In the interval between dessert and cards, he stepped outside to gaze at the gardens, answering to spring. Up the hill, he beheld a statue beckoning in the night, a focus for the eye. Everywhere he looked he was seduced by a powerful aesthetic sensibility.
Bill, cigar in hand, joined him. “Cohiba? I needed a respite.” He offered him a cigar from his leather carrying case.
“Gave up smoking,” Professor Forland said as Bill pocketed the extra cigar—a nice fat gauge, too, so the draw would be deliciously smooth.
“Thank you for serving on the panel, for visiting our compatriots,” Bill graciously said. “Virginia has two hundred fifty vineyards. You can’t visit them all, but I’m delighted you’ve visited the ones here.”
Professor Forland inhaled the fragrant cigar odor as Bill prepared his. “Like Galileo, I recant.”
“Ah.” Bill smiled, pulling the extra cigar from his blazer pocket, cutting off the nub end for the professor with a sharp mother-of-pearl cigar cutter. Then he carefully held the flame a bit away from the tip so Professor Forland could light the treasure. “A little bit of heaven, isn’t it?”
“Nicotine serves a purpose,” Professor Forland good-naturedly remarked. “You know, when your wife and I were out today we saw Toby’s operation.”
“Very opinionated.”
“There are worse characteristics, but, yes, he can be difficult. What surprised me is his idea for a wine he hopes to bottle this year. He buys the Cabernet Sauvignon from—let me remember—”
“Dinny Ostermann.” Bill nodded with admiration. “He’s one of those people who can make a purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“The usual mix of Petit Verdot, and Toby’s got the Verdot right, too, but the usual mix is eighty percent Petit Verdot with twenty percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Petit Verdot plays the dominating role. He wants to reverse it.”
“Linden Vineyards Aeneus 2001 does that.” Bill’s studies showed themselves, although he wasn’t a bragging sort of man.
Then again, if you catch a big fish you generally don’t go home by an alley.
“Yes, yes, I know, but what really surprised me was Toby’s aggressiveness. He says he can do it better.”
Bill laughed. “In his own way he’s as arrogant as Rollie Barnes. What’d you think of that operation, by the way?”
“Too early to tell. Spends money like water. Arch Saunders was one of my students, you know. Even taught for two years. Not as brilliant as Toby in the classroom, but a more balanced person. And sounds like Rollie is buying or renting any land with the right soils and drainage. Very competitive. Arch, too. They’ll upset people, those two.” Professor Forland drew deeply on the heavenly cigar. “Despite the conviviality of tonight’s dinner, every now and then Toby glares at Arch and Rollie. Toby’s worked so hard, alone, and here Arch comes back from California and snags a plummy partnership.”
“Heard that Rollie is building his own bottling facility. And the first grape hasn’t appeared on the vine.” Bill exhaled a blue plume, changing the focus of the conversation.
“Optimism.”
“Mmm.” Bill shrugged. He endured Rollie.
Bill was a secure man with a bubbling, effervescent humor. Bill’s quiet confidence and, worse, his social grace infuriated Rollie, who felt clumsy.
“Did you know that Hy Maudant bought a mobile bottling line?” Professor Forland closed his eyes as he took a deep drag, the orange glow of the cigar tip shining.
“When did he do that?”
“Today. We stopped at White Vineyards first.”
“Patricia and I haven’t had a minute to catch up. I’ll be interested to hear what she says. Those units cost $350,000. Hy is a good businessman, the French usually are. Instead of sinking all his money into his own bottling facility, he buys the mobile unit. He already has the huge tractor to pull it. He’ll use it himself and then hire it out to other vintners. Shrewd.” Bill made note of the fact that Hy, a guest this evening, didn’t brag about his acquisition.
“Very, as long as you have someone who can service it.”
Bill turned as he heard Patricia call from inside. “Be right in.” He turned to Professor Forland. “Hy will have someone who can fix it. I know Hy. By the way, I’ll put together a small box of different cigars for you to take home. Unless you have a favorite.”
“Ah, your sampler will tell me more about you than my poor tastes.” He stopped a moment. “But I have to say the best cigar I ever smoked in my life was a Diplomaticos, Cuban.”
