“School.” X exhaled, then realized Dalton needed more information. “They’d gone to grade school together and through high school. I reckon she’s one of the few people left in the county who knew him before he became a drunk.”
“Loyal,” Dalton simply said.
“That she is,” Clay added. “Dalton, we all grew up with Sister and her son. In fact, X, Ronnie, and I were Rayray’s best friends. We know Sister right well.”
“She wasted her money, too.” X twisted the cap back on the thermos, now empty.
“You’re kind of a hard-ass today.” Ronnie looked straight into X’s eyes.
“I have no use for drunks.”
Clay slapped his old friend on the back. “Lighten up. Everyone has a use.”
Once hounds were chowing down in the feed room, Sister excused herself. Shaker and Betty handled the chores today. Sister rushed to the house to clean up so she could meet Walter Lungrun at the club.
Steam from the shower soaked into her bones, where the cold had settled. Once her fingers moved better, she scrubbed her short gray hair, put on a conditioner for shine, and then rinsed it all out. She toweled down with an audience: Golly, perched in the sink, her fluffy tail hanging over the edge. Raleigh and Rooster sat side by side on the deep pile bathroom rug. She stood on the bath mat, vigorously rubbing her hair, which stood up in little spikes.
Looking in the mirror, she laughed. “All I need is giant hoop earrings.”
“She’s a star.” Golly flicked her tail, half closed her eyes.
The old house had horsehair stuffed in the walls for insulation. The bedroom had a fireplace, much needed as it was on the northwest corner of the house, cold in winter, cool in summer. She and Big Ray broke down and installed new plumbing back in 1989, paying special attention to all the bathrooms, especially this one, while they also insulated with modern insulation. That had set them back forty-five thousand dollars.
As she wrapped the towel around her waist, she gave thanks that they had done it back then. Were she to pay for the materials and labor now, the cost would be about seventy-five thousand.
They had also installed a second set of two eighty-gallon hot water tanks for this side of the house, with a special pump to create a lot of water pressure. She didn’t mind paying the electric bill on the four big tanks. The house had two separate systems, which she liked. She always had hot water the minute she turned on the tap.
She combed her hair and applied face cream. The indoor heat had dried her skin out. She whipped on a little mascara, no eyeliner. She slapped on skin-tightening cream around her eyes and on her upper lip. It worked. Then she smudged faint violet powder on her eyelids, finishing off with a peachy blusher on her cheeks. She liked being clean and well turned out. She wasn’t vain, not even when she was young and people told her she was beautiful. She had never thought she was beautiful. She had angular features and big light brown eyes, but she was not beautiful. She was, however, sensationally athletic. Nor did she underestimate the lovely breasts that capped the whole affair. These days those mounds of pleasure sagged, but not as much as most women her age, thanks in no small part to a life of intense physical activity. Her pecs held them up as best they could.
She critically appraised herself, then leaned down and spoke to Golly, who looked up, whiskers swept forward. “Not bad for an old broad.”
“Not bad at all,” Golly agreed.
Raleigh added, “I love you. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Rooster, pink tongue curling out, seconded that. “True.”
“You two are so slavish.” Golly snuggled farther down in the sink as Sister stood up straight again. Her cosmetics, lined up on the counter, included three different colors of blusher and an array of lipsticks, tossed in a big glass brandy snifter. This was self-defense; when cross, Golly would knock the cosmetics off the counter. A second line of attack for the cat was to pull toilet paper all over the bathroom and shred it.
The second sink, Big Ray’s, no longer held his implements. Golly might have hunkered down there, but then she wouldn’t have been close enough to be a bother.
As Sister’s hair dried, she ran her fingers through it. “All right, that’s it.”
She sprinted into the closet, yanked out a long plaid skirt, whipped on a pair of high Gucci boots—thirty years old and still fabulous. She slipped a thin belt with small gold stirrups for a clasp through the skirt loops. Then she pulled a cashmere turtleneck over her head and tucked it into the skirt.
She came out, inspecting herself in the long mirror. Checking the time, Sister hurried down the back stairs, grabbed her shearling three-quarter-length coat, heavy but so warm. Outside, she hopped into the truck.
Even with the snow, she was at the club five minutes before Walter.
Under a tall window with a graceful curve at the top, the two caught up. While she had already written him a note thanking him for the fine hunt breakfast, she again told him how wonderful it was.
Finally, after turtle pie dessert, her tea and his coffee steaming, she reached for the handsome young man’s right hand. “Walter, you’re a natural foxhunter.”
Beaming, he squeezed her hand. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She laughed. “I don’t know about that, but you love the sport, and you pay attention. That means so much to me. Oh, I know most people are out there to run and jump. Makes them happy. I have no quarrel with that, so long as they respect the hounds. After all, we each take away from our pastimes what we most need. But the natural foxhunter, the true foxhunter, loves the hounds and loves the quarry. And he knows that if he lived one hundred years, well, he’d still be outfoxed.”
