Рита Браун: Homeward Hound

He laughed. “I have, but still you were smart. And as I said, you always make the right decision.”

She hung up the phone feeling a bit elated.

Sam, rubbing down a rein, said, “The president of Soliden, the big energy company? Gregory Luckham?”

“Yes.” She stood up, slipping the phone in her jeans back pocket. “Why?”

Rory answered. “He’s a brave man coming here, the outrage over the pipeline.”

Sam filled in. “I don’t think anyone will do something stupid at the hunt but you never know. People are really passionate about this, cutting trees, violating a national park, harming the environment. And one of the projected paths dips right over the Blue Ridge, tears up Old Paradise, goes across Tattenhall Station straight through Beveridge Hundred. It’s lethal.” He named beautiful Hunt Club fixtures.

Rory provided the other side. “Jobs. Lots of jobs. Everything is shareholder value. Soliden doesn’t care what is ruined, what animals harmed.”

“Obviously I’m against the destruction, but I can’t believe someone would make a fuss at Christmas Hunt.” Sister wondered why so many people were so passive about such things.

“Outsiders?” Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Sam, I truly doubt that Gregory Luckham is advertising that he is coming to Jefferson Hunt’s Christmas Hunt.” Sister paused. “At least, I hope he’s not advertising.”

Back in the aisle she mentioned Ronnie’s call and heard the same concerns she’d just heard in the tack room.

“Everything will be fine. Come on, it’s Christmas.” She smiled, climbing back up on the low stepladder. “I don’t remember finishing the braids. They’re so tight.”

No one said a word.

Weevil had finished her braids while she was in the tack room. Took him no time at all.

She led Aztec back into his stall, arranged his good rug on him, walked out sliding the door behind her.

“I don’t know which one of you finished my job but I do thank you. My fingers aren’t what they once were.”

Shaker smiled. “Ah, but Boss, you can still outride any of us.”

She laughed. “Now that is a lie. I keep up. And, in truth, I love it. I’m most alive on a horse. Aren’t you all?”

They agreed.

Weevil, who was learning to love her, lifted an eyebrow. “Christmas. The birth of our dear Lord.” They stopped to look at him. “I believe if Jesus lived here he would be a foxhunter. Scenting is no good in Galilee. But Jesus was a sportsman. He was a fisherman.”

They laughed, happy in one another’s company. Weevil reminded Sister of her late son, RayRay, Raymond, who died in a farming accident at fourteen in 1974. Weevil possessed Ray’s quick way with words, his sense of humor, his love of hounds and hunting. You go on. No matter what happens you go on. She knew despite all, she was a lucky woman. Her husband, Big Ray, was also gone. Ray’s boyhood friends, in their fifties now, stayed close to her. And she didn’t care if it sounded like wish fulfillment, she could feel her husband’s love and her son’s love. She never stopped loving them and would love them until the day she died. She could even feel horses, hounds, house dogs, and cats who loved her.

As she swept her eyes over the people in the barn, she thought to herself, Love is all that matters. It’s so simple. Why do people make life so hard?

Betty interrupted this reverie. “You’re wearing garters tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Of course. Why are you asking me?”

“So I’ll wear mine. They cut.” Betty complained.

“Then put moleskin under your breeches, twit.” Sister teased her.

“That’s a good idea.” Weevil found garters to rub, too.

Sister tapped her head. “You’d be surprised what’s up there.” Then she thought to herself, Amor Vincit Omnia. Bless Ovid. Love conquers all.

CHAPTER 2

Festooned, a huge, perfect Christmas tree commanded the anteroom before the formal dining room. Christmas balls from the 1920s, glittering new balls, angels, all testified to the longevity of Farmington Country Club, plus why throw holiday decorations away? This redbrick Georgian structure, a hint of Palladio, had been designed by Thomas Jefferson as a private residence before politics overtook his life. Like so many old houses, places, it survived tumultuous times, some up, many down, only to fall into the hands of a few who wished to save it. No one could imagine living there as a family, it was simply too enormous, having been built when one housed one’s immediate family, often one’s in-laws plus every shirttail cousin within a hundred-mile radius. Housing for slaves needed to stand the test of time and they did. Farmington was built to last. The way to save it was to turn it into a country club, which was done in 1927.

Naturally, many were shocked—a commercial venture, how crude. Those many, however, didn’t really have two nickels to rub together, much less what it would take to preserve this elegant place. And so Farmington Country Club inched Albemarle County a bit further toward the New South, which, of course, remained the Old South in ways both laudable and detestable.

The club flourished thanks in no small part to a fabulous golf course, expanded over the decades. The old course, built before land became outrageously expensive, could boast par fives, par fours, and this course did that. The shrubs, old trees, exquisite plantings made golfing as much a joy as possible, although clubs still landed in the ponds.

The formal dining room, painted in eighteenth-century subdued colors, remained a steadfast glory, and it was in this glory that a few Jefferson Hunt members gathered before tomorrow’s Christmas Hunt.

Ronnie had called together people to meet Gregory Luckham. Dewey Milford, ever at nonprofit fundraisers, was acquainted with Luckham. Ronnie believed more was accomplished socially than was ever accomplished at corporate meetings or on the floor of Congress. So he had invited people who could make a difference.

Gregory, a full head of ginger hair, sat next to Marty Howard, middle-aged, attractive. Marty knew how to get things done. Next to Marty sat Cecil Van Dorn, in his middle eighties, next to him was his wife, Violet Van Dorn. Sometimes they needed to help each other. Crawford was next to Charlotte Abruza, a historian he had hired to firmly place Old Paradise on the historic register as well as fight the pipeline. Old Paradise, founded in 1812 by a beautiful woman raiding the British supply trade, had a great history of feminist values. Sitting next to Charlotte was Dewey Milford, forties, perhaps the county’s most successful real estate developer, and then next to Ronnie glowed Yvonne Harris, the former runway model, one of the first African American models to make the cover of Vogue, who could destroy a man with one smoldering look.

One tried to seat girl-boy-girl-boy and Ronnie did his best. Given that he was gay, he thought he provided ballast. He wasn’t aggressive about being gay; he just was who he was, which was delightful.

“Crawford, I do wish you would hunt tomorrow. For all we know the fox will flee over to Old Paradise. You’ll be right at home.” Ronnie encouraged him.

Marty smiled. “We’ll be there to see you off. Neither Crawford nor I like the cold weather and it’s going to be frigid tomorrow, plus the threat of a storm. I just feel that moisture in my bones.”

Cecil laughed. “Funny how that happens.”

The first round of drinks raised spirits. Everyone reordered, returning to chat.

Crawford, restoring Old Paradise, lived with Marty in a home they had built not far from Sister’s place. No one knew if they would move from Beasley Hall to Old Paradise when it was brought back to life. They kept their cards close to their chest but were against the pipeline for obvious reasons. Crawford reluctantly agreed to attend the dinner prodded by Marty. Her lure was that they should meet the enemy face-to-face. Also Charlotte might get a feel for him, as well.