Neither was given to gusts of emotion. Both were dedicated to hounds and country life.
Each knew the other’s virtues, faults, and secrets, and as is the way with old friends, each knew something about the other hidden from them. Sister knew that Shaker, for all his physical toughness, feared women deep down. He simply thought women were difficult, Sister, his best friend, excluded. Shaker needed love but he didn’t know how to find it.
And Shaker knew that Sister’s surface amiability masked a steely determination born of rank competitiveness. She didn’t know that about herself, could never see that she had to best her older brother, a career officer, killed in Vietnam.
Each had endured the ups and downs of the other’s marriage, secret affairs.
When Raymond Junior died, Shaker proved as considerate and strong as Raymond Senior. The bond forged in that sorrow would never be broken.
These two would be best friends until death do us part—united by time, temperament, and foxhunting.
“Good litter.” Shaker rubbed a little fellow, turned over to display a fat belly.
“Bywaters blood.” She mentioned a Virginian hound bloodline developed by Burrell Frank Bywaters (1848–1922). The Bywaters family, after the War between the States, used those hounds who had survived that violent upheaval to breed a strain of American foxhound with nose, brains, drive, and cry. Hugh Bywaters (1872–1952) continued the tradition, as did other family members.
“That and a touch of Exmoor Landseer.” He smiled, naming a fine hound born in 1986 from England’s Exmoor hunt. Shaker studied bloodlines. It was his job but also his passion.
“Good litter. Good year.”
“Hope so.”
“Douglas seems a bit down. Do you know what’s wrong?”
“Woman trouble.”
“What woman?”
Shaker reached for another puppy. “Same one.”
“Oh no.” Sister sighed. “I thought that was all over.”
“If she could let go of the shot glass—” Shaker shrugged.
“In the blood. Bobby’s brother. Drove himself right into a tree the day he graduated from high school. Drunk as a skunk.”
“Bobby can put it away when he wants to. . . . He can hold his liquor, though.”
“True. Old Man Franklin loved his bottle, too. A lot of things pass in the blood.” She held a bright tricolor puppy in her lap. “Good and bad.”
“Girl’s beautiful.”
“Her sister, too. Course Betty was a great beauty when she was young. She’s put on a pound or two. Says it fills out the wrinkles.” Sister smiled, for she loved Betty.
“I guess.” A light red stubble shone on his chin.
“If any of us approached romance rationally, it would never happen and that would be the end of the human race.”
“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” He smiled sardonically. “I married one woman and woke up with another.” He referred to his dreary marriage, which had ended many years ago, although the scars remained visible.
“For all our faults humans are marginally amusing and sporadically talented. I don’t think any of these beautiful puppies will paintNight Watch. ”
They sat in silence in the puppy wing of the kennel. The grown hounds were asleep in the adult wing, so it was quiet except for the patter of rain.
Sister spoke again: “I met with Fontaine Buruss.”
“Thought you might.”
“Time.”
“Naw.” He shook his head.
“I said that at sixty but it truly is time at seventy. We need a smooth transfer of power here over the next couple of years.”
“Won’t be smooth with Fontaine.”
“There are precious few candidates. At least the man knows hunting enough to know what he doesn’t know.”
“He’s an empty-headed peacock.”
“Don’t hold back.” She laughed.
“He is. Cock of the walk. Doesn’t know a damn thing about hounds.” Since Shaker’s whole life was hounds, that was his basis for assessing other foxhunters.
“But you do. One of my conditions, should I choose him, is he either stays out of the kennel or he shuts up and learns.”
“But he can’t learn. He’s too interested in how he looks.”
She knew there was a lot of truth in Shaker’s assessment. Men judged other men differently than women judged men. They were harsher. “Crawford Howard.”
“If that goddamned Yankee winds up as joint-master, I’m leaving. He knows less than Fontaine and he can’t ride a hair of that horse of his.”
“Fortunately, the horse is a saint. But if he were joint-master with me, he wouldn’t bother you.”
“The sight of him would turn my stomach. He thinks he’s a bleeding genius because he built strip malls in Indiana and Iowa. He made money and that’s all he’s done.”
“He plays the stock market and makes more. We need money.”
“That’s a fact.”
“What if I made them both joint-masters? There’s a strong current of support for Fontaine in the club. I can’t ignore that, nor can I ignore our financial dilemma. We need a businessman. We need someone who can think ahead. Crawford has that ability, Shaker. I can’t see my way out of this. I might have to make them both joint-masters.”
Shaker reached down, putting another puppy in Sister’s lap. “They’ll kill each other.”