Walter smiled, his large even teeth an attractive feature. “I expect even Tom Firr didn’t know it all.” He referred to an English huntsman from the nineteenth century, reported to be the greatest huntsman of his time.
“You’ve already contributed so much to our club. There are times, Walter, when I turn around and catch sight of you, and I think it’s Ray. If you had the military mustache, you’d be his twin.”
A quiet note crept into his voice. “You know, I often think about Big Ray, how I wished I had known he was my natural father. How strange that neither of us knew until last season, but everyone around us knew.”
“That’s Virginia.” She smiled, glad that something of Big Ray remained and simultaneously sorry that her genes would be washed away. Still, you take what life gives you.
“Dad didn’t know; I’m sure of that.” Walter referred to the man he knew as his father: a hardworking man bested in business many times over, the last time by Crawford Howard. It had destroyed him.
“I’m sure, too. We can both be glad of that, for your father did not live a happy life.” She paused slightly, changing the subject. “My mother used to say, ”Eventually all things are known, and none of it matters.“ She was a foxhunter. They all were. Lucky me.” She smiled.
“Everyone needs a passion. If it were rational, it wouldn’t be a passion, would it?” He smiled back. “We’re both lucky.”
The waiter put the check on the table. As both were members, he did the correct thing, placing the bill midway between them, rather than assuming the man would pay.
Walter reached for it to sign it, but Sister was quicker and grabbed it. “I asked you to lunch.”
“Sister, let me. You do so much for all of us. I don’t know how to repay you. Allow me.”
“No. Speaking of passion, I’m here because of that passion.” She scribbled her name, club number, then added a tip. “When I look at you, Walter, I am reminded of love. I’m reminded of being young. I’m reminded of how life is one surprise after another, a jumble of emotions, events, but, ultimately, joy.” He sat stock-still as she spoke, her low voice resonant. “I am reminded that I must tend to my passion, for I want others to experience the same sharp grace that I have experienced in the hunt field.” She took a deep breath, reaching for his
hand once more. “Walter, I want you to be my joint-master.”
CHAPTER 19
At eight o’clock Tuesday evening, the skies turned crystal clear. The last wisp of noctilucent cloud scudded toward the east. The mercury plunged to twenty-two degrees.
Like most horsemen, Sam Lorillard obsessively listened to the radio weather reports. Before he left Crawford’s, he double-checked each horse’s blanket. For those with a thin coat, typical of many thoroughbreds, he took the precaution of putting a loosely woven cotton blanket under the durable turnout sheet.
Like Sister, Sam believed horses needed to be horses. He kept them outside as much as possible, bringing them in to groom, feed, weigh, and carry on a conversation. Sam liked to talk to the horses. Roger Davis, his assistant, also took up the habit.
Crawford’s thoroughbreds knew a great deal about Super Bowl picks, college basketball, and socks—quite a bit more about socks because Sam’s feet remained cold until the middle of May.
The Lorillard home place, improving now that Sam was back on his feet, had a huge cast-iron wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen.
Sam was also trying to improve his eating habits. He hunched at the kitchen table, a heavy leather-piercing needle in his right hand, a workday bridle in his left. The small keepers, which kept the cheek straps from flapping, had broken. He patiently stitched them.
Jabbing a needle through leather hurt his fingers, which ached in the cold. Sitting by the wood-burning stove helped.
His cell phone rang. He no longer bothered with a line to the house, using the cell for everything.
“Hello.”
“Sam,” Rory croaked, “come get me. I’m ready.”
“Where are you?”
“Salvation Army. Thought I’d clean up.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”
Sam hurried to his battered 1979 Toyota truck, which, despite age, ran like a top.
One half-hour later, after a fulsome discussion with the sergeant in charge, Rory left with Sam.
“It’s a three-hour ride. Can you make it?”
A haggard Rory slumped on his seat. “Yes.” He produced a pint of Old Grand-Dad. “This is the last booze I’ll ever drink. If I don’t, I’ll get the shakes. You don’t need that.” Rory took a swig.
A pint was nothing to Rory Ackerman’s system. Sam said nothing about the whiskey, was surprised that he didn’t crave it himself.
The long ride to Greensboro, North Carolina, was punctuated by sporadic bursts of talk.
“Expensive?”
“The clinic?” Sam kept his eyes on the road.
“Uh-huh.”
“Not as bad as some.”
“How am I gonna pay for it?”
“Don’t fret about that now. Just get through it.”
Rory licked his lips after another pull. “You got some secret source of money?”
Sam smiled, the lights from the dials on the dash illuminating his face with a low light. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Am I gonna work this off for the rest of my life?”
