"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 coatsisland 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?"
"Bonking," said Jack, entering the conversation for the first time. "It's more than a matter of knocking a ball through a wicket. You hit your ball so that it sends your opponent's ball off the field. That's bonking. It takes practice. You can also bop your ball over your opponent's ball, blocking his path to the wicket."
"Jack is a sadistic bonker," said William's wife as if it were a compliment.
"It's changed from a harmless pastime to a strategic sport," William said. "It requires deliberation, like chess, but you're limited to forty-five seconds to make a shot."
Richard talked fondly about his Jack Russells, three well-behaved dogs who mingled with the family and never barked, jumped, or sniffed.
Mrs. Appelhardt asked prying questions, skillfully disguised, about Qwilleran's career, lifestyle, and hobbies, which he answered with equally skillful evasion.
Elizabeth was quiet but looked at him all the time.
Then William said, "How did you like that carriage we sent for you? My hobby is restoring antique vehicles."
"It's a beauty!" Qwilleran said in all honesty.
"It's Elizabeth's favoritea physician's phaeton, so-called because of the hood design. It's deeper and has side panels, the idea being that physicians had to call on patients in all kinds of weather. In fact, this type of vehicle became the badge of the profession, along with the little black leather bag."
"How many carriages have you restored?"
"About two dozen. Most are at our farm in Illinois. There are five here. Would you like to see them?" To his mother, William said, "Do you mind if I show Mr. Qwilleran the carriage barn?"
"Don't keep him away from us too long!" she cautioned with a coy smile. The corners of her mouth turned down when she smiled, making emotion ambiguous.
He was glad to get away from the chatter of the tea table. "This will be highly educational," he said to the eldest brother. "I don't know anything about America's wheels prior to Henry Ford."
"Wheels built the country," William said. "There were carriage makers everywhere, always improving and innovating. In the early 1900s, there were dozens of models shown in the Sears Roebuck catalogue."
"How do you bring them to the island?"
"Disassembledon my boat. To restore a vehicle you have to take it apart completely in order to strip and sand the wood parts. It takes hours of sanding to make a finish that looks like glass."
The physician's phaeton stood in the courtyard with empty shafts resting on the pavement. Two other four-wheelers were inside the barn, one of them enameled in glossy yellow with black striping and a fringed canopy.
"We use the surrey to drive to the club for lunch or dinner," William said. "The red wagon is for a pack of kids. I personally like the two-wheeled cartslight and easy to drive and safe. You can make a sudden turn without upsetting. If you ever turned over in a carriage with a frightened horse fighting to get free, you'd know why I stress the safety factor. Here ... sit in this one."
Qwilleran climbed into a bright green dogcart with carriage lanterns and seats perched high over a box intended for hunting dogs.
"Do you think you might get interested in driving?" William asked. "There's a driving club in Lockmaster and driving competitions. Are you anywhere near Lock-master?"
"Yes. Good horse country. I'd like to sit down with you and a tape recorder some day and do an interview," Qwilleran said. "This is good material for my newspaper."
William hesitated. "I'd like that, but ... it's like this: Mother is adamant about avoiding publicity. I wish we could, but no way!"
"How did you learn this craft?"
"Believe it or not, our steward was my mentor, beginning when I was a kid. He's an islander and a rustic Renaissance manno formal education, but he can do anything. He taught us kids how to drive, sail, fish, hunt"
"I'm doing a series on islanders for my column," Qwilleran said, "and he sounds like a good character study."
"I'm afraid'Mother would never okay it. Other families would try to get him away from us. Sorry to have to say that."
They started walking back to the terrace, and Qwiileran asked him how much time he spent on the island. "I personally? No more than I have to. There's a limit to the amount of croquet a sane person can play, as someone once said."
"Dorothy Parker, but not in those exact words. How do you feel about the new resort development?"
"It's inevitable, if you want my personal opinion. That's the way our country is going. Mother is vastly unhappy, of course. She wants the islanders to file a class-action suit against the resort, and she'll cover the legal tees, but it's a lost cause, and attorneys avoid lost causes. The courts have ruled again and again that the owner of property can use it in any way that's not illegal."
As they returned to the terrace, he said to Qwilleran, "Talking to you has been a distinct pleasure. If you ever get down to the Chicago area, I'd like to show you the vehicles on my farm." They both looked up in surprise; Elizabeth had dared to rise from her chaise and was approaching them.
She said, "I forgot to thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, for finding the things I lost on the trail."
"I couldn't help noticing the entries in your book. You must be a botanist."
"Just an amateur. I'm fascinated by plant life. Would you like to see the herb garden I've planted?"
Qwilleran appreciated herbs in omelettes, but that was -as far as his interest extended. Nevertheless, he acquiesced, and she asked her mother for permission to take him away from the party.
The queen mother said, "Promise not to tire yourself, Elizabeth."
On the way to the herb garden near the kitchen door, Qwilleran might be said to amble while the amateur botanist wafted in her long flowing robe. "Herbs thrive in the island sun and air," she said.
He stared blankly at two wooden tubs, a stone planter, and some large, clay pots, holding plants of various sizes, shapes, and colors. Finally he ventured, "What are they?"
She pointed out sage, rosemary, sweet basil, mint, lemon balm, chives, dill, and more, explaining, "There's something mysterious about herbs. For centuries they've been used for healing, and when they're used in food, something lovely happens to your senses."