Strangers In Paradise

by Heather Graham

  They had been great lovers, she knew, according to family legend and some documented fact. Eugenia's father had been a rich Baltimore merchant, but she had defied him to marry Pierre Brandywine, a Southern sea captain. They had eloped and run away to Jamaica to honeymoon, even as the conflicts between the states had simmered and exploded. In 1859, Pierre had brought Eugenia to the Brandywine house on the peninsula and carried her over the threshold of his creation.

  Alexi studied her great-great-great-grandfather's handsome features and deep blue eyes. He seemed to be looking at her with grave concentration. Alexi smiled. "I don't believe you haunt this place, Pierre. And truly, if you did, you would surely never hurt me! Flesh and blood and all that, Pierre!"

  She looked over at the picture of Eugenia. She loved that picture. She must have been such a sweet and gentle woman, so lovely, so fragile--and so very strong. She had been here alone with one maid and an infant through much of the war.

  "I suppose I can deal with a night's solitude," Alexi told the portraits dryly. She turned around, squaring her shoulders, and left the ballroom. The poor kittens. She really had to forget her problems and her fears and feed the little things.

  To her annoyance, she paused in the kitchen again. Now she could have sworn that she had heard a board creak on the staircase in the hallway. She hesitated a long moment, swearing silently that she was a fool; then she rushed back out to the hallway again. There was no one there.

  She went into the kitchen and didn't hesitate for a second. She went straight to the cellar doorway, threw it open and started down the stairs.

  She was about five steps from the cellar floor when the room was suddenly pitched into total darkness.

  And even as she stood there, fear rushing upon her as cold and icy as a winter's storm, she heard a sound on the steps behind her. A definite sound. She wasn't imagining things, nor was it a ghostly tread. Someone was in the room with her. She turned, a scream upon her lips, determined to defend herself. But she never had a chance. Something crashed against her nape, hard and sure. Stars appeared before her momentarily in the darkness; then she pitched forward, falling the last few steps to land upon the cold stone floor below.

  Rex kept the gas pedal close to the floor. He was going way too fast in the Maserati, he knew, but tonight it felt good. He'd felt so hot in the house, so hot and tense, and had been winding tighter and tighter, until he felt he might explode.

  What the hell was the matter with him? He'd known she didn't really belong on the peninsula. He'd known she'd come to the place looking for a safe harbor, a place to lick her wounds, a place to stand up on her own two feet. He'd helped her to do that. Yeah. He'd helped her. And it was nothing to feel bitter about; he was glad.

  He had to be. He loved her.

  He just hadn't realized, not really, that she would be leaving. That she came from another world. A busy world of schedules, of ten-hour days. Hell, she had the face that could launch a thousand ships, right? She enjoyed her work, all right--she'd run from John Vinto, not the work. She was beautiful; the world had a right to her.

  "Wrong, Samson, wrong," Rex sighed.

  Samson, his nose out the window, barked.

  He didn't want to share her. Ever again. Maybe that was selfish. He wanted her forever and forever. On the peninsula with him. With her hair down and barefoot and no makeup and--hell, yes!--barefoot and pregnant and together with him in their little Eden. He hadn't thought that he'd ever want to marry again. To take that chance, make that commitment. But nothing from the past mattered. It was all unimportant. Because he loved Alexi.

  She didn't intend to stay. He'd known that. He'd known it, but it was a painful blow....

  And that was nowhere near the worst of it, Rex reminded himself. He glanced at the road sign and saw that he was south of Jacksonville; and he'd been gone about thirty minutes. He was making good time.

  John Vinto.

  He scowled thinking of the name. His fingers tightened fiercely around the steering wheel, and the world was covered in a sudden shade of red. He'd like to take his hands and wind them around the guy's neck and squeeze and squeeze....

  "You won't touch her again, Vinto--I swear it!" he muttered aloud. Samson turned around, panting and whining, trying to get his big haunches into the little bucket seat. He licked Rex's hand.

