Аллен Стил - Arkwright

Before the service ended, the pastor announced that a private reception—“for family members and close friends only, please”—would be held at the deceased’s residence. Only those who’d received invitations would be allowed to attend; another reception for members of the public would be held that afternoon at the local library.

Kate hadn’t received an invitation, so it appeared that she’d be having fruit punch and cookies with Hak Tallus look-alikes if she decided not to drive home at once. The prospect wasn’t particularly appealing. She’d just risen from her seat, though, when Mr. Sterling handed her an engraved invitation. Directions were printed on the back, just in case she’d forgotten how to get there.

Kate was still indecisive about going to the private reception; it was a three-hour drive from Lenox to Cambridge, probably longer now that it was leaf-peeping season and the Mass Pike was jammed with tour buses. But as she followed Mr. Sterling and the three old people up the aisle, the woman stopped and turned to her.

“You’re Kate, yes?” She offered a hand. “I’m Margaret Krough, your grandfather’s literary agent.”

“Oh, yes.” Kate recognized her name from the acknowledgments pages of Grandpapa’s books. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Krough.”

“Maggie.” A faint, almost enigmatic smile. “This is Harry”—she gestured to the man in the wheelchair—“and George.” The tall man nodded, favoring her with an elfin grin. “Will you be at the reception?”

“Umm…”

“Please come. I’d like to have a little chat with you.” Maggie turned back to Harry and George, who waited for her with the polite impatience of the elderly. “All right, gentlemen,” she said, “let’s be off.”

Mr. Sterling continued pushing the wheelchair, but not before Harry raised a gnarled fist. “Forward the Legion!” he exclaimed.

The others laughed out loud. Kate had no idea what was so funny.

Nathan Arkwright’s home was located just outside Lenox on a twenty-acre spread at the foot of the mountains. It was a sprawling, single-story manor built in a ’70s-modernistic style that was sort of a cross between traditional New England saltbox and midwestern ranch house, with cedar siding and a steep, slate-shingle roof. Once past a front gate marked with a No Trespassing—Private Property sign, Kate followed the gravel driveway as it wound through maple-shaded meadows glowing with autumn wildflowers until she reached a circular turnaround surrounding an abstract iron sculpture.

Several cars were already parked off to the side of the driveway, and she’d barely pulled into the turnaround when a valet in a black windbreaker walked out to open the door for her and ask for the keys. She watched her eight-year-old Subaru with missing hubcaps go away to be parked next to a Lexus and a BMW and knew at once that she was the poor relation both literally and figuratively.

Mr. Sterling had already returned from the services. He met her in the front hall just as he had many years ago, yet this time he was friendlier, addressing her as Kate instead of Ms. Morressy as he hung up her overcoat in the foyer. He led her to the living room and had a tuxedoed caterer offer her a champagne flute and then excused himself.

The living room was large and broad, with a high ceiling and tall cathedral windows looking out upon the Berkshires. Modernist butcher-block furniture surrounded a circular central fireplace; upon oak-paneled walls were framed cover paintings from Grandpapa’s books—the better ones by Emshwiller, Freas, and Whelan. The obligatory vanity bookcase contained multiple editions of his novels and collections in several languages, crowned by an acrylic cube: the Grand Master Nebula he’d received from the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America a few years after he’d unofficially retired from the field.

The house looked like a million bucks. Kate had little doubt that it had probably cost that much too. The Galaxy Patrol had made its creator a wealthy man.

Drink in hand, Kate strolled through the room, surrounded by people and yet alone. Aside from the distant cousins she’d briefly met at the funeral, she knew no one. It was likely that many of those here were editors and publishing executives who’d come up from New York, while others might be fellow authors; she wasn’t part of that world, though, so none of their faces were familiar. Kate was Nathan Arkwright’s granddaughter, but the truth of the matter was that—aside from all his books and stories—she’d barely known him at all.

Drink your champagne and go home, she said to herself. You’ve fulfilled your family obligation. No one will even notice that you’ve left.

“Kate?”

Turning around, she found Margaret Krough standing beside her. The old lady had approached her so quietly that she hadn’t seen her grandfather’s agent until she spoke her name. “Ms. Krough.”

“As I said, it’s Maggie.” Again, the same direct gaze, with emerald eyes unfaded by age. “So glad you made it. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Yes, well…” Kate fiddled with the glass in her hand, her drink still untasted. “Just dropping by, really. I’ve got a long drive home and—”

“Oh no! Not yet. I’d really like to have a word with you, and so would George and Harry.” Maggie took her by the hand. “Come this way, please … where we can talk in private.”

For a woman in her eighties, Maggie was surprisingly spry. Walking quickly, she led Kate across the room, and as she did, Kate noticed how many eyes turned their way. Margaret Krough was plainly a figure of respect among this crowd. A small, birdlike man whose suit that probably cost more than Kate made in a month swooped in upon them, but Maggie frosted him with a tight, drop-dead-thank-you smile and moved on before he could do more than open his mouth.

“Who was that?” Kate murmured.

“One of Nat’s publishers. Probably wants to renegotiate. I’ll deal with him later.” Maggie opened a door beside a baby grand piano and ushered Kate inside. “Come, dear.”

Maggie closed the door behind them and turned the deadbolt lock. Kate hadn’t been in this room since she was a little girl. It was her grandfather’s office. Amid oak bookcases, a glass display shelf holding globes of Earth, the Moon, and Mars, and an antique brass telescope stood an L-shaped desk, the older-model IBM computer resting upon it surrounded by untidy stacks of paper. The windows faced the mountains, but the curtains were shut; the only light came from floor lamps beside the frayed leather armchairs and a couch that looked as if he’d regularly used it for naps. The magician’s den.

George stood before the shelf, idly inspecting the Mars globe. Harry sat in his wheelchair, leafing through the papers on the desk. Kate had once been spanked for doing just that, during the only Christmas get-together she and her parents had ever attended, but Harry didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed to be caught in the act.

“Looking for an idea to steal?” Maggie asked, her tone playfully scolding.

Harry made a rude sound with his lips. “You kidding? He stole his best ideas from me.”

“So you’ve always said.” George turned away from the globes and picked up the drink he’d left on an end table. “You’re just jealous he … well, never mind. Hello, Ms. Morressy. So happy you’ve come. I’m just sorry we haven’t met until now.”

“No, we haven’t. But I’ve never met any of Grandpapa’s friends, so I guess that figures.” The two men were strangers to her but obviously old acquaintances of her grandfather’s. “Maggie told me your names, but I don’t—”

“Harry Skinner,” Harry said. “One of Nat’s colleagues. We got started at the same time.” A wry smile as he carefully returned some typewritten pages to their place on the desk. “I seldom wrote under my own name, though. Most readers know me as Matt Brown.”