"Is that meant for me?"
"No, dear. We've gracefully accommodated one another's faults."
"It was me, not you."
"I should have fought harder. I've told you that. I should have banged on this front door and had it out with your father. But I didn't. And somehow, sweetheart, it has all worked out. You married and had two good children."
"A son who rarely comes home," she sniffed.
"Whose fault is that?" he gently chided her.
"I've made amends."
"And he and his wife will finally move down from New York some fine day. Dixie claims all her children. But whatever the gods have in store for us-it's right. It's right that you married Jim, I married Annabella, God rest her soul. It's right that we've become friends over the years. Who is to say that our bond may not be even stronger because of our past. Being husband and wife might have weakened our connection."
"Do you really think so?" She had never considered this.
"I do."
"I shall have to think about it. You know, I cherish our little talks. I have always been able to say anything to you."
"I cherish them as well."
A car drove up, parked, the door slammed, the back door opened.
Jim slapped Gretchen on the fanny. "Put out a plate for me, doll."
"Sexual harassment."
"You wish," he teased her.
"Ha. You'll never know."
He strode into the dining room. "Finished early. A first in the history of Albemarle County."
"Hooray." Mim smiled.
Jim clapped Larry on the back, then sat down. "Looks fabulous."
"Wait until you taste the rice. Gretchen has put tiny bits of orange rind in it." Mim glanced up as Gretchen came into the room.
"Isn't that just perfect."
"Of course. I prepared it." Gretchen served Jim rice, vegetables, then tossed salad for him.
The small gathering chattered away, much to Larry's relief. Had he continued to be alone with Mim she would have returned to her questions about the hospital.
Mim had to know everything. It was her nature, just as solving puzzles was Harry's.
And Larry did know more than he was telling. He could never lie to Mim. He was glad he didn't have to try.
23
Each day of the week grew warmer until by Saturday the noon temperature rose into the low sixties. March was just around the corner bringing with it the traditional stiff winds, the first crocus and robin, as well as hopes of spring to come. Everybody knew that nature could and often did throw a curveball, dumping a snowstorm onto the mountains and valley in early April, but still, the days were longer, the quality of light changed from diffuse to brighter, and folks began to think about losing weight, gardening, and frolicking.
Hunt season ended in mid-March, bringing conflicting emotions for Harry and her friends. They loved hunting yet they were thrilled to say good-bye to winter.
This particular Saturday the hunt left from Harry's farm. Given the weather, over forty people turned out, quite unusual for a February hunt.
As they rode off, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and an enraged Tucker watched from the barn.
"I don't see why I can't go. I can run as fast as any old foxhound." Tucker pouted.
"You aren't trained as a foxhound." Mrs. Murphy calmly stated the obvious, which she was forced to do once a year when the hunt met at Harry's farm.
"Ha!" The little dog barked. "Walk around, nose to the ground. Pick up a little scent and wave your tail. Then you move a bit faster and finally you open your big yap and say, 'Got a line.' How hard is that?"
"Tail," Pewter laconically replied.
"How's zat?" The dog barked even louder as the hounds moved farther away, ignoring her complaints.
"You haven't got a tail, Tucker. So you can't signal the start of something mildly interesting." The tiger was enjoying Tucker's state almost as much as Pewter, who did have the tiniest malicious streak.
"You don't believe that, do you?" She was incredulous, her large dog eyes imploring.
"Sure we do." The two cats grinned in unison.
"I could run after them. I could catch up and show my stuff."
"And have a whipper-in on your butt." Pewter laughed, mentioning the bold outriders responsible for seeing that hounds behaved.
"Wouldn't be on my butt. Would be on a hound's," Tucker smugly replied. "I think Mom should whip-in. She'd be good at it. She's got hound sense, you know, but only because I taught her everything she knows-about canines."
"Pin a rose on you," Pewter sarcastically replied.
Tucker swept her ears back for a second, then swept them forward. "You don't know a thing about hunting unless it's mice and you aren't doing so hot on that front. And then there's the bluejay who dive-bombs you, gets right in front of you, Pewter, and you can't grab him."
"Oh, I'd like to see you tangle with that bluejay. He'd peck your eyes out, mutt." Pewter's temper flared.
"Hey, they hit a line right at the creek bed." Mrs. Murphy, a keen hunter of all game, trotted out of the barn, past Poptart and Gin Fizz, angry at not hunting themselves. She leapt onto the fence, positioning herself on a corner post.
Tucker scrambled, slid around the corner of the paddock, then sat down. Pewter, with far less enthusiasm, climbed up on a fence post near Mrs. Murphy.
"Tally Ho!" Tucker bounded up and down on all fours.
"That's the Tutweiler fox. He'll lead them straight across the meadows and dump them about two miles away. He always runs through the culvert there at the entrance to the Tutweiler farm, then jumps on the zigzag fence. I don't know why they can't get his scent off the fence but they don't." Mrs. Murphy enjoyed watching the unfolding panorama.
"How do you know so much?" Tucker kept bouncing.
"Because he told me."
"When?"
"When you were asleep, you dumb dog. I hunt at night sometimes. By myself since both of you are the laziest slugs the Great Cat in the Sky ever put on earth."
"Hey, look at Harry. She took that coop in style." Pewter admired her mother's form over fences.
"She would have taken it better with me," a very sour Gin Fizz grumbled. "Why she bothers with Tomahawk, I'll never know. He's too rough at the trot and he gets too close to the fence."
As Gin was now quite elderly, in his middle twenties, but in great shape, the other animals knew not to disagree with him.
Poptart, the young horse Harry was bringing along, respectfully kept quiet. A big mare with an easy stride, she couldn't wait for the day when she'd be Harry's go-to hunter. She listened to Gin because he knew the game.
As the animals watched, Miranda drove up with church ladies in tow. She cooked a hunt breakfast for Harry once a year and Harry made a nice donation to her Church of the Holy Light. Each lady emerged from the church van carrying plates of food, bowls of soup, baskets of fresh-baked breads and rolls. Although called a breakfast, hunters usually don't get to eat until twelve or one in the afternoon, so the selection of food ranged from eggs to roasts to biscuits, breads, and all manner of casseroles.
The enticing aroma of honey-cured Virginia ham reached Tucker's delicate nostrils. She forgot to be upset about the hounds. Her determination to trail the hounds wavered. Her left shoulder began to lean toward the house.
"I bet Miranda needs help," Tucker said in her most solicitous tone.
"Sure." Murphy laughed at her while observing Sam Mahanes lurch over a coop. "That man rides like a sack of potatoes."
Sam was followed by Dr. Larry Johnson, who rode as his generation was taught to ride: forward and at pace. Larry soared over the coop, top hat not even wobbling, big grin on his clean, open face.
"Amazing." Pewter licked a paw, rubbing it behind her ears.
"Larry?" Murphy wondered.
"Yes. You know humans would be better off if they didn't know arithmetic. They count their birthdays and it weakens their mind. You are what you are. Like us, for instance." Pewter out of the corner of her eye saw Tucker paddle to the back door. "Do you believe her?"
"She can't help it. Dogs." Murphy shrugged. "You were saying?"