by Sandra Brown
He wasn’t afraid of death. To no one’s knowledge, save Maxine’s, he’d had several recent discussions with a priest. Rosemary had been a devout and practicing Catholic. He’d never converted, but he had absorbed some of her faith through osmosis. He firmly believed that they would enjoy the afterlife together.
He didn’t fear dying.
He did fear dying a fool.
That was the worry that had robbed him of sleep last night. Deeply troubled, he’d been unable to read the nighttime hours away. Morning had brought no relief from this pervasive uneasiness.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, that a revealing word or deed or demeanor that he would have detected when he was younger and sharper—five years ago, even one year ago—was escaping him.
Was this paranoia valid? Or a symptom of encroaching dementia?
Before his grandfather’s death, Daniel remembered him ranting about his nurse’s thievery. One day he accused her of being a German spy on a mission to assassinate U.S. war veterans. With the conviction of the mentally unhinged, he had claimed that the housekeeper was pregnant with his child. Nothing could convince him that the sixty-seven-year-old Englishwoman couldn’t possibly be with child.
Was that where he was headed? Was this obscure and unnamed disquiet the harbinger of full-blown senility?
Or—and this is what he chose to believe—was it an indication that he had lost none of his faculties, that he was as astute as ever, and that the intuitiveness that had successfully guided him through fifty years of publishing was still reliable?
Until they proved to be untrustworthy, he chose to trust his instincts. They were telling him that something wasn’t right. He sensed it as a stag senses the presence of a stalking hunter from a mile away.
Perhaps he was just overly troubled by Maris’s unhappiness. She wasn’t as good as she believed at concealing her feelings from him. He’d picked up signals of marital disharmony. The cause and severity of that disharmony he didn’t yet know. But if it was disharmonious enough to visibly disturb Maris, it disturbed him.
And then there was Noah. He wanted to trust the man both as a protégé and as a son-in-law, but only if Noah deserved his trust.
Grunting with the effort, Daniel brought his leather desk chair upright and opened a desk drawer. He withdrew his day planner and unzipped it, then removed a business card from one of the smaller compartments.
“William Sutherland,” the card read. No company name or address. Only that name and a telephone number engraved in crisp navy blue block letters.
Daniel thoughtfully fingered the card, as he often had since obtaining it several weeks ago. He hadn’t called the number. He hadn’t yet spoken to Mr. Sutherland personally, but after this morning’s ruminations, he felt that the time was right to do so.
It was a sneaky and underhanded thing to do. Merely thinking about it made him feel deceitful. No one ever need know, of course. Unless—God forbid—something came of it. Probably nothing would. Probably he was overreacting. But it wasn’t within his makeup to be careless. There was too much at stake to let twinges of guilt overshadow prudence. Given a choice between conscience and caution, there was no choice. The adage applied: Better to be safe than sorry.
As he reached for the telephone, he resolved to be more watchful, alert to nuances in speech and expressions, more attuned to what was going on around him. He didn’t want to be the last to know… anything.
He didn’t fear dying. But he did fear dying a fool.
* * *
“You should stay away from it. It’s ready to fall down,” Mike told Maris as he took a swipe at the mantel with a piece of fine sandpaper.
“If it’s that dilapidated, is it safe for Parker to go there alone?”
“Of course not. But try telling him that.”
“Mike…”
Sensing her hesitation, he turned toward her.
“Never mind,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to either you or Parker for me to ask.”
“About…?”
“His disability.”
“No, it wouldn’t be fair.”
She nodded, shook off the solemn mood, and asked, “How do I get there?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“I promise to run if it starts to fall down.”
“I wasn’t talking about the building. I meant you could be in danger from Parker. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I’ll take my chances. Is it close enough to walk?”
“Do you walk a lot in New York?”
“Every day, if the weather’s good.”
“Then it’s close enough to walk.”
After giving directions, he cautioned her once again. “He won’t like it when you show up.”
“Probably not,” she replied, laughing lightly.
She had spent all day indoors, reading until her eyes felt strained. It was good to get outside, although by no stretch of the imagination could this be referred to as “fresh air.” The heat was impossible, the humidity worse. The sunlight was glaring and relentless, but even shade offered little relief from the sweltering heat.
Still, the island was exotically beautiful, and the climate was essential to it. The live oak trees had an ancient, almost mystical dignity that was enhanced by the curly Spanish moss draping their limbs. The dense air smelled of salt water and fish, not altogether unpleasant when mingled with the intoxicating perfumes of the flowering plants that bloomed in profusion.
Maris passed a house that was set well back from the road. Children were playing in the yard. The boy and girl were young enough to dance around the lawn sprinkler without self-consciousness. They squealed in glee as they took turns leaping over the oscillating spray.