“Yes. I like them very much, although I tend more toward Cohibas, at least after dinner. Romeo and Juliet and Dunhill make a good cigar even if the tobacco isn’t Cuban. But you know, the Cubans really do have the perfect conditions for cigar tobacco. Funny, isn’t it, cigars are as unique as wine and just as difficult to produce. Another fine art,” he sighed. “Damned fool embargo. Hell, when the embargo was declared, President Kennedy had humidors stuffed with Cuban cigars. That’s what raises my blood pressure more than anything—hypocrisy.”
“The hypocrite honors morals or the law by pretending to obey.”
Bill laughed, appreciating the fine point. “Another brandy?” As they walked inside, Bill draped his arm over the professor’s narrow shoulders. “I married Patricia, but you know when I knew I was completely, totally, eternally in love with that woman? When she dragged me out of bed at four-thirty in the morning for weeks our first year to pick the grapes. She spared me nothing. We did much of the physical work ourselves, and I am not an early riser. But, you know, the happiness on her face, the shared goal—for the first time in my life I have a three-hundred-sixty-degree relationship with a woman, the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”
“You are a fortunate man, because she’s one of the most beautiful women in the world.”
Bill puffed his last puff. “Beauty may bring you to a woman, but it won’t keep you. She has to have beauty from within.”
“Ah, like the vine. It, too, must express the beauty from within.”
“Poetic.” Bill smiled as they rejoined the guests in the den, where a lively discussion was in progress about the spiritual difference between baseball, football, and basketball.
Professor Forland knew little about sports, but the sight of women as impassioned about sports as the men was not unique to him. In Blacksburg, football was a religion both genders appeared to worship equally.
However, the true achievement of Virginia Tech lay in its vibrant social life. It was once written in a national magazine when rating the best party schools in America that they couldn’t include Tech. It would be unfair to pit professionals against amateurs.
As the guests left, Toby and Arch fell in step some distance behind Rollie and Chauntal.
At the bottom of the curving outdoor stairs, Toby abruptly asked, “Why’d you leave Tech for California? Being a professor is a soft job, a good one.”
“Hands on. Classroom’s not for me, but I didn’t know that until I taught for two years.”
“Didn’t have anything to do with Mary Minor?” Toby used Harry’s true Christian name and her maiden surname.
They reached Toby’s truck, parked well below the great house. “A little, I guess.”
Toby leaned against the door, crossed his arms over his chest. “What was it like working out there in Napa Valley?”
“Different world, a totally different world. But the people who have been hired by the rich people—the movie stars’ people and all that, those Italians and French that actually run the vineyards—they are something. They are true blue. They had to adjust to a different climate, soils, rainfall, and a whole different way of living, but, boy, look what they are producing.” He paused a moment. “Good as it is and beautiful as it is, too many people in California, even in Napa Valley. They’re like locusts just eating everything up.”
“Never happen here.”
“Oh, yeah? Toby, Charlottesville came in as the number-one place to live in America.”
> “Ah, just a poll. The rest of the country, outside the South, I mean, thinks we’re all a bunch of dumb rednecks.”
“Hope so.” Arch laughed.
Toby laughed, too, a rarity for him. “Yeah, keep ’em out. Hey, want to see what I just bought?”
“Sure.”
He opened the truck and pulled down the raised center console/armrest. He popped open the lid and removed a handgun. “Isn’t this something? Brand-new. A Ruger P95PR. Bought two boxes of ten-round magazines, too.”
“Hey, that’s nine millimeter. You going to shoot targets with that?”
“Sometimes.”
“Expensive ammunition. I stick to a twenty-two for practice.”
“Yeah, but feel this in your hand.” Toby handed the gun to Arch.
Arch knew it was unloaded. Toby wasn’t stupid. “Feels balanced.” He handed it back. “I know that’s expensive.”
“Keep it right here in my truck. Never know when I’ll need it.” A puff of air escaped his lips, as the air was quite cool. “Did Forland get mad at you when you left Tech?”
“No, he understood I needed to be in the field. All he cares about is that his students make a name for themselves.”
