Palindrome (7 page)

When the jeep pulled up at Stafford Beach Cottage, Liz climbed out and retrieved her tripod. "That was a wonderful tour," she said. "I hope I'll get to see Dungeness one of these days, too.

"I'd be honored to show it to you," he said. "You're a young woman of some substance, Miz Barwick." He grinned. "If I were fifty years younger, I'd do something about it."

"Thank you for that," she said. "Call me Liz."

"I'll call you Elizabeth," he said. Then he put the jeep in gear and drove away.

Liz watched him go, then trudged into the house with her gear. It occurred to her that Angus Drummond, at ninety-one, was the most attractive man she had met in years. She wondered if that was a comment on him or on her.

Germaine Drummond was at her desk off the kitchen at Greyfield Inn when she heard her grandfather's jeep. She got up, opened the screen door, and stuck her head out. "Hey, Grandpapa!" she called. "You want a cup of tea?"

Angus sat in the idling jeep and looked at her for a moment. "Germaine," he said, "you call my lawyer and tell him to come over here and see me. Next week will be soon enough." Then he drove on. Germaine stepped out into the drive and ate a little of his dust. He was finally going to make a will. She felt weak with relief.

CHAPTER 8

Liz stood naked before the mirror and, for the first time since she had struggled into the Piedmont Trauma Center, looked deliberately at her reflection. At first it was something of a shock. Her hair was still short enough to be spiky, and she was still thinner than at any time since prepubescence, but the Cumberland sun had given her color, and the last of her bruises had faded, taking their yellow tinge with them. The person who stared back at her seemed a reasonably healthy woman. Her thoughts returned to the couple she had seen on her first visit to the inn. How long since she had leaned against a man in that way? How long since she had made love? She laughed at herself. A reasonably healthy woman, indeed! She slipped into a favorite cotton nightshirt and padded barefoot, into the kitchen to fix herself dinner. She put a steak under the grill and, while it cooked, opened a bottle of California Merlot and poured herself a glass. She took her meal out onto the deck and ate it greedily while the light died and the blue sea beyond the dunes faded into a slate gray. She had an appetite at last, and the wine was good, too. She poured herself another glass and sat on a chaise, hugging her knees, sipping the wine while half a moon rose from the Atlantic Ocean. She was dug in, now, and that day she had taken a good photograph, the one of the pelicans on the beach. Except for her loneliness, this felt very much like contentment.

A fresh breeze swept in, bringing with it the promise of autumn, though that season comes late on Cumberland. She shivered a bit, then walked through the darkening cottage to the kitchen, where she washed her dishes. When the kitchen was neat, she returned to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. She sipped the last of her glass of wine and watched the moon swing across the sky, turning the room white and leaving her in shadow. She did not remember falling asleep; she only knew how good it felt. When the noise woke her she knew exactly where she was, in spite of the wine, and she knew where the noise came from: the kitchen. There was the closing of the refrigerator and the scrape of a chair on the linoleum floor. She lay still, trying to keep her breathing steady, wondering what to do. Then she became angry. This was her house, and intruders were not welcome. Quietly, she felt for her large camera case, found what she wanted, and moved toward the kitchen, weight on the balls of her feet, afraid to breathe. She stopped at the kitchen door and tamped down her fear for a moment. Then she eased her head around the doorjamb. A man was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking something. The moonlight through the window was weaker at the back of the house, but even in the dimness she could see that he was naked. For some reason, this made her even angrier. She brought her hand up, shut her eyes tightly, and fired the strobe light. "Jesus Christ!" the man yelled. There was the sound of furniture overturning.

When she opened her eyes he was backed against the kitchen wall, shielding his eyes, trying vainly to see. The strobe had a five-second recycle time, and she counted aloud—"Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three"—as she moved toward the kitchen counter. She could tell he was starting to see again by the time she reached the knife rack. "Thousand five," she said, and fired the strobe again.

"Will you stop that! Are you trying to blind me?" he shouted.