  "I sound like a lunatic, huh?" Rex asked the dog. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, reminded himself that he'd never met the guy; he'd never even seen him, except on the covers of the gossip rags. Still, the guy had problems. Anyone who behaved the way he had with Alexi had problems. Were those problems severe enough for him to be playing a game of nerves with her now?

  He glanced at the sign he was passing. St. Augustine was just ahead. Rex drove on by the main road, heading south. At last he came to the turnoff he wanted and slowed considerably, watching for the small lettering that would warn him he was coming closer and closer to the Pines.

  He pulled beneath an arcade. A handsomely uniformed young man came to take the car, greeting Rex by name. Rex returned the salute, asking how Mr. Brandywine had been doing.

  "Spry as an old fox, if you ask me!" the valet told Rex. "You just watch, Mr. Morrow--he'll outlive the lot of us!" Rex laughed and asked the valet if he'd mind giving Samson a run, then entered the elegant lobby of the Pines home. It didn't appear in the least like a nursing home-- more like a very elegant hotel. Rex went to the front desk and asked for Gene, and the pretty young receptionist called his room. A moment later she told him that Mr. Brandy-wine was delighted to hear that he was there. "Go on up, Mr. Morrow. You know the way."

  Gene's place was on the eighteenth floor. He had one of the most glorious views of the beaches and the Atlantic that Rex had ever seen. The balcony was a site of contemporary beauty, with a built-in wet bar and steel mesh chairs. Rex found Gene there.

  "Rex! Glad to see you, boy. Didn't know you were coming!"

  Rex embraced Gene Brandywine. He was a head taller and pounds heavier than the slim, elderly man, but Gene would have expected no less. With real pleasure he patted Rex on the back, then stood away, looking him over.

  "I've missed you, Rex." He winked, taking a seat after he'd made them both a Scotch and water. "But I've been hoping that you've still been keeping an eye on that ornery great-granddaughter of mine."

  Rex lowered his head, sipping quietly at his drink. "Uh...yeah, I've been keeping an eye on her."

  "A good eye, I take it?"

  Something about his tone of voice caused Rex to raise his head. Gene hadn't lost a hair on his old head, Rex thought affectionately. It was whiter than snow, but it was all there. And his face was crinkled like used tissue at Christmas, but he was still one hell of a good-looking old man, with his sharp, bright, all-seeing, all-knowing blue eyes.

  "Why, you old coot!" Rex charged him. "Seems to me you planned it that way, didn't you?"

  Gene waved a hand in the air. “Planned? Now, how can any man do that, boy? You tell me. I kind of hoped that the two of you might hit it off. You didn't know what a good woman was anymore, Morrow. And she needed real bad to know that there was still some strength and character... and tenderness...in the world. You're going to marry her, I take it?"

  Rex choked on his Scotch, coughing to clear his throat as Gene patted him on the back.

  "Gene...we've only known each other a few weeks."

  "Don't take much, boy. Why, I knew my Molly just a day before I knew she was the one and only woman in the world for me. We Brandywines are like that. We know real quick where the heart lies."

  Rex straightened, twirling his glass idly in his hands. "Gene, I'm out here because I'm kind of worried about her. A couple of strange things have happened."

  "Strange?"

  "Nothing serious. Alexi has thought that she's heard footsteps now and then. And we were watched one night at a restaurant. Then tonight..."

  "Tonight what? Don't do this to me, Rex. Spit it all out, boy!"

  "John Vinto calle
d her. He said he wanted to see her."

  "And?"

  "And I snatched the phone out of her hand. I talked to him myself. I said that he should leave her alone, and that if he didn't he'd have to deal with me."

  Gene didn't say anything for a long time. He studied the ice floating in his glass. "Good!" he said at last.

  Rex watched him, perplexed. "Gene?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you think that this guy could be really dangerous?"

  Gene inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I don't know. I wanted her down here badly when this stuff first hit. I don't know exactly what happened--" He paused, giving Rex a shrewd assessment. "Her mother didn't even know, but I'm willing to bet you're in on more than we were. Still, I know Alexi pretty good. She's always been kind of my favorite-- an old man's prerogative. I know he hurt her. I know he scared her, and I was glad in a way that she stood up to him to finish off that campaign. But I never did like Vinto. Smart, handsome, slick--and cruel. There's not a hell of a lot that I would put past the man."

