Рита Браун - Outfoxed

She swallowed. “Bobby, we’ve known one another for a long time. Children go their own way and even if it’s the wrong way they have to learn. Cody had sense enough to put herself through rehab. She’s looking for a good job. Restaurant work brings her into contact with much of what she needs to avoid. It’s going to be difficult for both of your girls but Jennifer has an earlier start on cleaning up. Everyone knows Cody’s history here. At least Jennifer’s misdeeds are on a smaller scale. Cody’s back with Doug and if anyone can help her stay on the straight and narrow—it’s him.”

“I’m very grateful to him,” Bobby mumbled. “I behaved badly this summer. I even rejoiced when they broke up.” He stared out the window, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You know, I’m ashamed of myself. I was worried about what people would say.”

“Color.”

“That didn’t help. Money. You know a father likes to see his daughters married to men of means. Right now that seems—superficial.”

“It’s the way we were raised. And it’s not far wrong. Love is potent. Money is omnipotent. No father wants to commit his daughter to a poor man. Have you said anything to Cody about Doug?”

He shook his head. “No.”

They sat watching a few isolated flakes fall, presaging more to come.

“Maybe you should talk to Cody.”

“That’s what Betty says.” He turned his face toward hers. “I don’t want to upset her. I’m afraid she’ll go backward.”

“Admitting you were wrong about Doug isn’t going to upset her.”

“Actually, I was thinking about Fontaine. Asking her.”

“I don’t know. Done is done.”

His voice, barely audible, shook. “I don’t know if Jennifer will make it. She’s in trouble before Cody was—at her age—or, maybe I see it. . . . I didn’t see it with Cody. Jennifer’s still under my roof. I don’t know what to do.”

“Jennifer has your full attention. I suppose negative attention is still better than no attention. She’s always been in Cody’s shadow. I thank God I passed through adolescence before the words ‘self-esteem’ were uttered.” She sighed.

He brightened, then laughed. “God, it’s such bullshit.”

The gloom lifted. They sat in silence again.

“Early snow. A long winter, I think.”

“I love winter.” He smiled. “Always loved Peter Wheeler’s Christmas tree. It will be lonely without him. They don’t make them like that anymore. People don’t have time for one another anymore.”

“We do.”

“The club. It’s an obsession that keeps us together . . . but yes, we’re lucky that way. Except for Fontaine’s murder. I still can’t get over that. During the damned hunt.” He slapped his leg.

“I never thought I’d be facing anything like this.”

He checked his watch. “I’m glad Peter made the land contingent on you remaining sole master. It’s better.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’re right. I don’t thank you enough. I don’t thank Betty either.”

“Buy flowers. Go home and kiss her.”

“Think I will.”

“Two more quick questions. You usually lead hilltoppers. I don’t see what’s behind me but you do. I hear Fontaine used to stop at least once during a hunt.”

“He did.”

“I assumed this was to go to the bathroom. Now I think maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did you ever see him go to the bathroom? Not that you’re looking but sometimes you men will stop and hold one another’s horses.”

“No. I never saw him. I’d see him veer off and then he’d be back with us within fifteen minutes. Sometimes took longer if we were on a hot run.”

“Two thoughts occur to me. He always found the field. He knew hunting. He knew territory. He knew the shortcuts and he knew not to foul the line of scent. Is it possible he stopped for an assignation?”

“Pretty short one.”

“That would appeal to him.”

“Well—I guess, but wouldn’t we see a woman leave, also?”

“Not if she were a whip.”

He winced. “Pretty damned irresponsible.”

“As I said. Done is done. It’s a theory, not a fact, but my mind is turning over everything. If he wasn’t stopping to go to the bathroom, he had to be doing something he didn’t want the rest of us to see.”

“Tell you what. Let me ask the men. Maybe someone did see him.”

“Good. It’s easier for you to ask than for me. The next question is, when do you want to call a general membership meeting to announce Peter’s bequest? If we don’t do this, it will leak out. I’ll be besieged with calls. You’ll be besieged with calls.” She poked his biceps. “Bet you rue the day you were elected president.”

“Sometimes. Got a calendar?”

She flipped down the glove compartment. A calendar was fastened to the inside. “How’s that for service.”

He put on his reading glasses, the black heavy frames, square, so ugly they bordered on fashionable. “Friday. I’ll get the phone tree started. Or we could just meet after hunting Saturday.” He stopped himself. “No, horses will be tied to the trailers. Everyone will be thinking about their horses and about food. Friday. It’s awfully short notice but I bet we’ll get a good turnout—all things considered. Time?”

“Six. Let’s get them right after work. Ask Betty to organize coffee—maybe some cookies or something.”

“Okay. Whoo, coming down now. You know I’ve put over a hundred twenty thousand miles on that old Chevy Blazer.” He nodded toward his smallish four-wheel-drive vehicle parked next to Sister’s car. “Still runs like a top and no rust. When the engine finally dies I think I’ll just pop in a rebuilt one.”

“I think you should donate it to the club. We’ll auction it off as Wonder Wheels.” Her voice rose in imitation of a salesman.

“We’ll make a fortune.” He leaned over, kissing her on the cheek, then opened the door. “Course, you could bronze it and use it as sculpture.”

Driving back home, Sister remembered Peter had also left the club his 1974 badass pickup with the 454-cubic-inch engine in it. Another old Chevy.

She listened to Rachmaninoff’s Symphony in E-flat on the way home.

CHAPTER 54

Understanding one’s emotions isn’t the same as conquering one’s physical desires. Every day Cody Franklin fought her profound thirst for alcohol, specifically tequila. The hours, the tears, the laying bare of frailties during her intensive week of rehab and subsequent therapy couldn’t prepare her or anyone for the body’s craving.

She could do without cocaine, marijuana, skin-popping heroin. But to spend the rest of her life without a drop of liquor seemed a cruel sentence. She’d dream of standing at a neon-lit bar, all cool aluminum washed in blue light. The bartender, Dionysus in disguise, would slide a glass of straight tequila to her. Margaritas were for wimps. Tequila sunrises were for trendies. Straight tequila on the rocks. She’d wake up sweating, mouth dry, hands shaking. Then she’d haul herself out of bed, pull a seltzer water out of the fridge, and drink. But she craved tequila.

One day at a time. Like a mantra she’d roll that phrase over and over in her head until it made no sense at all but sounded soothing.

She realized that the first day an alcoholic takes a drink, gets hooked, is the day emotional development stops. By her own reckoning she was eighteen years old. She’d smoked some weed before that, junior high school, popped the top of a beer can, but she started methodically drinking at eighteen, her first year in college.

She also realized that she was self-centered. Like many young people she assumed other people thought like her. One of the good things to come out of the rehab was the knowledge that just wasn’t so. Other people were other people. She was making an effort to see the world through other eyes, making an effort to grow up at last.