“No. I’m not happy at all.” She half smiled. “If nothing else, Norman, we can still be honest with one another.”
An agonized expression crossed his features, and then he glanced over Kerry’s shoulder, since the music had stopped. “Christ, here comes Aysha.” He whispered, “I’ll see you at work. Maybe we can have lunch—somewhere, you know.”
She watched as he scurried to take his wife by the elbow and hustle her back out onto the dance floor. Tears sprang into Kerry’s eyes. Little Marilyn had observed the exchange, although she’d not heard it. She came over.
“He’s not worth it.”
Kerry sniffed and fought back more tears. “It’s not a question of worth, Marilyn. You either love a man or you don’t.”
Marilyn put her arm around Kerry’s waist, walking her away from the dance floor.
Fair and Susan Tucker swung one another around on the floor while the voluptuous widow BoomBoom Craycroft, fabulously dressed, ensnared Blair. He didn’t seem to mind. Harry danced with Reverend Jones. She dearly loved the rev and barely noticed the dramas around her. In fact, Harry often shut out those tempests of emotion. Sometimes that was a great idea. Sometimes it wasn’t.
After the song ended, the band took a break. The stampede for the bar left the women at the tables as the men jostled for drinks to carry back to “the girls.”
Both Blair and Fair arrived at Harry and Susan’s table. Mrs. Hogendobber sat at the next table with Herbie and Bob and Sally Taylor, friends from church. Ned was off politicking with the other lawyers.
“Coca-Cola, darling.” Fair placed a glass in front of Harry.
Before she could respond, Blair smacked down a gin and tonic. “Harry, you need a real drink.”
“She doesn’t drink.” Fair smiled, baring his fangs.
“She does now.” Blair bared his fangs in return.
“Are you trying to get Harry drunk? Pretty crude, Blair.”
“Get over it. You divorced her, buddy. I happen to think she’s a fascinating woman. Your loss is my gain.”
By now the whole party was pretending to be talking with one another, but every ear was cocked in the direction of this exchange.
“She’s not a raffle ticket. I haven’t lost her and you haven’t gained her.” Fair squared his massive shoulders.
Blair turned around to sit down. “Cut the crap.”
That fast Fair pulled Blair’s chair out from under him. Blair sprawled on the ground with a thud.
Blair sprang up. “You stupid redneck.”
Fair swung and missed. Blair was quick on his feet.
Within seconds the two strong men were pounding at one another. Blair sent the vet crashing into the table, which collapsed.
“Will you two grow up!” Harry shouted. She was preparing to haul off and sock whoever came closest to her, when a hand closed around her wrist like a steel vise.
“No, you come with me.” Reverend Jones yanked her right out of there.
Susan and Mrs. Hogendobber cleared away as the punching and counterpunching increased. As each fist found its target, a thunk resounded over the party. The band hurried back to the bandstand and picked up a tune. Jim Sanburne moved toward the combatants, as did Reverend Jones once he deposited Harry with her hostess.
Harry, red-faced, mumbled, “Mim, I’m so sorry.”
“Why apologize for them? You haven’t done a thing. Anyway, ever since those drunken swans ruined my Town & Country party I just take it as it comes.”
Mim’s famed Town & Country party was one she gave years before, filled with stars and business leaders from all over the country. She imported swans for the pool turned lily pond. She drugged the swans for the occasion, but the drugs wore off and the swans invaded the party, got into the liquor and food, becoming pugnacious. Clips of her party made the nightly news on every station in the country. The presidential candidate for whom this extravaganza was planned was shown running from a swan whose wings were outstretched as well as its neck, beak aiming for that large presidential bottom.
“The swans behaved better than these two.”
“Harry, I told you both of them are in love with you. You won’t listen to me.”
“I’m listening now.”
Mim slugged back a refreshing gin rickey. “You can’t just be friends with men. It doesn’t work that way. And don’t be mad at them because they can’t be friends the way women can. If a man comes around, he wants more than friendship. You know that.”
