Рита Браун - Crazy Like A Fox

“I understand. But, Arthur, you aren’t going to find the right woman with your head under the body of a car. Exhaust pipes don’t make for fascinating conversation. Who do you meet? Get out.”

“Ah, Margaret. I never know what to say.”

“You talk to me just fine.”

“We grew up together. You’re really my sister.”

“Then talk to a woman as though you were talking to me. You’re a good athlete. Take up golf or tennis or kayaking. You’ll meet interesting people. I golf, as you know. I’d be happy to set you up with a good pro. Won’t take you long—well, golf is a bitch, but you’ll learn more quickly than others.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Consider this. I buried myself in my work. I met lots of young male doctors. They were okay but the spark wasn’t there. I think we were all too focused on what we had to learn, and our career path. You don’t meet too many doctors who don’t want to make money and be set by our forties. Then I started foxhunting. Walter Lungrun sandbagged me into it. I met Ben. Chemistry.” She grinned.

“Mom says no DuCharme should be dating a sheriff. Beneath us. You should be with another doctor, or preferably a senator.”

“Interesting coming from a woman who married a garage mechanic.” Margaret couldn’t resist.

“But a DuCharme?”

“Do you give a shit?”

“About the name? Hell, no. But I am kind of proud of being descended from Sophie Marquet.”

“Me, too. She must have been something. If they’d caught her they could have executed her. Probably not. But she’d have been imprisoned or sent to England. So we know we’re descended from someone smart and tough, who loved our country.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Back to the damned earrings. Let’s make a deal: You just tell your mother and father that when they leave this earth, you do want the Schlumberger Tiffany earrings. Worth a fortune, I might add, and they are stunning. If you marry, they go to your wife. If you don’t marry, they go to me, unless you change your mind about being a drag queen. You’d be the only drag queen in America with real Schlumberger earrings.”

“That’s motivation. Will you help me dress?”

“Sure. You need to start practicing walking in high heels now.”

“That means I have to shave my legs. If I keep my beard why can’t I keep the fur on my legs?”

Margaret shook her head. “Not the same. You’re handsome with your beard. You might get away with it, and the earrings would really set off your beard. Legs, never.”

He pressed closer on her as they walked. Arthur loved Margaret. He felt she was the only person who actually understood him. Who wanted to do so. She accepted him for himself. She never once, never, chided him for being a car mechanic.

“I’ll think about it.”

They walked in silent companionship to the rug store, where Margaret stopped. She needed to get back to the hospital.

“Arthur, are you worried about your mom and dad?”

He looked straight into her eyes. “He’s getting frail. As long as Dad and Uncle Alfred had Old Paradise, even though they couldn’t repair one fence board, they felt important, you know? People would come to stare at the columns, the stables. They’d drive by Alfred’s house all the way to the other side of the thousands of acres to see our house, an exact replica. People would tell newcomers the story of Old Paradise, of the brothers who hated each other because of a woman. They were somebody. Now Dad bitches that he has pots of money and lives on one acre.”

“My dad’s going down, too.” She inhaled deeply. “They made this life. They can damn well deal with it. I’m not going to be in the middle anymore. When there was no money, and I was starting to climb in my profession, I tried to make peace. You did, too. Arthur, the hell with it.”

“I think they never grew up. But I’m with you. I’m not taking messages from one to the other. And before I forget, your solution to the earrings is good. I agree.”

She kissed him on the cheek, turned, then turned back. “Remember, shave your legs.”

—

Milly DuCharme closed up the front of the Gulf station, stuck her head in the garage. “Binky, I’m going home. Try to get there by six, will you? I don’t want to warm up lamb chops.”

Red bandanna hanging out of a grease-stained pair of pants, Binky called back, “I promise.”

She hopped in her Mazda 6, which she loved. Being married to a car mechanic she knew better than to buy one of the fancy brands. She loved her Mazda, loved to drive it, and loved the gas mileage. Nothing went wrong and she’d owned it for a year now, bought with the money from the sale of Old Paradise. She could have bought a Rolls-Royce dealership if she’d wanted. She thought it all silly. She lived in a wonderful new house where everything worked. She could afford a cleaning company to come in once a week. The place sparkled. They even did windows. Thrilled, just thrilled to no longer be chained to Old Paradise, she tuned in the forties radio station on Sirius, and sang along with Duke Ellington’s band.

As she drove off, Binky rapped the rear axle with a heavy wrench. He used sound to guide him. Fortunately, the axle on the heavy Silverado truck wasn’t bent, but something had secreted itself into the wheel well.

He didn’t hear the door open and close, nor the footfall. On his back on the roller, he started to roll out to grab another tool when he saw a pair of cowboy boots.

“I’ll be right with you. Didn’t hear you come in.” He pushed off, rolled out from under the truck, stopped.

“How time flies,” Weevil said.

Binky, flat on his back, moved his mouth but nothing came out.

Weevil put his right foot onto Binky’s chest. Not hard, but Binky stayed put.

Eyes wide, Binky said loudly but to himself, “I did not have a drink. I am sober.”

“You are. I dropped by to tell you, Binky, you were always an asshole.” Weevil lifted his foot and walked out, boots crunching on the concrete floor as he left, closing the door.

Binky, shaking, swung his legs over, sat upright. “I’ve got to call Alfred.”

He stopped, held his right wrist with his left hand to stop the right hand from shaking. “The hell I will. Nothing will ever make me speak to Alfred. Nothing.”

CHAPTER 25

“Take your feet out of the stirrups,” Sam, in the middle of Crawford’s enclosed arena, ordered.

Yvonne, one eyebrow raised, lifted her chin, did as she was told. “Bet you thought I’d make an excuse.”

“No. You’re tougher than that,” he complimented her. “Now, relax, shoulders relax, wiggle your toes. There you go. Toes up. Toes down. Feet level. Okay. Now take your stirrups and cross them over the front of the saddle. Now I want you to walk with energy. Squeeze.”

Squire, a kind gelding, moved out a bit. Yvonne, in synch, moved along.

“Hands down, Yvonne. Now ask him to stop. There you go.”

“Can I put my feet in the stirrups now?”

“No. You are going to trot without stirrups along one side of this ring. When you reach the end, stop, and remember, downward transitions take more thought than upward. Ready?”

“You think I’m going to bounce off. I will not,” she declared.

Those first few steps without the stirrups woke Yvonne up. She wasn’t lurching, but she used muscles trotting she never knew she had.

“Whoa,” she softly said as she pulled back, not hard, and the angel glided to a stop.

Hands on hips, Sam called out, “Now, walk up to me. When you reach me, stop and dismount.”

Turning Squire’s head to the center, Yvonne, still no stirrups, walked up to Sam. “May I drop my stirrups now?”

“No. I want you to dismount without pushing off your right foot. You’ll slide a bit but you can do it.”