Рита Браун - Sour Puss

Alicia, BoomBoom, and Harry summoned the strength to resist by sipping hot Constant Comment tea.

As Herb sliced his small partridge stuffed with wild rice, the fresh vegetables artfully

arranged on his plate by the cook, the conversation flowed.

Lucy Fur, standing on her hind legs on the floor, raised a paw, placing it on Herb's thigh. He cut a small piece of partridge for her, put it on a bread plate, and bent over. No one said a word, since everyone there would have done the same thing. The springer spaniel rejoined them upon hearing the plate scrape the floor.

These were animal people. The differences among them were differences of income, age, gender, and the mysteries of personality. But when it came to animals, they were as one. Every single one of them, even Tazio, new to animal ownership, cherished a deep respect for all life.

"Baseball season's fresh as a new born babe." Jim loved the Philadelphia Phillies. "Blair and I are going up to see this new Washington team."

"Yeah, I'd like to see them play, too,"

Fair, another baseball fan, commented.

"Orioles, now and forever." Harry placed her hand over her heart.

"Not going to be their year. In fact, it isn't going to be their year for years." Blair, no

Orioles fan, enjoyed tweaking his former neighbor.

"Ha. You just wait," Harry defiantly replied.

"Well, I think the Kansas City Royals will surprise everyone," Tracy declared.

"Yeah, by being at the bottom of the barrel." Herb paused between bites.

"Those are fighting words, Rev." Tracy lifted his forefinger.

"Dodgers." Alicia had season tickets for years and used to go to the games with Gary Grant. She didn't say that, as it would have been bragging. She liked Grant enormously and one reason was he had learned baseball, no easy task for an Englishman. He also took pains to explain cricket to her, and she found she quite liked it.

"They may be a factor," Jim said judiciously.

Once Herb, himself, reached dessert, the conversation turned to the panel discussion and terrorism in general, which they discussed for some length.

"Just think if someone contaminates the reservoirs that supply New York City. They could strike down, potentially, twenty-two million people between nine A.M. and five P.M.," BoomBoom added to the lively topic.

"Those are obvious targets," Alicia commented. "They'll strike us where we aren't looking."

"Exactly," Big Mim agreed. "Imagine if chemical-warfare specialists find a way to release a fungus that could make us sick? Not something that would kill immediately but something that would make people sick. It would incapacitate the sick, tie down the people caring for them, and damage the economy, too."

Harry added her two cents. "That's what was so fascinating about the panel: how common the types of fungus are that infect wheat, corn, grapes even. All of these could be used."

"Terrorists would use grapes?" Tazio's eyes widened.

Jim answered Tazio. "No, but let's say wheat becomes tainted. It passes on to humans. That's a one-two punch. But let's suppose our enemies are far more subtle than that. Let's say they infect hay, grass, crops. Cattle eat them. The meat becomes dangerous, and Americans consume huge quantities of beef. Meanwhile, thousands and thousands of cattle are eating poisoned grasses before the sickness can be traced to the source." Jim took a deep breath. "Now you have humans, cattle, medical people, and crops being destroyed or rendered useless for a time. You get the idea."

"I do. Become a vegetarian." Susan broke the mood of worry.

"Right. Drink wine, not water." Blair held up a glass.

9

After the luncheon, back at the farm, Harry walked through the quarter acre she'd planted with Petit Manseng, a grape used in Jurangon, perhaps the most famous of the white wines of southwestern France. She'd planted the rootstock herself in November, which would allow root growth over the winter. She planted each bare root eight feet from another. Her rows were also eight feet apart. She really wouldn't know until the growth spurt in high spring whether she had correctly spaced the vines.

She kept to the golden mean of spacing for grapes and hoped she was doing right by the Petit Manseng.

Naturally, as this was the first year, she didn't expect much. With help from Patricia and Bill and Felicia Rogan, she had settled on Petit Manseng because the small white grape stayed on the vine longer than most other types. This bumped up the sugar content even as it pushed down the acidity. Jurangon, at the foot of the Pyrenees, bears similarity to western Albemarle County. That helped Harry decide. But on one-quarter acre, once the vines were established, she should produce one ton of grapes, which translated into fifty cases or six hundred bottles. One barrel of oak is the equivalent of twenty-five cases.

Watching her pennies, Harry cultivated one-quarter acre at a cost of five thousand dollars and prayed all would be well, because, for her, that was a big outlay of cash.

She begged old oaken barrels from Patricia Kluge. One of the surest ways to produce inferior-tasting wine was too much oak. Although not a winemaker, she was a country girl and a quick study.

She loved agriculture. She liked growing grapes, but the expenses preyed on her natural financial caution. Reviving the Alverta peach orchard kept her on solid ground. And she kept her mother's pippin apple orchard flourishing. Fortunately, apples and grapes flourish with the same soil, water, sun conditions.

Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter followed her as she bent down to check the shoots emerging from the trunks. A few warm weeks, when the air reeked with heavenly fragrances from apple trees, viburnas, different varieties of scented bushes, and these babies—she thought of them as babies—would surprise everyone with their vigorous growth.

She stood up, casting her eyes over the farm. In the paddocks the foals—true babies—dozed, and her heart melted each time she looked at the horses.

The hay peeped up, spring green, a tender color promising life, nutrition.

Her two acres of various sunflower types also glowed spring green, except for the Italian sunflowers, which she'd just planted. The sun warmed the afternoon to the mid-fifties. Her ancient three-ply cashmere crewneck sweater with darning spots served her well. Harry could never throw anything out that might be useful even one more day.

Once a year, Susan, Miranda, and BoomBoom would descend upon her tothrow out tattered things. Her sock drawer alone took a half hour. She'd try to hang on to a threadbare sock by declaring it could be used to hold catnip.

The cats didn't care how they received their catnip, so long as it was forthcoming.

A car turned onto the farm road.

Tucker barked, "Intruder!"

A curly-haired, extroverted Bo Newell showed up. "Harry. I'll only be a minute." He checked his watch. "It's two-thirty, so I'll be out of here by two forty-five." Then he laughed.

"Do you think he has Miss Prissy in the car?"Pewter hated Bo's ancient cat, who was fond of travel and arguments.

"She tore up the leather upholstery in Nancy's Thunderbird. She's grounded."Mrs. Murphy related this story with undisguised glee, for Miss Prissy had ruined Mrs. Newell's new sports car.

"Why doesn't she just die, she's so damned old?"

"Tucker, why doesn't Aunt Tally die? They're too mean."Pewter giggled.

"What's cooking?" Harry asked the muscular Realtor.

"I've got clients from Belgium. They want me to find a farm with soil suitable for grapes. I tell you, I can't sell land that grows grapes fast enough. The word is finally out on Virginia wine. Obviously, a lot of time the best pieces are between friends. I'm trying to keep one step ahead of Rollie Barnes." He rubbed his hands together. "You haven't heard of anyone getting ready to sell, have you?"