In this shirt and some British-looking, almost-white, linen pants, he went out to meet the carriage that was picking him up at four o'clock. The conveyance that pulled up to the carriage block in front of the inn caused a murmur of admiration among the guests on the porch. A glossy-coated horse, quite unlike the nags pulling cabs-for-hire, was harnessed to a handsome buggy of varnished wood and leather.
The driver in green livery with an apple logo stepped down and said, "Mr. Qwillum, sir?" He pointed to the passenger seat on the left, then sprang nimbly into the seat behind the reins. He was a young version of the gaunt old islanders who drove the hacks.
As the carriage started up West Beach Road, Qwilleran remarked that it was a nice day.
"Ay-uh," said the driver.
"What's your name?"
"Henry."
"Nice horse."
"Ay-uh."
"What's his name?"
"Skip."
"Do you think we'll have any rain?" It was a brilliant day, with not a cloud in the sky.
"Might."
At The Pines, the carriage rolled through an open gate and past a gatehouse of considerable size, then to the rear of the main lodge. It stopped at a carriage block on the edge of a stone-paved courtyard. Beyond were acres of flawless lawn, a swimming pool with a high-dive board, and a croquet green, where white-clad youths were screaming epithets and swinging mallets at each other. In the foreground was a grassy terrace with verdigris iron furniture and a scattering of adults in the same croquet white. They looked clinical, compared to Qwilleran's mellow nonwhiteness.
One of the men came forward toward him. "Mr, Qwilleran? I'm Elizabeth's brother, Richard. We met last Thursday for about three seconds. We're grateful for your help in the emergency."
"I'm grateful there was a doctor in the house," Qwilleran replied pleasantly. "How is the patient?"
"Right over there, waiting to thank you personally." He waved a hand toward a chaise longue, where a young woman reclined. She wore a flowing garment of some rusty hue, and long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was looking eagerly in their direction.
The two men started toward her but were intercepted by an older woman—buxom, regally handsome, and dramatically poised like an opera diva on stage. Gliding forward with outstretched hand, she said in a powerful contralto, "Mr. Qwilleran, I'm Rowena Appelhardt. Welcome to The Pines."
"My pleasure," he murmured courteously but cooly. As a journalist Down Below and abroad, he had been everywhere and seen everything, and he was not awed by the vastness of the estate. Rather, it seemed to be the Appelhardts who were awed. Had they made a quick background check and discovered his Klingenschoen connection and bachelor status? He became warily reserved.
The matriarch introduced the family: Richard was genuinely cordial; William smiled continually and was eager to talk; their wives sparkled with friendliness. Qwilleran suspected the queen mother had briefed them. She herself was an effusive hostess. Only Jack hung back, his face handsome in a bored and dissipated way. Finally there was the undernourished, unmarried daughter. She made a move to rise from her chaise.
"Stay where you are, Elizabeth," her mother admonished. "You must avoid exertion."
"Mother—" Richard began, but she stopped him with a glance.
Soulfully, the patient said, "I'm so grateful to you, Mr. Qwilleran." She extended her left hand; her right wrist was bandaged. "What would have happened to me if you hadn't been there?"
She had that loving look that women are said to bestow on their rescuers, and he kept his tone brusquely impersonal. "Fortunate coincidence, Ms. Appelhardt," he said.
"It was karma. And please call me Elizabeth. I don't remember what happened after that frightening moment."
"You were only minutes away from home; your brother was waiting with the golf cart; and you were choppered off the island by the Moose County sheriff."
"I love your shirt," she said, scoring several points.
Tea was served, and the conversation became general. The servers were two young men in green seersucker coats—island types but meticulously trained. There was tea with milk or lemon, and there was pound cake. This was no garden party with peacocks and memorable refreshments; this was a simple family tea with seven adult Appelhardts, while the younger members of the family squabbled on the croquet court.
"Richard," came the deep voice of authority, "must my grandchildren behave like savages while we are having tea with a distinguished visitor?"
Her son sent one of the seersucker coats to the croquet green, and the fracas ended abruptly.
"Do you play croquet, Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked.
Mallets, wire wickets, and wooden balls interested him as much as dominoes. "No, but I'm curious about the game. What is the major attraction?"
