Palindrome (34 page)

The policemen came into the room behind Liz and stopped. "Germaine?" she said again, her voice quavering. Liz walked slowly around the bed and stopped. She reached out, took a corner of the sheet, and pulled it down. Germaine's still face was pressed partly into a pillow. Liz tenderly moved a lock of hair from across her eyes.

"What?" Germaine said, startled, and sat up. She was naked, and the men were staring at her breasts. "Oh, Liz," she said. "What's going on?" She saw the men and pulled up the sheet.

"Are you all right, Germaine?" Liz managed to ask. "Sure." She shook her head. "I had a pretty weird evening with a guy, though. All he wanted to talk about was you.

CHAPTER 55

My dear Ms. Barwick: I was very pleased to receive your photographs and your prospectus the other day, for two reasons: first, your book of sports photographs came into my hands a few weeks ago, and I think it is brilliant; second, my wife and I spent a weekend on Cumberland Island three years ago, and we were so overwhelmed by its beauty that we have been fighting, unsuccessfully, ever since to find the time to return.

Having seen the real thing, I would like to say that I think your photographs do it justice, and that is high praise indeed. I also found your text to be delightful, in spite of your protestations about not being a writer. Enough praise; now to business: My firm, as you probably know, has published a series of regional, nature-oriented books, and some of them have turned out to have national appeal. I would very much like to publish your book, and I think I can promise you not only a substantial advance for a book of this sort, but a first-class publication.

If that interests you, let me know who your agent is, if you have one, and then you should come to New York, so we can sit down and see what sort of book we can make together. I look forward to hearing from you at the earliest possible moment.

She looked around the cottage. It looked quite different—more elegant, more permanent—with the old leather couch from Angus's study and a dozen good pictures from the house.

Germaine had insisted she share in the furnishings of Dungeness when Liz had been helping with the enormous chore of stripping the house. She locked the door, now covered with a sheet of plywood, until it could be repaired. A month after the hurricane, glass was still in short supply. Outside, the morning air was chill with autumn.

She nearly remarked on it to Keir, before she remembered, for the thousandth time, that Keir was not there. She paused for a moment and pushed away the pain. She had almost stopped doing that, speaking to Keir. She was better, now, and when she could stop speaking to him as though he were there, she'd be fine, she was sure of it. Time was supposed to heal, and she was sure it did, but time simply would not pass quickly enough. She tossed the last of her bags into the Jeep, and drove away from the cottage.

At the inn, she found Germaine in her office. "Sit for a minute," Germaine said. Liz sat. "I haven't said this to you before, but I feel I must. I'm so sorry I told Ramsey where to find you."

"It's all right," Liz said. "You didn't know who he was. He would have found me, anyway, if it was the last thing he did."

"God forgive me for saying it, but I'm glad it was," Germaine said. "Come on, I'll walk you down to the dock."

"I've got another stop to make, before I catch the boat." Germaine came to the door with her and took Liz's hand.

"How long will you be in New York?" she asked. "I don't know, exactly. As long as it takes to write the rest of the text and put the book together. Several weeks, at least." They stopped at the Jeep, and Germaine put her hands on Liz's shoulders. "I'll miss you," she said. "You're practically my sister, now."

Liz hugged her. "That's right, I am." She looked around. "I had hoped to say good-bye to James."

"He's down at Dungeness, and I have to join him in a minute. It's a windless day." Liz looked out over the placid water.

"It is, isn't it?" A few minutes later, she stopped at the new Drummond family plot and got out.

Among the old, transplanted headstones were three new ones: Angus's bore simply his name and dates; the second stone read Buck Moses, ?-1989 Good and faithful servant, Grandfather of an heir to Cumberland Island. The single stone that marked the double grave of the twins read Hamish and Keir Drnmmond, 1952-1989 Two brothers, at the end of one life. She had contributed that. She walked along the line of markers, touching each as she passed. Then, she bent and kissed the twins' stone. Out in Cumberland Sound, halfway to Fernandina, Liz looked back at the island.

A puff of smoke rose from the roof of the big house, which could be partly seen through the trees, and after a moment came a lick of flames, then more smoke. Dungeness was dying with Angus Drummond, as he had wished. Liz turned away from the island and put her face into the breeze the old barge made. She took off her cap and let the wind blow through her hair. As the Aldred Drummond reached the Fernandina dock, Liz turned and looked at the island again. She had traveled only a few miles, and she was surprised to feel something she hadn't experienced since childhood. Elizabeth Barwick was homesick.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my gratitude to Gogo Fuller, for sharing her knowledge of her beloved Cumberland Island, and for her warm hospitality in her home there; Dr. John Griffin, for his advice on traumatic injury, emergency room procedures, and restorative surgery; Dr. A. J. Nicholas for medical advice; Robert Coram for information and advice; and Howard Hunt, of the Atlanta Zoo, for information on the habits and noises of alligators. I particularly want to thank Judy Tabb, in whose company I discovered Cumberland Island, for her photographic advice and for the use in the book of her equipment sorry about the tripod). I am grateful, once again, for the advice and support of my literary agent, Morton Janklow; his associate, Anne Sibbald; and their colleagues at Janklow & Nesbit. My thanks go also to Trish Lande and Cheryl Weinstein, for their efforts. Finally, I must thank Eddie Bell, Ed Breslin, and all the people at HarperCollins for their unbounded enthusiasm for this book and all their hard work.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Cumberland Island is a real place, as are Greyfield Inn, Plum Orchard, and the old slave quarters. Dungeness was real, but the house burned many years before it did in this book. However, its ruins, the outbuildings, and the old cemetery are still there. Stafford Beach Cottage is a figment of my imagination. Real people live on the island, and none of the characters in this book is meant to resemble any of them in the slightest. Cumberland has been designated a National Seashore, and most of the island is under the control of the National Parks Service. The photograph on the cover hangs in the living room of Greyfield Inn, as described in the book. It is of Robert Weeks Ferguson, now deceased; it was taken on the island in the nineteen thirties and was the inspiration for this novel.