Liz had the chef's knife, now, the one with the twelve-inch blade. She stepped in front of him, knife at the ready, and fired the strobe again, while shutting her eyes tightly. "Maybe I'm trying to blind you," she said, her voice shaking with anger, "and maybe I'll do worse with this knife. What are you doing in my house?"

"Christ, all I wanted was a beer," he said, rubbing at his eyes. "It's even my beer. I put it in the icebox before you came."

"All right, so it's your beer; it's my house, and I didn't invite you."

"Just take it easy," he said, shielding his eyes from another possible burst of light. "I didn't mean to disturb you; I thought you were out."

"I'm not out, I'm here!" she said, nearly shouting, "but even if I were out, it's my house!"

"I'm sorry I invaded your privacy. Let me tell you who I am."

"I know who you are," she said. "You're Keir Drummond." Her own eyes had adjusted better to the dim light, and she could see now that he was not naked, merely wearing the loincloth she had seen him in before. She walked to the door and switched on the light. "Have a seat," she said, indicating the far end of the table with her knife.

"Thanks," he replied. He sat down again and picked up his beer, but he kept his eye on the knife. "So you're Liz Barwick," he said.

She went to the fridge and got a beer of her own. She didn't want it, but somehow she felt at a disadvantage because she didn't have one. "That's right," she said, drawing up a chair to the opposite end of the table. "Why have you been coming into my house?"

"It's just that my present quarters are without an icebox and a coffeepot," he said.

"And where are your present quarters?"

"So you're a photographer," he said, ignoring her question.

"That's right. And I expect you know why I'm here."

"I know what you've told the others." For a moment she had the feeling that he could see into her, that he knew not just why she was here, but everything else about her since the day she was born. She shook it off.

"Then you know why I'm here," she said tartly. She had known they were identical, of course, but still, she was amazed at how perfectly like Hamish he was—in appearance, anyway.

There was something beneath the surface that was different. "That brings us to the question of why you're here," she said, anxious to get the ball back into his court.

"I told you. I wanted a beer."

"Here on the island."

"This is my home. Why shouldn't I be here?"

"Why don't your sister and your brother know you're here?"

"I don't have a brother," he said mildly. "I'll see Germaine soon enough."

"What about your grandfather?"

"He's the reason I'm here. He's going to die soon."

She felt somehow that this was more than a general prediction of the health of a man in his nineties. "I met him today," she said. "I liked him."

"And he liked you."

"So you've seen him?"

"No."

"Then why do you think he likes me?"

"Grandpapa would like a girl who would come after an intruder with a flashgun and a kitchen knife."

"What was I supposed to do, call the cops? And I'm not a girl, I'm a woman."

He laughed. "I'll take your word for it."

She was taken by the warmth that radiated from him when he laughed. He seemed suddenly at ease, carefree, and boyish. "So where do you live, what do you do?"

"I live wherever I like; I do whatever I please," he said teasingly.

"That's no answer."

"It's a truer answer than you'll know. As you get to know me better, you'll find that I'm a teller of the truth, though it's not always to my advantage."

"Oh? Am I to get to know you better? Will you be creeping into my kitchen every night, frightening me to death?"

"If you like."

"I don't like. If you want to come around here, do it at a decent hour and knock on the door like a human being. And you're too old to be a Peeping Tom." It was only a guess, but it turned him red.

"I think I'd better be going," he said, half-rising. He nodded toward the knife. "If it's all right."

"It's all right," she said.

"I do apologize for intruding upon you," he said, suddenly serious and courtly. He reminded her of his grandfather for a moment. "I'll be off, but I hope I'll see you again." He walked to the back door, which stood open. Liz rose and crossed to the sink counter, replacing the knife in its rack.

"Then I don't suppose I'll be needing this," she said, turning. He was gone. It was if he had simply dematerialized. She walked out the back door and peered into the trees, their leaves bright with moonlight. A moment later, a puff of wind chilled her, and she thought she heard something large moving through the brush. She was left with the disconcerting feeling that she had dreamed the whole encounter. Liz walked back inside, turned off the light, and went to her room. As she settled into the bed, it occurred to her that there was one very big difference between the twins. Keir Drummond had reacted to her as a woman. She was still angry with him, but she felt the attraction, too. In spite of her recent longings, the thought unsettled her, made her wide awake. She was lying on her side, and she suddenly realized that her hand was between her legs. She spread herself and felt with her finger. A rush of feeling—old memories and sensations—swept through her body and mind, and, in a moment, rose to a climax. Soon, she was sleeping soundly.