“Big ego,” Toby flatly replied.
“He’s entitled to it.”
“Did he ever say why he didn’t give me that job?”
“Thought you’d do better out of school, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Bet everyone knows in Blacksburg but me. University towns create more gossip than scholars.”
“I don’t know.” Arch avoided the issue.
“You all think I’m nuts. Everyone thinks I’m like a radiator that overheats. I know that. Just because I say what I’m thinking when I’m thinking it. You all think I just boil over.” He threw his hands up like water shooting up. “Whoosh.”
“Toby, you’ll never change.” Arch kept his voice level. “Thanks for showing me the Ruger.” He started toward his truck.
“I’ll show you all. Just wait. I will make the best wine in this state and I’ll make money, too.”
Arch couldn’t resist. “Not if I do it first.”
“You try!” Toby’s face reddened. “I’m gonna beat your ass. I’ll show Professor Forland who’s the best.”
“Okay.” Arch kept walking as Toby kept making promises of greatness to come.
Early the next morning after protracted good-byes, Professor Forland drove off in his Scion car, down the long, winding driveway, all paved, and out the main gate. He turned right, passed Keelona Farm as he headed toward Carter’s Bridge. Then he simply vanished.
8
Bullshit.” Aunt Tally sharply rapped her silver-headed cane on the Aubusson rug, which slightly muffled the curse.
The light played on Ned Tucker’s distinguished silver sideburns and temples as he bowed to the fabulously well-dressed nonagenarian perched on the sofa in Big Mim’s living room. “I agree.”
Aunt Tally used her cane topped off with the silver hound’s head for punctuation as well as to help her walk. Spry enough at her age, she did find that sometimes she wasn’t quite as sure-footed as she once was if the ground wasn’t level.
Big Mim, equally well dressed, glided over to her aunt. “Cursing again?”
“Yes. I think bullshit ever so much more forceful than shit. And if I had time I’d be more creative than bullshit, but what Ned has just told me infuriates me, so I responded immediately. Bullshit, I say, pure, unadulterated bullshit.”
The small gathering at Mim’s beautiful house, redecorated last winter by Parish-Hadley, the august interior decorating firm—“freshened,” as Mim liked to say—gravitated toward the ancient lady.
Big Mim was giving a small Saturday luncheon party in honor of Harry and Fair. The luncheon was on a par with a hunt breakfast, which is to say it was sumptuous. She’d been close friends with Harry’s mother, as had Miranda Hogendobber, who used to work with Harry at the post office. When Harry was left without either parent while studying at Smith College, both women did their best to look after her. Big Mim’s daughter, a year younger than Harry, never really forgave her mother for this diversion of attention Little Mim believed she herself deserved.
Over the years, young Marilyn managed to reach an accord with Harry. After all, it wasn’t Harry’s fault that her parents had died within months of each other. It was just that even now, Little Mim sometimes resented the bond between her mother and this poor—formerly poor, anyway—country mouse. Harry, a terrific athlete, shared foxhunting, tennis, shooting clays and skeet with Big Mim.
BoomBoom, six feet tall and gorgeous, was also a natural athlete. Woe to the man who invited her to play golf just to see her form at the top of her swing’s finish. She’d bet on each hole and clean the fellow out. BoomBoom understood the monetary value of outstanding physical attributes.
It seemed everyone was a good athlete but Little Mim. To her credit, she could ride, thanks to thousands of dollars’ worth of lessons plus her own grit. No amount of money will give one the courage to take a big fence. Little Mim took her fences without blinking an eye.
The luncheon pleased Little Mim because she was grateful her mother hadn’t gone overboard. She wanted her June wedding celebrations to overshadow anything that might be done for Harry and Fair or anyone else in the county.
Miranda and Susan walked over, flanking Ned. Jim, the host, noted whose drink needed a lift.
Also gathering around Aunt Tally were Tazio Chappars, Paul de Silva, Tracy Raz, BoomBoom, Alicia, and Hy and Fiona Maudant.
“Well, Aunt Tally, once again you’re the center of attention. Perhaps you’d like to recapitulate your conversation with Ned?” Big Mim goaded her.
