Chesapeake Tide Page 7

  He glanced down at her shoes. “You wouldn’t get very far in those. I’m surprised they let you out dressed like that.”

  Chloe flushed. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

  He shrugged. “It’s twelve noon, hotter’n a fry station, and you don’t have anything on. You’d likely have passed out from heat stroke if I hadn’t stopped.”

  “So, this is an act of mercy.”

  “What did you expect? I’m not into cradle robbing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort,” Chloe snapped. She couldn’t help adding, “You’re not all that much older than me.

  “How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough.” The cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. A breeze blew his hair back from his forehead. He tapped the steering wheel and whistled in time to the music coming from the radio, a song Chloe had never heard of. He didn’t look at all offended.

  She stared out the window, cheeks burning.

  “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to hitch rides with strangers?” he said when the song was over. “I coulda been an ax murderer or a rapist.”

  Chloe snorted. “Please. I’m from Los Angeles. I’d know a rapist if I saw one. You’re definitely not the type.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “What type am I?”

  “The dumb, naive type. My friends and I would eat you for breakfast.”

  “Whatever you’re into, I guess,” he said amiably. “You could be wrong.”

  “Not a chance. You already made your first impression.”

  “So, I’m stuck with dumb and naive?”

  Chloe almost smiled but caught herself in time. “That’s right.”

  “I don’t understand the part about eating me for breakfast. Is that some California joke?”

  “It means you aren’t up to speed. No one who is anyone would associate with you.”

  “I get it.” He chuckled. “Maybe Marshyhope Creek and California aren’t all that different.”

  Chloe frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He pulled over to the side of the road. “It means you get out here.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re dumping me, in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Relax, Chloe. Marshyhope Creek’s about fifty yards from here, just around the bend. The hardware store’s two blocks away.”

  “Why can’t you drop me off there?”

  He stared out the window for a bit and then looked directly at her.

  Chloe Richards felt her heart race. She was quite sure she had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life.

  “You won’t have a prayer of fitting in if you’re seen with me.”

  “Why not?”

  He threw the cigarette out the window. “Let’s just say I’m not acceptable company.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t fit the mold.”

  “What’s the mold?”

  He frowned. “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Jocks are the mold. Jocks and guys in ROTC heading for the Citadel or Annapolis and girls who like ’em.”

  “I won’t fit the mold, either. I’m not into sports. I’m going to be an actress. But it doesn’t matter, anyway. I already told you I’m not staying, so drive on.”

  He shook his head. “Either way, this is where we part company.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to be seen with me, dressed the way I am with nothing on,” she challenged him.

  He laughed. “That’s it. Now, get out of my truck.”

  Chloe opened the door and slid out. She leaned into the open window. “No wonder you’re not acceptable company. It isn’t because you’re not a jock, Bailey Jones. It’s because you’re rude.”

  His teeth were very white and she had never seen eyes so dark in her life.

  “Bye, Chloe Richards. It’s been nice meeting you.”

  “Yeah, sure. Stop by any old time.”

  He lifted his hand in a farewell salute. She stepped back, away from the truck, a slim straight little figure, rigid with injured pride and indignation.

  Taft’s Hardware sat on a corner, a square building with a flat roof and wooden doors that were securely closed. A wheelbarrow, garden supplies, brooms, shovels and packaged seeds cluttered the entrance. Chloe pulled at the door. It wouldn’t budge. Then she saw the sign. Closed for Lunch. Come Back at 1:00. Now what? How could a store be closed in the middle of the day? Stores had salespeople who lunched in shifts. She’d never heard of a store that was closed in the middle of a weekday. Why had they sent her on this errand at lunchtime? One more reason to hate Marshyhope Creek.

  The sun beat down relentlessly. She was hot, sweaty and beginning to feel sick. Her stomach rumbled. Defeated, she walked down the street, empty of anything alive in the sweltering noonday heat. It never occurred to her to go home without accomplishing her errand. She had her pride, and there was something about Cole Delacourte that made her seek his approval.

