Palindrome (8 page)

James stepped forward and reached slowly for the beautiful thing, half-expecting it to be snatched away at the last moment. He stood, holding it awkwardly in front of him. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"That gun doesn't need babying," Angus said gravely, "but don't abuse it. Use it well. Don't hurt yourself or anybody else."

"Yes, sir," James said, looking wonderingly at the weapon.

"It's worth a lot of money these days, but don't ever sell it. If you take care of it, your son will get good use of it, and his son, too." Angus opened a cupboard and took out a sheepskin sleeve and a mahogany box. He took the gun from the boy, dropped it into the sleeve, and handed it back with the box. "Some cleaning things. Purdey made those, too." Angus looked at the boy, and his eyes seemed to water. "You take this gift with my affection, James," he said.

"Thank you, Mister Angus," James said. "I'll always take the best care of it."

"I know you will," Angus replied. "Now, go on out of here and shoot some birds with it." James turned and walked slowly from the room with his treasure. At the bottom of the front steps of the house, he almost started to run, but willed himself to walk slowly. Then he remembered the gelding. He tucked the shotgun under an arm, held the cleaning kit in one hand, and, with the other, took the reins and led the horse toward the stables. He had not yet reached the corner of the house before he began to cry.

Angus Drummond watched the boy from the window until he was out of sight; then he sat down at his desk, blew his nose noisily, unscrewed the cap from his Parker pen, and, in long, looping strokes that belied his age, started to write his will.

CHAPTER 10

Liz left the cottage to wander; she didn't much care where. Since her travels with Angus Drummond had been to the north, she drove through the dunes, onto the beach, and turned south. She went slowly, savoring the morning sun. When she had driven a couple of miles, she saw a Drummond emerging from the sea. There was something cool in the smile that greeted her that made him Hamish. She stopped the Jeep, and, as he jogged toward her, she thought how impersonal the smile was. No, impersonal was not the word; unsexy was. She might have been a man, so little warmth did he emit in her direction. This pleased her, because she was not yet ready for a man; it annoyed her, too, because it pricked her pride. She was accustomed to being a beautiful woman, and even though she was still regaining her looks, she was vain enough to want a reaction from him. "Good morning," he said, stopping alongside the Jeep.

Water streamed from him, ran in rivulets through the curly blond hair on his chest, over the brown skin. She had only seen him carefully groomed before; in his present state he might have been his brother, except that she thought him a bit heavier. "What are you up to?"

"Taking in the sights," she said.

"How's the water?"

"Great. Shall I show you around a little?"

"Sure, hop in." He walked around the Jeep, grabbed a towel and some shoes from the sand, laid the towel on the seat, and climbed in.

"Onward," he said, pointing down the beach.

Liz drove on. "How long are you here for?" she asked. "Couple of weeks, maybe a month. I like it this time of the year."

"Where do you live?"

"New York. I spend a fair amount of time in London, and I have a summer place on Martha's Vineyard. How about you?"

"Atlanta, until recently."

"And where do you live now?"

"Here."

He smiled. "That's good. You'll like it."

"I already do."

"I can tell." They were nearing the southern end of the island. Hamish pointed at a track through the dunes. "Take that," he said. "We'll have a look at Dungeness."

She slowed and swung the Jeep into the sandy ruts. "I hope your grandfather won't mind."

"Not at all. He likes you."

"How do you know?" She was reminded of her conversation the night before with Keir.

"He told me so. I had dinner with him last night, and he talked of little else."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. From what I've been told, he always had superb taste in women." She felt a need to change the subject.

"You get along well with your grandfather?"

"I always have. When my folks were killed, I guess I became grandson and son combined. He doted on me." He pointed again.

"Bear right at the fork. The left turn goes down to the mud flats at the southern tip of the island. Good clamming there, if you like that sort of thing."

"I'll keep it in mind." They were passing under trees now, and there were buildings ahead. They pulled into a courtyard and stopped. She could see various pieces of equipment in what must have been the maintenance barn, and facing that was a long stable. A teenaged boy with cafe-a-lait skin was brushing a gray horse under a huge live oak tree.

