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Charleston was a city of many different faces; it ranged from gorgeous white beaches to
cobblestoned streets, where flower vendors and basket-weavers plied their trade; from
two-hundred year old homes to modern skyscrapers. Palm trees and crepe myrtle mingled
naturally in this city once called Charles Town.
“Looking for the cannons?” Hawke teased as he saw Siri glancing out toward the ocean.
“I’ll make time to carry you out to Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie while we’re here.”
“I’d like that,” she said enthusiastically. “Can I fire off a cannon?”
“I don’t think the city fathers would like that,” he replied.
She sighed. “I never get to have any fun.”
The family estate was called Graystone, and once they followed the winding, flower-
laced driveway up to the main house, she understood why. The house was built from pale
gray stone in a Gothic design, with a soaring portico and columns placed in pairs on
either side. A balcony curved over the portico, with black wrought-iron railings, and
fourth floor over-portico windows completing the Gothic styling. It was a large house, but
not massive like some of the residences they’d passed going through the city. It was
impressive without being gaudy.
For Siri, as she stepped out of the car and looked around at the neatly kept grounds, at the
massive oaks with their beards of Spanish moss, at the river beyond the garden, there was
a sense of belonging. It was strangely like coming home after a long absence. And when
she turned and met Hawke’s intent gaze, the feeling was complete.
The three of them were introduced to Mr. Simms’ wife, Mary, who’d kept house at
Graystone ever since Mr. Hawke was a lad. She was a buxom woman with gray hair
neatly coiled at the back of her head, and Siri had a feeling that she could set a table like
no one else.
As they climbed the steps to the wide, immaculately scrubbed portico, Siri noted the big
rocking chairs and settees that lined the walls. In the distance, the soft watery sound of the
river could be heard along with the swish of the tree limbs touching and the mingled
birdsongs. It was like something out of another world; a bower of peace in the world full
of turmoil.
“Oh, Hawke, it’s heaven,” she murmured as they went into the house behind the Hallers.
“It can be lonely,” he remarked quietly.
She met his dark eyes. “Any place can be.”
Hawke gave them a grand tour, and Siri was flooded with impressions of an elliptical
stairway, curved walls, rounded banisters of pure mahogany, and large paintings of
previous owners of the house.
“Graysons have lived here for over 200 years,” Kitty told Siri, as they followed along
behind the men. “In Hawke’s den, there’s a portrait of the first owner, with a bayonet tear
in the center of it. They say a Union soldier used it for target practice when federal troops
camped here during the Civil War.”
“You and Randy have been here before, haven’t you?” Siri asked.
“It was a long time ago,” Kitty replied softly, and Siri knew somehow that it had been
when Hawke’s mother died.
When the luggage was arranged in their rooms, and they’d had a light lunch, they got the
tour of the farm. Hawke walked beside Siri, his arm brushing against hers as they first
went to the big barn, where a prize polled Hereford bull pranced proudly in a paddock
surrounded by a white fence.
“Gray’s Fancy,” Hawke mused, gesturing toward the huge animal. “The pride of my
stock, and he knows it. He’s sired five champions already.”
Siri cocked her blond head at him. “He does have a macho look about him,” she
observed.
“You’d have the same look if you carried the price tag he does.” Randy laughed. “That’s
a very expensive ton of beef.”
“Don’t say that,” Kitty cautioned, “you’ll hurt his feelings!”
The next stop was the spacious stretch of green pasture where the polled Hereford main
herd dotted the countryside with their red and white coats. Siri leaned back against the
white rail fence and watched them moving lazily back and forth against a horizon of trees.
“The farm covered two counties over a century and a half ago,” Hawke told her, while he
smoked a cigarette. “Now there are barely a thousand acres left. We raise a few crops, but
cattle are our main interest.”
Siri gazed up at him. “You haven’t been here in a long time, have you?” she asked, so
softly that the Hallers, who were several yards away, wouldn’t hear.
He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “No,” he said finally, “I haven’t wanted to
come near the place until now.”
“Could we see the gardens? I got a glimpse of them…”
“Come on.” He caught her elbow and turned her with him, calling to the Hallers to join
them.
The gardens were on the banks of the Ashley River, amid towering magnolia and
expansive oak trees with curling lavender-gray strands of Spanish moss trailing down
from their lofty branches. The mixing of colors was perfect; the white and pink of the
hydrangeas, the violet crepe myrtle, the white snowball bushes, and the pale purple
wisteria hanging like grape flowers. It was enough to take an artist’s breath away.
“You should see it in the spring,” Kitty sighed, “when the magnolias are blooming along
with the dogwoods and rose bushes. It’s a symphony of color.”
“It must be lovely,” Siri murmured, her eyes on the lazy current of the river as it wound
through the cypress trees at its banks. “What a lovely place to have a picnic.”
Hawke turned on his heel, his face taut. “We’d better be getting back. I’ve got some calls
to make about a temporary overseer.”
Siri hung behind with Kitty. She knew that Hawke was remembering happier times by
the river—maybe picnics he’d shared with Nita in his younger days. She felt a twinge of
envy at the thought of how much he must have loved Nita.
Hawke found two possible replacements for his ailing manager before sundown, leaving
the interviews to do the next day.
The four of them sat down to a seafood supper that Hawke swore was Mary’s crowning
accomplishment—stuffed crab and lobster tails. It was the best Siri could remember ever [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]