“I told you, don’t worry about that. You and I can work that out later. Your job is to dry out, clean up, sober up, wake up.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rory responded with little enthusiasm.
As they crossed the Dan River, then over the North Carolina line, Rory spoke up again.
“Heater works good.”
“Truck’s a keeper.” Sam smiled.
“Pisses me off that the Japs make better cars than we do.”
“Nah,” Sam disagreed, “not anymore. But if I get enough money together, I’ll buy another Toyota Tacoma. Easy on the gas. And red. I always wanted a red truck.”
“Sure I got a bed?”
Sam nodded. Rory stretched out his feet, not far since the cabs of Japanese vehicles are made for people smaller than Americans. “Been thinkin‘.”
“I figured.”
“No. Been thinking about Mitch and Tony.”
“Oh.”
“Day jobs.” Rory glanced out the window at the flat landscape. “They knew something.”
“Like something illegal?”
“I reckon. You know how it is. We work a farm for two days, paint a fence, however long we can hold it together. Anyone who needs someone fast doesn’t mind scraping the bottom of the barrel, rides on down to the train station.”
“Yeah.”
“Loading docks. Once when storms dropped trees over the tracks, we even worked for the C and O, cutting them up. If you talked to all of us, we’ve about covered every odd job in the county. You notice things even if you’re hung over.”
“Mitch and Tony notice anything out of the way?”
Rory closed his eyes. “Brain’s no good. I remember sometimes they’d be flush.”
“You’ll remember when you’re back to yourself.”
He paused, then whistled. “If I can figure it out, I might be drinking the next bottle of Thunderbird enhanced with poison.” He cackled for a second. “Like those wine snobs would say, ”a floral top note,“ or maybe in this case, a hemlock finish.”
As Sam drove to Greensboro, only to turn around and drive back to get to work by six-thirty in the morning, Sister sat up in bed, wood crackling in the big fireplace. Propped on her knees was a yellow legal pad, much scribbled upon.
Each time Sister would write something else with her Number 1 lead pencil, Golly would bat at the pencil.
“Gotcha!”
“You’re a frustrated writer.” Sister batted back at the cat, who loved this game.
Rooster got up from his bed, walked over, and put his head on the bed, eyes imploring.
“No.”
“Why does she get to sleep up there?”
“Rooster, go to bed, honey.”
“I want to get on the bed.”
Raleigh, disturbed, joined the harrier. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair that that snot cat gets to be up there and we sleep in dog beds. We’re man’s best friend. What’s she?”
“The Queen of All She Surveys,” Golly replied.
“I can’t think. Boys, go to sleep. The dog door isn’t locked downstairs, so you can go out if that’s what this is about.”
Sister usually locked the door at night so Rooster, particularly, wouldn’t hunt. But on a cold night, Rooster had no desire to chase fox, rabbit, or bobcat, hence the unlocked dog door.
“Disobedient dogs don’t get treats.” Golly rolled over to display her stomach, adding further insult to the barb. She fetchingly turned her head, too.
“Smart-ass cats get tossed over our heads” Rooster threatened.
“I am so scared I think I’ll pee on the comforter,” Golly purred.
“Then she’ll throw you off the bed,” Raleigh said.
“I can’t hear myself think.” Sister scratched Golly’s tummy while the cat peered down at the dogs. They sighed, gave up, and padded back to their beds.
“One of these days that fat cat will go too far,” Rooster grumbled.
“No sense of restraint, obligation, or duty.” Raleigh put his sleek black head on his tan-tipped paws. “She does nothing to earn her keep.”
Golly righted herself. “Oh, yes I do, you two sanctimonious toads. Dogs are so, so—” She pondered. “—goody. Makes me want to cough up a fur ball. I kill mice. It’s why we have a mouse-free barn and house.”
“Ha! Inky comes in and gets the mice and what she doesn’t want, Bitsy gets. The last time you caught a mouse was an eclipse of the sun.” Raleigh kept his eyes open in case she shot off the bed to attack him.
“You just thought there was an eclipse of the sun. You had your head up your ass” Golly giggled.
That made Rooster laugh, so Raleigh now growled at him instead.
“I am going to throw everyone out of this bedroom and shut the door. I need to concentrate.” Sister’s voice took on that listen-tome edge.
Golly moved to sit behind Sister on the pillow. She peered down
at the tablet, covered with names, squares beside some, X’s beside others, question marks by a few.
“Looks complicated” Golly exhaled through her tiny nostrils.
Squares rested in front of the names of those on the Board of Governors who would oppose her plan. X’s meant agreement. A question mark was just that.
Tomorrow was the board meeting. She would announce her decision concerning a joint-master. After initial shock and some good questions about just what she expected from him, Walter had happily said yes.
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