"Only in defense of liberty," Herb smoothly said, cribbing from the late Barry Goldwater, earning an admiring smile from Maggie.
"What the extremists have done, which I find very dangerous, is pull the debates away from the center. So the center is now thirty degrees to the right of where it might have been during the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower, a president who I feel was far better than he is credited for."
"Isn't that the truth," Big Mim simply said in reply to Alicia's astute observation.
"But all those men, men of that generation, whether Republican or Democrat, were fundamentally centrists," Tracy Raz, retired from a long career in the military and then the CIA, offered. "What we are seeing now is a generation not tempered by World War Two."
Paul de Silva, a South American with his green card—and therefore a lucky man—softly said, "You believe war brings wisdom?"
Herb, Jim, and Tracy had seen combat in World War II or Korea. Ned, a Navy man, just missed Vietnam but worked in the aftermath. Bo was in the fleet during Vietnam.
Herb lifted his chin. "What war teaches you is that you never want to see another one. I think the leaders that came out of World War One and World War Two did have a deep wisdom, a deep respect for human life. If lives must be lost, then the cause must be just and great. To squander an American life is a terrible calamity."
The group was silent for a minute. All agreed with the good reverend.
Harry finally spoke up. "It is strange, though, isn't it, that we can kill someone in a different uniform, but if we do that at home, it's murder."
"But maybe even murder is occasionally justified," Tracy said. He quickly held up his hands. "A wife kills a drunken husband who has their baby by the heels and is threatening to destroy the child. There are no easy answers, I'm afraid."
"And that's a gift." Alicia broadly smiled and brought them back to a lighter mood. "If it were easy, think how bored we'd be. Aren't all the great questions of life irrational, irrational to the human mind but perhaps not irrational to a mind greater than our own or to nature?"
"Like what?" Susan leaned toward Alicia.
"Love, the only fire against which there is no insurance. Intelligence is no guarantee that one will find the right love, shall we say? After all, consider Arthur Miller in love with Marilyn Monroe."
"Do I have to?" Harry popped off.
"Harry, God forbid you consider anything of the sort." Susan teased her.
"Let's pick someone closer to her generation." Miranda looked across the table at Tracy, thinking him the best-looking man for his age she had ever seen, and he was looking at her thinking the same of her.
"You don't have to give me examples. I know what you mean."
"Honey, I'll be your Arthur Miller anytime," Fair gallantly promised as the others applauded him.
"Does that mean I have to wear low-cut dresses, wiggle, and get a boob job?"
Maggie Sheraton's mouth dropped open for a second.
"That's our Harry." Herb beamed at Maggie.
"Darling, you don't need breast augmentation." Alicia carefully chose her words.
"You say that to all the girls." Harry couldn't resist.
"No, only the special ones." Alicia laughed at herself, which only made her guests all the more animated.
"Well, now, there's a subject for philosophers." Fair nodded to his hostess. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
This set them off.
Maxwell, sitting patiently by his mother's right hand, listened. Humans amused him, and being a Gordon setter he was more generous in his assessments than a Jack Russell terrier might have been. Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter hunkered under the table. Tucker hoped for fallen tidbits. Alicia allowed them to attend the party because she loved animals, they were well behaved, and Maxwell and Tucker were fast friends. Resting in the front hall was Brinkley, Tazio's yellow Lab. He liked people well enough but, even though Labs are not known for being guard dogs, he liked watching the door. Brinkley had been saved by Tazio last winter during a nasty storm. His entire life was devoted to Tazio.
"Love stuff." Pewter yawned.
"They'll rattle on all night." Tucker chuckled.
"I had a boyfriend once," Mrs. Murphy said.
"We all know your boyfriend. Worthless, that Paddy." Pewter couldn't abide the black and white cat, who now lived in Keswick, having been rescued by Meredith McLaughlin.
Not only was he rescued by one of Albemarle County's biggest softies, he was doted on by her neighbors, Claudia and Andy Lynn, who loved creatures as much as Meredith did. The result was that Paddy was insufferable—plus he had a new girlfriend, named Twisted Sister.
"Worthless he may have been, but he was fun." That was all Mrs. Murphy had to say on the subject.
"While they're talking about love, you know Mom is figuring out when she's going back up to the monastery." Tucker thought the main course smelled mouth-watering.
* * *
Nordy Elliott was already there, lugging a heavy camera. He thought if he went alone and in the dark, he could shoot the footage he desperately wanted: a close-up of the Virgin Mary's face. And he was certain he could sneak in and not be detected. He was wrong.
18
Sweat poured down Nordy Elliott's face; a line of sweat rolled down the middle of his back. The heavy camera added to his distress. He'd been smart enough to park well away from the iron gates. Footing was treacherous. He'd pitched and fallen flat on his face but managed to keep the camera intact.
Breathing heavily, he approached the statue, which shone with a silver glow in the waxing moonlight. The skies, clear for a change, throbbed deep electric black, a black seen only in winter.
The crunch of his boots frightened Brother Mark at the statue. The men startled each other.
Nordy ordered, "Don't move."
"Don't give me orders," snapped Brother Mark, tucking his rosary in his robe's deep pocket. He stood up as Nordy walked to the front of the statue. He observed closely the look on the reporter's face when he beheld the tears of the Virgin. Rapture. This wasn't the rapture discussed in religious texts. This was the rapture of greed, greed for fame, for a bigger market, a national show. Without hesitation, Nordy swung the camera eyepiece to his own eye, his fingers numb with cold, sweat still running down his back. He held his breath so the camera wouldn't shake, the whirring sound of the motor being his reward. Nordy congratulated himself on shooting for two minutes, stopping, moving, then shooting from a different angle.
"All these shots are up toward her face. I need one where I'm level or shooting down." He spoke as if thinking out loud, not as though speaking directly to Brother Mark. He took a step back, slipped a little, and caught himself. He gingerly picked his way to a tree, put the camera on the ground, and, with difficulty, swung up.
"Her face is beautiful in this light." Brother Mark slid his hands into the heavy sleeves of his gray woolen robe.
"Mmm, hand me the camera, will you?"
Brother Mark picked up the camera, hoisting it over his head while Nordy leaned down and grabbed it with one hand.
"Heavy."
"I don't know how Priscilla does it."
"Oh, you can get women to do anything. I envied you that when we were in college."
"You tell them they're beautiful, smart, and that you want them. Works ninety percent of the time. You were always to the left of Pluto, Mark. You were out there spinning in your solitary orbit. Still are." Nordy hiked the camera to his eye, getting good footage of the statue. "This is going to look great."
"People need to see the tears." A pious tone informed Brother Mark's voice while he ignored the insult. "They need to feel that the Blessed Virgin Mother is crying for them."
"Uh-huh." Nordy cut the motor. "Here." He handed down the camera, then slid down the tree trunk backward. "I don't believe man is descended from the apes."