on an enchanting little island called Islesboro, in Penobscot Bay. She had been invited to dinner at the home of Charles Dana Gibson, the artist. There were twelve people at dinner and, except for Kate, they all had homes on the island.
'This place has an interesting history,' Gibson told Kate.
'Years ago, residents used to get here by small coasting vessels from Boston. When the boat landed, they'd be met by a buggy and taken to their houses.'
'How many people live on this island?' Kate asked.
'About fifty families. Did you see the lighthouse when the ferry docked?'
'Yes.'
'It's run by a lighthouse keeper and his dog. When a boat goes by the dog goes out and rings the bell.'
Kate laughed. 'You're joking.'
'No, ma'am. The funny thing is the dog is deaf as a stone. He puts his ear against the bell to feel if there's any vibration.'
Kate smiled. 'It sounds as if you have a fascinating island here.'
'It might be worth your while staying over and taking a look around in the morning.'
On an impulse, Kate said, 'Why not?'
She spent the night at the island's only hotel, the Islesboro Inn. In the morning she hired a horse and carriage, driven by one of the islanders. They left the center of Dark Harbor, which consisted of a general store, a hardware store and a small restaurant, and a few minutes later they were driving through a beautiful wooded area. Kate noticed that none of the little winding roads had names, nor were there any names on the mailboxes. She turned to her guide. 'Don't people get lost here without any signs?'
'Nope. The islanders know where everythin' is.'
Kate gave him a sidelong look. 'I see.'
At the lower end of the island, they passed a burial ground.
'Would you stop, please?' Kate asked.
She stepped out of the carriage and walked over to the old cemetery and wandered around looking at the tombstones.
job pendleton, died January 25, 1794, age 47. The epitaph read: Beneath this stone, I rest my head in slumber sweet; Christ blessed the bed.
JANE, WIFE OF THOMAS PENDLETON, DIED FEBRUARY 25, 1802, AGE 47.
There were spirits here from another century, from an era long gone, captain william hatch drowned in long island sound, October 1866, age 30 years. The epitaph on his stone read: Storms all weathered and life's seas crossed.
Kate stayed there a long time, enjoying the quiet and peace. Finally, she returned to the carriage and they drove on.
'What is it like here in the winter?' Kate asked.
'Cold. The bay used to freeze solid, and they'd come from the mainland by sleigh. Now a' course, we got the ferry.'
They rounded a curve, and there, next to the water below, was a beautiful white-shingled, two-story house surrounded by delphinium, wild roses and poppies. The shutters on the eight front windows were painted green, and next to the double doors were white benches and six pots of red geraniums. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.
'Who owns that house?'
'That's the old Dreben house. Mrs. Dreben died a few months back.'
'Who lives there now?'
'Nobody, I reckon.'
'Do you know if it's for sale?'
The guide looked at Kate and said, 'If it is, it'll probably be bought by the son of one of the families already livin' here. The islanders don't take kindly to strangers.'
It was the wrong thing to say to Kate.
One hour later, she was speaking to a lawyer for the estate. 'It's about the Dreben house,' Kate said. 'Is it for sale?'
The lawyer pursed his lips. 'Well, yes, and no.'
'What does that mean?'
'It's for sale, but a few people are already interested in buying it.'
The old families on the island, Kate thought. 'Have they made an offer?'
'Not yet, but—'
'I'm making one,' Kate said.
He said condescendingly, 'That's an expensive house.'
'Name your price.'
'Fifty thousand dollars.'
'Let's go look at it.'
The inside of the house was even more enchanting than Kate had anticipated. The large, lovely hall faced the sea through a wall of glass. On one side of the hall was a large ballroom, and on the other side, a living room with fruitwood paneling stained by time and an enormous fireplace. There was a library, and a huge kitchen with an iron stove and a large pine worktable, and off of that was a butler's pantry and laundry room. Downstairs, the house had six bedrooms for the servants and one bathroom. Upstairs was a master bedroom suite and four smaller bedrooms. It was a much larger house than Kate had expected. But when David and I have our children, she thought, we'll need all these rooms. The grounds ran all the way down to the bay, where there was a private dock.
Kate turned to the lawyer. 'I'll take it.'
She decided to name it Cedar Hill House.
She could not wait to get back to Klipdrift to break the news to David.
On the way back to South Africa, Kate was filled with a wild excitement. The house in Dark Harbor was a sign, a symbol that she and David would be married. She knew he would love the house as much as she did.
On the afternoon Kate and Brad arrived back in Klipdrift, Kate hurried to David's office. He was seated at his desk, working, and the sight of him set Kate's heart pounding. She had not realized how much she had missed him.
David rose to his feet. 'Kate! Welcome home!' And before she could speak, he said, 'I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm getting married.'
It had begun casually six weeks earlier. In the middle of a hectic day, David received a message that Tim O'Neil, the friend of an important American diamond buyer, was in Klip-drift and asking if David would be good enough to welcome him and perhaps take him to dinner. David had no time to waste on tourists, but he did not want to offend his customer. He would have asked Kate to entertain the visitor, but she was on a tour of the company's plants in North America with Brad Rogers. I'm stuck, David decided. He called the hotel where O'Neil was staying and invited him to dinner that evening.
'My daughter is with me,' O'Neil told him. 'I hope you don't mind if I bring her along?'
David was in no mood to spend the evening with a child. 'Not at all,' he said politely. He would make sure the evening was a short one.
They met at the Grand Hotel, in the dining room. When David arrived, O'Neil and his daughter were already seated at the table. O'Neil was a handsome, gray-haired Irish-American in his early fifties. His daughter, Josephine, was the most beau tiful woman David had ever seen. She was in her early thirties, with a stunning figure, soft blond hair and clear blue eyes. The breath went out of David at the sight of her.
'I—I'm sorry I'm late,' he said. 'Some last-minute business.'
Josephine watched his reaction to her with amusement. 'Sometimes that's the most exciting kind,' she said innocently. 'My father tells me you're a very important man, Mr. Black-well.'
'Not really—and it's David.'
She nodded. 'That's a good name. It suggests great strength.'
Before the dinner was over, David decided that Josephine O'Neil was much more than just a beautiful woman. She was intelligent, had a sense of humor and was skillful at making him feel at ease. David felt she was