Harry watched as Jim Sanburne and Herbie finally separated the two men she thought of as her friends. Fair had a bloody nose and Blair’s lip was split wide open. BoomBoom Craycroft rushed to minister to Blair, who shrugged her off. “I know it. And I hate it.”
“Might as well hate men, then.”
“You know I don’t.”
“Then you have to choose between these two or tell them how you feel about them.” She paused. “How do you feel about them?”
Harry faltered. “I don’t know. I used to love Fair heart and soul, nothing held back. I still love him, but I don’t know if I can love him again in that way.”
“Maybe trust is the operative word.”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her right hand over her eyes. Why was life so complicated?
“Blair?”
“He’s a tender man. Very sensitive, and I’m drawn to him—but I’m afraid. Oh, Mim, I just don’t know if I can go through loving anyone again.”
“Whoever you love will hurt you. You’ll hurt him. If you learn to forgive, to go on—you’ll have something real.” She fingered her Hermès scarf. “I wish I could explain it better than I am. You know that Jim used to cheat on me like there was no tomorrow.”
“Uh—” Harry swallowed.
“No need to be polite. He did. The whole town knew it. But Jim was a big, handsome, wild poor boy when I met him and I used my wealth to control him. Running through women was his revenge. I came so close to divorcing him, but, well, I couldn’t. When I discovered I had breast cancer, I guess I rediscovered Jim. We opened up and talked to one another. After decades of marriage we finally just talked and we forgave one another and—here we are. Now, if a rich bitch like me can take a chance on life and love, I don’t see why you can’t.”
Harry sat quietly for a long time. “I take your point.”
“You decide between those two men.”
“Blair hasn’t exactly declared himself, you know.”
“I’m not worried about his feelings right now. I’m worried about yours. Make up your mind.”
14
Jangled by the previous night’s events, Harry awoke early to a steady rain. As it was desperately needed, she didn’t resent the gray one bit. She threw on her ancient Smith College T-shirt, a pair of cutoffs, and sneakers, and dashed to the barn.
After she fed the horses, she hung a bridle on a tack hook in the center aisle, grabbed a bar of saddle soap, a small bucket of water, a sponge, and a cloth to begin cleaning. Rhythmic tasks helped her sort out whatever was going on in her life.
Mrs. Murphy climbed into the hayloft to visit Simon. Being nocturnal, he was sound asleep, so she jumped on a stall door and then to an old but well-cared-for tack trunk. Sitting on four cinder blocks, the wooden trunk was painted blue and gold with M.C.M., Harry’s initials, in the middle. Mary Charlotte Minor.
Once divorced, she had kept Haristeen. It was such a bother to lose your surname in the first place, and then to take it back was too confusing for everyone. That’s what she said, but Susan Tucker declared she retained her married name because she wasn’t yet done with Fair. Everyone had an opinion on Harry’s emotional state and no one minded cramming it down her throat.
She’d had enough emotion and probing questions the night before. She wanted to be left alone. Fat chance.
Blair pulled up the drive to the barn. She had the lights on in the barn, so he knew where she was. Dodging the raindrops, he carried a wicker basket into the aisle.
�
�This is by way of an apology.” He flipped open the wicker lid. Delicious scones, Fortnum and Mason jams and jellies, bitesize ham biscuits, a fragrant Stilton cheese, a small jar of exquisite French mustard, and a large batch of peanut butter cookies were crowded inside. There were even water crackers and tins of pâté stuck in the corners. Before she could reply or thank him, he hurried into the tack room carrying a bag of expensive coffee.
“Blair, I’ve got only a hotpot down here. I don’t have anything for you to make fancy coffee with.” She was going to apologize for ending her sentence with a preposition, but then thought, Oh, the hell with it. Grammar and speech were ever diverging currents in the English language.
He silently walked back to his truck, returning with a black Krups coffeemaker, an electric grinder, and a small device for frothing milk for cappuccino.
“You do now.” He pointed to the espresso machine. “This will have to go in the kitchen. Now you’ve got everything you need.”