At another house, she spotted a large dog lying in the shade of a pickup truck. She crossed the road and watched him warily as she moved past, but she needn’t have worried. He raised his head, looked at her with disinterest, stood, stretched, made three tight circles in the dirt, then resumed his original spot and closed his eyes.
She met no cars on the road. Her only company were the cicadas that buzzed loudly but lazily under cover of the thick foliage.
The abandoned cotton gin was located right where Mike had said it would be, although if his directions hadn’t been so precise she might have missed it. The forest had reclaimed the structure. From some angles, it would have been totally camouflaged by the greenery that enfolded it.
To reach it from the road, one had to take a crushed-shell path. It wasn’t much of a path, however. Maris regarded it dubiously. It was no more than a yard wide, at most. Tall weeds grew on either side of it. Looking down at her bare ankles, she seriously considered passing up the gin in favor of the island’s other points of interest that Mike had recommended.
“ ’Fraidy-cat,” she muttered.
She looked around for a stick, and when she found one that was suitable, she started up the path, reaching far out in front of her to beat at the tall weeds. She wanted to alert any varmints, reptilian or otherwise, to her presence and give them an opportunity to relocate before she saw them.
Thankfully, she made it up the path without encountering any local fauna. She dropped her stick, dusted off her hands, and took a good look at the hulking building. It was, as Mike had described, a structure on the brink of collapse.
The wood was gray and weathered. The tin roof had been corroded by rust. Large patches of the exterior and part of the roof were covered by an impenetrable carpet of vines. One species bloomed bright purple flowers that seemed incompatible with the overall feeling of dilapidation and abandonment.
With misgiving, Maris approached the wide door that was standing open. The interior was even larger than indicated by the exterior. It was cavernous and dark inside, with only an occasional stripe of sunlight shining through a separation in the vertical wooden slats that formed the walls or a miniature spotlight cast on the dirt floor by a hole in the roof.
The rear half of the lower story was covered by a loft. The ceiling of the overhang was built of massive wood beams. A large wheel about ten feet in diameter was situated just beneath this ceiling and was connected to the dirt floor by a wood column as big around as a barrel. Maris had never seen anything like it.
She blinked to adjust her eyes to the gloom. “Hello?” Receiving no answer, she stepped inside and took a few hesitant steps forward. “Parker?” After a moment, she repeated, “Hello?”
“Here.”
She jumped and flattened her hand against her heart, coming about quickly. He was in a corner behind her, invisible except for one ray of sunlight coming through the roof and reflecting off the chrome of his chair.
Recovering, she asked crossly, “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Are you serious? All that thrashing? You’d never make it as an Indian brave.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“How’d you get here?”
“Walked. How’d you get here?”
“How do I get everywhere?”
“You can roll your chair along that path?”
“I manage.”
He remained where he was, but she could feel him looking at her and realized that she must appear only a silhouette against the square of light behind her. She advanced farther inside but only a few steps.
“Where’d you get the clothes?”
She glanced down at her casual skirt, shirt, and sandals as though she’d never seen them before. It was an outfit she usually took to their country house for a summer weekend of cookouts and antique shopping. She’d packed it herself in New York just two days ago, but it seemed much longer ago than that and much farther away.
“Mike arranged for my suitcase to be picked up at the hotel and sent over. He went to the dock and met the boat.”
“He’s gone dotty.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s got a crush on you.”
“He’s just being nice.”
“We’ve had this conversation already.”
They had. She didn’t want to repeat it. The last time, it had ended… She didn’t want to think about how it had ended.
A silence ensued. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, but she could still barely see him where he remained in the deep shadows of the corner. To fill the awkward silence, she said, “This is a picturesque building.”
“Which you accidentally happened upon?”
“Mike gave me directions.”
“Mike talks too much.”
“Not that much. He gives away none of your secrets.”
“Until a few minutes ago this building was my secret. I come here to be alone.”
She ignored the implication that he didn’t welcome her company and took a look around. The dirt floor was littered with animal droppings and trash. At one time, someone had built a fire. Traces of ash and charred wood were still scattered about. A staircase attached to one wall led up to the second level, but many of the steps were missing, and those that remained appeared incapable of supporting anything heavier than a beetle. All in all, it was a spooky old place, especially the rear portion with its low overhang and antiquated industrial apparatus that looked to her like something an evil giant might use to physically torture an enemy giant. She couldn’t imagine why Parker chose to spend time here.
“What’s its history?”
“Do you know anything about cotton?”
Cheekily she quoted a popular TV commercial. “ ‘It’s the fabric of our lives.’ ”
To her surprise, Parker laughed. A real laugh, not that scornful sound that usually served as his laugh. Taking advantage of this rarity, she added, “It’s also useful when it comes to removing nail polish.”
His laughter subsided, making the resulting silence even more noticeable. Then he said gruffly, “Come here.”
