The Last Summer of the Camperdowns by Elizabeth Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

condolences to the family. When she intended sarcasm, she peeled the bark off trees.
    “Never you mind.”
    I couldn’t quite decide whether Gin spoke with a Southern accent or a British accent. In the end I decided it was a defeatist hybrid.
    “Ha!” My mother laughed. Her laugh sounded like mockery in any language.
    “What glorious secret?” I asked, unable to resist such a tantalizing tease despite my worry about the puppy and my exasperation with current company.
    “Gin’s not talking. He and Gula are in cahoots on some special project. I suspect it has something to do with a horse.”
    “You’ll see,” Gin said.
    She rumbled with impatience. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gin, what are you hiding? You act as if you’re planning to invade Turkey. You’ve been downright surreptitious since Gula arrived on the scene. There is something about this man that you aren’t telling me. Out with it—or perhaps you’re embarrassed. From what I’ve heard, he’s nothing more than a low-rent gigolo.”
    “Greer, that is a terrible way to talk about a man with such an unhappy past,” Gin said, looking instantly regretful for responding to her bait. If Gin had fins, he would have been one of those hapless fish that gets instantly hooked again the moment he’s thrown back into the water.
    My mother pounced. “What’s this? What unhappy past? Since when do you keep a confidence?” She looked over at me as if she suddenly remembered my presence. “It’s when your uncle Gin stops talking that he has something worthwhile to say,” she added confidentially. “Maybe Riddle’s instincts about Gula are right after all. She’s terrified of him.”
    I looked up sharply. “I am not,” I protested. Surely, Gin would recognize a compliment directed at me as the ultimate manipulation.
    “He’s got the thousand-yard stare, all right. Why wouldn’t he, with all he’s seen? The horror of war and all that sort of thing. Man at his worst et cetera, et cetera,” Gin said. “But look, Jimmy, the man is harmless. I would go so far as to say he has a gentle soul. He’s interesting, too, in his way. He takes a little knowing, that’s all. I wouldn’t have him around otherwise. My God, but he is an absolute magician with horses. I think he is quite brilliant, really I do.”
    “Enough!” My mother was impatient of any conversation that did not feature her at its epicenter. “Where did he come from? You’ve evaded and obfuscated forever. Time to tell, finally.”
    Gula’s professional and personal background was mysterious and malleable, highly changeable. I heard so many stories: that he had gone from being a stable boy at a number of European racetracks after the war to supervising the breeding program at a racing stable in Saudi Arabia for a member of the royal family.
    “He trained polo ponies for one of the Rothschilds!” Gin said. He was especially enamored of the Rothschild connection.
    “A Rothschild! Oh, my, you don’t say. Did he wear sunglasses to protect his eyes from the glare?” Greer’s contempt for others was not dependent on class or race. The whole world was her killing field. “I don’t care if he shoed horses for the Holy Ghost, however has he become such a fixture around here? He’s like some sort of Rasputin knockoff.”
    “First, Heathcliff, now Rasputin. Greer, you are positively melodramatic in your judgments about people. God knows how you describe me.”
    “Topo Gigio,” I said. “She calls you Topo Gigio.”
    “It’s a term of endearment,” my mother said, vibrating with annoyance, giving me a quick pinch, unmoved by Gin’s sharp, shocked exhalation of breath and my exclamation of pain.
    “Anyway, don’t change the subject. I swear you’re frightened by the man, though I can’t imagine why.” She glanced over at Gin, eyeing him peripherally.
    Gin was sputtering. “Now that is the most spectacular lie! Afraid! The idea! There’s no great mystery. Why must you make theater