Выбрать главу

"What about Pemberton. It's his birthday we're here to celebrate. He should have his fortune told."

"Yes," Serena said. "Pemberton should go next. I even have the perfect question for him."

"And what is that, my dear?" Pemberton asked.

"Ask her how you'll die."

Mrs. Salvatore let out a soft oh, her eyes shifting between her husband and the door, which she appeared ready to flee through. Lowenstein took his wife's hand, his brow furrowed. He seemed about to say something, but Serena spoke first.

"Go ahead, Pemberton. For our guests' amusement."

Salvatore rose in his seat.

"Perhaps it's time for us to take leave and return to Asheville," he said, but Pemberton raised his hand and gestured for him to sit down.

"Very well," Pemberton said, raising his tumbler and giving his guests a reassuring grin. "But I'll finish my dram of liquor first. A man should have a drink in his hand when he confronts his demise."

"Well put," Calhoun said, "a man who understands how to meet his fate, with a belly full of good scotch."

The others smiled at Calhoun's remark, including Salvatore, who eased back into his chair. Pemberton emptied his tumbler and set it down forcefully enough that Mrs. Salvatore flinched.

"So how will I die, Mrs. Galloway?" Pemberton asked, his words beginning to slur. "Will it be a gunshot? Perhaps a knife?"

Galloway, who'd been gazing out the window, now fixed his eyes on his mother.

"A rope's more likely for a scoundrel like you, Pemberton," Calhoun said, eliciting chuckles all around.

The old woman turned her head in Pemberton's direction.

"No gun nor knife," she answered. "Nor rope around your neck."

"That's a relief," Pemberton said.

Except for the Salvatores, the guests laughed politely.

"What killed my father was his liver," Pemberton said.

"It ain't to be your liver," Mrs. Galloway said.

"So what, pray tell, is the thing that will kill me?"

"They ain't one thing can kill a man like you," Mrs. Galloway answered, and pushed back her chair.

Galloway helped his mother to her feet, and at that moment Pemberton realized it was all a jape. The others realized also as Mrs. Galloway took her son's arm and made her slow clatter across the room and disappeared into the darkened hallway. Pemberton raised his tumbler toward Serena.

"Splendid answer, and the best any man could hope for," he said. "A toast to my wife, who can play a rusty with the best of them."

Pemberton looked down the table's length and smiled at Serena as the others laughed and clapped. The alcohol made everyone else in the room hazy to Pemberton, but somehow not Serena. If anything, she appeared brighter, the dress vivid and shimmering. Evergreen. The word came to him now though he could not say why. He remembered the touch of his lips on the pale bareness of her neck and wished the guests hours gone. If they were, he wouldn't wait but would lift Serena onto the table and undress her on the Chestnut's heartwood. For a few moments, he thought of doing it anyway and giving Mrs. Salvatore a real case of the vapors.

All raised their glasses and drank. Calhoun, who'd drunk almost as much as Pemberton, wiped a dribble of scotch from his chin before pouring himself another drink.

"I must admit," Mrs. Calhoun said, "that from the way she put on there were a few moments I almost believed the old woman could see the future."

"She played her role well," her husband agreed. "Never a hint of a smile the whole time."

Pemberton lifted his watch from his pocket and opened the case with no attempt to hide his purpose. The watch hands wavered like compass needles, causing Pemberton to raise the watch closer to his face.

"It's been a wonderful evening," he said, "but it's time for our revelry to end if you're to be at the station when the Asheville train leaves."

"But you must open your present first," Serena said. "Galloway can call the depot in Waynesville and have them hold the train."

Serena lifted a long cylinder-shaped cardboard box from under the table. She passed the box to Pemberton and he opened the flap, slowly removed a rifle. Pemberton placed his hands under the stock and set the weapon before him so the others could see.

"A Winchester 1895," Serena said, "albeit a more personalized one, as you can see from the wood and gold trigger and plating. And the scrollwork, of course. In the Rockies it's the weapon of choice for hunting mountain lions."

Pemberton picked up the rifle and ran his hand over the wood's glossed finish.

"I know about this gun," he said. "It's the one Roosevelt called 'Big Medicine.'"

"Too bad Teddy didn't use it on himself," Calhoun said.

"Yes, but who knows," Pemberton said, raising the rifle toward the window and feigning disappointment when he squeezed the trigger and there was only a click. "Perhaps that cousin of his will show up, and I'll take a shot at him."

Pemberton handed the rifle to Mr. Salvatore. The gift slowly circled the table, the women passing it with palms underneath as if a platter, except for Mrs. De Man, who like the men jostled the rifle in her hands, nodding appreciatively at the gun's heft and sturdiness.

"The scrollwork, Mrs. Pemberton," Mr. Lowenstein said. "It's beautifully done, but I don't recognize the depiction."

"The shield of Achilles."

"Such a gun would do good service in Quebec with our brown bears," Mrs. De Man noted as she passed the rifle to her husband.

Pemberton filled his tumbler again, sloshing scotch onto the table as he poured. When the rifle was passed back to him, he leaned it against the table.

"I'll kill my mountain lion first," Pemberton boasted, "then a jaguar."

"Brazil," Lowenstein mused. "What an adventure for the two of you."

"Indeed," Calhoun said. "Forests enough for a lifetime and plenty left over."

Pemberton raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

"Give us a lifetime and Mrs. Pemberton and I will cut down every tree, not just in Brazil but in the world."

The words inside Pemberton's head were luminous enough, but he knew that he'd tried to say too much. Vowels and consonants had dragged and halted like gears that wouldn't mesh, the words hopelessly slurred.

Salvatore nodded at his wife and stood.

"We should be going now. Our train back to Chicago leaves rather early in the morning."