The Gladstone Bag by Charlotte MacLeod Read Free Book Online Page B

I’ll see you all in the main house at six o’clock. I believe that’s the customary gathering time, Vincent?”
    “That’s how we’ve always done it. Drinks at six, dinner at seven. You manage that satchel all right, Mrs. Kelling?”
    “Oh yes. It doesn’t weigh anything to speak of. Thank you, Vincent.”
    Emma climbed the path feeling much happier now that she’d met her major domo. This was a lovely path, edged with old railroad ties, springy with inches of fallen pine needles. Flat stepping stones had been set in wherever they’d be helpful; everything was casual and natural and nicely maintained.
    If there was any real treasure on this island, she decided, it must surely be Vincent. Was that his first or his last name? No matter, it was evidently what he was used to being called by the Sabines. Far be it from her to attempt any innovation in what might well be the last season this long-established ménage would ever see. Emma felt a twinge of melancholy at the prospect of its dissolution.
    Once she got inside the house, though, she began to change her mind. Everything in the vast living room was in exquisite order, everything was commodious and comfortable, everything was right for its setting and function. Big jars of garden flowers and new light green pine tassels had been placed here and there by somebody with an eye for effect, or somebody who knew where similar arrangements had always gone. But it was old, not antique old or shabby old, just old and tired and ready to go, like its owner. No wonder Adelaide had not been sorry to miss coming again; there’d been too many years of sameness here. If the place were Emma’s, she’d be tempted to tear it down and start again from the beginning.
    But here came a youngster, she couldn’t be more than fourteen or so, with a peeling nose and a hairdo inspired by Medusa. She wore a screaming yellow sweatshirt with a Smurf on the front, the inevitable blue jeans, and a smile that was pure glory.
    “Hi, Mrs. Kelling, I’m Sandy. Come on up and I’ll show you your room. You’ll love it! This your first time on the island? Can I get you a cup of tea or anything? Want me to help you unpack?”
    Emma said no, she’d been here once many years ago; yes, she’d like some tea; and it would be kind of Sandy to help her unpack, not that she couldn’t have managed by herself but because Sandy so obviously burned to be helpful. She let Sandy take the Gladstone bag and followed her upstairs.

FIVE
    E MMA HAD NO DIFFICULTY in sharing Sandy’s enthusiasm for the room she’d been allotted. It was exactly the right size, neither barny nor coopy, all white walls, green wicker, and faded chintz. No painted board floors and rag rugs at the Sabines’, of course; a couple of mellow Kirman rugs would do well enough to take the chill off the parquet. Sandy opened the big windows, letting in the smell of the ocean. The old-fashioned, painted wire screens blurred the view a trifle; nonetheless, it was magnificent.
    Her window looked out over the path she’d come up, the dock, and the great wide sweep of the Atlantic. Nothing between her and Spain, or was it France? Very nice either way. However, Emma went over and shut the windows all but a crack. The air had a clammy feel, as it always does on small islands. She was relieved to notice an efficient-looking electric radiator strategically placed to the left of a deep-cushioned spring rocker that had a sensible-size lamp table drawn up beside it.
    This would be a comfortable refuge from that weary perfection downstairs, she thought. She must sort out some books to bring up here. She was wondering whether a more efficient arrangement of the furniture might be worked out when Sandy bounded back with a charmingly arranged and amply supplied tea tray.
    “Ah, good,” she said. “That was quick, my dear.” No earthly use in treating this radiant creature like a servant, she’d simply pretend Sandy was a temporary