  Across the street, a door opened. Music drifted into the air. Drawn to the soothing sound and to the tall woman energetically sweeping the front sidewalk, Chloe made her way to the other side of the road. “Hello,” she said politely.

  The woman stopped sweeping. “Hello, yourself.” Her smile was lovely. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  Chloe shook her head. “I’m visiting my grandparents. I’m waiting for the hardware store to open.”

  “It’s mighty hot out here. Would you like to wait inside?”

  Chloe sighed with relief. “Yes.”

  “I’ve got some iced herbal tea or maybe you’d like a smoothie?”

  “A smoothie? You have smoothies in Marshyhope Creek?” Chloe had died and gone to heaven.

  Verna Lee laughed and pointed to the window of her shop. “Perks has everything, coffee, tea, herbs, health foods, books, cards, whatever you’re looking for.” She held out her hand. “I’m Verna Lee Fontaine.”

  Chloe took it. “Chloe Richards.”

  “Who are your grandparents?”

  “The Delacourtes.”

  Something flickered behind Verna Lee’s eyes. “Really? You don’t look like a Delacourte. Your hair’s beautiful.”

  Chloe nodded. “Thanks. I look like my dad.”

  Verna Lee opened the door. “Come on in and sit down.”

  Chloe followed her inside and looked around appreciatively. The decor was pure eclectic with deep couches, low tables and bookshelves filled with interesting titles. Two glass cases offered various dried leaves and twigs, all neatly labeled. Colorful china and crockery sat on the shelves and the tables, along with candles, beads and incense of every imaginable scent and color. “I like this,” said Chloe reverently, grateful for the cool air blowing from the vents. She sat down on one of the couches.

  “Thank you. Where are you from?”

  “California.”

  “Ah, California.”

  “Have you been there?”

  Verna Lee nodded. “I went to school in San Francisco.”

  Chloe’s blue eyes slanted in surprise. “Why did you come back here?”

  “My grandmother is old. There was no one else to take care of her. She needed me.”

  Dubious, Chloe nodded. Selflessness to such a degree that one would sacrifice San Francisco for Marshyhope Creek was beyond her.

  Verna Lee moved efficiently, as if the heat and humidity had no effect on her. She set two sweating glasses of ice cubes and golden liquid on the table in front of Chloe. “Taste that and tell me if you like it. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”

  Chloe sipped it tentatively. “It’s delicious,” she said. “You put sugar in it.”

  Verna Lee shook her head. “It’s naturally sweetened with cinnamon and spices. My own recipe. You should feel better in a minute.”

  “I feel better already.”

  Verna Lee sat down beside
Chloe and crossed her legs. “Tell me about yourself, Chloe Richards. How long will you be here?”

  “I’m not sure. My mother said two weeks, but it may be longer. We thought my grandmother was dying, but she’s nowhere near that. Not that I want her to be,” she said hastily. “It’s just that now everything is up in the air and I had things going on at home.”

  “Occasionally, life throws us a loop.” Verna Lee touched Chloe’s leg briefly, gently. “Sometimes, in the end, it works out for the best.”

  Chloe changed the subject. “Do you know someone named Bailey Jones?”

  Verna Lee’s smile faded. “I do.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing,” said Verna Lee stiffly. “Bailey hasn’t had an easy time of it and folks around here have long memories.”

  “He gave me a lift into town,” Chloe explained, “but he made me get out before anyone saw us. He said it wouldn’t be a good thing to be seen with him.”

  Verna Lee sighed. “Bailey Jones doesn’t fit the mold of a good ol’ boy. He’s his mama’s only son and sole support. Lizzie Jones is half Cherokee Indian, one of the few left around here. Some say she’s got a drop of African blood as well. Whatever the case, she’s in poor health. They live in a trailer on the other side of the marsh. No one knows who Bailey’s father is. The boy’s got more than his share of pride. That’s his only flaw. Otherwise, he’s a hardworking kid who deserves a break. It isn’t pleasant being on the outside looking in.”

  “Are you saying I should try being his friend?”