"Morning, James," Hamish called.

"Hey, Hamish," James replied, waving his brush.

"This is Elizabeth Barwick."

"Hey," he said, grinning.

"Hey, James," she said.

"Come on," Hamish said, "I'll show you a small sight." He led her from the courtyard down a path through some trees. After a minute's walk, they emerged into a clearing at the edge of a salt marsh, and a low wall was before them. As they neared, tombstones became visible. "The family plot," Hamish said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate. A large stone dominated the graveyard.

Liz read the inscription. "Aldred Drummond, Master of Cumberland Island, 1740-1829."

"And master he was," Hamish said. "He ruled this island like a king. They say he hanged a few men who deserved it."

"How did he happen to come here?" Liz asked.

"He got the island in a king's grant in 1765. Eleven years later he was at war with his king. He was meant to be a delegate from Georgia at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, but he was delayed en route. Button Gwinnett replace him.

"He was almost a father of his country," Liz said.

"Almost." He moved along a row and stopped at another stone. "My parents are here, in the same grave," he said.

"Germaine told me about their deaths."

He waved a hand. "A scattering of other Drummonds, and then this."

He showed her to a very old stone,

Sacred to the memory of

General Henry Lee

of Virginia, Obiit 25 March 1818,

age 63.

which lay horizontally over a border of bricks.

"He was Light-Horse Harry Lee, Robert E. Lee's father," Liz said. "How did he come to die here?"

"He fell ill on a ship that was passing Cumberland and was put ashore here to die." Hamish pointed at another stone, this one lying horizontal, covering the grave.

Liz read the inscription.

The remains of General Henry Lee were

removed under an act of the General

Assembly of Virginia to Lexington Virginia

 May 28, 1913.

Hamish continued, "Old Aldred buried him in the family plot, and when the remains were moved to Virginia, the family kept the grave as it was."

"I don't recall ever seeing an empty grave in a cemetery."

"Nor do I." Hamish chuckled. He looked around the little graveyard. "I always thought I'd be buried here someday, but I guess not."

"Why not?"

Hamish pointed to the edge of the marsh, only a few feet away. "The sea has come too close over the years. As it is now, if we got a big spring tide and a southeasterly gale at the same time, the place would be flooded. Grandpapa's having all the graves moved inland a bit, to higher ground. He's got a professor and some students from the Anthropology Department of the University of Georgia coming down to do the job soon. The graves are too old just to be dug up and the coffins transplanted.

This place needs a finer touch, and Grandpapa is anxious that as little as possible be disturbed. He'd planned on being buried here, too, and he's disappointed about that, but he's not anxious to have the sea coming into his grave."

"It's a nice place. I wouldn't mind lying here until Judgment Day."

Hamish smiled his cool smile. "All you have to do is marry a Drummond."

"A high price to pay," she said jokingly. "Are you married?"

"I was; it didn't work out. We were married in New York on rather short notice—a mistake for both of us, really, except for my son, Aldred."

"Do you see much of him?"

"Not as much as I'd like, but I get him for a while in the summer. He's five, now; when he's a little older I'd like him to spend his summers here."

Liz got the Jeep started and, following Hamish's directions, drove toward the main house. They passed a row of old automobiles, rusting to bits. There was an early-fifties Studebaker convertible among them. "My father used to have a Studebaker," she said, pointing at the car.

"I'm afraid that when things stop getting used around here they just get left where they stand," Hamish said. He pointed out a large collapsed building as they passed. "That was the gymnasium. It housed a pool and a squash court. It just fell in on itself one day."

"Such a waste," she said.

"There were other things on the island that needed the money more, I guess. Grandpapa keeps up the roads and everything else himself."

The huge main house lay before them. It was the first time Liz had seen it.

"Grandpapa's jeep is gone," Hamish said. "He's out there prowling around his island. One of these days we're going to find him dead in that jeep."

