Germaine said. “He turns up, unannounced, from time to time—never when Hamish is here—and then he disappears. A friend of mine ran into him in Paris, last year. I haven’t seen him for more than three years. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Except, I always had the feeling that if Keir died, Hamish would die, too, and vice versa. Even now, when they must …
hate
each other, I still feel that. I don’t know why.”
Driving back to the inn in the Jeep, both women were quiet. Liz came into the bar for a nightcap, and, when she left to go back to the cottage, Hamish Drummond was sitting in one of the big swings on the veranda, an empty brandy snifter next to him, staring out into the darkness. Liz did not disturb his reverie.
When she got back to Stafford Beach Cottage, the front door stood wide open.
7
A ngus Drummond walked slowly down the front steps of Dungeness, the enormous house that had been his home since the day he had been born there, ninety-one years before. He walked slowly, as he did most things these days.
He lengthened his stride now, along the front of the old house, ignoring the peeling paint and dry-rotted windowsills. Dungeness, in Angus’s mind, was as fresh and whole as the day his ancestor, old Aldred Drummond, had finished building it in 1820.
A brown-skinned boy in his midteens approached, leading a fine-looking horse. “You be riding today, Mr. Angus?” the boy asked.
Angus found an apple in his pocket and fed it to the gelding, stroking his soft nose. “Not today, James,” he replied. “I think I’ll take the jeep.”
It was a conversation they conducted each morning, never varying, each reciting his lines from a script they both knew would not change. Angus had last ridden some six years before. James would exercise the animal, keep him sweet for that day when Angus might reply, “Yes, James, saddle the gelding. I feel like a ride today.” The boy led the horse away, and Angus strode toward his World War II-era jeep. He hoisted his backside into the metal seat, then, grasping his trousers legs, hauled his long legs under the steering wheel. The jeep started first try. Angus placed his panama hat on the floor, settled his steel-rimmed sunglasses on his prominent nose, and pointed the vehicle toward the sea. The jeep’s transmission had only three gears, and he kept it in second as the road led into the dunes. He wound through the mountains of sand and grass, then emerged onto the open beach.
Cumberland Island has eighteen miles of broad beach, and there seemed to be no one on it that morning but Angus Drummond. He liked it that way. The wind was out of the southeast, as it often was, and, as he drove north, the jeep’s speed made the day seem nearly windless. Angus saluted the two shrimp boats fishing barely a hundred yards off the beach and got a wave back from men on both.
A pair of brown pelicans kept pace with the jeep, skimming the water near its edge, hunting breakfast. Angus took some satisfaction in seeing them; a few years back they had been an endangered species. Now hundreds of them flocked on the island, where he protected them from their only enemy: Man.
From his perch in the jeep, Angus spotted the tracks of deer, wild horses, raccoons, and a dozen different birds in the damp sand at the edge of the dunes. There were few people on his island, but he was not short of company.
In the distance ahead he saw a black speck. He watched it as it grew larger, his prescription sunglasses bringing the image sharp. There were two people—no, one and some sort of apparatus. He slowed the jeep and pulled up next to a young woman standing beside a large camera on a tripod.
Liz smiled at the old man in the jeep, the wind mussing his thick, gray hair. “Mister Angus Drummond, I presume,” she said.
He regarded her with suspicion. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss, ah, Mrs.—”
“Ms.,” she interrupted. “Elizabeth Barwick.”
“Miz Barwick,” he said.
hate
each other, I still feel that. I don’t know why.”
Driving back to the inn in the Jeep, both women were quiet. Liz came into the bar for a nightcap, and, when she left to go back to the cottage, Hamish Drummond was sitting in one of the big swings on the veranda, an empty brandy snifter next to him, staring out into the darkness. Liz did not disturb his reverie.
When she got back to Stafford Beach Cottage, the front door stood wide open.
7
A ngus Drummond walked slowly down the front steps of Dungeness, the enormous house that had been his home since the day he had been born there, ninety-one years before. He walked slowly, as he did most things these days.
He lengthened his stride now, along the front of the old house, ignoring the peeling paint and dry-rotted windowsills. Dungeness, in Angus’s mind, was as fresh and whole as the day his ancestor, old Aldred Drummond, had finished building it in 1820.
A brown-skinned boy in his midteens approached, leading a fine-looking horse. “You be riding today, Mr. Angus?” the boy asked.
Angus found an apple in his pocket and fed it to the gelding, stroking his soft nose. “Not today, James,” he replied. “I think I’ll take the jeep.”
It was a conversation they conducted each morning, never varying, each reciting his lines from a script they both knew would not change. Angus had last ridden some six years before. James would exercise the animal, keep him sweet for that day when Angus might reply, “Yes, James, saddle the gelding. I feel like a ride today.” The boy led the horse away, and Angus strode toward his World War II-era jeep. He hoisted his backside into the metal seat, then, grasping his trousers legs, hauled his long legs under the steering wheel. The jeep started first try. Angus placed his panama hat on the floor, settled his steel-rimmed sunglasses on his prominent nose, and pointed the vehicle toward the sea. The jeep’s transmission had only three gears, and he kept it in second as the road led into the dunes. He wound through the mountains of sand and grass, then emerged onto the open beach.
Cumberland Island has eighteen miles of broad beach, and there seemed to be no one on it that morning but Angus Drummond. He liked it that way. The wind was out of the southeast, as it often was, and, as he drove north, the jeep’s speed made the day seem nearly windless. Angus saluted the two shrimp boats fishing barely a hundred yards off the beach and got a wave back from men on both.
A pair of brown pelicans kept pace with the jeep, skimming the water near its edge, hunting breakfast. Angus took some satisfaction in seeing them; a few years back they had been an endangered species. Now hundreds of them flocked on the island, where he protected them from their only enemy: Man.
From his perch in the jeep, Angus spotted the tracks of deer, wild horses, raccoons, and a dozen different birds in the damp sand at the edge of the dunes. There were few people on his island, but he was not short of company.
In the distance ahead he saw a black speck. He watched it as it grew larger, his prescription sunglasses bringing the image sharp. There were two people—no, one and some sort of apparatus. He slowed the jeep and pulled up next to a young woman standing beside a large camera on a tripod.
Liz smiled at the old man in the jeep, the wind mussing his thick, gray hair. “Mister Angus Drummond, I presume,” she said.
He regarded her with suspicion. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss, ah, Mrs.—”
“Ms.,” she interrupted. “Elizabeth Barwick.”
“Miz Barwick,” he said.
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