CHAPTER 7
The Garage, an after-hours club in an abandoned garage, drew a young crowd on Saturday night. The music was good, the drinks were watered, and drugs were sold in the parking lot.
Bored, Doug sat at a small round table wondering why he bothered to go out. He’d downed two martinis and knew, given the weather, that drinking a third and driving those twisty country roads home wouldn’t be the smartest choice. He left money on the table and walked for the door just as a wet Cody Jean Franklin dashed in.
“Doug. Don’t go. I just got here.”
“I can see that.”
“Have I ever told you what beautiful green eyes you have?”
“In first grade.”
“Buy me a drink?”
“No.”
She tossed her long black hair. “Why are you so pissed at me.”
“One word: Fontaine.”
“That? Don’t be silly.”
“You’re sleeping with him, Cody. I know you.”
“Maybe you just think you do. I could care less about Fontaine and I’m not sleeping with him.”
He grabbed her forearm, his grip tight. “Don’t lie to me.”
Coolly she said, “Let go.”
He released her arm as though it were on fire, brushed by her, and walked outside.
Livid, she ran after him.
Doug had opened the door of his truck by the time she reached him. They were both soaked.
She slammed him against the side of the truck and kissed him hard. He put his hands on her shoulders, intending to push her away, but instead he kissed her back.
“Cody, don’t do me like this.”
She whispered in his ear, “Dougie, life’s full of secrets. Some are even worth keeping. Trust me.” She kissed him again. “Let’s go to your place.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Jen dropped me off. I saw your truck.”
He leaned his forehead against her forehead, flesh cool in the wet night. “Don’t lie to me, Cody. I’m taking you home.”
“Great. You can stay at my place.”
“I’m taking you home. Period.” He unlocked his truck. They both got in, the seats wet from their drenched jeans. “As long as you’re fucking around—”
She flared up. “I’m not fucking around.”
“Let me finish.” He turned on the motor and the heat. “As long as you’re doing drugs I’m not getting involved.”
“But we are involved.”
“Were. We broke up Memorial Day. One gram of coke and half a bottle of Absolut. Christ, I’m amazed that you li
ved.”
She slunk down in the seat, staring out the window.
CHAPTER 8
By Sunday the streams, creeks, and rivers hovered dangerously near their banks. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The sun, trying to break through the clouds, cast an ethereal glow over the morning.
Crawford Howard worried about the water as he crossed the arching stone bridge leading out of his property. A hurricane in ’97 washed away the bridge and he’d rebuilt it to the tune of seventy-five thousand dollars. Stonemasons commanded exorbitant fees, especially in collaboration with engineers. They vowed the bridge would withstand everything except a hurricane of Force 5, the worst of the worst. Crawford had no desire to find out if that was true. The water, boiling and muddy underneath the bridge, appeared to mock human planning.
The arched bridge with its large keystone provided a symbol for Crawford. Opposing forces, lined up against one another, held everything in place, made the bridge strong. It reminded him of Elizabeth I’s statecraft, playing the great continental powers off one another while England grew stronger. He admired farsighted people. Bismarck was another favorite, as was Peter the Great, although Peter was a touch too emotional for Crawford, who considered himself supremely rational. It was one of the reasons he was an Episcopalian. One should worship in a civil and controlled manner. Evangelism was for the unwashed.
Then, too, the power in most towns gathered at the Episcopal church. A spillover might be Lutheran or one or two might even be Catholic, always regarded with slight suspicion, of course. Lutherans were also suspicious because of the manner in which they’d broken from the Church of Rome. Crawford thought Luther might have tried more negotiation and less passionate denunciation. He could see no reason why Lutherans weren’t members of the Anglican Church. After all, it was English whereas the Catholic Church was Roman. That would never do. Too much color and incense for Crawford. Besides which, the Italians perfected corruption and ill-advised business practices.
Crawford made no secret of being an Anglophile in everything except cars. Anyone worth their salt was.
He pulled into the parking lot of Saint Luke’s, secure in leaving his Mercedes surrounded by other Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, and Volvos. His ex-wife’s flame-red Grand Wagoneer stood out like a sore thumb. He grimaced, then cut his motor and reached down for his umbrella. He hadn’t yet put the parking brake on, so the car drifted a bit before he realized it. He pressed the brake, irritated at his loss of focus. He turned the motor on and backed properly into the parking place. He locked the car and walked confidently into the church. He sat next to Marty, who smiled reflexively as he nodded to her.
The first year of their divorce he avoided her, sitting on the other side of the church, but he thought of himself as a proper gentleman, so as time passed he moved closer to his ex-wife each week until finally he was sitting beside her. Loath to admit the guilt and loneliness he felt, he couched his behavior in terms of friendship and civility.
