Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"Yessir, I played end on the freshman team last year. I reckon I'll make the varsity this year. I like basketball best, though."

"Yes," Angus mused, "you'll have the height for that."

"Coach says I might get a scholarship somewhere if I practice a lot."

"Good, good," Angus said. He gazed off toward the sea for a moment.

"What do you do with yourself on the island when you're not working around here?"

"I do some hunting and fishing," James said. "Granddaddy shows me the good places."

"What do you hunt?"

"I get a deer or two every year for meat, but I like bird shooting the best. I got me a good dog."

"What do you shoot birds with?" Angus asked.

"I use Granddaddy's old single-shot twelve-gauge. Can't never get but one at a time, though."

Angus looked at him in a way James had never seen before. "You come on with me," Angus said. He turned and started up the steps to the house. Surprised, James just stood for a moment; then he tied the gelding to the banister rail and hurried to catch up. Angus was already into the house, turning left off the entrance hall into his study. James followed him, taking in the old oak paneling, the leather-bound books, the marble fireplace, the mess of dusty papers on the huge desk, the crystal decanters on the butler's tray filled with red and amber liquids. He had been in this room once, as a small boy, had sneaked in here, gazing awestruck at the grandeur of the place, until his mother, who cooked for Mr. Angus, had found him and tanned his backside. The room was as big as he remembered it. Must be forty feet long, he thought.

Angus Drummond went to a glassed-in gun cabinet, dug in his pocket for a key, opened it, and took out a double-barreled shotgun. He broke it, checked to be sure it wasn't loaded, then picked up an oily cloth and wiped it as affectionately as a mother might clean a child's face. He leaned back against the desk, hefting the gun, sighting along the barrels. "I had this pair of guns made in London, before the last war," he said. "They were made by an outfit called Purdey, in South Audley Street-famous people; you'll hear about them one of these days. I guess it took a man a year to make these guns, not counting the engraving, which I've always thought exquisite. The stocks are burled walnut; the weight is perfect. You'll be as tall as me, so they'll fit you one of these days before long." He held out the gun. "Take it," he said. "I'll leave you the other one in my will."

James stepped forward and reached slowly for the beautiful thing, half-expecting it to be snatched away at the last moment. He stood, holding it awkwardly in front of him. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"That gun doesn't need babying," Angus said gravely, "but don't abuse it. Use it well. Don't hurt yourself or anybody else."

"Yes, sir," James said, looking wonderingly at the weapon.

"It's worth a lot of money these days, but don't ever sell it. If you take care of it, your son will get good use of it, and his son, too." Angus opened a cupboard and took out a sheepskin sleeve and a mahogany box. He took the gun from the boy, dropped it into the sleeve, and handed it back with the box. "Some cleaning things. Purdey made those, too." Angus looked at the boy, and his eyes seemed to water. "You take this gift with my affection, James," he said.

"Thank you, Mister Angus," James said. "I'll always take the best care of it."

"I know you will," Angus replied. "Now, go on out of here and shoot some birds with it." James turned and walked slowly from the room with his treasure. At the bottom of the front steps of the house, he almost started to run, but willed himself to walk slowly. Then he remembered the gelding. He tucked the shotgun under an arm, held the cleaning kit in one hand, and, with the other, took the reins and led the horse toward the stables. He had not yet reached the corner of the house before he began to cry.

Angus Drummond watched the boy from the window until he was out of sight; then he sat down at his desk, blew his nose noisily, unscrewed the cap from his Parker pen, and, in long, looping strokes that belied his age, started to write his will.

Liz 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 cafe-a-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.