Рита Браун - Hotspur

“Oh, Momma, don’t.”

Tedi, with steely resolve, said, “I know I missed something. The pictures help. Sit down, both of you.”

“I’m all sweaty. Would either of you girls like a drink?” Ken, fearful of a possible emotional outburst, inquired.

“Sweet iced tea and my martini.”

Sybil, next to her mother, squeezed her hand. “I remember when I used to think you were so uncool drinking martinis. Now they’re all the rage again.”

“Cycles. By the time you’re my age, you’ve seen them all.”

Within minutes, Ken and Edward joined them, each man handing his wife a drink.

Sybil gratefully tasted her daiquiri, the perfect summer drink, as the rain ramped up to a true downpour. “Mercy. It’s really coming down.”

Edward, tall and patrician with an aquiline nose, seemed a forbidding presence, yet he was a kind man, a good man. He stared out the window, then back at his remaining daughter. He smiled, taking a sip of his scotch on the rocks. “Feast or famine. It’s either drought or a gully washer.”

“True,” Ken agreed from where he still stood.

“Honey, will you sit down. It’s not like there’s never been a sweaty man in this room before,” Sybil ordered.

He perched on the edge of one of the oversized chairs. “Dad, how about eighteen holes tomorrow? David Wheeler and Pat Butterfield need us to clean out their wallets.”

A flicker lit in Edward’s eyes. “The money in David’s wallet has mold on it.”

“You’re right. That money needs to see the light of day. Capitalism depends on the circulation of cash. We can take them.” Ken’s voice was a bit too hearty. “Greens will be slow, too.”

“We should. Will you call them?”

“Already did,” Ken replied, happy that his father-in-law was evidencing some interest in the outside world.

Privilege and the Fawkes name were not accustomed to each other. Fawkes was the surname of many poor whites in these parts. A few over the centuries had risen, but the name clung to them like a digger bee, wouldn’t let go.

Ken’s people, hardworking, all attended the Baptist church. The Bancrofts had never and would never set foot in a Baptist church.

Ken had worked his way through North Carolina State, made the football team as a walk-on. He proved so ferocious as outside linebacker that he won a scholarship for his junior and senior years. He majored in business, making respectable grades. He didn’t know what he would do exactly. He just wanted to find some type of work he liked and make a decent living. But then he met Sybil and his compass shifted. Making do wouldn’t be good enough.

Jealous folks said, “That Ken Fawkes landed in the honey pot.”

And he did, no doubt about it. But he was reasonably intelligent. Edward created a niche for him through the Bancroft real estate business in a small local company. Ken started learning the business. He studied the roads, bought near crossroads, and developed subdivisions. Of course, some people said the hardest way to make money was to marry it. Ken never said that.

He exuded an air of masculinity. Women found him very attractive indeed, even though he couldn’t be described as classically handsome.

Sybil bent closer to the photo album. “Amazing.”

“What, dear?” Tedi thought her tea could use another hit of sugar, although her martini was perfect. “Ken, be a darling and put another spoonful in there for me. I’m having my late-afternoon sinking spell.”

“Of course.” Ken stood up, took her glass, and left the room for a moment.

“Twenty-five years ago this picture, and Sister looks the same. Her hair’s silver now, that’s all.”

“The outdoor life,” Tedi said.

“And you look fabulous yourself, my love.” Edward, unlike many men, learned very early in life that you can never compliment a woman—especially your wife—too many times.

“Thank you, dear.” Tedi smiled. “But I feel old. I feel, well, let’s just say I comprehend vulnerability.”

Ken returned with her tea. “Here’s your sugar buzz.” He looked outside. “Black as the devil’s eyebrows.”

“Nothing like a summer thunderstorm to make you glad you’re inside,” Edward said, savoring the distinctive deep sweetness of the scotch.

“I’ve been thinking.” Tedi leaned back on the sofa. “A ceremony is in order, a commemoration and celebration of Nola’s life. We never had one—”

Ken quickly said, “We always hoped.”

“Yes.” Tedi never liked being interrupted. “That’s over now. A service is in order. I’ve spoken to Reverend Thigpin and I’ve considered where Nola should have her final resting place.”

Edward cleared his throat, waiting. Would Tedi pick the Prescott plot on the Northern Neck near Warsaw, the seat of the first Prescotts, or would she choose the Bancroft private cemetery, here on After All?

“And what have you decided, dear?”

“Let’s make a special place, let’s build low stone walls around it, plant white lilacs there, too. Love. It must be a place filled with love. Nola loved Peppermint. More than any man, she loved Pepper. I like to think they’re hunting now with Ikey Bell carrying the horn.” Ikey Bell was a famous huntsman of the early twentieth century.

No one knew what to say.

Finally Sybil broached the subject. “Mom, it’s awfully close to where she was found.”

“I know. But she had no peace there. She couldn’t. She’ll have peace with Peppermint. He loved her in life, he’ll be with her in death. It’s fitting, you see.”

Edward stared out at the rain. His hand touched his Adam’s apple. “Whatever you want. You know better about these things.”

“And let’s do all the things that Nola loved. Yes. Let’s plant huge blue hydrangeas, and the dwarf kind, too. I say fiddle to snotty gardeners and snotty gardens. Isn’t that a nasty word?” She brightened as though a burden had been lifted from her. “Red poppies next to purple iris and mounds of something snowy white. Let’s use all the colors Nola loved.”

“Cornflower blue.” Sybil had tears in her eyes.

“Yes. And you know what she loved more than anything in the world?” The family hung expectantly on Tedi’s next word. “Foxhunting!”

CHAPTER 12

The creamy coral of Crawford’s Paul Stuart polo shirt reflected warmth on his face. Crawford liked the best. Paul Stuart was an exclusive men’s shop on Madison Avenue. If he wasn’t shopping there or at Sulka up on Park, he thought nothing of picking up the phone and ordering a dozen shirts from Turnbull and Asser in London, shoes and boots from Lobb, luxurious cashmeres and silks from a dealer in Turin. To his credit, he always looked splendid.

The morning, hazy, promised a muggy day. This July 28, the anniversary of the day Elizabeth’s bold men dispersed the Spanish Armada in 1588 and Arthur Wellesley knocked the stuffing out of the French at Talavera in 1809. A student of history and business, he remembered odd dates.

He and Marty had attended early service at Saint Luke’s and now he puttered happily in the tack room of his sumptuous stable with its fittings of polished brass, PavSafe floors that cost a fortune, impeccable doors and stall fronts painted deep navy blue, all made by Lucas Equine in Cythiana, Kentucky. His stable colors were navy and red. Many in these parts painted their vehicles in stable colors, or painted a small symbol or name in those colors on the driver’s door. Crawford’s red Mercedes had BEASLEY HALL in one-inch script, navy blue, painted on the driver’s door, plus the car was pin-striped in navy blue.

His cell phone, perched on custom-made tack trunks also in his colors, jingled.

“Crawford here.”

“Haslip,” came the terse, mocking reply.