CHAPTER 11

Angus Drummond sat in his jeep and munched a sandwich, now and then washing it down with a sip of mineral water. He used to like a beer with his lunch, he reflected, but lately it made him sleepy. He was parked at the old wharf at Plum Orchard, the house he had built for his late son, Evan. He gazed west over the marshes toward the mainland and tried to remember the last time he had been off the island. Four or five years, anyway. He finished his sandwich and got out to stretch his legs, strolling slowly down to the dock. A fish jumped well clear of the water, delighting him and scaring up a bird from the long marsh grass.

When he turned back toward the jeep, his grandson was standing there, bare chested, wearing an old pair of jeans, leaning against the hood, grinning at him. "Good morning, Ha-" He stopped and looked closely at the man. "Good God, Keir!" They met halfway and embraced. He held the younger man back from him and looked at him closely.

"Hello, Grandpapa,"

Keir said. "Did you think I was dead?"

"No, no, they couldn't kill you, but I swear I thought I wouldn't see you again before I die."

Keir laughed. "You, die? You'll outlive us all."

"Not much chance of that, boy," Angus said with some feeling. "Come on, take a drive with me." He pulled his grandson toward the jeep, and in a moment they were driving north through the woods. "Well, tell me what you've been doing with yourself. It's been how long?"

"Too long. I'm sorry I was away for such a time."

"Where have you been?"

"I've been in Europe, mostly. I spent quite a lot of time in Rome. Wrote a few stories, sold one to Harper's. I'llsend you a copy when it comes out."

"You do that. I want to read it."

"I thought I'd write something about the island, but I hear somebody's beat me to it."

"You mean the Barwick girl?" Angus grated the gears as he shifted down for a deep rut in the road. "I'd better send the scraper up here for that one," he muttered, half to himself. "Yes, she's taking pictures for a book; don't know if she's writing anything. Have you seen your sister?"

"Not yet. I'll get down to the inn soon, don't worry."

"When did you get in? Your brother's here, you know." 

Keir pointed into the woods. "You know, I think the armadillo population has increased since I was last home." The little armored creature scurried under some dead palmetto leaves. 

Angus sighed. Somehow, he'd hoped that something might have changed between his twin grandsons. "How long will you be with us?"

"Oh, a few days, at least. We'll see. I need to stop in New York and cement a few magazine contacts before I cross the water again."

"You know," Angus said, "I would have thought Cumberland would be a good place to write your stories. I'm not going to be around much longer; I'd like to see more of you."

"I want to see more of you, too, Grandpapa, but, well, there are too many distractions here."

"More distractions than Rome?"

"Ah, but there are no armadillos in Rome; no deer, no gators. Those are the distractions."

"I always thought pheasant was the ultimate distraction, myself." Angus chuckled. "I always had a hard time concentrating during the pheasant season."

"You still hunting with your Purdeys?"

"No, I haven't fired a gun for a couple of years, I guess."

Keir laughed. "Maybe you are dying, at that!"

"I'll tell you how close to death I am," Angus said. "This morning I gave one of those shotguns to James."

"James Moses?"

Angus looked at him for a moment before answering. "That's right. James Moses. That boy has been at my beck and call for years, and I never so much as tipped him a dime. He's a good boy, smart; he'll do well, if somebody pays some attention to him. You might do that sometimes, Keir; pay some attention to James. You'd like the sort of boy he's grown into."

"I'm afraid I won't be around long enough to be of much use to James, Grandpapa. I just came to see you, really. I'll have to be off again soon."

"Don't come back to bury me, you hear?" Angus was adamant. "Don't you go buying any airplane tickets with your money just to see me put in the ground. I always hated funerals, myself. I won't go to mine, if I can help it."

Keir looked at his grandfather and smiled. "Grandpapa, if I come back to see you buried, it'll be for my own peace of mind, not out of any sense of duty. I know how you feel about funerals. I won't embarrass you after you're dead."

Angus looked around him. "I don't know what's going to happen to this island when I'm gone," he said sadly.

"It will always belong to you," Keir said, "and I'll see that nobody ever builds anything on it that you wouldn't like, not while I'm alive, anyway."

"That's the way I like to hear you talk!" Angus grinned. "Your cousin Jimmy would like to pave over the whole place, I expect."

"Don't worry, Grandpapa. I'll keep your island wild."

"Excuse me a minute, Keir," Angus said. He pulled over and, leaving the engine running, got out, walked a few yards into the woods, unzipped his fly, and took a long, satisfying leak. He zipped himself up and returned to the jeep. His grandson was gone. On the front seat was a tiny conch shell. Angus picked it up. It had been polished to a high gloss. The boys had done that when they were little; they'd scrape the shell and rub it against their noses, letting their body grease slowly raise a gloss. Angus shook his head. They were strange, his grandsons, especially Keir. He put the shell in his shirt pocket and drove away.