"What happened with Sam Mahanes?" Susan asked. "Didn't mean to get off the track. I do it all the time and I'm not even old. Can you imagine me at eighty?"
"I can. You'll be the kind of old dear who walks in other people's kitchens to make herself a cup of tea."
"Well-at least I won't be boring. Eccentricity is worth something. You were going to tell me about Sam Mahanes in the post office today."
"Oh, that. Miranda told him that Bruce Buxton took a header on the ice. He turned a nifty shade of beet red and said, 'Too bad he didn't break his neck,' and then he slammed out of the P.O."
"Huh." Susan cupped her chin in her hand as she stirred her hot chocolate. "I thought those two were as thick as thieves."
"Yeah, although I don't know how anyone can stand Bruce on a long-term basis."
Susan shrugged. "I guess in order to be a good surgeon you need a big ego."
"Need one to be postmistress, too."
"You know, in order to be good at anything I suppose everyone needs a touch of ego. The trick is hiding it. Bruce might be wonderful at what he does but he's stupid about people. That's one of the things I've always admired about Fair. He's great at what he does but he never brags." She sipped a moment. "And how is your ex-husband?"
"Fine. It's breeding season so I won't see much of him until mares are bred for next year and this year's mares deliver." Fair was an expert on equine reproduction, a veterinarian much in demand.
"Oh, Harry." Exasperated, Susan cracked Harry's knuckles with a spoon.
"You asked how he was, not how we're doing."
"Don't get technical."
"All right. All right. We were keeping to our Wednesday-night dates until now. We're having fun." She shrugged. "I don't know if lightning can strike twice."
"Me either."
"I get so sick of people trying to get us back together. We've been divorced for four years. The first year was hell-"
Susan interrupted. "I remember."
"I don't know if time heals all wounds or if you just get smarter about yourself. Get more realistic about your expectations of other people and yourself."
"God, Harry, that sounds like the beginnings of maturity." Susan faked a gasp.
"Scary, isn't it?" She stood up. "Want more of your hot chocolate?"
"Yeah, let's finish off the lot." Susan stood up.
"Sit down."
"No, let me bring the cup to you. Easier to pour over the sink."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Harry picked up the pan and carefully poured hot chocolate into Susan's cup and then refilled her own. "The weatherman says it's going to warm up to fifty degrees tomorrow."
"You wouldn't know it now. I don't mind snow but ice plucks my last nerve. Especially with the kids out driving in it. I know they have good reflexes but I also know they haven't experienced as much as we have and I wonder what they'll do in that first spinout. What if another car is coming in the opposite lane?"
"Susan, they'll learn and you can't protect them anyway."
"Yeah. Still."
"Aren't you amazed that Miranda has kept to her diet in the dead of winter?"
"Still baking things for the store and her friends. I never realized she had such discipline."
"Shows what love will do."
Miranda had lost her husband over ten years ago. By all accounts it was a happy marriage and when George Hogendobber passed away, Miranda consoled herself with food. Ten years of consoling takes a long time to remove. The incentive was the return of her high-school boyfriend, now a widower, for their high-school reunion. Sparks flew, and as Miranda described it, they were "keeping company."
"The football team."
"What?" Harry, accustomed to abrupt shifts in subject from her old friend-indeed she was often guilty of them herself-couldn't follow this one.
"I bet that's why Sam Mahanes is mad at Bruce Buxton. Because Bruce operates on all the football players, and didn't he just get a big write-up in the paper for his work on the safety? You know that kid that everyone thinks will make All-American next year if his knee comes back. And Isabelle Otey, the girls' basketball star. He gets all the stars. Jealousy?"
"Buxton's always gotten good press. Deserved, I guess. Being in Sam's position as director of the hospital I'd think he'd want Bruce to be celebrated, wouldn't you?" Harry asked.
"You've got a point there. Funny, every town, city, has closed little worlds where ego, jealousy, illicit love collide. Even the Crozet Preservation Society can be a tempestuous hotbed. Good God, all those old ladies and not one will forgive the other for some dreaded misdeed from 1952 or whenever."
"Sex, drugs and rock and roll." Mrs. Murphy climbed back up on the chair to join the kitchen discussion.
"What, pussycat?" Harry reached over, stroking the sleek head.
"People get mad at other people over juicy stuff."
"Money. You forgot money." Tucker tidied up the floor, picking up her Milk-Bone debris.
"A little bit around here wouldn't hurt," Pewter, ever conscious of her need for luxury, suggested.
"Well?" Mrs. Murphy pulled forward one side of her whiskers.
"Well what?" The rotund gray kitty leapt onto the remaining free kitchen chair.
"You want money. Get your fat butt out there and earn some."
"Very funny."
"You could do shakedowns. People do it. Ask a small fee for not tearing up gardens, not leaving partially digested mice on the front steps, and not raiding the refrigerator."
Before unflattering words could be spoken, Harry leaned over, face-to-face with the cats. "I can't hear myself think."
"They certainly have many opinions," Susan said. "Not unlike their mother."
"M-m-m." Harry glanced out the window. "Damn."
Susan turned to observe.
"More snow," Tucker lamented. Being low to the ground, she had to plow through snow. It was the only time she admitted to admiring larger canines.
3
"Spike!" Isabelle Otey shouted from the sidelines as Harry, on the opposing team, rose up in the air, fist punching into the volleyball. Although Isabelle's main sport was basketball, she loved most team sports and she enjoyed knowing the "townies," as residents of the county were called by UVA students. Languishing on the sidelines, she supported her team vocally.
Isabelle's team, knowing of Harry's skill, crouched in preparation but not only was Harry strong, she was smart. She spiked the ball where they weren't.
"Game," the ref called as the score reached 21 to 18.
"Rocket arm." Cynthia Cooper slapped Harry on the back.
Isabelle, her crutches leaning against the bleachers, called out to Harry, "Too good, Mary Minor. You're too good."
Throwing a towel around her neck, Harry joined the coach of the opposing team. Coop, a deputy on the county's police force, joined them.
"Isabelle, they need you. Basketball team, too." Cynthia sat next to her.
"Four more weeks. You know it isn't really painful, the swelling went down fast but I don't want to go through this again so I'm doing what Dr. Buxton told me. What scares me more than anything is going out to the car, walking across the ice with crutches."
"Calling for rain tomorrow." Harry wiped her face with the white towel. "The good thing is it will melt some of the snow. Bad thing, won't melt all of it and at night everything will be more ice."
"Keeps me busy." Cynthia grinned. "I have to earn my salary somehow. You know, most people are pretty reasonable about fender benders. A few lose it."
"You must see a lot of stuff." Isabelle couldn't imagine being a law-enforcement officer. She envisioned a career as a pro basketball player.
"Mostly car wrecks, drunks, a few thefts and"-she smiled devilishly-"the occasional murder."
"I wonder if I could kill anyone."
"Isabelle, you'd be amazed at what you could do if your life depended on it," Cynthia said, running her fingers through her blonde hair.
"Sure. Self-defense, but I read about these serial killers in the paper or people who just go to a convenience store with a shotgun and blow everyone to bits."