Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

Harry shuddered at the thought of the poor young woman killed last week in the hard rains when a deer smashed into her vehicle.

“True.” Miranda nodded.

“You just never know,” Harry sighed.

A fter a bitterly cold winter, spring had stayed cool until late April. It was now late May. Nights in the mid-forties or mid-fifties promised days in the sixties. Late-blooming dogwoods dotted the forests and manicured lawns. Over pergolas, the wisteria hung pendulous with lavender or white blossoms. The roses threatened to riot.

Harry walked through her tended acres. The farm maintained a healthy balance of crops, hay, and woodlands. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter followed, taking numerous side trips to investigate rabbit warrens and fox dens. The butterflies danced together, swirling, fluttering their beautiful veined wings.

Eyeing them deviously, Pewter crouched down.

“They see you,” Tucker said.

Ignoring the ever-practical dog, Pewter wiggled her gray butt, then leapt upward.

Without breaking rhythm, the butterflies flew away.

“Almost had ’em.”

“Dream on,” the corgi teased.

Mrs. Murphy at her heels, Harry turned. “Come on, you two.”

“She’s always giving orders,” Pewter grumbled.

“True,” the handsome dog agreed. “And she also always feeds us on time.”

Considering this, the fat cat trotted toward Harry, who was now leaning over to inspect the tops of sunflower plants just breaking the surface.

“With a little luck, I’m going to have a good year.” Harry smiled, then moved on to her quarter acre of Petit Manseng grapes.

Dr. Thomas Walker, Thomas Jefferson’s guardian after Peter Jefferson died, tried to grow grapes. Jefferson did, too. The types they wished to grow didn’t flourish. With the passing centuries, viniculture advanced, thanks to people on both sides of the Atlantic. The wine industry now poured millions upon millions into the area’s coffers, a boon to growers and a boon to Virginia.

The horse business alone contributed $1.2 billion to the state economy. Not that any horse wishes to be compared to a grape.

Shortro, a very athletic Saddlebred, and Tomahawk, an old Thoroughbred, hung their heads over their paddock fence.

“This will be the first year she can sell her grapes,” Tomahawk noted. “Remember, she had to let the first year’s stay on the vine.”

“Even the broodmares know that.” Shortro laughed. “Harry’s obsessed with her grapes and her sunflowers. She’s just sure both will bring her money.”

In the adjoining paddock, one of the broodmares heard Shortro’s comment. “I resent that.”

“Ah, Gigi” —Shortro called the Thoroughbred by her barn name— “I didn’t mean anything by it. You girls are all wrapped up in your foals.”

Gigi tossed her dark bay head. “If she makes money, she overseeds the pastures in alfalfa. We all want Harry to succeed.”

The other broodmares nodded in agreement. Their foals, the youngest only a month old, hung by their sides.

Blissfully unaware that she was the topic of conversation, Harry chatted with her house animals. “I can put up scarecrows and big plastic owls, but, you know, gang, sooner or later the birds figure that out, so I mustn’t do that too soon. I’ll wait until the grapes appear—tiny—on the vine, then I’ll put that stuff up.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Tell you what, birds and deer can wipe you out.”

“I can take care of the deer.” Tucker puffed out her broad chest.

“They’re nothing more than big rats.” Pewter was never one to keep her opinions to herself.

“Oh, but they’re so beautiful.” Mrs. Murphy loved watching herds of deer, with fawns still dappled, as they crossed the pastures and meadows before melting back into the woods.

The 1812 Overture began to play. Harry fished her cellphone out of her jeans’ hip pocket.

“Yes, baby.”

Her husband’s deep voice answered, “Good greeting.”

“What do you want?” She laughed.

“You and only you.”

Pewter could hear Fair’s voice, as could the other two animals, their senses much sharper than a human’s.

“So sappy.”

“Oh, Pewter, you’re such a spoilsport.” Tucker wagged her nonexistent tail.

“Heard anything from Miranda?” Fair asked.

“No. Latigo Bly picked us up himself. Drove her home, then me. He said not to worry. The company would take care of everything. The car was hauled to ReNu, where there’s a backlog. Latigo said they’ve been overwhelmed with claims. There were quite a few accidents during all that rain.”

“Never thought of that.”

“Fair, we aren’t in the insurance business.” She laughed.

Fair believed that if you did business with friends, you had the advantage of speaking with someone whose native language was English. Although growing fast, Safe & Sound still seemed like a local outfit to Harry’s husband. Fair got his insurance from Hanckle Citizens, as did Harry. Both their parents had used the company and been well served. “We’ll hear about it tomorrow. Herb sure had a tussle when he had his little accident. He could only use ReNu, when he actually wanted to use Tom Harvey’s garage. He told me Safe and Sound insisted on ReNu, since the repairs are cheaper. That was the only time I heard our Very Reverend Jones cuss a blue streak.”

Harry smiled. “I’d pay to hear that.”

“Called to tell you that I ran into BoomBoom”—Fair named a childhood friend of theirs—“and she told me to be sure to tell you if you intend to sell your sunflower seeds this fall, you ought to get down to the health-food store right away. Yancy Hampton is buying now.”

“Yancy is what? Why on earth now? The crop’s not nearly ready.”

“She didn’t say. Oops, call on the other line, and it looks like Big Mim. See you tonight, darlin’.”

Harry hung up with the thought that he’d be late for supper, as one of Big Mim’s best mares suffered from lactation problems and the foal needed that milk. If the mare couldn’t produce, Fair would need to find a surrogate. Since the stud fee had been $75,000 for this particular breeding and the foal was correct, it was imperative to keep the little guy healthy as well as get Mama back right.

Harry flipped shut her cellphone. She neither liked nor disliked Yancy Hampton, but, for Harry, neutrality bordered on suspicion. Still, money was money. She’d think on it.

T he triple-sash windows, wide open, allowed a fresh breeze to fill the comfortable room at St. Luke’s Church, where the vestry-board meeting was now in progress. The administrative offices were connected to the church itself by an old stone arcade, so one could walk without getting soaked in those sudden hard Virginia rains. The St. Luke’s complex was built around a lovely symmetrical inner quad, and parts of the church were some two hundred thirty years old. The entire site radiated calm and encouraged contemplation.

The early parishioners and pastor rested in a large rectangular cemetery behind the huge quad at a lower level. This lower large square was surrounded by a row of eighty red oaks, in front of which a border of climbing roses cascaded over the stone retaining wall. The current pastor’s living quarters anchored the far southern side of the large outer quad. The Very Reverend Jones’s fishing gear could be seen leaning against the garage. It was a hopeful sight.