Pewter reposed in the tack room on a neatly folded Baker blanket. She'd gorged herself at breakfast and would need half the day to digest.
“It's been quite a Dogwood Festival.” Fair dipped a clean old towel in water, rubbed it on a glycerin bar, and began wiping down Harry's hunt saddle.
“You don't have to do that.”
“No, but I like to be useful.” He hummed a Billy Ray Cyrus tune, then cleared his throat. “You seem to have hit it off with Diego.”
“Yes,” came the terse reply.
Fair knew better than to expect an explanation out of Harry. He'd known her all his life and having been married to her he felt he knew her better than anyone except maybe Susan Tucker. But women's friendships existed on a separate plane from spousal relationships. He often laughed to himself when he'd hear idle chatter about the differences between men and women. Women, according to the experts, were more forthcoming about their emotions than men and they bonded through sharing emotions whereas men bonded through activity. In all the years he'd known Mary Minor she'd never volunteered an emotion. You had to pry them out of her. She'd happily tell you what she thought, read, saw, did, but not what she felt. Susan used to harangue her over it but Harry was Harry and that was that. “Take me or leave me” was her attitude, and when Fair thought about it, he concluded she was right. You either accept someone or you don't and no amount of jawing about it will change them or bring you closer.
“The guy looks like a movie star.” Fair flipped the stirrup iron up over the saddle seat so he could better clean the flaps. The saddle was clean but he needed a task.
“He does but you're pretty great-looking yourself.” She winked.
“You say that to all the boys.” He laughed, glad to be in her presence. “Lottie Pearson is on the warpath, by the way.”
“Against me or BoomBoom?”
“Anyone that gets in her way but I think you and BoomBoom are, well, let's just say, hold on to your scalps.”
“What is Lottie's problem?” Harry scrubbed out a water bucket in the sink in the tack room. It had hot and cold water, a nice feature in a tack room. “I mean it's not like I woke up one morning and said, ‘Today I will piss off Lottie Pearson.' And I only agreed to be Diego's date after pressure from BoomBoom. She said Lottie would bore him to tears whereas I could talk about farming.”
“Lottie's getting scared and she's getting bitter.”
Harry tipped her head up to stare into Fair's blue eyes. “Scared about what?”
“She's in her thirties, never been married, and no prospects in sight.”
Dropping the bucket in the sink, Harry put her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on, you don't believe that.”
“About Lottie I do. Man-hungry.”
“Said by a man.” Harry giggled.
“Hey, we may be the slower sex but I don't know any man who doesn't have radar for a woman crazed to get married. The pheromone of fear or mating or something is what she sends out. Nothing turns a man off faster than that except personal uncleanliness, I guess.”
Harry resumed scrubbing. “Never thought about it but you're probably right. What's to get scared about, Fair? You can't just go out and find a mate. It's not like shopping for a car.”
“No, but it is a big-ticket item.” He smiled. “What I find offensive about Lottie is that she wants to get married but no one is good enough. Roger O'Bannon was crazy about her and, well, now he's dead. He wasn't right for her.” Fair lost his train of thought. “It's hard to talk about him in the past tense.”
“I know what you're trying to say.”
“She wants someone who is First Family of Virginia. That stuff is so superficial.”
“Easy for us to say because we are.”
“Have you ever cared for one moment that your ancestors arrived here in 1620? No, 1640. Good memory.” He tapped his forehead.
“No. I'm proud of them but it doesn't make me better than anyone. And the slave trade really picked up at the end of the seventeenth century so as far as I'm concerned those African-American families are F.F.V., too.”
“If there's one thing that I really hate about Virginia it's the great game of ancestor worship.” He flipped over the other stirrup. “On the other hand, it gives us stability, I suppose. Anyway, even if Lottie marries one of us she's not F.F.V.”
“No, but her children will be.”
“Great. Another generation of snobs.” Fair laughed again. “My favorite low moment for Virginians was when the descendants of Thomas Jefferson had a reunion and argued about whether to let Sally Hemings's descendants join when the DNA tests proved they carried Jefferson's blood. I mean here we are in the twenty-first century and someone is going to argue about this.”
“You're expressive this morning.” She shook her head.
“Actually,” he exhaled, “I'm so glad I didn't find Diego here.”
She shot him a searing look. “Oh, like I'd go to bed with him on the first date, so to speak?”
“Uh—yes.”
“Fair, it's my body.”
“I love your body.”
“Oh, Fair—” She threw up her hands.
“I love your mind, too.”
“This is getting good.” Mrs. Murphy leaned way over the edge of the hayloft.
Even Pewter woke up. Tucker sat, tongue out, listening to every syllable.
“You can be real smooth when you want to be. Now look, I'm doing what I want, when I want, and with whom I want. Don't fence me in.”
“I haven't.”
“Yeah, and you haven't had any rivals either.”
“Oh, now I do?”
“Might.”
“I hate it when you're coy.”
“Well, I hate it when you try to manage me.”
“I'm not managing you.” He leaned over the saddle. “I'm being truthful.”
“Then I'll be truthful right back. I like Diego and I'll see him again, most likely. Other than that, I don't know squat.”
“Don't go to bed with him.” Fair's voice grew stronger.
“I'll do as I damn well please.”
“Latin-American men are faithful to their mothers and no one else. You don't know who he's slept with. You can't be too careful.”
“That's pretty racist.” Acid dripped from her voice.
“It's true. They're dominated by their mothers!”
“Fair, you are so full of shit.” Harry laughed. He was unintentionally funny.
“I'm trying to protect you.”
“No, you're not. You don't want me to go to bed with anyone but you.”
“I admit that.”
“Get over yourself.”
“Harry, go slow. Think things through. What kind of future would you have with a man from a country full of ex-Nazis?”
“Fair, for Chrissake!”
“It is.”
“So are Argentina and Paraguay and, for that matter, the United States. After the war didn't our government spirit out any German who had knowledge we needed or wanted? And furthermore, that was over fifty years ago. Somehow I think most of those dudes are dead. Now you're an expert on Uruguay?”
“Can't blame a guy for trying.”
“Yeah, yeah. To change the subject, are you going on the coon hunt tonight?”
“Thought I would.”
The best time to hunt coons is the fall but sometimes a hunter would train his young hounds with an older hound before then. Summer was too hot so spring often was a good time to work young hounds. The female coons, “heavy,” usually gave birth in April through May to litters of between one and eight. They'd only be hunting males.
She filled the cleaned-out bucket with clean sponges, placing the bucket under the sink. “I wonder when Roger's funeral will be.”
“Wednesday or Thursday. Unless Sean thinks he'll have to wait for the weekend because of out-of-towners. I doubt it though. Herb will know. Brings death a little closer, doesn't it?”