Chesapeake Summer by Jeanette Baker Page A

Despite the cool promise of the forest, thick with summer foliage and tall trees, hickory, oak, beech, white ash and elm, within two minutes sweat trickled down Chloe’s forehead, between her breasts and the insides of her thighs. Gritting her teeth, she tried turning her thoughts to something else, but the brackish, metallic odor of the Chesapeake, the smells of fish and pine and salt and dirt and a billion species of underwater life, assaulted her senses.
    Despite her California roots, which Chloe now realized was a brief aberration in her mother’s life, a period to be endured until Libba Jane was drawn back to Marshy Hope Creek with its relentless sun, its thick, wet air and its infinite spaces of marsh and woods and dark creek water, all by-products of the mighty Chesapeake, this was home to the Delacourtes. And, whether she liked it or not, Chloe, too, was a Delacourte.
    Behind her, the sound of an approaching car interrupted her thoughts. Chloe hugged the side of the narrow road, allowing the driver to pass. Her eyes widened as a late-model silver-gray Porsche, more at home on the expensive beachfront streets of Malibu than here in Marshy Hope Creek, drove past. She caught a glimpse of the New York license plate. She wasn’t surprised. Who would own a Porsche in this backwater town? Marshy Hope Creek’s more comfortable citizens thought in terms of Lincoln Town Cars and Cadillacs, gas guzzlers for patriotic Americans who bought only Fords and Chevrolets and who believed in conservation except when it applied to them.
    The road veered to the left. Chloe turned the corner, squeezed the hand brake and pulled up abruptly, jumping off in time to avoid a collision with the Porsche, idling in silver splendor by the side of the road. Leaning against the door, black hair falling over his forehead, cigarette dangling from his lips, was a young man with dark hooded eyes and a face so bladed and severe and beautiful it could have graced the cover of a magazine.
    â€œNeed a ride?” he asked.
    The years rolled back. Chloe drew a long, quivery breath. Bailey Jones hadn’t changed much, except for the car and the Rolex and the Gucci shoes. “It’s been a long time, Bailey.”
    â€œI guess it has.”
    â€œYou could have called.”
    â€œSo could you.”
    â€œI needed a number. You had mine.”
    He drew deeply on the end of his cigarette, dropped the stub and ground it into the dirt. “Do you want a ride or not?”
    She looked down at the bike and then back at him. “Nice car, but we wouldn’t fit.”
    â€œThrow the bike in the bushes. You can come back for it later.”
    Chloe considered her options. On the one hand was burning curiosity, on the other was her completely understandable desire to show Bailey Jones that spending time in his company was her lowest priority. Curiosity won.
    He waited while she stowed the bike out of sight of the road, hiked up the embankment and slid into the soft leather of the passenger’s seat.
    â€œSo, Bailey,” she began. “How have you been?”
    He pulled the car out onto the road. “I can’t complain. You?”
    â€œNot too bad.”
    â€œWhat brings you back here?”
    â€œThis is where I come every summer. My mother lives here. She married Russ. I have a sister.”
    Bailey nodded. “I heard. Congratulations.”
    â€œThanks. What about you? I thought you’d wiped the dust of Marshy Hope Creek from your shoes forever.”
    She saw the leap of muscle in his cheek.
    â€œThat was the plan. I’m here to sell my land. Weber Incorporated made an offer I can’t refuse.”
    Chloe stared at him. “You can’t be serious. Those wetlands are home to thousands of native species.” What she left unsaid was huge, important, an impassable, unspoken chasm between them. His hand was steady on the wheel. “I’m dead serious.”
    â€œIt’s not as if