Bermuda Schwartz Read Free

it?”
    â€œBefore you left, he predicted that everything was going to turn bad.”
    â€œNo, he did not,” I say. “I remember exactly what he told me. And what he told me was, ‘It will not be quite so easy as you expect, Zachary.’”
    Barbara makes a gesture with her hands and her shoulders that says, “So, there.”
    â€œNo, no. That is not a prediction,” I say. “That is horse flop. Because nothing is ever quite so easy as anyone expects. And just because Boggy says it doesn’t mean he’s clued into the future more than anyone else.”
    Barbara does this thing with her eyebrows that says: “You’re wasting your breath, pal.”
    Boggy lowers his hands, opens his eyes. He returns the stones to the pouch, the pouch to the bag.
    When he turns to face us, he is smiling. Peculiar, since Boggy is generally pretty miserly with emotions and his smiles are rare indeed.
    He says, “That which is planted here will grow strong.”
    Then he picks up his bag and walks toward the terminal.
    As we follow him, Barbara says, “Now that wasn’t so goddamn gloomy, was it?”
    â€œJust more mumbo-jumbo,” I say.

3
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    As promised, the Bismarcks are waiting in the backyard of Aunt Trula’s house when we arrive.
    It is some kind of house—a three-story Georgian affair with more rooms than I’ll probably have a chance to see during the two weeks we plan to stay here.
    And it is some kind of backyard—the length of a football field from the rear of the house to the bluffs overlooking the beach.
    The whole place is called Cutfoot Estate. I figure there must once have been a Lord Cutfoot or an Admiral Cutfoot or a Rich Somebody Cutfoot who originally owned the property. I figure wrong.
    â€œNamed after Cutfoot Bay,” explains Aunt Trula, with a nod to the ocean. “The rocks down there are quite vicious, like razors. They make the beach rather difficult to walk on.”
    After a pair of butlers haul away our bags—I am pretty sure we’ll need detailed maps to find our rooms later—Aunt Trula whisks us off to a sunny terrace, where we sit having tea.
    It is just the three of us—Barbara, Aunt Trula, and I—sipping cups of Earl Grey. Boggy has already joined Aunt Trula’s chief gardener to inspect the Bismarcks.
    A pretty young woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform serves us goodies from a silver tray—cucumber topped with a smidgen of salmon,watercress sandwiches, and other dainty things that require you ingest them by large handfuls if you wish to gain anything approaching sustenance. I am hungry, my natural state, and I am trying hard not to make it look as if I am foraging.
    We watch Boggy as he moves from where the Bismarcks lay on one side of the lawn. The chief gardener—a slender, erect man named Cedric, outfitted in a khaki uniform—follows Boggy, carrying a shovel. When they reach the general vicinity of where the palms are to be planted, Boggy takes the shovel and starts digging a hole.
    Aunt Trula wants the Bismarcks planted in a V-shape, four on each side. They will start just beyond a big fountain off the terrace, bordering beds of lilies and amaryllis and opening onto the ocean.
    The pretty young woman refills our cups and disappears inside the house. Aunt Trula takes a sip of tea, puts down her cup, and fixes her gaze on me.
    She smiles. It is a thin, forced, I’m-still-sizing-you-up smile. That’s OK. I’m still sizing her up, too.
    So far, she has pretty much met my expectations. Sturdy and imperious, quite fit for almost seventy, her beauty still rigorously intact. Dame Judi Dench was born to play her.
    â€œI must tell you, Mr. Chasteen, I am rather disappointed in those palm trees of yours.”
    It catches me off guard.
    â€œOh?”
    That is all I can manage, but I ennunciate it nicely.
    â€œThey seem rather unsubstantial,” says Aunt