The sun was up over
Washington, Lafayette, and the trio of nearby cannonball-shaped mountains that
were called the Three Graces, and Nan Setonelderly but far from frailsat
sipping her morning coffee on a chaise lounge on the Victorian house's
wraparound porch. She noted how the sun was rising much later now than it had
even two or three weeks ago: It was already the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth of
July (it disturbed her that she couldn't grab the precise date right now from
the air), and her children would be arriving tomorrow. Friday.
A golden retrieverold like her but not nearly so energeticlolled near her
feet on the outdoor rug.
She had been on the porch close to half an hour and even the coffee in the
stovetop percolator she had brought outside with her was cold, when she heard
her granddaughters pound their way down the stairs. The older girl, Charlotte,
was twelve; the younger one, Willow (a name that drove Grandmother crazy both
for its absolute lack of any family resonance and its complete New Age inanity),
The girls collapsed into the two wicker chairs near the outdoor table, opposite
their grandmother and her chaise. She saw they both had sleep in their eyes and
their hair wasn't brushed. They were still in their nightgowns, their feet were
bare, and Charlotte was sitting in such a fashionthe sole of one foot wedged
against her other leg's thighthat her nightgown had bunched up near her waist
and she was offering anyone who cared to see an altogether indelicate and (in
Nan's opinion) appalling show of flesh.
"Good morning," she said to them, trying hard to resist the urge to
put down her cup and saucer and pull Charlotte's nightgown back down over her
knee. "How are my two little wildflowers?"
"Sleepy," Charlotte said, her voice already the uninterested drawl of
an urban teenager.
"You girls are up early. Any special reason?"
"There's a bird on the roof," Charlotte said.
"A woodpecker," Willow added, and she reached down to pet the drowsing
Nan nodded. She decided the bird must have been on the roof over the kitchen
porch on the other side of the house, because otherwise she, too, would have
heard him just now. "They don't normally drum this late in the
season," she said to her granddaughters. "They"
"Trust me, we are not making this up," Charlotte said. "It sounds
like there's some guy up there and he's trying to open a tin of Altoids with a
machine gun." The girl had two tiny hillocks starting to emerge on her
chest. Not yet breasts and not visible in this particular nightgown. But they
were evident in bathing suits and T-shirts. Her eyes were the shape of perfectly
symmetrical almonds, her nose was small, and her mouth was a luscious pucker at
once waiflike and impudent. She lacked her mother's paralyzingly sensual red
hair, but her mane was thick and dark with natural hints of henna, and it fell
on her shoulders like a cape. In a few years, Charlotte would be gorgeous, an
absolute knockout. For the moment, however, she was in that murky world between
childhood and serious adolescence. In one light she might pass for ten; in
another she might be mistaken for fourteen.
"She didn't say we were making anything up," Willow murmured, and then
she did exactly what her grandmother wanted most in the world that very moment:
She reached over to her cousin from Manhattan and pulled the older girl's
nightgown down over her knee so that taut and tanned twelve-year-old thigh once
again was decently covered.
"If I had a gun, I would have shot it," Charlotte grumbled, widening
her eyes as she spoke because she understood her remark was so gloriously
inflammatory. But thenand here was that childshe still lacked the anarchic
courage of a truly angry adolescent, and so she allowed herself a retraction of
sorts. "Well, not it, of course. Dad would completely disown me if I
ever did something like that. But maybe I would have shot near it. Scared it.
Scared its beak off."
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...