and distant galaxies.
When he turned back toward the house, lights had come on in Garnett’s room and the kitchen. Garnett would be leaving soon. Darby expelled a pensive sigh. He knew he needed to shave, shower, and prepare himself for whatever the day might offer.
* * *
“Well, it’s off to Atlanta!” Garnett stated, as he clattered his cup in its saucer at the sight of Darby. “What time is it, anyway?” he glanced out toward the hall’s clock.
“6:30!” said Darby. “It’s awfully foggy out there, especially down the mountain. When do you have to be at the airport?”
“Oh, that won’t be till later. First I have to meet with my own doc. I’ve plenty of time. Plus I need to stop by the post office. I’ll make it, I’m sure.”
Jon Paul poked his head into the dining room. He hadn’t shaved, and his face bristled with blond stubble. “What’ll you have?” he asked Darby. “Linda’s sleeping in. I’m scrambling eggs for Garnett, with a side of sausage links and wholegrain toast with rhubarb jelly. Same for you?”
“That’ll be fine! Thanks.”
“No problem!” the husky chef intoned.
“There’ll be a new group of guests arriving mid-week,” Garnett said. “Linda will fill you in. Relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll keep you posted once I’m done with the procedure,” he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “Here,” he filled Darby’s cup as well. “Cream?”
“Thanks.”
“I never asked you if you’re working on anything new? Another novel? Essay? Or scholarly work?”
“The latter. My History of Philosophy never accomplished what I wanted it to. It was more a survey. You know, a summary of major timeframes and their philosophers’ views. Mainly for students, with selected readings.”
“And there’s more?” Nelson smiled.
Darby smiled with him. “You know the two volumes never touched on the real nuances that elude us. Like, what are philosophers for in a time such as ours? It wasn’t until I read Heidegger’s Poetry, Language, Thought, that I realized the value of philosophy. Up to that point, I treated the discipline more as a history of theories than a study of ourselves. Rorty’s Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature changed that, especially his essays on ‘the problem of personhood.’ That’s what I want to investigate now, and I’ve found a clue to it in a discourse I want to develop: From Wittenberg to Weimar. That’s all I can divulge at the present.”
“I’m certain it’ll be over my head, but a work I’ll want to read. Can you put it in layman’s terms, where it will speak to real people with real needs? Why can’t philosophers do that?”
“Many have and do! Nietzsche did. Plato! Rousseau! Hegel! Deep down, philosophy’s more of a work of poetry than a science of propositions.”
“Could you put that in a novel? In a story that a person could read and think how remarkable it was that the story of their life had finally been written? Why can’t you do that?”
Darby stared at Garnett. If Garnett’s life were a story, perhaps he could do it. But how would he end it? In a tracheotomy, a curse of silence, or a newfound life? He thought of Hemingway’s novels, of War and Peace, The Red and the Black, even the Zane Gray novels he had read as a boy. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he managed to reply.
“Oh! Incidentally,” Garnett added, “here!” he said, reaching into his pocket. “It’s the key to the study. You’ll need to squirrel away in here from time to time. Just lock it behind you. Too many personal files, you know. But you’re free to peruse any you need to.”
“Thanks!” He slipped the key into his pocket.
After bidding Garnett farewell, Darby wandered back to the cottage to pick up the threads of his thoughts. He paused to gulp in a breath of raw air and watch as the amber eye of the sunrise illumined Montesereno’s eastern face. He would take a walk to clear his mind, he resolved, up to the right, past the Inn, through its orchard, and out to an overlook he had come to love. Yes! To let his thoughts bubble up, evaporate, and take him wherever they must.
The path to the orchard led through the Villa’s garden. Its slate-paved terraces created a sense of ascent. The garden sported two slender fluted white columns and wide beds of rhododendron, laurel, and azaleas. A lone ginkgo biloba grew encircled among shrubs. He paused to run his fingers across its fan-shaped, yellow-lobed leaves. A broad smile gladdened his heart as he walked on.
Somewhere he was in Paris, near the Menagerie. Yellow ginkgo leaves had fallen, dappling the sidewalk and iron grills with cobbler’s patches. Julia Laine leaned against his shoulder as he turned to kiss her.
Midway along the orchard’s path, he noted a jogger through the trees. The man was running up the gravel lane that paralleled the estate. Someone—no doubt Jon Paul—had recently repainted the white fence that separated the Villa’s grounds from the lane’s marl-colored gravel. The lane would end at the property’s overlook. The runner appeared to be the investor, Parker Martin. Darby stopped to take a second look. Dressed in a yellow T-shirt, black shorts, white socks and running shoes, the man jogged past Darby, unaware of his presence beyond the fence. The man ran with an easy gait that only youth possess. Darby had to smile. He once too had run cross-country in college.
By the time Darby reached the overlook, Martin was gazing out across the ridges, the latter still shrouded in fog. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” the young man said. “So beautiful. Do you come here often?”
“Whenever I’m visiting I do. Once the clouds clear, there are nothing but mountains—all the way to the west, south, and north. There’s a drop off below, too, and an old mica mine, with a bit of silver in its creek and sand. Its brook becomes a trout stream farther down. Plus, there’s a logging road right over there,” Darby pointed behind the Villa, “that wends down to the creek. It’s in decent enough shape to hike.”
“You’ve been here quite a bit?”
“No. Not really! But enough to know where to wander about.”
“You must have come up through the orchard,” Parker glanced toward the Villa. “I apologize for being such a smartass last night. May I walk back with you, when you’re ready to leave?”
“Sure! I’m ready now. And forget about last night. I could use another cup of coffee or hot tea myself. I doubt if most of the guests are up.”
“Certainly, Celeste isn’t. I’d love to bend your ear, if you don’t mind.”
Darby stared closer into the young man’s face and deep dark eyes. He tried to smile as empathically as he could. “I’m listening. You’ll need to watch out for rotten apples and a few deer pellets along the way. Just follow me.”
The two swung onto the path, with Parker slightly behind Darby’s left shoulder.
“We’re here trying to restart our marriage,” stated Parker. “I guess that’s no secret. We’re coming up on our fifth anniversary. The first two years were great. In fact, fabulous! Then something came over Celeste. She didn’t want sex anymore, at least not from me. She asked if we couldn’t have an open marriage.” Parker stopped, dead in