“Blair”—her jaw dropped—“this is so, so, uh, I don’t know what to say—thank you.”
“I was an ass. I’m sorry. If you’ll accept my apology, I’ll brew whatever your heart desires. How about a strong cup of Colombian to start? Then we can dig in the basket and follow with espresso or cappuccino, whatever you wish.”
“Sounds great to me.” Harry vigorously rubbed a rein. “And I do accept your apology.”
Mrs. Murphy, tail curled around her, swayed on the tack trunk. She appeared to be sleeping while sitting upright. Humans fell for this trick every time. It was the perfect eavesdropping posture.
Tucker, rarely as subtle, hovered over the basket.
Blair spread a small tablecloth on the rickety table in the tack room. He spied an old coffee tin on a shelf that Harry used as a grain measure. He filled it with water, then dashed outside through the raindrops to pick black-eyed Susans. The coffee was brewed by the time he returned.
“You’re soaked.”
“Feels good.” His hazel eyes were alight.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at the table. “I admire people who are artistic. I couldn’t make anything that pretty out of odds and ends.”
“You have other talents.”
“Name one.” Harry laughed.
“Fishing for compliments,” Tucker murmured.
“You make people feel good. You have an infectious laugh, and I believe you know more about farming than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Blair,” she laughed, “you didn’t grow up on a farm. Anyone who has would seem smart.”
“I see other farmers in the county. Their pastures aren’t as rich, their fence lines aren’t in as good repair, and their use of space and terrain isn’t as logical. You’re the best.”
“Thanks.” She bit into a ham biscuit drenched with the mustard. “I didn’t know how hungry I was.”
They ate, chatted, and ended their meal with spectacular cappuccino.
Blair inhaled the rich smell of leather, saddle soap, pine shavings, the distinct and warm aroma of the horses.
“This barn exudes peace and happiness.”
“Dad and Mom poured a lot of love into this place. Dad’s family migrated from the Tidewater immediately before the Revolutionary War, but we didn’t find this piece of land until the 1840s. The rich Hepworths, that was Mom’s family, stayed in the Tidewater. The Minors, hardscrabble farmers, took what they could. The Depression hurt Papaw and Mamaw, so by the time Dad came along and was old enough to pitch in, there was a lot to do. He realized there wasn’t a living in farming anymore, so he worked outside and brought home money. Little by little he put things back in order, apples, hay, a small corn crop. Mom worked in the library. Early in the morning, late at night, they’d do the farm chores. I miss them, you know, but I look around and see the love they left.”
“They left a lot of love in you too.”
Tucker put her head on Harry’s knee. “Say something nice, Mom.”
“Thanks.”
“I came over today to apologize and to, well, to tell you I like you a lot. I’m not on my feet . . . I mean, I am financially but I’m not emotionally. I really like you, Harry, and I haven’t, oh—” He paused, as this was harder than he had anticipated. “I haven’t been fair to you. I know now that our spending time together has had much greater significance to people here than if we lived in New York. I don’t mean to be leading you on.”
“I don’t feel like you are at all. I’m happy with our friendship.”
“That’s good of you to say. I’m happy, too, but I vacillate. Sometimes I want more, but when I think about what it would mean here, I pull back. If we lived in New York, I’d know what to do. Here, uh, there’s more responsibility involved. I love it when I’m here, but I love being on the road, too, and I guess my ego needs it, the attention. I hate to admit that but—”
“Your ego is what makes you good at what you do.”
A sheepish smile and blush followed that remark. “Yeah, but there’s something silly about standing around in clothes, being photographed. It’s just—if I had any balls, Harry, I’d take acting classes, but I think deep down I know I don’t have a scrap of talent. I’m just a pretty face.” He laughed at his use of an expression generally used to describe women.
“You’re more than that. It’s up to you and hey, what does it cost to take acting classes—in money and in time? No one is going to throw tomatoes at you in a classroom. If you’re any good at it, you’ll know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She thought a moment. “The University of Virginia has a good drama department.”