“Ned, you start.” Tally leaned forward, both hands on the head of her cane.
“As some of you know, I’ve been assigned to the Ag committee. I paid a courtesy call to the chair and he told me, his exact words, ‘Ned, my boy, if you want to rise in government, don’t drive a foreign car. Get yourself a good ole American piece of junk.’ Here I thought we might discuss last year’s corn surplus—the average price came to $1.95 a bushel—and he tells me to get rid of the Audi station wagon, which isn’t my car, it’s Susan’s. I borrowed it to carry some things down to the apartment.” He looked at Aunt Tally.
“Bullshit was my reply.” Aunt Tally lifted an eyebrow.
“I guess so.” Tracy Raz laughed.
“It is, but he has a point. Appearances count for more than reality in politics. Always have and always will,” chimed in Jim, mayor of Crozet and a Democrat.
This created some friction in the family since Little Mim, a Republican, was vice-mayor. She had ambitions. Her father did not. He simply wanted to serve Crozet, for he loved the town and surrounding farms.
“I’m cooked either way, because my car is my old 1998 540i,” Ned ruefully said.
“Don’t buy another BMW. Not until they dispense with that ridiculous iDrive as well as the ugly bustle on the trunk.” BoomBoom loved cars and read four magazines dedicated to the automobile.
“Under the circumstance, I’d say driving a BMW would be political suicide.” Ned half-laughed.
“Considering that the German government has criticized our plans in the Mideast, you’re right on two counts.” Tracy Raz was a keen student of foreign affairs.
“Buy a truck,” BoomBoom advised.
“Yes, but, Boom, if you want, you can go out and buy a damned Bentley.” Ned was a little frustrated.
“I love my Bentley.” Big Mim squared her shoulders.
It should be noted that Big Mim had more money than God, whereas BoomBoom only had enough for an archangel.
“Your Bentley GT is beautiful. But you know I always had trucks because of the business and now it’s my only vehicle. I sold my Mercedes two months ago. I don’t know why I waited this long to have one set of wheels. God knows, it’s easier.” BoomBo
om glanced over at Alicia, whose lavender-tinted eyes glowed, a feature the camera exploited in her long-ago film days.
“The Cadillac Escalade isn’t so bad.” Paul de Silva, in his early thirties, liked the big SUV, popular among his generation.
“He can’t drive a Cadillac. Not if he wants to go above his present station.” Aunt Tally nursed plans for Ned. “It’s all silly, I know, but if Ned is going to be our next governor, then he has to be clever about these things.”
“I thought I was going to be governor,” Little Mim blurted out.
“You are, dear, if the gods are willing, but you’re younger than Ned. Let him go first. As for all of us here, party is irrelevant. All that matters is what comes back to Crozet. Ned, I presume you want to be governor?” Big Mim asked.
“Uh—”
Susan chirped, “Have you ever known my husband to refuse a pro bono case, an honor, or more work?”
“Am I that transparent?” He was shocked.
“No.” Miranda patted his arm. “But politics is the ultimate seduction, you know. One actually believes things will be accomplished. True power comes not from an electorate. ‘I can do all things in Him who strengthens me.’ Follow that, Ned, and you will achieve what is necessary.” Miranda quoted Philippians, Chapter 3, Verse 10.
“Miranda, I thought you’d given up being a religious nut.” Aunt Tally minced few words. “And while you’re on your feet, Jim, another martini.”
“You’ve had enough.” Big Mim glared at the diminutive lady on the sofa.
“Oh, balls, Mimsy. I can’t engage in illicit affairs anymore. All the men of my generation are dead, and a young man of seventy wouldn’t give me a tumble. I can’t ride astride, so I drive that damned buggy. Who can live without horses? I can barely dance. You have no mercy. Gin is comfort. And I did not insult Miranda, because I know that’s why you are now hovering over me like a blowfly.” She pounded the cane on the rug again.
“I’ll fetch you another drink.” Little Mim maliciously smiled at her mother. She couldn’t help it.
“My beautiful girl here isn’t a religious nut, Aunt Tally, but you know how she loves the Good Book.” Tracy adored Miranda. “She has most of it memorized. How does she do it?”
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