Рита Браун - Nine Lives To Die

Harry, checking her map, said, “If you can find a turnaround, take it. Otherwise, we’ll come out near Batesville.”

“Used to be a covered bridge down there. That’s what Dad said,” Susan mused. “Tore so many down.”

“Ever wonder what things will look like in one hundred years?” Harry pointed to a plowed-out private road. “Bet you can turn this big boat around there.”

“If not, I hope you can push.” Susan carefully began to negotiate the plowed private drive while backing partway into the narrow state road. “No, I haven’t thought a century ahead. I’m not ready yet for tomorrow.”

They bantered more as Susan, out now, headed toward a high ridge behind The Miller School.

Two hours later, they had just one delivery left, to a small tidy cottage near the Nelson County line. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy slept in the plush bed with sides that Susan had thoughtfully put in the car for Owen. The two dogs stared out the closed windows, observing everything.

The small cottage came into view as they slid around a bend in the old side road. The front walkway, framed by huge boxwoods covered in snow, was inviting. The door was painted bright red and drew one’s eye right to it through the boxwoods.

They checked the list. There was a blue wavy line and neither remembered what that had meant.

Harry carried a box of foodstuffs while Susan carried a box of clothing.

Reaching the door, Harry put down the heavy carton, lifted the brass knocker, and gave two loud raps.

The door was flung open so quickly it took them all aback, even the dogs.

“Don’t I know you? I’m Miss Rice.”

Harry stared into bright blue eyes, an older woman of average height, wearing jeans and a clean sweater. With one arm she held a small dog, who also regarded the visitors suspiciously.

“We’re from St. Cyril’s.”

“That tells me where you’re from, not who you are,” the woman correctly pointed out. “Sometimes my memory fogs up, but you all look familiar.”

Harry introduced herself and Susan, as well as the dogs. The door opened, they stepped inside and set down the cartons.

“Of course.” Flo Rice nodded.

“Ma’am, this one is heavy. Would you like me to carry it to the kitchen?” Harry asked.

“That would be nice.” Miss Rice pointed Harry to the kitchen.

The house’s interior was tidy but quite chilly. A fire in a fireplace tried to heat the front rooms. When Harry placed the carton on the kitchen table she smelled a strong odor, felt some warmth, then noticed a small kerosene heater tucked into an old fireplace.

Susan stood back in the living room, trying to make conversation.

“I’m not Catholic,” said Miss Rice. “I was, once. I remember you all used to come to the stables,” she said to Susan. “Mrs. Valencia’s stables. I was a practicing Catholic then.” She set down her dog and folded her arms across her chest. “I thank you and the church. Once they took Latin out of the church, I lost interest, really.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both women replied, although neither one really knew what to say.

“Gas is too expensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Everything is too expensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harry noticed a crucifix on one wall. That was it for anything that might be considered décor. Plain walls, plain floors, old furniture, but a bookcase filled with books, many with beautiful bindings.

“You two don’t read Latin, do you? Took it out of the schools, too.”

“Miss Rice, we both took four years of Latin in high school.” Susan hoped this was a pleasing answer.

“Good. But no Latin in schools now.”

“Miss Rice, I think private schools may offer it, but the state schools, maybe none.”

“Enforced stupidity!” Flo clamped her lips together.

“You’re right,” said Susan. Agreeing with the old lady was the only route to take, but she did think it was unwise to remove Latin. “Some schools don’t offer German either,” she added.

Harry had her hand on the doorknob as the dogs barked outside. “Ma’am, we wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Are they wishing me a Merry Christmas, too?” A slight smile crossed her lips as the old lady regarded the menagerie. She picked up her little dog again.

“Miss Rice, I’m sure of it.” Harry smiled big.

As the old lady opened the door, she said, “Quo vadis?”

This means “Where do you go?” or in more elegant form, “Wither thou goest?”

“Vale.” The two said goodbye in Latin.

Before she closed her door, Flo said with some fierceness, “I know things.”

On the way home, Susan sighed. “How terrible to live alone like Mr. Thompson or Miss Rice. I guess the blue wavy line meant oddball.”

“Or worse. At least she has her dog. For some people it’s the choices they made or the turn they missed in the road. They wind up weird and alone.”

“I think some people are just too hard to get along with,” said Susan. “Sends others running in the opposite direction.” She paused. “I vaguely remember her when she worked for Mrs. Valencia at the stables. She didn’t seem odd then.”

“Time changes people.” Harry simply shrugged.

Charlene Vavilov was staring into space.

Charlene kept herself busy, but from time to time she’d find she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind would go blank or wander.

Fair Haristeen had stopped by the Ford dealership on his way back from a call Thursday in eastern Albemarle County.

He stood quietly outside the open door to her office, then cleared his throat.

The well-groomed middle-aged woman blinked, then forced a smile. “Fair, come in.”

He brought with him a small grooming kit for horses, a red-and-green box with a long handle. He placed it on her desk. “For Salsa.”

“Oh, he’ll love it.”

Charlene’s kind Thoroughbred Salsa was one of Fair’s patients. Charlene had grown up loving horses, but she also realized that in this part of the world, riding created opportunities. She had impressed this on her husband, Peter, but horses had scared him. Golf did not, however, and between these two sporting poles, the Vavilovs enhanced the Ford dealership. The number of F-250s and F-350s that horsemen bought to pull their rigs was the envy of the Ram and Silverado salespeople. Dodge and Chevy made good trucks, but Charlene showed up pulling her own rig with a Ford dually. And she was always ready to help another horseperson gain financing.

Peter invariably drove a Thunderbird or a new Ford SUV to the links.

Fair respected Charlene as a horsewoman and as a businesswoman. He had also respected Peter’s ad campaigns, created by Lou Higham. It was a tough business.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for Salsa.” He paused. “Or you.”

She swallowed, leveled her eyes, misting over at the tall man. “Fair, I know you mean that. I wish there was something you, anyone could do. All I know to do is to keep working, keep myself occupied.”

“The showroom sparkles. And the decorations are wonderful.”

“Good people work here. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Your wife, Susan, all my friends, have been supportive. Arden has been a brick. She wanted to come into the showroom and work. I told her, ‘It’s almost Christmas. No. Go do stuff.’ And Tyler needs her. Pete did what he could to interest Tyler in sports. Lou can be hard on him. So I said, ‘Enjoy your boy while he’s still a boy.’ ” She smiled. “Alexander and Jarrad have helped, too. I told them it’s fine with me if they do things with their friends. They come here instead. Jarrad likes the accounting office.” Her voice registered her pride in her sons. “Alex likes the garage. They’ve been a big help. They are growing up so fast.”