The Short Forever Page 5

  Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.

  “Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”

  “Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Matilda Stone.”

  “You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “I sold one last year for a very nice price. Do you have any of her work?”

  “I have four pictures,” he said. “And I think they are among her best.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to sell them?”

  “No. They’re in my house in New York—well, one is in the Connecticut house—and I like them there. I’ll never sell them.”

  “I understand. Are you interested in buying more of her work, if I should come across some things?”

  “Yes, of course, if I can afford them.”

  “I’ll let you know.” She stopped talking and concentrated on her driving.

  Stone was relieved.

  An hour and a half later, after a confusion of back roads and odd turns, they drove through an impressive gate and followed a winding road planted with trees that formed a tunnel. They emerged in a large circle of gravel before a limestone Georgian mansion that had been cleaned to within an inch of its existence.

  “Wow,” Stone said.

  “Yes, it’s like that, isn’t it?”

  He was barely out of the car before Sarah came bounding down the stairs to give him a hug and a kiss, holding the hug longer than Stone thought an engaged woman should. She held him at arm’s length and looked at him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “Hello, Monica.” This over her shoulder. Sarah took Stone’s arm and led him through the front door, leaving Monica to follow.

  10

  THEY ENTERED A GRAND HALLWAY containing a broad staircase to the second floor. The walls all the way to the ceiling were hung with paintings, portraits—no doubt of ancestors—and English landscapes.

  “This is glorious,” Stone said.

  “Wait until you see the rest of the house,” Sarah said; “it’s taken years for Mummy and Daddy to restore it.”

  A houseman appeared, loaded with luggage.

  “Miss Burroughs is in Willow, and Mr. Barrington is in Oak,” she said to the man. She turned back to Stone. “The guest rooms are all named for trees; there are twelve of them. There had been fifteen, but we used three of them to make room for private baths for all the guests.” She led him to their right. “The drawing room is here.” She pushed open a door to reveal a huge room furnished with many sofas and chairs. “It’s perfect for entertaining.” She led him across the hall and opened another door. “This is the library,” she said. “We have the books of seven generations collected here, and most of them have been rebound.”

  Stone stood and stared. The room was paneled in walnut, and a spiral staircase led to an upper level that bordered the huge room. It smelled of leather and old cigar smoke. “Very beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

  “Come, I’ll show you your rooms.” Sarah led the way upstairs and down a hallway to the end. “You have the corner room, overlooking the Solent,” she said. “Monica, you’re there,” she said, pointing to a door across the hall. She opened the door to Oak, and Stone stepped into a large bedroom furnished with a four-poster bed, a chesterfield sofa, and a couple of commodious reading chairs, all very masculine. She led him to the window. “There is the Solent, in all its glory,” she said, “and that land on the other side is the Isle of Wight. Well, I expect you’d like to freshen up. Drinks are in the drawing room at six, and dinner will be at eight. We’re not dressing tonight; a lounge suit will do.” She gave him a big kiss on the lips and disappeared.

  Stone watched her go, then stepped across the hall and knocked on the door of Willow.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door and walked into a feminine counterpart of his own room, all chintz and lace. Monica was unpacking.

  “We seem to have separate rooms,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s how it’s done at English house parties,” she said. “They consider it more fun to tiptoe up and down the halls after lights out. Do you like your room?”

  “Very much. You must see it.”

  She came and put her arms around his neck. “I expect to, late tonight,” she said. “I’ll do the tiptoeing.” She kissed him.

  When Stone got back to his room, his clothes had been upacked and put away by some invisible servant. He sat in an armchair by the window, picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the table next to it, and began to read.

  At a quarter past six, Stone rapped on Monica’s door and walked her down to the drawing room. There were at least twenty people in the room, ranging from their twenties to their fifties. He was surprised to see, among them, Erica and Lance, who waved from across the room. “You didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said to Monica.

  “Didn’t I? I meant to, I think.”

  Sarah came over, leading a tall man in the most severely cut English suit Stone had ever seen. “Stone, this is James Cutler,” she said. “James, I’ve told you about Stone.”

  “Yes, you have,” James said through a clenched smile.

  “I’m very glad to meet you, James,” Stone said.

  Sarah’s parents appeared, her father portly, with a complexion that suggested the regular and copious imbibing of port, and her mother a faded blonde with what Stone thought was an exaggerated accent. They were both gracious and moved on when they had done their social duty.

  A butler inquired of Stone’s and Monica’s wishes in drinks, then brought them. Stone had asked for Scotch, thinking they probably wouldn’t have bourbon, and he found it dark and smoky, obviously a single malt. Monica took him through the room, introducing him to everybody. Apparently, the Burroughs sisters, Lance, and Stone were the only Americans present.

  At dinner, Stone was seated between Sarah and her mother, while Monica was relegated to the other end of the very long table. Stone counted thirty diners. The dining room had a high ceiling and much gilt. They had hardly sat down, when someone’s cellphone rang, and a brief hush fell over the table. Lance stood up, blushing, and left the room. A moment later Stone saw him outside the window on the back lawn, pacing up and down in the long English twilight, gesticulating. He wondered what had so upset Lance. When he returned to the table he looked unhappy for a moment, then managed a smile as he resumed his seat.