  Rex looked down at his hands. His knuckles were taut and white. He forced himself to loosen his grip on the glass.

  He stood and set it down on an elegant little coffee table. "I'm going to get back to her, Gene."

  "You do that, Rex. I think you should."

  "When are you coming out for a visit?"

  "Soon. Real soon. I was trying to give Alexi a chance to finish something she wanted to get done."

  "The window seat in the kitchen," Rex said. "The carpenters were there today. It's all finished up."

  "Then I'll be by soon," Gene promised. He shook Rex's hand. "Thanks for coming out. And thanks for being there. I love that girl. I'd be the cavalier for her myself, but I'm just a bit old for the job." He shook his head. "Strange things, huh? You make sure that you stay right with her."

  Rex nodded. He hesitated at the doorway. "Gene, you don't think there's any other reason that strange things could be happening out there, do you?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  Rex considered, then shrugged. "I don't know. I've been there years myself--and I've never had anything happen before."

  "Pierre isn't haunting the place, if that's what you mean," Gene assured him. Rex thought his eyes looked a little rheumy as he reminisced. "Eugenia always said he was the most gallant gentleman she ever did know. She outlived him for fifty years, and never did look at another man. No, Pierre Brandywine just isn't the type to be haunting his own great-great-great-granddaughter."

  Rex smiled. "I didn't really think that Pierre could be haunting the house. I was just wondering..."

  "There's nothing strange about that house. I lived there for years and years!" Gene insisted.

  "I was thinking about Pierre's 'treasure.'"

  "Confederate bills. Worthless."

  "Yeah, I suppose you're right." Rex offered Gene his hand. They shook, old friends.

  "See you soon."

  "It's a promise," Gene agreed. Rex stepped out. "It's a good thing I know you're living with her!" Gene called to Rex. "This is an old heart, you know! Not real good with surprises."

  Rex paused, then smiled slowly and waved.

  Downstairs he picked up his car, thanked the valet, whistled for Samson--and, as he headed back northward, felt ten times lighter in spirit. So Gene had planned it all, that old fox.

  Whatever "it" was. All Rex knew was that he wasn't going to give it all up quite so easily. Not only that, but she needed him, and he sure as hell intended to be there for her.

  He drove even faster going back. It should have taken at least two hours, but he made it in less than an hour and a half, whistling as he drove onto the peninsula and approached the house.

  His whistle faded on the breeze as he pulled in front of the Brandywine house. Samson panted and whined unhappily. Rex stared, freezing as a whisper of fear snaked its way down his spine.

  The house was in total darkness.

  Interlude

  July 3, 1863 Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  He wasn't even supposed to be there.

  As a lieutenant general in the cavalry, Pierre served under Jeb Stuart. But, returning from his leave of absence, he'd been assigned to Longstreet's division, under Lee. They'd been heading up farther north--toward Harris-burg--but one of the bigwigs had seen in the paper that there were shoes to be had in Gettysburg, and before long the Yanks were coming in from one side and the rebs were pouring in from the other. The first day had gone okay-- if one could consider thousands of bodies okay--as a stalemate. Even the second day. But here it was July 3, and the Old Man--Lee--was saying that they were desperate, and desperate times called for some bold and desperate actions.

  Pierre, unmounted, was commanding a small force under a temperamental young general called Picket. A. P. Hill was complaining loudly; Longstreet--with more respect for Lee--was taking the situation quietly.

  It was suicide. Pierre knew it before they ever started the charge down into the enemy lines. Pure, raw suicide.

  But he was an officer and a Southern gentleman. Hell, Jeb had said time and time again that they were the last of the cavaliers.

  And so, when the charge was sounded, Pierre raised his sword high. The powder was already thick and black; enemy cannon fire cut them down where they stood, where they moved, and still they pressed onward. He smelled the smoke. He smelled the charred flesh and heard the screams of his fellows, along with the deadly pulse of the drums and the sweet music of the piper.

  He could no longer see where he was going. The air was black around him. It burned when he inhaled.