Chapter 11
Parker waited out her hesitation. He didn’t repeat the request, figuring she would call his implied dare, and she did. After a moment or two of consideration, she carefully picked her way across the distance separating them.
Her hair had been gathered into a makeshift ponytail that subtracted at least five years from her appearance. Her white shirt was tied in a knot at her waist. Her khaki skirt was short enough to show a couple inches of thigh. Smooth, shapely thighs that invited libidinous speculation.
“When this gin was first built,” he said, “three sides of it were left open. The machinery was animal-powered.”
“Animal-powered?”
“Follow me.”
He wheeled toward the back of the building. As she followed him beneath the overhang, she reflexively ducked her head, causing him to smile. She had cleared the low, spider-infested ceiling, but not by much.
“I’ve never had that problem myself,” he said. He then pointed to the faint ring in the hard-packed earth. “If you look closely, you can see a circular depression there in the dirt. That’s the path worn by the mules that turned the drive wheel that powered the gin stand.”
“Up there?”
“Right. When cotton was king, it was brought here by the wagonload. Long-strand sea island cotton. High grade. Silky in texture and more easily separated from its seeds than other varieties.”
“Therefore very desirable.”
He nodded. “And the island’s sandy soil was ideal for growing it. It was unloaded onto a platform outside and carried up to the second floor, where the gin separated the fiber from the seeds.
“The lint was then blown out, collected, and carried to an outdoor screw press, which was also mule-powered. Once it was pressed into bales, they were bagged and hauled cross-island to the dock for transport to the cotton exchanges on the mainland.”
“It sounds very labor-intensive.”
“You’re right. From the time a cotton seed was planted in early spring until the last bale of the crop was shipped out, the process took a year.”
“Was this the only gin on the island?”
“Right again. One planter, one gin, one family. The family that built my house. They had a monopoly that made them rich until the whole market collapsed. They tried to switch to oyster canning, which was being done on other sea islands, but they didn’t know anything about it, went completely broke within a year, and cleared out.”
“So this structure more or less chronicles the island’s history.”
“Nineteenth century history for sure,” he said. “It’s documented that in 1878 a little girl, a child of a worker, walked behind one of the mules turning the screw press outside. The ornery animal kicked her in the head. She died two days later. Her father put down the mule, execution-style. The details of what he did to the carcass are gruesome. A duel between feuding brothers is also recorded. They shot and killed each other in 1855.
“Then there’s a romantic myth about the love affair between a white overseer and a beautiful slave woman. It’s told that their affair was looked upon with such vicious disfavor that they were cast off the island in a small boat. It’s said they were bound for Charleston, but folks watching their departure through spyglasses reported that they saw them capsize and perish, which many thought was a befitting punishment.
“However, years later, a colony of mulattos was discovered living peacefully on another sea island previously thought to be uninhabited. These people were believed to be the descendants of the mixed couple and the survivors of a shipwrecked slave ship. They were an incredibly handsome clan. Some had skin the color of café au lait and eyes as green as jade.
“A visiting French nobleman, who was deep-sea fishing in the area, sought refuge from a storm on their island. While he was there, one of the nubile young ladies caught his eye and captured his heart. They married and he took all her family back to France with him. Where they lived happ’ly ever after.”
Maris drew in a long, slow breath. “You tell good stories, Parker.”
“It’s a fable. Probably untrue.”
“It’s still a
good story.”
“So you’re a romantic?”
“Unabashed.” She smiled, then said, “You know a lot about the gin. Was your family in the cotton business?”
“I think my great-granddaddy picked it by hand during the Depression. But so did just about every able-bodied person in the South. Women, children, blacks, whites, all struggling to survive. Hunger doesn’t discriminate.”
“What did your father do?”
“Physician. Family practice. The gamut. From delivering babies to lancing boils.”
“Is he retired?”
He shook his head. “He couldn’t break a forty-year habit, and he couldn’t heal himself when lung cancer caught up with him. He died long before he should have.”
“And your mother?”
“Outlived him twelve years. She died several years ago. And before you ask, I’m an only child.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
After registering momentary surprise that he knew that, she said, “Oh. The article.”
“Yeah.”
Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were lying against her nape. The wheat-colored strands appeared slightly damp and curled from the humidity. He caught himself staring at them.
He looked away to clear his vision. “Yeah, that article was chock-full of information about you, your father, and your husband. What’s he like?”
“Very robust. Especially for a man of seventy-eight.”
“I meant your husband. Is he also very robust?”
“We agreed not to ask any personal questions.”
“That’s personal? What don’t you want me to know about your husband?”
“Nothing. It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I followed you here to talk about Envy.”
“Want to sit down?”
Apparently confused by his sudden shift of topic, she shook her head. “There’s nowhere to sit.” She glanced at the beams overhead. “Besides, it’s creepy under here.”