Рита Браун - Outfoxed

He didn’t finish because Walter joined them, having just won the game in record time. “May I?”

“Of course. Brandy?”

“No thanks. Soda water.”

“Not a drinking man?” Bobby mildly asked, knowing that Walter’s father sure was.

“No, not much. Seeing the insides of alcoholics cured me of any desire to be a drinking man. That . . . and Dad.” Walter smiled.

“You must hate Crawford Howard.” Fontaine, wanting Bobby to hear this, asked.

“I do,” came the swift reply.

“How old were you when all that happened? Twelve? Fifteen? Time goes by so fast.” Fontaine swilled the deep golden amber liquid in the glass.

“Fifteen.” Walter leaned his arm on the bar, putting his foot on the brass footrail.

“Painful.” Bobby lifted the brandy to his lips.

“It was but, Mr. Franklin . . .”

“Call me Bobby.”

“Thank you. I will if you’ll dispense with Dr. Lungrun.” He nodded. “Anyway, I learned. I learned self-reliance. I learned I wasn’t the center of the universe. Mom needed help and I learned to put the family first. As much as I hate Crawford Howard, in a sense, he made a man out of me.”

“You made a man out of you.” Fontaine placed his glass on the countertop. “Plenty of other young men would have escaped somehow—booze, drugs, women, you name it.”

“Why did you come back?” Bobby was genuinely curious.

“I love this place. I came back for Mom. It’s what she wanted.”

Neither Fontaine nor Bobby could think of what to say until finally Fontaine said, “We’re glad of that.”

Harry Xavier, having cleaned up at the card table, stood, shoving money in his pocket. “Dr. Lungrun, you young pup. I’ll take you on at the pool table.”

The men crowded around. Xavier’s skills had emptied many a wallet.

Back in the drawing room the ladies surprised themselves with their vehemence. It began innocently enough with Betty Franklin mentioning Peter Wheeler “hunting” from the back of his pickup.

The disposition of his property, on everyone’s mind, provoked the heated exchange.

Tinsley Wetherford Papandros declared that Peter should have settled his estate years ago. In his decrepit condition he could fall prey to whoever offered the most money.

Isabel Rogers, a tawny beauty, backed up Tinsley, saying the least he could have done was put the land in conservation easements.

Betty replied that was all very well for a rich person to say. Isabel was rich, but if Peter had done that he would have devalued his land. Only someone who wanted to farm would buy it.

“Devalue the land? What about the environment!” Lisa Bredell nearly shouted. She was president of the Blue Ridge Conservation Council. “There isn’t going to be anything left for our grandchildren.”

“Don’t overstate your case,” Sister dryly said.

Lisa wheeled on Sister. “You of all people should know what I’m talking about. There won’t be any land for your precious hunting.”

“Don’t talk to Sister like that,” Betty firmly said.

“She’s not God,” Lisa popped off. The champagne loosened her tongue.

“She is on the hunt field.” Sorrel laughed, hoping to restore harmony.

“It’s primitive,” Lisa, not a Virginian, stated.

“We don’t kill the fox.” Betty felt hot anger rising in her throat.

“How do you know? You all will say anything so you can charge over the countryside shouting ‘tallyho’ or whatever you shout.”

“Of course we know,” Sister, fighting back her own anger, said. “If the hounds killed a fox, they’d be covered with blood. The pieces of the fox would be there for us to see. You overestimate human intelligence, Lisa. The fox is smarter than we are, than the hounds, than the horses.”

“Certainly smarter than Fontaine.” Sorrel laughed and most of the ladies laughed with her.

“Back in the late seventies the sport began to change. Not that we could catch the fox but we tried. Now we’ll call off the hounds,” Betty reported.

“How?” Lisa’s lower lip jutted out in stubborn disbelief.

“The horn. Hounds are taught to obey the commands the same as cavalry officers obeyed the bugle.” Sister, unless in hunting company, did not discuss her passion at social events. However, Lisa, Tinsley, and Isabel were not convinced.

Sorrel passed around small chocolate cookies. “Ladies, go to opening hunt. See for yourself.”

“When is that?” Tinsley asked.

“First Saturday in November. There’s a wonderful breakfast afterward. You’ll enjoy it.” Sister smiled although she felt like slapping their faces.

“All right,” Lisa said, half-defensively.

“Will Peter Wheeler be there?” Isabel inquired.

“He hasn’t missed opening hunt since he returned from World War Two. Or at least that’s what he tells me.” Betty laughed. “That was before my time.”

Sister, knowing what Isabel was after, which was to woo Peter into signing a conservation easement, said, “He’s an old man. He doesn’t know how to use a computer. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have an answering machine. He figures if it’s important, you’ll drop by. He doesn’t own a fax, a video machine, and he doesn’t have a satellite dish either. He’s a country man who loves country ways. He knows more about the environment than all of us put together but Peter isn’t going to sign anything that limits his options.”

“But it’s to protect the environment!” Isabel protested.

“For you. Not for him.” Sister plainly stated the truth, which, as always, is hard to swallow.

Before Isabel could further hector Sister and Betty, Sorrel reached for her elbow. “Come on, I want to show you that fabric.”

Isabel hesitated, then stood up.

“Tinsley and Lisa, join us.”

A command is a command no matter how nicely put. The two placed their small plates on the coffee table, falling in behind Sorrel and Isabel.

“Ladies, we won’t be long,” Sorrel called over her shoulder.

“Take your time,” Betty said, a hint of malice in her voice.

Sister leaned over to Betty. “How are the girls?”

“I don’t know. We aren’t supposed to communicate. Part of the program. I pick them up Tuesday evening.”

“I pray for them. It’s about all I can do.”

“Me, too. I’ve had to relinquish my ideal of the omnipotent mother. I thought I could bind all wounds, create all happiness.” She sighed deeply. “I liked it when they were small. I really was the most important person in their world.”

“It’s a bit like getting fired, isn’t it?” Sister said.

“It is. Well,” Betty waved her hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing I can do at this point. But before I forget it, I want to go on record.” She whispered into Sister’s ear, “I am not in agreement with Bobby. I do not support Crawford. Absolutely not.”

“What are you girls whispering about?” Kitty English, an attractive middle-aged woman, crossed the room.

“You.” Sister laughed.

“Me? What have I done?”

“Best basketball coach the university has ever had. Better than the men.” Betty adored women’s basketball.

“And I want to know where you bought those shoes. Just enough heel to look spiffy but not enough to break your neck.” Sister admired the low heels.

“Oh, that.” Kitty plunked herself down on the sofa and they merrily chattered away about shoes, high heels versus low heels versus total rebellion against fashion—always said, never practiced. They talked about basketball and lacrosse, the endorsement deals of professional athletes, and how many of them wind up in court for violence. They decried the lack of any good women’s clothing store in town. All three of them hated driving to Washington, D.C., which wasn’t that good for women’s clothing anyway, and Richmond, which was a fashion joke. They agreed one had to go to New York City, but who could afford it? Then Kitty shared her secret: Charlotte, North Carolina. Five hours by car and two really wonderful women’s stores.