CHAPTER 9

James Moses stood and, once again, presented the gelding to Angus Drummond, who declined, as always these days. James, now fifteen, had been taking care of the horse since he was seven, when he had had to stand on a stool to curry the animal. His grandfather, Buck Moses, had delivered him to Drummond the summer he had finished the first grade.

"You got sump'n this boy can do, Mist' Angus?" Buck had asked. Angus had cast an appraising eye over the small boy for longer than a moment.

"I reckon he'll keep busy in the stables," he had said, at last. James had been terrified of the amazingly tall white man the first summer.

After that, he had gotten used to his imperious ways, had even learned to tell when the old man was pleased. He had been nine when he had learned for sure that Angus Drummond was his father. His mother had died that year, old at fifty, and another, older boy had taken the occasion of her funeral to explain to him why his skin was so much lighter than hers. The relationship had seemed impossible to him at the time, but he had come to accept it, even if old Angus had never given the slightest hint that he did. This morning, at first so like hundreds of others, suddenly became different.

Angus Drummond stopped as he was about to turn toward the jeep and regarded James gravely. "You'll be going back to school at Fernandina pretty soon, won't you, boy?"

"Yessir," James replied. "Next week."

"You like going to school with those white children over there?"

"I always been to school with white kids," James replied. "They're okay."

"They don't give you a hard time?" Angus asked.

"How you mean, sir?" James asked back.

"About being colored."

"A couple of boys called me a high yeller one time," James said, shrugging. "I saw 'em about it. They didn't do it again."

"You're getting big," Angus said. "Tall. You going out for football?"

"Yessir, I played end on the freshman team last year. I reckon I'll make the varsity this year. I like basketball best, though."

"Yes," Angus mused, "you'll have the height for that."

"Coach says I might get a scholarship somewhere if I practice a lot."

"Good, good," Angus said. He gazed off toward the sea for a moment.

"What do you do with yourself on the island when you're not working around here?"

"I do some hunting and fishing," James said. "Granddaddy shows me the good places."

"What do you hunt?"

"I get a deer or two every year for meat, but I like bird shooting the best. I got me a good dog."

"What do you shoot birds with?" Angus asked.

"I use Granddaddy's old single-shot twelve-gauge. Can't never get but one at a time, though."

Angus looked at him in a way James had never seen before. "You come on with me," Angus said. He turned and started up the steps to the house. Surprised, James just stood for a moment; then he tied the gelding to the banister rail and hurried to catch up. Angus was already into the house, turning left off the entrance hall into his study. James followed him, taking in the old oak paneling, the leather-bound books, the marble fireplace, the mess of dusty papers on the huge desk, the crystal decanters on the butler's tray filled with red and amber liquids. He had been in this room once, as a small boy, had sneaked in here, gazing awestruck at the grandeur of the place, until his mother, who cooked for Mr. Angus, had found him and tanned his backside. The room was as big as he remembered it. Must be forty feet long, he thought.

Angus Drummond went to a glassed-in gun cabinet, dug in his pocket for a key, opened it, and took out a double-barreled shotgun. He broke it, checked to be sure it wasn't loaded, then picked up an oily cloth and wiped it as affectionately as a mother might clean a child's face. He leaned back against the desk, hefting the gun, sighting along the barrels. "I had this pair of guns made in London, before the last war," he said. "They were made by an outfit called Purdey, in South Audley Street—famous people; you'll hear about them one of these days. I guess it took a man a year to make these guns, not counting the engraving, which I've always thought exquisite. The stocks are burled walnut; the weight is perfect. You'll be as tall as me, so they'll fit you one of these days before long." He held out the gun. "Take it," he said. "I'll leave you the other one in my will."