Firefly Beach (9 page)

At night, the woods are so dark, and we get scared. Sometimes very scared, especially Skye. I love her so much, Joe. Just writing this letter makes me cry, because if anything happened to Clea or Skye, I don’t know what I’d do. They are the best, sweetest sisters in the world.

Write back soon. I’m starting to think you might be my best friend.

Love,

Caroline

Feb 2, 1977

Dear Caroline,

Hunting, cool! Your dad sounds great. Okay, I’ll be your best friend. On one condition. Tell me the scariest thing that ever happened on the mountain.

Love,

Joe

March 4, 1977

Dear Joe,

The scariest thing. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s how I feel. My father made Skye shoot a gun. She didn’t want to, Joe. I’m so mad at him. He took something innocent and destroyed it. So I’m scared by how much I hate him right now. Hunting’s not cool, not the way you said. It’s horrible. Do you still want to be my best friend? Probably not. Even I don’t.

Caroline

March 21, 1977

Dear Caroline,

I can tell you’re upset by the way you didn’t sign your letter “love.” It’s a little thing, but we best friends can be pretty sensitive. The gun thing sounds lousy. Poor Skye. I don’t even know her, but since she’s your sister, I figure she’s okay. Your dad should forget about hunting and go back to painting. Or better yet, treasure hunting. He can teach you to dig for gold doubloons.

Love,

Joe

P.S. I’m only joking to make you smile. So smile!

P.S. again: Thought I forgot about the
Cambria
, didn’t you?

P.S. double again: Smile, C.

C
AROLINE WAS PREOCCUPIED
.

Michele Brady saw it right away, the way Caroline strode into the inn so purposefully, past the guests eating breakfast in the parlor, grabbing the phone messages off Michele’s desk with barely more than a “good morning.” Caroline looked gorgeous, as always: sleeveless black linen dress, black sandals, silver hoop earrings, silver necklace. She smiled, but it seemed forced.

Or pained, Michele thought, concerned. From certain phone messages, she had gathered that Skye was in the hospital again. That girl certainly gave Caroline plenty to worry about. Her whole family did. Even Clea, whom everyone in town considered to be the picture of respectability, was always calling Caroline for something. And Augusta didn’t butter her toast without phoning Caroline for a consult.

Michele had been Caroline’s assistant for ten years. At forty-two, she was just enough older than Caroline to feel rather protective of her. She was always telling her husband Tim about Caroline’s crazy family, the things that went on. He was a professor of English at Connecticut College. Tim would listen with wry detachment, amusedly saying that Skye was New England’s answer to Zelda Fitzgerald, or that the Renwick girls were like three divas in three different operas on the same stage.

Michele couldn’t help laughing at Tim’s take on the family, but she loved Caroline nonetheless. Caroline had hired her the year she opened the inn. They had spent the last ten years in separate offices, side by side, and although Caroline didn’t specifically confide in her, Michele had been privy to the major moments in her life. She had watched Caroline transform from a…well, crazy Renwick girl into an astute and respected businesswoman. Caroline had always been loyal and kind, and those qualities had served her well.

Michele answered the phone, so she knew the general workings of Caroline’s love life, business life, and family life. Over time she had watched Caroline build the Renwick Inn from a quirky little artists’ retreat into an inn that attracted guests from all over the world. Some came for the location, others for the charm, still others because of the Renwick name.

Caroline’s father was famous in a way usually reserved for actors or politicians, a man whose work hung in museums in New York, Paris, and London and whose wild nature had made him a favorite of magazine writers. One story in
Esquire
had called Hugh Renwick “the Hemingway of twentieth-century landscape painters.” The author cited his bravery in World War II, his drinking and adultery, violence and self-destruction, the way his talent seemed to engulf everything—and everyone—in his life.

Doing the story, the author got drunk with Hugh. So did the photographer, who was famous in his own right. Their drunken escapades became part of the piece. They photographed him in a hunting jacket, with a rifle, somewhere in the woods at the edge of a bay in Maine. Hugh had told the story of an intruder that made it into the piece, a man who had entered his home and held his family hostage, finally blowing his own brains out.

Michele remembered Hugh’s fury. It had saturated the magazine story:
his
home had been violated,
his
daughters threatened. He couldn’t protect them twenty-four hours a day, but he could damn well teach them how to shoot a gun. He was sorry about the event on Redhawk Mountain, the hunting accident involving his daughter Skye. As Michele remembered it, the story didn’t actually mention the name of the man she killed. All Hugh’s sorrow and self-doubt had been edited out of the piece, leaving only rage and bluster.

