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woman wearing a cotton shift, her salt-and-pepper hair falling loose about her shoulders.
    "Yes," she said, feeling somehow cornered. "I'm Germaine Drummond," the woman said, sticking out a hand. "I run Greyfield Inn."
    "Hi," Liz replied, struggling to smile.
    "Ray Ferguson told me you were coming, asked me to look out for you." Her brow furrowed. "You seem a little shaky."
    "I'm okay; just a near collision with a piece of lumber." She nodded at the young man, who was making his way aft. "Oh, that's Ron; he's a summer waiter at the inn. I'm sorry he scared you."
    "It wasn't his fault." Liz moved to the rear of the Jeep again and opened the tailgate. "Would you like something to drink?"
    "You could force a beer on me, I guess," the woman replied.
    Liz opened two beers and handed Germaine one. "Ray told me about the inn. It sounds like a nice place."
    Germaine nodded. "We try. Sometimes I wish it was in a populated place, so we wouldn't have to do things like run a daily ferry to Fernandina, and go over there once a week for groceries. By the way, give me a list the middle of every week, and I'll add it to our trip; charge you ten percent for the service."
    "More than fair," Liz said. "How long have you owned the place?"
    "I don't own it," Germaine said. "My grandfather does; charges me rent. I've been running the place since I kicked my husband off the island ten years ago."
    "Your grandfather is quite old, isn't he?"
    "Ninety-one. Still drives a jeep all over his island. We had to make him stop riding horses awhile back." She nodded at the chimneys above the trees. "There's his house."
    "It looks big."
    "Forty rooms. I know, we counted them once, when I was a little girl. My two brothers and I spread out and each took a chunk, then compared notes. The place had a staff of three hundred in the old days, toward the end of the last century."
    "Three hundred?"
    "They grew their own vegetables, raised and slaughtered their own cattle and hogs and chickens, did their own building and blacksmithing, ran a school, had a doctor and a dentist in once a week—had an office and equipment for them. It was a working settlement. Grandpapa still grows most of his own food. Say, I know you won't feel like cooking after moving all your gear into the cottage. Why don't you join me for dinner at the inn tonight?"
    Liz hesitated for a moment. During the past two months she had become accustomed to refusing contact with anybody, hiding away while she healed. "Thanks," she said finally. "I'd like that." It was time she came out of hiding.
    "There's Greyfield Dock," Germaine said. "We'll be ashore in a few minutes. How long you down for?"
    "I don't know," Liz said honestly. "Ray wants a collection of photographs for a book about the island. As long as it takes, I guess."
    "It's about time he did that book; he's been talking about it long enough. I reckon I'll sell a ton of them at the inn." A single-engine airplane appeared, low in the sky, and flew in two tight circles over the island. "We've got a grass strip on the island," Germaine said. "The odd guest flies in, buzzes the inn, and we meet him."
    The Aldred Drummond began a turn toward the slip. "Better saddle up, I guess," Germaine said. "Come for a drink about six. Dinner's at seven-thirty."
    "See you then," Liz replied, climbing into the Jeep. The barge eased up to the bank and dropped her gate. Germaine drove the van ashore, and Liz followed in her vehicle. Greyfield Inn appeared on her left, a graceful mansion in the colonial style, with a broad, high front porch. Giant live oaks spread their long limbs over the lawn before it, dipping to the ground, their Spanish moss dripping from every branch. Germaine stopped the van and waved Liz alongside. "You know the way?"
    "Not exactly."
    "Go out through the main gate and follow the road north. A couple of miles along, you'll come to a big, open field—that's the airstrip. A big house called Stafford is right next to it. Just past the strip,