  "Onward, boys! Onward! There's been no retreat called!" he ordered.

  He led them--to their deaths. His eyes filled with tears that had nothing to do with the black powder. He knew he was going to die.

  Fernandina Beach, Florida

  Eugenia screamed.

  Mary, startled from her task of stirring the boiling lye for soap, dropped her huge wooden spoon and streaked out to the lawn, where Eugenia had been hanging fresh-washed sheets beneath the summer sun. She was doubled over then, hands clasped to her belly, in some ungodly pain.

  "Miz Eugenia!" Mary put her arms around her mistress, desperately anxious. Maybe it was the baby, coming long before its time. And here they were, so far from anywhere, when they would need help.

  "Miz Eugenia, let me get you to the porch. Water, I'll fetch some water, ma'am, and be right back--"

  Eugenia straightened. She stared out toward the ocean seeing nothing. She shook her head. "I'm all right, Mar

  "The baby--"

  "The baby is fine."

  "Then--"

  "He's dead, Mary."

  "Miz Eugenia--"

  Eugenia shook off Mary's touch. "He's dead, Mary, I tell you."

  "Come to the porch, ma'am. That sun's gettin' to you, girl!"

  Eugenia shook her head again. "Watch Gene for me, please."

  "But where--?"

  Eugenia did not look back. She walked to the trail of pines where she had last seen her love when he had come to her. She came to the shore of the beach he had so loved. Where he had first brought her. Where they had first made love upon the sand and he had teased her so fiercely about her Northern inhibitions. She remembered his face when he had laughed, and she remembered the sapphire-blue intensity and beauty of his eyes when he had risen above her in passion.

  She sank to the sand and wept.

  Grapeshot.

  It caught him in the gut, and it was not clean, nor neat, nor merciful.

  He opened his eyes, and he could see a Yank surgeon looking down at him, and he knew from the man's eyes and he knew because he'd been living with it night and day for years that death had come for him and there was no denying it.

  "Water, General?"

  Pierre nodded. It didn't seem necessary to tell the Yank that he was a Lieutenant General. Not much of anything seemed necessary now.

  "I'm dying," he said flatly.

  The young Yank
ee surgeon looked at him unhappily. He knew when you could lie to a man and when you couldn't.

  "Yes, sir."

  Pierre closed his eyes. They must have given him some morphine. The Yanks still had the stuff. He didn't see powder anymore, and he didn't see black. The world was in fog, but it was a beautiful fog. A swirling place of mist and splendor. He could see Eugenia. He could see the long trail that led from the beach along the pines.

  She was running to him. He could see the fine and fragile lines of her beautiful face, and he could see her lips, curled in a smile of welcome. He lifted his hand to wave, and he ran....

  She was coming closer and closer to him. Soon he would reach out and touch the silk of her skin. He would wrap his arms around her and feel her woman's warmth as she kissed him....

  "General."

  Eugenia vanished into the mist. Pain slashed through his consciousness.

  He opened his eyes. The surgeon was gone. He had moved on to those who had a chance to live, Pierre knew. A young bugler stood before him. "Sir, is there any--?"

  Pierre could barely see; blood clouded his vision. He reached out to grab the boy's hand.

  "I need paper. Please."

  "Sir, I don't know that I can--"

  "Please. Please."

  The boy brought paper and a stub of lead. Pierre nearly screamed aloud when he tried to sit. Then the pain eased. His life was ebbing away.

  Eugenia, my love, my life,

  I cannot be with you, but I will always be with you. Love, for the children, do not forget the gold that is buried in the house. Use it to raise them well, love. And teach them that ours was once a glorious cause of dreamers, if an ill-fated and doomed one, too. Ever yours, Eugenia, in life and in death.

  Pierre

  He fell back. "Take this for me, boy, will you? Please. See that it gets to Eugenia Brandywine, Brandywine House, Fernandina Beach, Florida. Will you do it for me, boy?"

  "Yes, sir!" The young boy saluted promptly.

  Pierre fell back and closed his eyes. He prayed for the dream to come again. For the mist to come.