Michele knew differently. Hugh Renwick was heartsick. As much as he had loved hunting, he celebrated life more. He loved nature. His adored his daughters. The world couldn’t hold his passions; he had wanted excess and abundance for everyone, especially his family. But after the accident he turned inward. Michele had watched him mourn that young man every day, drinking alone in a dark corner of the Renwick Inn bar, his head bowed in silence.

Artists would approach him. He would be polite, sometimes let them buy him drinks. He could stare at the spot on the bar between his elbows for hours, watching the level of scotch in his glass rise and fall. Although he chose to drink at her inn, he couldn’t stand to be with Caroline. It had killed Michele to watch her approach him, try to talk to him. He would turn surly, even belligerent. It was as if she reminded him of what was most precious in life, what he had failed to protect again and again. More than once, Michele heard him say that he had ruined Skye’s life.

Three of his paintings hung in the bar. Hugh had done them when his daughters were young. Vivid and pure, they left no doubt about the love he had for the girls. Hunting scenes, set on Redhawk Mountain, each portrait depicted a different season, with each subject holding a different dead creature and weapon. Clea, in spring, held a rainbow trout in one hand and a fly rod in the other. Skye, in autumn, held a large knife and a writhing snake.

But it was Caroline in winter who took your breath away. Cradled in her arms was a small red fox. Blood dripped from its mouth. Snow covered the mountain and Caroline’s cheeks were red. Her black hair blew across her eyes, but they showed through, clear blue and haunted. In her left hand she held the rifle that she had used to kill the fox. Her father had caught her compassion and regret; he had flooded the portrait with love for his oldest daughter. Michele shivered every time she looked at it.

Caroline walked out of her office. She had on her half-glasses, which gave her the look of a sexy librarian.

“What’s this message?” she asked, ruffling a sheet of paper.

“Oh,” Michele said, reading it. “He called first thing this morning. He left some rather complicated instructions about dialing ship-to-shore. I think he’s one of those sailors who was here last night, drinking in the bar. They have Rooms Six and Nine, but I guess he’s out on his boat.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Caroline asked.

“No. Just for you to call.”

“Thanks,” Caroline said. She walked into her office and closed the door.

Caroline dialed the marine operator and asked to be put through to the R/V Meteor. She held the line while the connection was made, staring out her window at the Ibis River, at egrets striding the shallows. She watched a kingfisher dive straight down, craning her neck to see what he came up with.

“This is Research Vessel
Meteor,
” a man’s voice said, the transmission crackling with static. “Over.”

“This is the high seas operator. I have a call for a Mr. Joe Connor.”

“Hold for Captain Connor,” the man said.

A minute passed. Finally Joe’s voice came over the line. The operator signed off, and Caroline said hello.

“It’s Caroline,” she said. “I got your message.”

“Is your sister okay?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?” Caroline asked, surprised that he would know.

“She left a message at the dock office,” Joe said. “Last night. Something about needing to see me, it was important.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Not in person. She said she was coming right over, but she never showed up. I wasn’t sure where to reach her. So I called you.”

“She’s in the hospital,” Caroline said tensely.

“Oh, no,” Joe said, shocked. “What happened?”

“She had an accident,” Caroline said.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said. “Is she okay?”

“Not yet,” Caroline said, her eyes welling up. His voice was kind. Speaking to him about Skye reminded her that they had once been close friends. She didn’t feel friendship now, but the memory of their letters was powerful.

“Why did she want to see me? Do you know?”

“She was confused,” Caroline said, not wanting to tell him more.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said again.

“Thanks,” Caroline said.

The dream had been so real, she had been back on the mountain.

She could smell the gunsmoke. The mountain air was fresh and cold, the yellow leaves twinkling down like falling stars. Skye was holding her breath, standing just behind her. Caroline crept through the brush until she saw the deer Skye had shot. Big and brown, crumpled in a heap. She didn’t want to look at it, but she made herself, for Skye’s sake.

It was a man. He wore a brown corduroy jacket, the color of a buck. His hair was red, glinting in the sun. His eyes were wide, so amazed at it all. They held Caroline’s as she crouched beside him. She knew she had to look into the man’s eyes and never away, so she barely glanced at the wound in his chest, the blood pumping out of it like a natural spring.

She heard Skye start to whimper and then cry. She felt the man’s dog, a young golden retriever, bumping against her with his wet nose, trying to kiss his owner and the stranger bending over him. She felt the cold air as she unzipped her red jacket, pulled it off. She felt his blood on her fingers, so incredibly hot as she pressed the jacket into the wound.