"Very well," Pemberton said, raising his tumbler and giving his guests a reassuring grin. "But I'll finish my dram of liquor first. A man should have a drink in his hand when he confronts his demise."

"Well put," Calhoun said, "a man who understands how to meet his fate, with a belly full of good scotch."

The others smiled at Calhoun's remark, including Salvatore, who eased back into his chair. Pemberton emptied his tumbler and set it down forcefully enough that Mrs. Salvatore flinched.

"So how will I die, Mrs. Galloway?" Pemberton asked, his words beginning to slur. "Will it be a gunshot? Perhaps a knife?"

Galloway, who'd been gazing out the window, now fixed his eyes on his mother.

"A rope's more likely for a scoundrel like you, Pemberton," Calhoun said, eliciting chuckles all around.

The old woman turned her head in Pemberton's direction.

"No gun nor knife," she answered. "Nor rope around your neck."

"That's a relief," Pemberton said.

Except for the Salvatores, the guests laughed politely.

"What killed my father was his liver," Pemberton said.

"It ain't to be your liver," Mrs. Galloway said.

"So what, pray tell, is the thing that will kill me?"

"They ain't one thing can kill a man like you," Mrs. Galloway answered, and pushed back her chair.

Galloway helped his mother to her feet, and at that moment Pemberton realized it was all a jape. The others realized also as Mrs. Galloway took her son's arm and made her slow clatter across the room and disappeared into the darkened hallway. Pemberton raised his tumbler toward Serena.

"Splendid answer, and the best any man could hope for," he said. "A toast to my wife, who can play a rusty with the best of them."

Pemberton looked down the table's length and smiled at Serena as the others laughed and clapped. The alcohol made everyone else in the room hazy to Pemberton, but somehow not Serena. If anything, she appeared brighter, the dress vivid and shimmering. Evergreen. The word came to him now though he could not say why. He remembered the touch of his lips on the pale bareness of her neck and wished the guests hours gone. If they were, he wouldn't wait but would lift Serena onto the table and undress her on the Chestnut's heartwood. For a few moments, he thought of doing it anyway and giving Mrs. Salvatore a real case of the vapors.

All raised their glasses and drank. Calhoun, who'd drunk almost as much as Pemberton, wiped a dribble of scotch from his chin before pouring himself another drink.

"I must admit," Mrs. Calhoun said, "that from the way she put on there were a few moments I almost believed the old woman could see the future."

"She played her role well," her husband agreed. "Never a hint of a smile the whole time."

Pemberton lifted his watch from his pocket and opened the case with no attempt to hide his purpose. The watch hands wavered like compass needles, causing Pemberton to raise the watch closer to his face.

"It's been a wonderful evening," he said, "but it's time for our revelry to end if you're to be at the station when the Asheville train leaves."

"But you must open your present first," Serena said. "Galloway can call the depot in Waynesville and have them hold the train."

Serena lifted a long cylinder-shaped cardboard box from under the table. She passed the box to Pemberton and he opened the flap, slowly removed a rifle. Pemberton placed his hands under the stock and set the weapon before him so the others could see.

"A Winchester 1895," Serena said, "albeit a more personalized one, as you can see from the wood and gold trigger and plating. And the scrollwork, of course. In the Rockies it's the weapon of choice for hunting mountain lions."

Pemberton picked up the rifle and ran his hand over the wood's glossed finish.

"I know about this gun," he said. "It's the one Roosevelt called 'Big Medicine.'"

"Too bad Teddy didn't use it on himself," Calhoun said.

"Yes, but who knows," Pemberton said, raising the rifle toward the window and feigning disappointment when he squeezed the trigger and there was only a click. "Perhaps that cousin of his will show up, and I'll take a shot at him."

Pemberton handed the rifle to Mr. Salvatore. The gift slowly circled the table, the women passing it with palms underneath as if a platter, except for Mrs. De Man, who like the men jostled the rifle in her hands, nodding appreciatively at the gun's heft and sturdiness.

"The scrollwork, Mrs. Pemberton," Mr. Lowenstein said. "It's beautifully done, but I don't recognize the depiction."

"The shield of Achilles."

"Such a gun would do good service in Quebec with our brown bears," Mrs. De Man noted as she passed the rifle to her husband.

Pemberton filled his tumbler again, sloshing scotch onto the table as he poured. When the rifle was passed back to him, he leaned it against the table.

"I'll kill my mountain lion first," Pemberton boasted, "then a jaguar."

"Brazil," Lowenstein mused. "What an adventure for the two of you."

"Indeed," Calhoun said. "Forests enough for a lifetime and plenty left over."

Pemberton raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

"Give us a lifetime and Mrs. Pemberton and I will cut down every tree, not just in Brazil but in the world."

The words inside Pemberton's head were luminous enough, but he knew that he'd tried to say too much. Vowels and consonants had dragged and halted like gears that wouldn't mesh, the words hopelessly slurred.

Salvatore nodded at his wife and stood.

"We should be going now. Our train back to Chicago leaves rather early in the morning."

The other guests rose and made their goodbyes, began leaving as well. Pemberton tried to rise from his chair, but as he did the room tilted. He sat back down, focused his eyes and saw Serena still sat opposite him, the table lengthening out between them.

"See them to the train?" Pemberton asked. "Not sure I can."

Serena looked at him steadily.

"They know the way, Pemberton," Serena said, watching him steadily.

The room slowly leaned back and forth, not as bad as when he'd stood up, but enough to make him grip the table's edge, feel the smooth waxed wood against his palms. He gripped the table harder. An image almost like a dream came to him of being alone on a vast sea and hanging onto a piece of wood as waves lapped against him, and then he let go.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING PEMBERTON AWOKE with the worst hangover of his life. It was early, but what light filtered through the window stung his eyes. His tongue felt coated with a foul dust that had liquefied in his stomach. The previous evening returned in a series of blurry images that passed before him like boxcars come to unload freight he didn't want.

Serena still slept, so he turned on his side and closed his eyes but couldn't fall back asleep. He waited, not seeing but feeling the sun slowly brighten the room. After a while, Serena stirred beside him, her bare hip brushing against his. Pemberton could not remember if they'd coupled last night, or even how he'd gotten back to the house. He turned and looked at Serena through bleary eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry about what?"

"Imbibing too much last night."

"It was your birthday, and you celebrated," Serena said. "There's no crime in that."

"But it may have cost us a couple of investors."

"I doubt it, Pemberton. Profits matter more than social graces."

Serena sat upright. The bed sheet fell away, and Pemberton saw her long slim back and the slight taper before the flare of her hips. She faced the window, and the morning sun fell lambent over her profile. Enough light to make his bloodshot eyes squint, but he did not turn away. How could anything else have ever mattered, Pemberton wondered. He reached out and held her wrist as Serena prepared to leave the bed.