"There are worse ways to go," she said.

They passed through the arched gateway and onto the main north-south road.

"Can you drop me at the inn?" he asked.

"Sure." They drove on in silence until the turn for the inn appeared. She dropped him at the back door. As he got out of the Jeep, Germaine appeared. "Some mail for you, Liz," she said, handing over a thick envelope.

"Thanks," she replied, glancing at the envelope. It was from Al Schaefer. "Thanks for the tour," she said to Hamish. "Come up to Stafford Beach Cottage for a drink sometime."

"Sure," he replied, waving as he passed through the screen door into the kitchen. He won't come, she thought as she drove away. She wasn't sure why, but she knew he wouldn't. Back at the cottage, she opened the letter from her lawyer. "Dear Liz," Al had scrawled on a notepad, "I thought you might like to have this. Hope all is going well. Let me hear from you if there's anything you need." She unfolded the attached document. It was her final divorce decree. For the first time in weeks she laughed aloud.

CHAPTER 11

Angus Drummond sat in his jeep and munched a sandwich, now and then washing it down with a sip of mineral water. He used to like a beer with his lunch, he reflected, but lately it made him sleepy. He was parked at the old wharf at Plum Orchard, the house he had built for his late son, Evan. He gazed west over the marshes toward the mainland and tried to remember the last time he had been off the island. Four or five years, anyway. He finished his sandwich and got out to stretch his legs, strolling slowly down to the dock. A fish jumped well clear of the water, delighting him and scaring up a bird from the long marsh grass.

When he turned back toward the jeep, his grandson was standing there, bare chested, wearing an old pair of jeans, leaning against the hood, grinning at him. "Good morning, Ha-" He stopped and looked closely at the man. "Good God, Keir!" They met halfway and embraced. He held the younger man back from him and looked at him closely.

"Hello, Grandpapa,"

Keir said. "Did you think I was dead?"

"No, no, they couldn't kill you, but I swear I thought I wouldn't see you again before I die."

Keir laughed. "You, die? You'll outlive us all."

"Not much chance of that, boy," Angus said with some feeling. "Come on, take a drive with me." He pulled his grandson toward the jeep, and in a moment they were driving north through the woods. "Well, tell me what you've been doing with yourself. It's been how long?"

"Too long. I'm sorry I was away for such a time."

"Where have you been?"

"I've been in Europe, mostly. I spent quite a lot of time in Rome. Wrote a few stories, sold one to Harper's. I'llsend you a copy when it comes out."

"You do that. I want to read it."

"I thought I'd write something about the island, but I hear somebody's beat me to it."

"You mean the Barwick girl?" Angus grated the gears as he shifted down for a deep rut in the road. "I'd better send the scraper up here for that one," he muttered, half to himself. "Yes, she's taking pictures for a book; don't know if she's writing anything. Have you seen your sister?"

"Not yet. I'll get down to the inn soon, don't worry."

"When did you get in? Your brother's here, you know." 

Keir pointed into the woods. "You know, I think the armadillo population has increased since I was last home." The little armored creature scurried under some dead palmetto leaves. 

Angus sighed. Somehow, he'd hoped that something might have changed between his twin grandsons. "How long will you be with us?"

"Oh, a few days, at least. We'll see. I need to stop in New York and cement a few magazine contacts before I cross the water again."

"You know," Angus said, "I would have thought Cumberland would be a good place to write your stories. I'm not going to be around much longer; I'd like to see more of you."

"I want to see more of you, too, Grandpapa, but, well, there are too many distractions here."

"More distractions than Rome?"

"Ah, but there are no armadillos in Rome; no deer, no gators. Those are the distractions."

"I always thought pheasant was the ultimate distraction, myself." Angus chuckled. "I always had a hard time concentrating during the pheasant season."

"You still hunting with your Purdeys?"

"No, I haven't fired a gun for a couple of years, I guess."

Keir laughed. "Maybe you are dying, at that!"