  “I hate those damned things,” Lady Wight said, stabbing at something on her plate. “Only an American would bring one in to dinner.”

  “Mother, not all Americans are so gauche,” Sarah said, nodding at Stone.

  “Oh, of course not, Stone,” her mother said. “So very sorry.”

  She didn’t sound sorry, Stone thought.

  After dinner, the men left the women at the table and repaired to the library for port and cigars. Stone passed on the cigar but accepted the port with pleasure. He had not drunk enough vintage port in his life to suit him.

  Lance wandered over. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Very well,” Stone replied. “Business call at dinner?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Lance said, flushing, apparently still angry with whoever had called him. “You know about Wight, of course.”

  “Not much.”

  “He’s lucky not to be in prison. An office building he put up collapsed last year, fortunately in the middle of the night, so no one was killed. The incident prompted an inspection of a dozen of his buildings, and it was discovered that a lot of corners had been cut. Cost the old boy a packet of money and a bad bruise on his reputation. I think he was relieved when inheriting the title allowed him to change his name.”

  “Mmmm,” Stone replied, not wanting to comment.

  Half an hour later, the ladies joined them, and everyone talked until past eleven, when people b
egan to drift upstairs to bed.

  Stone had just switched off the light and was settling in when the door opened and someone entered. A moment later, she was in bed with him, her hands searching and finding what she wanted. Stone joined in enthusiastically, and after a few minutes they both came noisily, then collapsed. He was half asleep when she left the bed and went back to her room. Just as well, he thought, since he was exhausted and needed sleep.

  He had just drifted off when she returned to his bed, snuggling up to him.

  “What?” he said sleepily.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Monica said, throwing a leg over his.

  Stone sat straight up in bed. “How long has it been?” he asked.

  “I don’t know; three-quarters of an hour, I suppose. I had a bath.”

  Stone fell back onto the bed, realizing what had happened. “Monica,” he said, “you’re going to have to forgive me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Oh, surely I can bring you around,” she said, feeling for him.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said grumpily, and went back to her room.

  Stone, before he drifted off again, had the momentary feeling that he was a character in a Feydeau farce.

  11

  STONE SLEPT LATER THAN HE INTENDED and was still struggling with the time difference. When he came downstairs for breakfast, nearly everyone had finished. He scraped the last of the scrambled eggs from a silver serving dish and grabbed some bacon and toast.

  He found a leather chair in the library and settled into it. As he started on the eggs, Sarah and her fiancé, James, appeared before him. He struggled to get to his feet, but Sarah motioned him back into his chair.

  “And how are you this fine morning?” she asked, smiling broadly. “I hope you were very comfortable in your bed last night.” She winked, while James looked on, sure that something was going on, but without a clue what.

  Stone choked down a big bite of eggs. “Yes, sure,” he managed to say without spraying her with food.

  “I was certainly very comfortable in bed,” Sarah added unnecessarily.

  “Good,” Stone said. “What’s up for the day?”

  “Oh, you’re coming sailing with James and me,” she replied, taking James’s arm in a proprietary way. “James is just learning to sail.”

  James nodded, clearly her prisoner.

  “Great; what time?” Stone asked, longing to return to his eggs before they got any colder.

  “Five minutes,” she said. “We’ll meet in the mud room and get you some gear.”

  “Great,” Stone replied, returning to his eggs. They wandered away.

  Monica appeared with two cups of coffee and sat down on the rug at his feet. “Good morning,” she said. “I hope you’re feeling better rested today.” Her voice dripped with meaning.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m sorry about last night,” he said, accepting the coffee and setting it on a small table beside him. “It must be the jet lag.”

  “We’re going sailing shortly,” she said.

  “I heard.” He was shoveling in breakfast as fast as he could. He set down his plate and picked up the coffee. Black. He hated coffee without sugar, but he forced himself.

  “I do hope you won’t wear yourself out too much today,” Monica said, archly. “Perhaps a nap in the afternoon?”

  Outfitted with a slicker and a pair of rubber sailing boots, Stone climbed into a Range Rover with Monica, Sarah and her James, and Lance and Erica. Sarah drove like a madwoman, tearing down a narrow, winding track until she skidded to a stop at a dock, where a yacht of forty feet or so lay waiting on a pretty river.

  “This is the Beaulieu River,” Sarah said over her shoulder to Stone. She pronounced it “Bewley.” “Up there a ways is the village of Beaulieu, and the other way is the Solent.”

  Everyone climbed aboard, Sarah started the engine, and there was much scrambling with lines and sails. As Sarah motored down the Beaulieu, Stone began hoisting, first the mainsail, then a medium genoa, assisted by James, who clearly didn’t know what he was doing and didn’t seem to be getting the hang of it. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the river into the Solent.

  Sarah set a course to the east, and Stone trimmed the sails. “Anybody else on this boat know anything about sailing?” he asked.

