Islands by Anne Rivers Siddons

Author:Anne Rivers Siddons [Anne Rivers Siddons]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9780061745317
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2004-01-09T13:00:00+00:00

The first Tuesday of the new year I was scheduled to fly to New Orleans for a consultation trip. I was still feeling shocked and bruised, almost physically, and did not want to go.

“Go on,” Lewis said. “It’ll help.”

So I made my plans.

The morning of the day I was to leave, Fairlie called me. The sound of her voice jolted me, as if she had spoken from the grave. But it was her normal voice, rich and slow, this time full of annoyance.

“I am so mad at Henry I could spit,” she said. “He’s going out of town tonight with those damned flying fuckers, and he’d promised me he’d take me to see Tosca at the Galliard. I’m going to run away from home. Want to come out to the island with me and spend a couple of nights? We could have a slumber party. Give each other Tonis and stuff.”

It was as if she had never murdered the Scrubs with one stroke.

“I’m going out of town, too,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as I could. “Sounds fun, though. Maybe Camilla would like to go.”

“No,” Fairlie said. “She said she had the flu. She sounded terrible.”

“Well, will you mind being alone out there? I’ve always loved it.”

“Actually, no,” she said. “It’ll be good for me. I can be as sour and awful as I want to. Maybe I’ll run naked on the beach. Maybe I’ll pee on the fire. Maybe I’ll eat worms.”

I laughed a little, because she sounded so like the old, non-murdering Fairlie, and because I could see her doing it all.

“Pee away,” I said. “See you when I get back.”

I called Camilla. Her voice was hoarse and nearly inaudible.

“Have you got the flu?” I asked. “Fairlie said you did.”

“Not really. Just laryngitis. I just didn’t much want to go out to the island with her.”

“Do you hate the thought of her being there? I do.”

“Of course not,” Camilla said. “It’s as much her house as it is mine. I just don’t feel like going.”

“Well,” I said, “take care of yourself. I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’ll come up.”

“Do,” she said. “I miss you when you go away.”

The meeting in New Orleans was interminable and largely unproductive, and to add insult to injury, my connecting flight out of Atlanta to Charleston was four hours late. It was nearly three in the morning when I pulled into our courtyard on Bull Street. The downstairs windows were lighted. I frowned. I had thought Lewis would be out at Edisto.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of untouched coffee in front of him. He was in his scrubs, and he looked ghastly, white-faced and hollow-cheeked. His eyes and nose were red, as if he had been crying.

“Oh, God, Lewis, what is it?” I cried softly, running to kneel beside him.

He took both my hands in his, and squeezed them so hard that I flinched. I knew he did not notice.

“Anny…,” he said, then his voice died.

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