Free Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page A

looping strokes that belied his age, started to write his will.

10
    L iz 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 café-au-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