful?” Simon whispered. “Knowing that you took a life?”

“No, I feel horrible,” she whispered back.

“I know you do. I know how much you’ve suffered for it. But deep inside, under all the conscience, isn’t there a little part of you that feels like God? The part that craves experience…wants to feel everything intensely?”

“No, Simon,” Skye said. She stared at the blue ribbon. The dark spot on one end, the patch of faded rust, was Andrew Lockwood’s blood. While Caroline sat beside him, holding his hand as he died, Skye had bent down to catch Homer, and her ribbon had trailed through the blood.

“The hell you don’t.”

“You’re my husband, you should know me by now,” Skye said, her voice now shaking. She couldn’t go on talking about this; she needed a drink. She wanted to feel the warm relief spreading through her head, taking the excruciating thoughts away.

“Show me you love me,” he said, pressing down on her shoulders. “Come on, show me.”

She climbed off her stool, falling to her knees.

Kneeling before Simon, she wrapped her arms around his waist. She placed her cheek against his thigh. She felt tired and sick. More than anything, she wanted to disappear, and she thought: How did I ever let this happen? How did I ever turn into a woman who feels this way, does these things?

“Do you want to?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, the lie easier than the truth.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back. She felt tears on her lashes. She tasted salt in her throat. He’s my husband, she thought. Is this love? I’m just doing this so we won’t have to talk anymore. She reached for his zipper. She tugged it down, reached inside.

Homer nuzzled her face, his big brown eyes so friendly, gazing at her with unconditional love.

“Hey, boy,” she said.

“Jesus Christ,” Simon snapped. “Get him out of here.”

Skye tried to push Homer away, but he wouldn’t go. Skye noticed that his ears were nearly bald, like a stuffed animal who had been loved so hard, his fur had worn off. Homer sidled between Skye and Simon. He pushed against Skye, edging her away from Simon.

“What the fuck,” Simon said, giving Homer a swat.

The old dog just stood there, looking up at Simon with dignity in his cloudy brown eyes. Simon raised his hand again. Homer didn’t flinch. He didn’t bare his teeth, and he didn’t wag his tail. He just stared at Simon as if he expected the worst from such a man.

“Don’t hit him,” Skye said.

“He ruined it,” Simon snapped, zipping up his pants. “Her fucking dog ruined it. Jesus. Caroline couldn’t have done better if she was here herself.”

Skye felt like laughing. She kept her head down, feeling the laughter exploding in her chest, and she wondered if she was losing her mind. She was a hung-over drunk who wanted to get drunker, who’d rather do what her husband told her than face the fact she didn’t like him, and she was under the protection of her sister’s sweet golden retriever.

Simon stormed out of the studio. Skye heard the door slamming behind him, his footsteps on the stairs, heard him start the car and drive away. Homer lay on the floor beside her. He had long since forgiven her for the accident that had brought them together. Lying down beside him, her cheek on the cool stone floor and her hand on Homer’s paw, Skye closed her eyes and wished she could forgive herself.

Caroline surveyed the inn grounds. The Firefly Ball would start at dusk, and she wanted to make sure everything was ready. A white film of heat clung to the trees, the lanterns, the inn itself. Long white linen tablecloths wafted desultorily in the slight breeze. The band had set up. The bass player stood alone onstage, shirtless in the hot sun, testing the sound system.

Bars were set up at either side of the dance floor. Champagne was chilling in the barn, waiting to be wheeled out after dark. Caroline approached Michele, who was running around with a clipboard.

“Tell the bartenders I don’t want them to serve Skye,” Caroline said.

“What?” Michele asked.

“She’s been sick. She’s not supposed to drink alcohol with her medication,” Caroline said.

Michele saw through the lie. But she was loyal to Caroline, and she knew how worried she had been. “I’ll tell them,” she said. “Will your mother be here?”

“Of course,” Caroline said, a smile breaking through the stress. “Augusta wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“The guys from the boat said you invited them—” Michele said, “—the treasure hunters. They’re all excited.”

“Really?” Caroline asked.

“Yes, and, Caroline?”

Caroline turned to look at Michele. Michele held her clipboard to her breast. She was smiling like a proud parent.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Caroline said, blushing. Knowing how much she had to do, she had dressed for the ball early. Her dark hair was swept up in a French twist. She wore a long white dress with a rustling sweep to the skirt, and no jewelry except pearl earrings.

“Are you supposed to be any painting in particular? Your father’s
Girl in a White Dress?”

“I hadn’t planned it that way,” Caroline said. But she knew it was true. She knew that she had dressed as herself in the famous picture painted by her father.

“That’s the same dress you wore, isn’t it?” Michele asked.

“No,” Caroline said. The white dress she had worn while her father painted that portrait had been given away long ago, donated to the Wadsworth Atheneum for an exhibition of garments worn in famous paintings. But looking down, she realized this dress was very similar.

“So many people will recognize the picture,” Michele said. “I think it’s your father’s best-known.”

“You’re probably right,” Caroline agreed, adjusting a bouquet of flowers on one of the tables. But she knew she hadn’t chosen her father’s painting because it was well known, because a great number of guests would recognize it. She had chosen to wear the white dress because one person would recognize it.

Caroline knew Joe Connor had seen her portrait at the Met. She knew because he had told her so. It was a small thing, but it was a connection. And connections were sometimes all that counted.

September 8, 1979

Dear Joe,

I have something to tell you. It has to be in person. Why is Newport so far from Black Hall? Hurry! But make sure you’re safe.

Love,

Caroline

September 30, 1979

Dear C,

Actually, Newport isn’t at all far from Black Hall. The problem is, you’re there and I’m here. Until we’re both here or both there; well, you get the idea. A new mainsail costs more than I have at the moment.

What do you have to tell me? I think I might know, because I want to tell you the same thing. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t have anyone but you, C. My mother has her new family—Sam and his father. I live here, but I don’t belong the same way as Sam.

It’s different with you. You make me smile like no one else. Every time I see your handwriting, I know everything’s going to be okay. There’s one person in the world I trust, and it’s you. I know this is a long letter, but it’s late and I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of you, Caroline. I wish you were here. I might as well say it.

I love you.

Joe

A
LL DAY THE TEMPERATURE HAD HOVERED IN THE
nineties, and at dusk the sky was pearl white, the sun a shimmering red ball. As the sun set, the moon rose. It climbed high and white in the hazy dark sky, and beneath it the paper lanterns illuminated the Firefly Ball as music filled the night.

The raw bar glistened with fresh clams and oysters on ice. Caroline and Michele had arranged some of the shellfish like a painting by Degas. The guests had created haystacks after Monet, erected beach umbrellas and white tents after Boudin. Candles twinkled, and the band played “Every Time We Say Good-bye.”