The sermon by Reverend Thigpin, a young, swarthy man, intrigued Crawford because he’d chosen as his text Christ’s admonition about a rich man entering heaven.
Reading from Luke, chapter eighteen, verses twenty-two through twenty-five, where Jesus is speaking to a rich man, Reverend Thigpin’s deep voice filled the old building: “ ‘There is still one thing lacking: sell everything you have and distribute unto the poor, and you will have riches in heaven; and come, follow me.’ At these words his heart sank; for he was a very rich man. Then Jesus said, ‘How hard it is for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’ ” Reverend Thigpin surveyed his congregation as he took a deep breath. “Are we to divest ourselves of all our worldly goods? Let’s look at this in another fashion. At the time this text was written the gulf between rich and poor was cavernous. There was no strong middle class as we know it. Life was brutal, nasty, and short, to paraphrase Hobbes.” Reverend Thigpin could use such references. Episcopalians went to college. They may not have read Thomas Hobbes but they knew who he was.
As Crawford listened to the sermon, he admired the young man’s audacity in speaking thus in the lion’s den. And he agreed with Thigpin’s conclusions. We must read the Bible in historical context. We must cherish the message of forgiveness and redemption.
As to wealth, if one shares, one is doing one’s duty. After all, in ancient Judaea there were no relief agencies. No one today led such a wretched life as the maimed and poor of that time. And what would happen if people of means chose poverty? There would be even more mouths to feed. The choice was to use one’s wealth in a structured, moral manner
Crawford liked that. He was going to remember that phrase, “structured, moral manner.”
When the service ended he leaned over. “May I take you to breakfast?”
Marty studied her fingernail polish, then replied, “The club?”
“Yes.”
Within fifteen minutes they were seated at Crawford’s favorite table by the large fireplace, cherry logs crackling, each drinking a robust coffee.
“You know, Marty, time teaches us all and it has taught me that I allowed my lawyers to manipulate my complex feelings over our parting. I’ve spoken to Adrian”—he mentioned the director of the country club—“and I have purchased a full membership in your name. Now you can golf without those long waits at the public course.”
Her lovely light brown eyes opened wide. “Crawford.”
He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would tee off with me from time to time, although I will never be as good a golfer as you. Used to frustrate me, Martha.” He leaned forward. “I have been foolishly competitive and controlling. Then I turned forty and I don’t know what happened exactly. Male menopause and all that but it was more. Some kind of primal fear. Didn’t you feel it when you turned forty?”
“No, but I only just did.”
“I thought women feared age more than men.”
“Depends on the woman. Crawford, this is a generous gift. I’ll regard it as a thoughtful birthday present.”
“I sent you a dozen roses for your birthday. I almost sent forty but then I thought, ‘Maybe not.’ ”
“How’s the farm?” She changed the subject.
“Good, although I’m afraid the water will jump the banks again. If that bridge goes down, I’m building a suspension bridge out of steel girders.”
“You’ll rebuild what is already there because it’s utterly perfect. You have an incredible eye.” She laughed low. “Your strip malls look prettier than anyone else’s.”
“Do you ever regret leaving Indiana and moving here with me?”
“No. It’s magical here. I only regret our marriage blew up like a grenade.”
“My fault.”
“I’d like to think that but maybe I’ve had to learn a few things myself. I thought I was inadequate. Then I thought you were inadequate. I’m not using the words I used at the time.” He tipped his head to one side as she continued. “I was raised to believe my task was to complete you and that you would complete me. But I lived through you. When we were young that must have made you feel quite manly, I suppose. But as we jostled along in years, it must have been a burden. And face it, the sex wears off. No one wants to admit it. God knows, the bookstores are filled with remedies about how to keep the fire in your marriage. Perhaps some people can, but we didn’t. I understand your chorus girl.” Using the words “chorus girl” was the only hint she gave of a trace of bitterness. “So you see, it wasn’t exactly your fault. You acted on your feelings. I didn’t.”
“You were bored, too?” He felt so incredibly relieved that she wasn’t swinging the wronged-and-superior-woman cudgel.
“Constricted.” Her hand reached for her throat.
They stopped the conversation while the waitress, the same one he usually had at the club, brought her eggs and his waffles. She refilled their coffee cups, then retreated.
“I wen
t into therapy, you know.”
“I did, too.” She giggled. “I’m still going.”
“Me, too. No one knows but you. Doesn’t look good for a man to be, well, you know.”
“I know.” She told the truth. The double standard cut both ways.
“You won’t rat on me?”
“No.”
“Martha, do you think we could date? Get to know one another again on a better footing?”
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