Ron Rash - Serena

"Mr. Harris has been rather reticent on that matter," Serena said.

"True," Harris admitted, "but since I've now bought the adjacent hundred acres and own the creek all the way to its source, I can be more forthcoming."

"Surely you don't mean gold?" Calhoun said.

Harris drained his glass and smiled widely.

"Better than gold. Near Franklin they've found rubies you measure by the ounce. I've seen one myself big as an apple. Sapphires and amethysts as well. All found within forty miles of our Jackson County site."

"So your tract looks promising for similar finds?" Lowenstein asked.

"Actually," Harris said, reaching into his pocket, "more than promising."

Harris opened his hand in the manner of a magician showing a vanished coin, revealing instead a small silver snuff tin. Harris unscrewed the lid and poured the contents into his palm.

"What are they?" Lowenstein asked, peering at a dozen stones shaped and sized like teardrops, all the color of dried blood.

"Rubies," Harris said. "These are too small to be worth more than a few dollars, but you can bet there are more, especially since I found these in and around the creek."

"Washed downstream from a whole cache of them, you mean?" Calhoun asked.

"Exactly, and it's often only the smaller ones that do get washed down."

Harris poured the stones back into the snuff tin, then reached into his pocket again and took out another stone the same size as the others, though this one was violet.

"Amethyst," Harris said. "The damn thing was right by the farmhouse, if you can believe that. Rhodolite garnets all over the yard as well, a sure sign you're in the right place to find more of what I just showed you."

"Sapphires and rubies," Calhoun exclaimed. "It sounds like a veritable El Dorado."

"I would never have believed such riches could be in these hinterlands," Lowenstein said.

"It was evidently so hard to believe there was no use mentioning it before we signed the papers," Serena said. "Right, Harris?"

Harris laughed. "You've found me out, Mrs. Pemberton."

Serena turned to Pemberton.

"I'm sure Mr. Harris realizes that our contract does not allow him to begin his mining operations until the timber is cut."

"Indeed," Pemberton said. "We may decide certain sites should remain uncut a whole decade."

Harris' face sagged a moment, then reset into a craggy grimace.

"Damn if I shouldn't put a clamp on my tongue whenever I drink," Harris muttered. "I won't go more than ten percent."

Calhoun shook his head admiringly.

"Not many could outfox this old fox. I'd hold out for twenty percent, Mrs. Pemberton, really make him pay for his skullduggery."

"I doubt it matters," Serena replied. "These rubies, Harris, how far upstream did you find them?"

"Not far at all," Harris replied. "I'd barely got to the creek when I saw the first one."

"How far did you go that first day?" Serena said. "Up the creek I mean."

"A third of a mile, but I've been all the way to the springhead since. That's nearly a whole mile."

"But how far upstream did you find the rubies?"

"What are you getting at, Mrs. Pemberton?" Lowenstein asked.

"Not far," Harris said, and raised his nose slightly as if detecting the first whiff of an unpleasant odor.

"I would suspect within fifty yards of the farmhouse," Serena said.

You don't think," Harris stammered. "But the stones weren't cut or cleaned off. Most people wouldn't even have known they were rubies. There weren't any footprints, not even around the waterfall."

Harris didn't speak for a few moments. His blue eyes widened in understanding even as his head swayed back and forth, as if part of his body hoped yet to dissuade him of the truth.

"That son-of-a-bitch Kephart waded up that creek," Harris said, and raised the crystal tumbler in his hand, seemingly ready to fling it against the wall. "God damn them."

Harris swore his oath again, this time loud enough that several nearby couples looked his way. Serena's face remained placid, except for her eyes. Pemberton thought of Buchanan and Cheney, who'd received similar looks. Then, as if a shutter had fallen, Serena's self-control reasserted itself.

"I saw Webb in the billiard room," Harris said, his face coloring. "I'll have a few words with him this evening. I'll catch up with Kephart later."

Pemberton looked over at Calhoun, who appeared amused, and Lowenstein, who seemed unsure if he should be listening or easing away.

"Let's not dwell on old matters," Serena said, "especially when we have such promising new ventures before us."

Harris finished his drink, wiped a drop of the amber-colored whiskey from his moustache. He looked at Serena with unconcealed admiration.

"Would I have married a woman like you, Mrs. Pemberton, I'd be richer than J.P. Morgan now," Harris said, and turned to Lowenstein and Calhoun. "I haven't heard a word about this Brazil business, but if Mrs. Pemberton thinks it can be successful I'll buy in, and you'll do well to do likewise."

"We'll all talk tomorrow in Asheville," Calhoun said.

Lowenstein nodded in agreement.

"Good," Serena said.

The band began playing "The Love Nest," and several couples strolled hand in hand onto the dance floor. Harris' face suddenly soured when he saw Webb standing in the lobby.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'll have a word with that man."

"No fisticuffs, Harris," Calhoun said.

Harris nodded, not entirely convincingly, then left the room.

As the song ended, Cecil stepped onto the jazz band's podium and announced it was almost time for dinner.

"But first to the Chippendale Room to show you the Renoir," the host said, "newly reframed to better show its colours."

Mr. and Mrs. Cecil led the guests up the marble stairs and into the second floor's living hall. They passed a life-sized portrait of Cornelia, and Serena paused to examine the painting more closely. She shook her head slightly and turned to Pemberton, who lingered beside her as the others walked on.

"I cannot understand how she endured it."

"What?" Pemberton asked.

"So many hours of stillness."

The Pembertons moved down the wide hallway, passing a portrait of Frederick Olmsted and then a Currier & Ives print. Beneath them a burgundy carpet softened their footsteps as the passageway veered left into another row of rooms. In the third, they rejoined the Cecils and the other guests, who huddled around the Renoir.

"It is magnificent," a woman in a blue evening dress and pearls declared. "The darker frame does free the colors more, especially the blue and yellow on the scarf."

Several guests respectfully stepped back to allow an elderly white-haired man to approach. His feet moved with short rigid steps, in the manner of some mechanical toy, a likeness enhanced by the metal band around his head, its dangle of wires connecting the metal to a rubber earpiece. He took a pince-nez from his coat pocket and examined the painting carefully. Someone behind the Pembertons whispered he was a former curator at the National Gallery of Art.

"As pure an example of the French modernist style as we have in this country," the man proclaimed loudly, then stepped back.

Serena leaned close to Pemberton and spoke. Harris, who was close by, chuckled.

"And you, Mrs. Pemberton," Cecil said. "Do you also have an opinion on Renoir?"

Serena gazed at the painting as she spoke.

"He strikes me as a painter for those who know little about painting. I find him timid and sentimental, not unlike the Currier & Ives print in the other room."

Cecil's face colored. He turned to the former curator as if soliciting a rebuttal, but the old man's hearing device had evidently been unable to transmit the exchange.

"I see," Cecil said and clasped his hands before him. "Well, it's time for dinner, so let's make our way downstairs."