“The Dublin Horse Show. I'd like to see that. I'd like to see the south of France and Tuscany and the opera house in Vienna. I'd like to see the Ostsee and then go over to Stockholm and tour the Swedish countryside. And I'd like to see the British Museum, but if I don't get to see any of those things I can read about them. Mostly, I'm happy with what I have. It isn't much by the standards of the wealthy and the powerful but it pleases me, and, Diego, how much does one need to be happy?”
“For some people, enough is not enough. They have cracks in their soul. No?”
She nodded. “Here I am, the postmistress in Crozet, Virginia. Most of humanity has never heard of Crozet and certainly not of me. But I think about the world. I wish people good lives and I know there's not much I can do to help them except take care of myself and not be a burden to others. I don't know if the human race can be helped.”
“A very Protestant concern.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tanned skin.
“I suppose it is, isn't it? This dreadful concern to improve one's self and the world. You'd think after all these centuries we would have learned to thank God for what we have and leave well enough alone.” She smiled sadly.
“Do you believe in fate?”
A honeybee darted down on the mayonnaise while Harry considered this, then darted off again. “Yes.”
“So long?” He laughed.
“I had to think about it. It drives my friends crazy. I'm not very spontaneous. I think things through and I don't know if I make fewer mistakes that way but it's just the way I am.”
“I can see that. I'm the opposite, naturally. Opposites attract.”
“I wonder.” She laughed; his bubbling spirits delighted her. “Another sandwich?”
“Yes.” He knew the ham sandwiches would make him too thirsty.
She handed him a sandwich, then pulled a small piece from her sandwich for Tucker, who devoured it instantly. “Forgot to light the candle.” She reached into her jeans pocket. “Oops, forgot to bring matches, too.”
Diego fished in his pocket, pulling out a brightly colored matchbook. “Here.”
Harry stared at the Roy and Nadine's matchbook in his hand. “Diego, where did you get those matches?”
“These?” He read the address. “Lottie's car.”
Harry fervently hoped he was telling the truth. She knew the minute the picnic was over she'd call Coop.
“Have you ever been to Lexington, Kentucky?”
“No. I'll add that to my list of adventures.”
Back at the house another small adventure was unfolding. The blue jay, perched on the weather vane on the roof, had observed the two felines laying the trap. He waited until the humans returned, Diego left, and the cats, disappointed, walked back into the house. Then he swooped down, gobbled up the grain, shouting in triumph. By the time the cats raced back out of the house half the sweet feed was gone.
“I hate you!” Pewter yowled at the top of her lungs.
“Ha ha,” the blue jay called from atop the weather vane.
Before dressing for the ball, Harry dialed Cooper to report Diego's possession of the Roy and Nadine's matchbook.
“I'd call and ask her myself,” Harry offered, “to save you the call but she'd think I was calling about Diego. It's as plain as the nose on your face she means to have him.”
“You'd call because you're as curious as your cats,” Coop responded. “However, I'll make the call. What time do you think you'll get to the ball?”
“Oh, seven. Starts at six-thirty, uh, wait, the invitation is on the fridge. Let me double-check. Okay, open bar at six-thirty, dinner at seven, dancing at eight. So I suppose we'll get there at six-thirty. Fair enjoys a drink. I'll pass.”
“Did you ever really drink?”
“Not really, a beer here and there. Champagne at a wedding. What about you?”
“College.”
“What time are you arriving?”
“Six-thirty.” She laughed.
“Are you on duty tonight?”
“Yeah, but I'll be dressed to the nines. Rick, too.”
“The minute you see me, tell me what Lottie said about the matchbook. I hope he picked it up off the floor of her car. If he didn't—”
“Yeah, I know.”
50
The floodlights illuminating the old wrecker's ball shone cool blue. The lights on the sign for O'Bannon Salvage remained white but all around the edges of the yard that faced the road into the yard, lights cheerfully beamed in red, yellow, green, more blue, some pink, some white.
As celebrants drove in they cruised through an allée of light.
The new main building, the site of the dance, drew gasps of admiration from guests. Sean had built all his shelving on rollers so the shelves were rolled to the sides of the large building. In front of these, painters' spattered drop cloths were suspended from the ceiling to the floor. Beautiful salvaged objects, old fireplace mantels, marvelous huge coaching lights were arranged around the room or hung from the rafters. The centerpiece of the room, an Art Nouveau fountain complete with living nymph and satyrs, overflowed with flowers instead of water. Sean had filled the fountain with wisteria, hiring the gymnastics team from the university to display themselves in costume. The sculpted form of a stag stood atop the fountain, an unusual but dramatic symbol.
Each table's centerpiece boasted wisteria wrapped around salvage—a hand-carved finial, a porcelain wash pitcher, a mound of crystal doorknobs. People, drinks in hand, walked from table to table admiring the centerpieces, all of which were for sale for the benefit of the charity.
Other beautiful items, like old gold picture frames, had been bought by committee members and then donated for the charity ball. No one expected Sean to foot the bill for everything. As it was he'd gone to quite a bit of expense buying and painting the drop cloths à la Jackson Pollock. He and his staff cleaned the building, moved back the shelves, hung the cloths, and brought in the heavy statuary on a forklift. Fortunately, the floor was concrete. Plus he donated the fountain to be sold. He built the dance floor with a raised platform for the band. He told everyone he needed the work to keep his mind off Roger.
Miranda posed for a photo in front of the fountain with a satyr. The photographer was also paid by Sean. People bought the pictures, the proceeds going to Building for Life.
Aunt Tally was a sensation wearing a white tuxedo, a red rosebud in her lapel. Big Mim brought down a gentleman in his eighties to escort her aunt but Tally proved too much for him, ditching him for a forty-year-old lawyer dazzled by her wit.
Mim, herself swathed in St. Laurent from head to foot in colors as bright as a macaw, darted here, there, everywhere.
Harry and Fair looked as handsome together as they did when married. She wore her mother's beautiful classic Christian Dior dress and he wore a tuxedo that he'd bought from Bergdorf Goodman's over Christmas.
Susan chose lavender and Brooks chose white, for her first grown-up ball.
Lottie, sticking close to Sean, wore a simple but elegant off-the-shoulder black gown.
Diego escorted Little Mim, which set tongues wagging. Declaring independence from her mother, Little Mim was sponsoring a struggling designer in New York known as Mikel. He probably wouldn't struggle after the Wrecker's Ball because he made Little Mim look ravishing, not always the easiest task. Her emerald-green dress, exquisitely beaded, made a soft, unusual sound when she walked. It wasn't that Little Mim was bad-looking—far from it—but she was usually overshadowed by her mother. This dress ensured she wouldn't be tonight.
Coop, blond head towering above the other ladies, chose red for the simple reason that blondes usually don't. She felt like breaking rules tonight.