  “How are you at swimming against the tide and taking on lost causes?”

  Chloe lifted her chin and smiled. “I like a good challenge.”

  Verna Lee lifted her glass in a toast. “Go for it, girl.”

  Seven

  Russ Hennessey flicked the end of his last cigarette into the ashtray and ran his hands through his hair. Pushing back his chair, he extinguished the office lights, locked the door and stepped out on to the dock. He was through for the day and it wasn’t yet time to pick up Tess. It would be too much to hope that the regular Friday evening poker game at Taft’s Hardware was still in existence.

  Against his better judgment, he headed in the direction of Main Street. Sure enough, the door of the hardware store was invitingly ajar and the voices inside were rowdy, male and somewhere on the harmless side of tipsy.

  Russ stepped inside and grinned down at four familiar faces. “Where can a man find a good poker game in this hick town?”

  Two hours later Fletcher Sloane threw down his cards, turned his head and spat a six-foot stream of tobacco juice out on to the street. “Jesus Christ. Where’d you learn to play poker, Hennessey? I lost nearly half my paycheck tonight. Shelby’ll kill me.”

  Russ laughed. “Stop pretending you’re henpecked. You always were a lousy player, Fletch. Stop torturing yourself and find some other way of passing the time.”

  The other men, Luke Chartier, Gus O’Bannion and Horace Taft, slapped their thighs and chuckled. Fletcher couldn’t keep it going. He folded too fast and Russ always won. Their rivalry was good-natured and of long standing. No one ever lost more than a twenty and a case of Coors. It was their tradition to meet every Friday for a friendly game of poker. Taft would close up shop early and whoever was in town would turn up for the game.

  Luke Chartier brought the subject up first. “Clifford Jackson’s back in town.”

  Russ leaned back in his chair and lit his first cigarette of the night. Tess was after him to quit, but it was going to be harder than he thought. “So?”

  A customer wearing the sweat-stained overalls of a farmer wandered into the dry goods store.

  “I’m closed,” Horace shouted. “Can’t you see the sign?”

  “The door was open. I need a linchpin for my tractor.”

  “You ain’t gonna do no plowin’ tonight,” said Horace. “Come back first thing in the morning and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The man grumbled and turned to go.

  “Close the door behind you,” Horace ordered. “We’re in the middle of a card game here.”

  “Actually, we’re finished,” Russ reminded him.

  Chartier resurrected his initial subject. “Are you still hiring for the fleet, even with Jackson in town?”

  Russ frowned. Had they always been so suspicious of government agencies or had the restrictions of the last few years changed them? “What’s Jackson got to do with my hiring practices?”

  “He’s EPA,” said Gus O’Bannion. “Don’t do no good for us to sign on if we’re gonna battle the EPA.”

  “Cliff will go by the book as long as we do. I’m not planning on bucking the system. Why is the EPA here, anyway?”

  The men looked at one another. Horace spoke first.

  “Some people, tree-hugger types, think the bay water’s got chemicals or something in it. Some of the fish and crabs have turned up bad.”

  “Any truth to that?” Russ asked.

  “There’s always some truth to rumor,” replied Gus. “Nothing serious as far as I’m concerned.” He frowned. “What if Cliff closes you down?”

  Russ blew out a blue-tinted swirl of smoke. “Why should he? I won’t be doing anything illegal. More than likely the government’s sent their boy down to pacify those who have questions. That way they can claim they’re working on the problem.”

  Fletcher Sloane shook his head. “They got all kinds of rules and regulations about when and where we can fish. It ain’t a free country anymore.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “You always did have a soft spot for ol’ Cliff Jackson,” Gus said. “Who’da thought he’d end up a big shot in Washington?”

  “Cliff always was bright and he had talent,” Russ reminded him. “He’s worked hard to get where he is.”

  Horace wiped the sweat off his gleaming forehead. “Christ, it’s hot. I hope you’re still sayin’ that in three months, Russ. Mitch and your daddy had a hard time with the bastards.”

  “I’ll be all right.” He stood and stretched. “I’m calling it a night.”

