My God. I realized, with a jolt, that I'd brought the only guest to this reunion. Philip, Tom, Aubrey, Sass, Deborah- why didn't they bring their significant others, their Can-daces-to a gathering of the Goertzes? Maybe they knew from experience no fun was to be had on this island.
Why not? After all, the beach where I stood was the site of mass murder. I felt a cringe in my legs as I surveyed the beach, the remains of jellyfish scattered about like victims of a more recent massacre. Did those boys from the Reliant cry and beg for their lives, or did they stare straight ahead as the blades sliced open their throats and their blood ran like a crimson tide? The sand felt seductively warm beneath my feet; I didn't have to dwell on the dark past. The day was beautiful and the relaxing whoosh of the surf reminded me I was supposed to be on vacation, viciousness and death and secrecy aside.
I skirted the littered jellyfish corpses and headed toward the dock. Mutt's second boat, the Little Brutus, bobbed in the waves. He'd taken the boat Rufus had ferried us over in to Port Lavaca.
I could see Deborah and Candace still standing on the edge of the dock-but Candace stood with one hand on Deborah's shoulder, her head bowed with some great weight. She was crying.
Sudden pain nipped at my heart. I can't bear to see women weep, and Candace's rare tears always drain me. I suspected I was the source of her distress and a hot flush of guilt crept up my face. I didn't mean to make her cry. We'd argued, but surely not intensely enough to evoke weeping. My throat dried and I stood still, unsure if I should encroach on her private moment. She might not want my brand of comfort.
She wiped her eyes and saw me. She turned away, toward the bay and the wind. Deborah glanced over at me, a sad look painting her face.
Hell's bells. I walked slowly onto the dock. “Candace? You okay?”
“I'm fine,” she said softly, glancing back at me. “Deborah and I were just chatting and I got a little emotional. That's all.”
I reached out for her shoulder; she didn't flinch away. “I'm sorry.”
“Excuse me,” Deborah murmured. “I think I'll run up to the house and get a Coke. Candace, you're sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine, Deborah, thanks.”
Deborah smiled softly at me, turned, and hurried toward the house.
“She's sweet,” I said, feeling awkward. I looked at Can-dace; she stared up at the vast vault of summer sky. The clouds resembled old, sculpted bone.
“She is kind,” Candace finally said. “I like Deborah.”
“I like her, too.” The topic of Deborah exhausted, I cast about for the words to frame my apology in. “Sugar, I'm sorry I blew up at you. I had no call to say what I did. I'm feeling awkward around these folks, I don't know how to be myself here, and I should have listened to you. I'm really sorry.”
“Are you apologizing to me because I feel bad or because you feel bad, Jordy?” She kept her gaze on the whitecapped waves lapping at the beach. One strand of walnut-brown hair kept whipping around her face and I slowly guided it back into place. The cup of her ear felt warm against my fingers.
“Both.”
She smiled then, the vaguest trace of a grin, and she turned her face into my palm, her breath tickling my life line. I kissed her cheek and she kissed my hand.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered into her soft hair. “I'm a real butt sometimes.”
“I'm sorry, too.” Her voice was whispery and strong, like silk. “I should have told you how I got Arlene on the side of this trip so you wouldn't find out the wrong way. And I shouldn't have used that tactic-it wasn't kind.” She sighed. “You're in such a weird situation with these people, and I just mouth off with my free advice. You've got to decide what your relationship is with your father. I can't tell you what it should be, nobody can.”
“No. You were right. I've pretended far too long that I can just sweep Bob Don under the rug, that he'll be satisfied with only being my friend. I've got to let him be a dad to me.”
She stared up into my face with such tenderness I felt the breath in my throat halt. It's a terrible responsibility for someone to look at you with such love. I didn't deserve her-her strength, her kindness, her forgiveness of my multitude of faults. I specialized in alienating people and raising hackles. I couldn't walk past the anthill without kicking it over to see what ruckus I could raise. I could not be an easy man to love.
One of her eyebrows arched. “Oh, babe, don't give me that look. It wears me out for you to think I'm perfect.”
I blinked to clear my face of any offending expression. “You may not be perfect, but you're the perfect one for me.” I bent down to her. As we kissed, her hands tangled in my hair. I reveled in the gentle scratch of her fingernails against my scalp, the pressure of her arm against my neck, the nip of her tongue against my lips. I lifted her up into my arms.
“My big, tall boy,” she teased, then her tone grew serious. “Do you love Bob Don?” she asked, her voice a thrum against my neck.
The dreaded question, given air at last. “I'm-I'm glad he's part of my life now.”
“Well,/love him. He's a wonderful man. I wish my father was more like him. Kind, generous. You could be a father like him someday yourself,” she whispered in my ear.
“Maybe I will be,” I said.
“Maybe. Now, you put me down, all those folks in the house will be talking. And it's not right we be out here kissing on each other, after poor Lolly's death.”
I set her down gently. “This isn't a house of mourning like any I've ever seen. Deborah, Gretchen, and Uncle Mutt seem upset, but the rest-they seem disconnected. As if they don't believe Lolly's dead. Or worse, that it doesn't matter.” I told her quickly about my conversations with Aubrey and Philip. I did tell her about finding Lolly's letter, but I left out the part about snooping after Deborah and getting caught by Wendy. No need for her to know just how much of an idiot I'd managed to be in one short morning. “I'm not sure dysfunctional's the word for this bunch.”
“I don't understand why Lolly sent you the letters.”
“I don't know what she hoped to gain, either.” I let the bay wind caress my face. “But she's dead now, and she can't hurt us.”
“Jordan-” she began to speak, her upturned face earnest in the bright sunshine. She stopped.
“What? What's wrong?”
She shook her head. “It's nothing. Why don't we go back to the house? I'm sure Deborah's wondering if we've fallen off the deck.”
“Fine.” I took her hand and we began to walk toward the house, my heart lightening ever so slightly, and for the first time since our arrival. The feeling didn't last long enough to savor. Because I saw Gretchen stumbling down from the house, the bottle in her hand glinting like a blade in the fierce summer glare.
“Gretchen?” I ventured. We'd stopped on the path leading back to the house, and Gretchen nearly barreled into us, her gaze concentrated on some inward journey.
“Oh, Jordy. Candace. Hi.” Gretchen awkwardly gestured with the bottle, a Texas vintner's Chardonnay, opened but recorked.
Candace and I were silent.
“Oh, the bottle?” She laughed, a feeble twitter like a bird's. “Oh, this. Yes. This. I was taking it to Tom and Rufus. They're scouring about on the other side of the island.”
“You were going to walk a mile or so to take them a bottle of wine?” I tried not to make my voice sound accusing. I could smell the bitter tang of alcohol on her breath, covered up with the thin camouflage of mint gum. My heart sunk like a stone after its last skip on the water.
She saw the fear in my eyes and swallowed.
“Gretchen. Why have you done this to yourself?”
“Done what? I-I told you, I'm taking this to Tom and Rufus. Thirsty work they're doing. Well, you wouldn't believe me anyway.” Her voice took an edge, like a newly sharpened knife. A sneer, one I had not seen in many months, curled her lip. “You little bastard. You just can't wait to manufacture a lie about me, can you?”