  They all shook their heads as one person.

  “Swell,” he muttered under his breath.

  The sky was a mix of blue and clouds, and they beat into a stiff breeze of close to twenty knots. Stone zipped up his slicker and wished he had a hat. What with the breeze, it was chilly. They sailed up the Solent, Sarah pointing out the sights, until they were abreast of a town and harbor to starboard.

  “That’s Cowes,” she said, “England’s capital of yachting; maybe Europe’s.”

  Everyone looked glumly at Cowes. Sarah seemed to be the only person really enjoying herself.

  Stone thought it wasn’t too bad. Then Sarah bore away, and he had to let out the sails to go downwind. Off the wind, headed west again, the breeze seemed to diminish, and everyone was more comfortable, even though the yacht was rolling enthusiastically. James climbed out of the cockpit, knelt at the rail, and tossed his breakfast into the Solent. He seemed to feel better then, and he went and stood on the afterdeck behind Sarah, holding onto the backstay to steady himself.

  Stone began to enjoy the sail. He hadn’t been on a yacht since his trip to St. Marks some years before, and he had never sailed in England.

  “Have you done much sailing?” Monica asked.

  “At summer camp as a kid,” Stone replied. “And I spent three summers in Maine, as a hand on a yacht. We did a lot of racing up there.” He looked up at the mainsail and saw a slight curl as the wind flirted with it. They were sailing dead downwind, and the boom was fully extended.

  Stone leaned over and said quietly to Sarah, “You’ll be sailing her by the lee in a minute, if you’re not careful. You don’t want to gybe her.”

  “I know what I’m doing, darling,” Sarah shot back. Then, as if to prove that she didn’t, she gave the wheel a slight turn, and the rear edge of the mainsail began to flap.

  “Watch it,” Stone said, trying not to reach for the wheel to correct her, and then it happened, and fast. The wind got behind the mainsail, and the yacht gybed. The boom whipped across the deck, catching James on the side of the head and catapulting him overboard. He disappeared into the water.

  “Christ!” Sarah yelled, fighting the helm. “Gybing back!” She put the helm over.

  It took Stone less than a second to think: Never go after a man overboard; then you’ll have two men overboard, and nobody on this yacht can sail, except Sarah. Then Stone stood up, yelled to Sarah, “Stop the yacht!” grabbed a horseshoe buoy from the stern, and jumped into the water.

  The water was colder than he expected. Pushing the buoy ahead of him, Stone kicked his way toward the spot where James had gone under. He shucked off the slicker and took a moment to get rid of his rubber boots, which had filled with water. Moving faster now, he reached what he thought might be the spot where James had gone down. He dove under, feeling, looking, seeing nothing but greenish water. Again and again he dove, until he had no breath left. He came to the surface and looked around him. No sign of James, and the buoy had blown away from him. He treaded water and looked for the yacht. She was lying abeam to the seas, two hundred yards away, her genoa aback and the main flapping free.

  He got his second wind and started diving again, and it quickly became apparent that his actions were futile. He was very cold and tired now, the yacht was a long way off, and he didn’t know if he could swim that far. He began to try.

  He swam slowly, his arms heavy with fatigue. Lance was taking the genoa down on the yacht, and someone, probably Monica, was lying on top of it, trying to keep it from blowing overboard. He thought he heard the engine start. He hoped to God he
heard right.

  Suddenly, he was only fifty yards from the yacht, and it was headed toward him. Sarah brought the boat to a halt when he was abeam of the helm. “Switch off the engine,” he called out weakly. He didn’t want to get chewed up by the prop.

  Somebody tossed him the other horseshoe buoy, and he grabbed it gratefully. Lance was reaching out to him, grabbing at his clothes.

  It took Lance, Monica, and Sarah to haul him aboard, and he wasn’t much help. He lay in the cockpit, shivering and gasping for breath.

  “Did you see him?” Sarah asked, oddly calm.

  Stone shook his head. “He’s gone.”

  12

  STONE WOKE SLOWLY. THE ROOM WAS dark, but faint daylight showed around the edges of the heavy curtains. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. Then there was a knocking at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, as loudly as he could, struggling into a sitting position.

  The door opened, and Lance Cabot walked in. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Morning?”

  “You’ve been asleep since we got you back to the house.”

  “Then it’s tomorrow?”

  “It’s today; the, ah . . . accident happened yesterday. How do you feel?”

  Stone got a pillow behind him and leaned back against the headboard. “Dull,” he said. “I think I’ll probably ache a lot when I start moving around.”

  “The police were here yesterday, but the Wights wouldn’t let them near you. They were very concerned about your health. The local doctor came, but you showed no signs of waking up, so he said just to let you sleep it off.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine. Why don’t you come down and have some breakfast? All the guests left yesterday, except you, Erica, Monica, and me. We’re all witnesses.”

  Stone nodded.

  “There’s going to be an inquest tomorrow morning. The locals hurried it up so they could get it done while we’re all here, so we’re staying over another night.”