"Harry's been riding well, hasn't she?"
"You two ought to ride in the hunt pairs when we have our hunter trials."
"Harry and I aren't close."
"You don't have to be close. Your horses are matched."
This was followed by an exhaustive discussion of the merits of relative mounts, carried out with the enthusiasm and total concentration peculiar to horse people. To anyone else the conversation would have been a bloody bore.
"Mother," Little Mim said, changing the subject. "Would you give one of your famous teas and invite Bruce?"
"I can't see the stables." Mim noted the thickness of the falling snow. "A tea?"
"You give the best teas. Things always happen at your parties. I wish I had your gift."
"You could have it if you wanted it, Marilyn. One learns to give parties just as one learns to dress. Oh, what was that I heard Harry and Susan say a few days ago? The 'fashion police.' Yes, the fashion police. They were laughing about Jordan Ivanic's tie and said he needed to be arrested by the fashion police."
"Harry in her white T-shirt, jeans, and paddock boots?"
"Ah, but Marilyn, it works for her. It really does and she has a wonderful body. I wish she and Fair would get back together again but once trust is broken it's hard to mend that fence. Well, a tea? You can learn."
"I can do the physical stuff. I will. I'll help with all that, but you have a gift for putting people together. Like I said, Mother, something always happens at your parties."
"The time Ulrich jumped the fence, cantered across the lawn, and jumped the picnic table was unforgettable." She smiled, remembering a naughty horse.
"What about the time Fair and Blair got into a fistfight and Herb Jones had to break it up? That was pretty exciting."
Mim brightened. "Or the time Aunt Tally cracked her cane over Ned Tucker's head and we had to take Ned to the emergency room."
"Why did Aunt Tally do that?"
"You were eleven at the time, I think. Your brother, Stafford, was thirteen. I'll tell you why. Ned became head of the Republican Party in the county and Aunt Tally took umbrage. She told him Tucker was an old Virginia name and he had no business registering Republican. He could vote Republican but he couldn't register that way. It just wasn't done. And Ned, who is usually an intelligent man, was dumb enough to argue with her. He said Lyndon Johnson handed the South to the Republican Party in 1968 when he signed the Voter Rights Act. That did it. Pow!" Mim clapped her hands. "I suppose Aunt Tally will enliven this tea as well. Let's sic her on Sam Mahanes, who is getting entirely too serious."
"With good reason."
"He's not the only person with troubles. All right. Your tea. How about two weeks from today? March sixth."
"Mother, you're lovely."
"I wouldn't go that far."
37
Bruce dropped by Pediatrics to check on a ten-year-old boy on whom he had operated.
Tussie Logan stood by the sleeping boy, hair dirty blond. She adjusted the drip of the infusion pump, took his pulse, and whispered on his progress to Bruce, who didn't wish to wake him.
They walked back into the hall.
"That pump's old, an IVAC 560 model. I keep pushing Sam for new equipment but I might as well be talking to a wall."
"Forget new pumps. These work perfectly well and the nurses know how to use them." Tussie had no desire to get in the middle of a Bruce versus Sam disagreement. The nurse always loses.
"They can learn."
"Dr. Buxton, they are overworked now. Keep it simple. The old pumps are really simple."
"You sound like Sam."
Her face tightened. "I hope not."
"Cheap."
"We do have budget restraints."
"We're falling way behind the technology curve, Nurse Logan. He's got to spend money to catch up. Go in debt, if necessary. He's too cheap, I tell you."
"Dr. Buxton, I can't really criticize the director of this hospital. It's not a wise policy." A flicker of fear danced in her hazel eyes. "And if you're going to fight for new equipment, fight for another MRI unit or something. Leave the nurses out of it."
"Afraid to lose your job?" He snorted. "Cover your ass. Ah, yes, the great American answer to the future, cover your ass."
"If you'll excuse me." She turned, walking down the hall to disappear into another patient's room.
"Chickenshit. Everyone around here is just chickenshit." Disgusted, he headed back toward his office in the newest wing of the hospital.
38
Chain store after chain store lined Route 29; fast-food restaurants, large signs blazing, further added to the dolorous destruction of what had once been beautiful and usable farmland. The strip, as it was known, could have been anywhere in the United States: same stores, same merchandise, same food. Whatever comfort value there was in consistency was lost aesthetically.
Back in the late sixties the Barracks Road shopping center at the intersection of Garth Road and Emmet Street, Route 29, broadcast the first hint of things to come. It seemed so far out then, three miles north of the University of Virginia.
By the year 2000 the shopping centers had marched north almost to the Greene County line. Even Greene County had a shopping center, at the intersection of Routes 29 and 33.
The city of Warrenton wisely submitted to a beltway around its old town. Charlottesville eschewed this solution to traffic congestion, with the result that anyone wishing to travel through that fair city could expect to lose a half hour to forty-five minutes, depending on the time of day.
As Harry and Coop headed north on Route 29 they wondered how long before gridlock would become a fact of life.
They chatted through Culpeper, the Blue Ridge standing sentinel to their left, the west. At Warrenton they latched onto Route 17 North which ran them straight up to Route 50 where they turned right and within six miles, they were at the door of Salvage Masters, a new four-story building nestled in the wealthy hills of Upperville, ten miles west of Middleburg proper.
Harry's chaps, needing repair, were tossed in the back of the Jeep, Coop's personal vehicle. She didn't want to draw attention to herself by driving a squad car, although she could have flown up Route 29 without fear of reprisal from another policeman lurking in the hollows, radar at the ready. The small towns relied on that income although they were loath to admit it, ever declaring public safety as their primary concern for ticketing speeders.
"Think my chaps will be okay?" Harry asked automatically, then grinned.
"There must be millions of people here just waiting to steal a pair of chaps needing repair-because you wore them." The blonde woman laughed as she picked up a leather envelope containing papers.
When they knocked on the door, a pleasant assistant ushered them in.
Joe Cramer, a tall muscular man at six four walked out of his office. "Hello. Come on in. Would either of you like coffee, or a Coke?"
"No thanks. I'm Deputy Cynthia Cooper and this is Mary Minor Haristeen, Harry, who has been involved in the case." Cynthia shook his hand, as did Harry.
"Come on." He guided them into his office, a comfortable space.
"This is quite an operation." Coop looked around at the employees seated at benches, working on IVAC units.
"Infusion pumps are sent to us from all over the world. These machines are built to last and for the most part, they do."
"You aren't from Virginia, are you, Mr. Cramer?" The lean deputy smiled. "Do you mind giving me a little background about how you developed this business?"
"No. I'm originally from Long Island. Went to college in the Northeast and started working in the medical industry. I was fascinated by the technology of medicine. I worked for years for a huge corporation in New Jersey, Medtronic. That's when I came up with the idea of rehabilitating infusion pumps and other equipment. The smaller hospitals can afford to repair their equipment and they can often afford to buy used equipment, but they often can't afford to buy new equipment. As I said, most of these machines are well built and will last for decades if properly maintained."