Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island

picture of this unique island.
    I have a friend who is always sharing moments from her past lives. My standard response is always “So what?” I mean, so she was a discarded mistress of Louis XIV or a pioneer wife who died of a rattlesnake bite on the way to Idaho, what does that haveto do with the price of computer disks today? Especially since she presently faces neither a rival for a king’s love nor snake-infested environs.
    So I can reasonably attribute my customary restlessness until I have checked out my surroundings to an early enchantment with
The Last of the Mohicans
. But could I have once been a scout for a wagon train? Or long ago a shepherd tending an unruly flock? If so, no doubt next time I’m almost certain to return as a bloodhound. I believe in consistency.
    In any event, I indulged my itch to look around.
    I stepped out on my balcony, which overlooked the front of the house and the sweep of the rosebeds and the sound.
    It was like stepping into a sauna.
    Instantly I felt the press of the hot moist air against me. The sky had a copper-yellow glaze, and the air was sticky and still. The breeze I’d enjoyed as I crossed to the island in Frank Hudson’s boat had died away. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the magnolias and the live oaks or the fronds of the palmetto palms.
    The tall slender cypress were like black cutouts against the glassy sky, making them even more ominous than usual. I’ve always found cypress to be cheerless trees. They remind me of the tombs along the Appian Way and the dust-choked heat of Rome.
    As I surveyed the gardens, the luminaria-style lanterns around the pool came on and, faintly, I heard the strains of Hawaiian music, the splashing of water, and laughter. I was tempted to go for a quick swim before dinner. There was still time, and it would be enormously refreshing.
    But that itch had to be satisfied.
    Once out in the hallway I saw closed doors on either side. I wanted to know who was staying where. In fact, I wanted a plan of the house. So I set out to make one.
    There were eight guest bedrooms on the second floor, four in each wing. The central portion of the second floor contained Chase’s study, a library, a music room, and a billiard room. On the ground floor the central portion held the dining room—with an elegant three-pedestal mahogany table accompanied by a set of fourteen Sheraton chairs—and the living room, where we’d had tea. The back portion of the ground floor was given over to the kitchen and a laundry. The kitchen was humming with activity. Rosalia, Chase’s housekeeper, was tall and slender. Too slender. She nodded shyly and didn’t look in the least surprised when I unexpectedly invaded her territory. Her face had a grave, deep sadness. I wondered what her story was. Most people have stories, especially those with unsmiling mouths. I found the maid setting the table for dinner. Betty’s black and white uniform was too right, and she looked haggard. Briskly she asked if she could help me, but I felt almost certain I caught a flash of fear in her weary eyes and I filed that away for future investigation. Enrique was selecting the wines for dinner. Chase’s valet was carefully polite when I spoke to him. I began to think the servants might have a much clearer idea of why I was a guest than anyone I’d met at tea. But why should they care? I persisted with my questions to Enrique until I had a good idea of the layout of the house. I learned that Chase and Miranda occupied all of thenorth wing’s ground floor. Their quarters overlooked—but at a nice distance—the swimming pool, he said. The south wing on the ground floor contained a movie theater and a small art gallery.
    I took time to visit the gallery and was impressed by the collection of American pastoral art.
    But the house was only a part of my quest. I stepped out onto the front porch. Struck once again by the furnace-hot heat, I walked slowly through the fragrant gardens to the pier.