  “Hell, Russ, it’s only eight o’clock,” Fletcher complained. “I got to recoup my losses. Shelby won’t let me in the door.”

  Russ grinned. “My advice to you, my friend, is to stop right now and go home to your wife. You lost twenty bucks. Suck it up. Buy Shelby some flowers and take her for a walk around Main Street.”

  Gus O’Bannion chuckled. “So speaks a man who signed divorce papers before the ink was dry on his marriage certificate.”

  “Russ never wanted to marry Tracy Wentworth in the first place,” observed Horace. “Forgettin’ the marriage license on their weddin’ day was the first sign.”

  Russ ignored the ribbing, pocketed his winnings and made his way toward the door.

  “Hey, Russ, what’s the hurry?”

  “I’m supposed to pick up my daughter. Tracy will figure out something else for her to do if I show up late. It’s a pattern with her.”

  “Jesus.” Fletcher shook his head. “He ain’t even married to her anymore and she’s still got him jumping through hoops.”

  Russ stubbed out the remains of yet another cigarette, finger-combed his hair and threw his now-dry piece of chewing gum out the window. Tracy could smell beer on a man’s breath from clear across a room, twelve hours after he’d had one. He wanted nothing to provoke her into refusing this rare visit with his child. His child. The jury was still out on that one. Reserved, self-absorbed and devoid of any resemblance to him at all, Tess was still his daughter and he loved her desperately. An entire weekend with her was rare. Tracy usually had her scheduled so tightly he couldn’t get in more than a few hours. That would change. Somehow he would make it change now that he was home for good.

  With a hollow in the pit of his stomach, he approached Judge Wentworth’s white-pillared colonial mansion set on a spectacular finger of land jutting out into the bay. Tracy had never seen the point of living
on her own with Tess, not when she had an elegantly appointed suite with all expenses paid.

  Tracy answered the door herself, another rare occurrence. “You’re late,” she said pointedly.

  He refused to take the bait. “I’m sorry. I got held up.”

  “Tess has a mighty bad sunburn. I don’t want her down at the dock.”

  “She won’t be down at the dock,” Russ mimicked her dutifully.

  Tracy handed him a bottle of pills. “This is her medication. She takes it two times a day.”

  Russ took the bottle. “What’s it for?”

  “Depression.”

  Russ’s brows knitted. “Depression? What’s this all about?”

  “Tess has—” she paused delicately “—problems.”

  “Problems? Hell, Tracy. She’s fifteen years old. What kind of problems can a teenager have that would require antidepressants?”

  “She has an absentee father, for one thing. Girls get their self-concept from their father’s opinion of them.”

  “Well then hers must be pretty good because I’m crazy about her.”

  Tracy rolled her eyes and, once again, Russ wondered what he’d ever seen in her. Quite possibly he’d been interested because her pale, delicate looks were the antithesis of Libba’s warmth. She was different in other ways as well and the comparison wasn’t a favorable one. He hadn’t seen it at first, mostly because there was no one quite like Libba. The quivery brightness that Libba Delacourte brought into a room was missing from every other female he’d ever known. But she’d chosen someone else and Russ had to marry somebody. Tracy had been available and interested. It was his worst mistake. He’d known it well before the wedding day. His mother had warned him. “She’s not for you, Russ,” she said. “That woman is flighty and selfish. She’ll bring nothing to you. She’s a taker.”

  In the end he’d balked at leaving a church full of wedding guests, limiting his feeble protest to forgetting the marriage license. There was a flurry, a twenty-minute wait while Mitch, his brother and best man, retrieved the license and the wedding commenced not too far off schedule. There was something to be said for Freudian slips, however. Everything had deteriorated from the day he’d said “I do.” By the time their first anniversary rolled around, he had to be drunk to even climb into bed with her and get it up. He wasn’t proud of it, but he hadn’t been faithful and Tracy knew it. Neither of them ever discussed divorce. He hadn’t the guts. The Hennesseys were Irish Catholic. Not a one had ever been divorced.