Рита Браун - Full Cry

“You are.”

“Come see me.”

“I shall. I appreciate the offer.”

“You’d be doing me a favor.” He paused a moment. “I believe, no, I know we can live longer, stronger lives than we imagine. Aging must be recast in our minds as a slow disease that can be fought. I can envision a day when men can live to be a hundred and fifty with full productive lives.”

“Women?” she asked slyly.

“Ah.” He smiled. “A hundred seventy-five.”

“Right answer. Can you envision a future where a woman can run the hundred-yard dash, well, I guess it’s a hundred meters now, in nine seconds?”

“Yes. And a man will do it in seven and a half.”

“Are you being sexist?”

“No. Men really are faster. Yes, the fastest woman in the world will be faster than eighty percent of the men but, at the top, the men are faster. That’s the real difference in professional tennis. It’s not upper-body muscle, which people focus on, it’s speed. Men can return shots that women can’t. So if a woman plays a man, she’s not used to her ‘winners’ being fired back that fast.”

“Never thought of that.”

“In your favor, women have much more endurance, and, this I can’t quantify scientifically, but also much more emotional strength.”

She studied his earnest features. “Perhaps. But there’s so much we can never know accurately because our concepts of male and female are formed in a rigid cultural grid. Even scientific research reflects unconscious bias.”

“I agree. It does.” He noticed a pretty woman talking to Marty Howard.

“That’s Rebecca Baldwin, Tedi Bancroft’s grandniece. Thirty-one, I should say. Used to hunt, but she went back to school to get her doctorate in architectural history. Lovely girl. Allow me to introduce you.”

After Sister performed this service, she smiled to herself at how Dalton’s demeanor changed in the presence of a pretty woman. Ah yes, though he was an endocrinologist, his hormones pumped just like in the rest of us.

She found Gray, whispered in his ear. “You are so handsome. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.”

He slipped his arm around her waist for a moment, inhaling her fragrance, her hair. “I’m walking on air. And I do want to take you to a proper dinner. Let’s go Sunday. And sometime, too, let’s go up to the Kennedy Center. I have season seats, box seats, for the opera. Do you like the opera?”

“I can learn.” Sister knew nothing except she loathed recitatives.

He hugged her tighter. “We’ve both got a lot to learn. We’ll never be bored.”

Tedi noticed this exchange and prayed silently. “Dear God, let this be something special. Bring love into her life. She deserves it. And help us all get over this black/white stuff.” Then she glanced across the room, filling with more people, catching sight of the man she had loved for fifty years. Her eyes misted over. When she had stood before the altar next to a black-haired Edward Bancroft, she could never have dreamed that fifty years later she would love him more deeply, more passionately, with more insight into the man than when he slipped that thin gold band on her finger. She prayed again, “Thank you.”

Sister checked her watch as she made the rounds. Time to get home. She thought to herself that she didn’t give Gray much of a chase. So many men love the chase. Well, seductive gamesmanship wasn’t her style. Then she thought to herself, Admit it, I’m seventy-two. I haven’t any time to waste. She nearly laughed out loud at the thought.

As she was ready to leave, she overheard Clay and Xavier inside the cloakroom.

“. . . a real bind.”

“Clay, I know. I’m doing everything I can. I can’t just write a check out of my company’s funds.”

“It’s not just the money, X. It’s the suspicion. People are looking at me like I’m an arsonist, a scam artist, like I’m a murderer. Do you know what this is doing to my wife and children?”

Xavier’s voice rose, almost pleading. “What can I do? Neither Ben Sidell nor the investigator can figure it out. What can I do?”

“Can’t you write me a small check? Even five thousand dollars?”

“You’re putting me in a terrible position. If I do that, I’m undercutting the carrier. I have hundreds of clients placed with them, and Worldwide Security has been excellent. I can’t screw up that relationship for myself or my other clients.”

“So you’ll screw up our friendship?”

“Clay, my hands are tied.”

CHAPTER 33

At five-thirty Sunday morning, the snowflakes swayed as though on invisible chains. Heavy clouds blocked the pale light of the waxing moon, this February 1.

The winter solstice was forty-one days behind this morning; roughly forty more minutes of sunlight washed over central Virginia since then. Gaining that minute of sunlight a day put more spring in Sister’s step, though she wouldn’t see any sun today.

She walked through the fresh snow, tracks beginning to fill even as she lifted her boots out of them. Raleigh and Rooster faithfully accompanied her, although both were loath to leave the warm house.

“Rooster, leave it,” Sister softly said, for she spied Inky carefully exiting the stable. She’d been eating up the gleanings, the sweet feed being a particular favorite, as well as the little candied fruits she craved. “Morning, Inky.”

Inky turned a moment, blinked, then scampered toward the kennels where the hounds slept. Occasionally, Diana would be up walking about. Inky enjoyed speaking with her. She didn’t like Rooster, though, but then he wasn’t behind a chain-link fence. Being a harrier, Rooster was keen to prove his nose could follow fox scent just as readily as rabbit.

“Bother,” Rooster complained.

“Can’t do much in the snow anyway,” Raleigh commented.

Although not a hound, Raleigh possessed a good nose, but his obligation was to protect Sister, her other animals, and her property. He took this charge quite seriously.

Most animals operate on an internal clock. Sister’s alarm sounded between five and five-thirty every morning regardless of when she crawled into bed at night. A day’s work is more easily accomplished if one has had seven or eight hours sleep, so Sister was usually in bed by ten.

She noted that Shaker’s old Jeep Wagoneer was gone. Scrupulous about Sister’s equipment, he wouldn’t use the old Chevy truck unless he asked her. As many times as she told him to take a day off, he’d be at the kennels no later than seven-thirty in the winters, usually six in the summers. He was a huntsman to the bone.

She whistled at the paddock. The horses ran up, their hoofbeats muffled in the snow. She brought Lafayette and Keepsake in, then Rickyroo and Aztec. Each had his own stall, nameplate prettily painted and fastened to its door. Then she brought in Shaker’s mounts: Gunpowder, Showboat, Hojo.

Although puffs of breath came from her mouth, the temperature hung right around forty degrees in the barn. The barn, well built and well ventilated, provided enough warmth to keep the horses happy but not enough to make them ill. Each horse had his blanket on with a thin white cotton sheet underneath, sort of an equine undershirt. Too tight a barn causes respiratory problems for horses, plus they shouldn’t be overly warm in cold weather.

Pawing, snorting, and whinnying filled the barn as Sister rolled the feed cart to each stall, sliding the scoop through the opening to dump the crimped oats with a bit of sweet feed into the bucket. Everyone received the amount appropriate to his weight and level of work. As all of these horses worked hard, they received as much high-quality hay as they wished and one or two scoops of food depending on their individual metabolisms. If an animal needed a special supplement, it was crumbled into the oats. Usually, the good grain and particularly the hay kept them tip-top. Of all that they consumed, hay was the most important. It kept the motility in their intestines. So many people—not horsemen, but horse owners—fed pellets or too much grain in the winter. Their poor animals would come down with blocked intestines.