“You’re okay.” He reached across the table for her hand but the phone rang.
“Sorry.” She stood up and reached for the wall phone. “Hi. Barn.”
The deep timbre on the other line, Fair, said, “Will you still speak to me?”
“I’m speaking to you now.”
“Very funny. I’m in the truck, had a call over at Mim’s, so I’m on my way.”
“Not now.”
“What do you mean, not now?”
“I have company and—”
“Blair? Is that son of a bitch there?”
“Yes, he came to apologize.”
“Goddammit!” Fair switched off his mobile phone.
Harry sat down again.
“Fair?”
“In an emotional tumult, as my mother would have said.”
The phone rang again. “I bet that’s him. I’m sorry, Blair.” She picked up. It wasn’t Fair, it was Susan Tucker. “Susan, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Of course you’re glad it’s me. I’m your best friend. Scoop.”
“I’m ready.” Harry mouthed the name Susan to Blair.
“Ned and Rick Shaw had a meeting today about the fundraiser for the department, and by the bye Rick said the corpse is Mike Huckstep, same fellow that owned the motorcycle. It will be in the papers tomorrow.”
“I guess it’s not a surprise. I mean, it’s what we all figured anyway—that the cycle’s owner was the dead man.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the end of that. Got a minute?”
“Actually, I don’t. Blair’s here.”
“Ah, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. He came to apologize, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“We can catch up later, but here it is in a nutshell: Little Marilyn has the hots for Blair.”
“A nutshell is where that best belongs.” Harry felt that every female under ninety must be swooning over Blair.
“Ah-ha, getting proprietary, are we?”
“No,” Harry lied.
“Sure. Okay, I’ll call you later for girl talk.”
“Spare me. I can’t bear one more emotional revelation. Mine or yours or anyone else’s. Talk to you later. Bye.”
Blair’s face clouded over. “Did I just, uh, say too much?”
“Oh, no, no, I don’t mean that, but, Blair, all my friends are so busy psychoanalyzing me, you, Fair. I’m sick
of it. I’m beginning to think I’m a free movie for everyone.”
“I think a single man offends them and a single woman is an object of pity.” He held up his hand before she could protest. “It’s sexist, but that’s the world we live in.”
She ran her forefinger over the smooth surface of the high-tech coffeemaker. “Do you want to get married? Wait, I don’t mean to me, it’s not that kind of question, but in theory, do you want to get married?”
“No. Right now, at this time in my life, the thought scares the hell out of me.” He was as honest as a bone. “What about you?”
“Ditto. I mean, I’ve been married and I thought I was doing a pretty good job at it. Events proved otherwise.”
“That was his stupidity, not yours.”
“Maybe, but I’m very self-sufficient and I think Fair, and maybe most men, say they admire that quality but in reality they don’t. Fair wanted me to be more, well, more conventional, more dependent, and, Blair, that just ain’t me.”
“Ever notice how people say they love you and then they try to change you?”
She felt so relieved. He said what she felt. “Yeah, I never thought of it that way, but yeah. I am who I am. I’m not perfect and I’m sure not a movie star, but I get along. I don’t want to be any other way than the way I am.”
“What about sex?”
She gulped. “I beg your pardon?”
He tipped back his head and roared. “Harry, I’m not that forward. What about people’s attitudes about sex? If you have an affair, are you a slut in these parts?”
“No, I think that honor belongs to BoomBoom.”
“Oooh.” He whistled. “But if you sleep with someone, doesn’t it imply a commitment? You can’t get away with it. Everyone seems to know everything.”
She cocked her head to one side. “True. That’s why one has to look before one leaps. You can get away with it much more easily than I can. The double standard.”
“That double standard you just applied to BoomBoom?”
“Ahhh—no. BoomBoom will have engraved on her tombstone ‘At Last She Sleeps Alone.’ She overdoes it. But I’d feel the same way about a man. You never met him, but BoomBoom’s deceased husband was a real animal. He was fun and all, but if you were a woman, you knew never to trust him.”
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