She combed her hair and applied face cream. The indoor heat had dried her skin out. She whipped on a little mascara, no eyeliner. She slapped on skin-tightening cream around her eyes and on her upper lip. It worked. Then she smudged faint violet powder on her eyelids, finishing off with a peachy blusher on her cheeks. She liked being clean and well turned out. She wasn’t vain, not even when she was young and people told her she was beautiful. She had never thought she was beautiful. She had angular features and big light brown eyes, but she was not beautiful. She was, however, sensationally athletic. Nor did she underestimate the lovely breasts that cappedthe whole affair. These days those mounds of pleasure sagged, but not as much as most women her age, thanks in no small part to a life of intense physical activity. Her pecs held them up as best they could.
She critically appraised herself, then leaned down and spoke to Golly, who looked up, whiskers swept forward.“Not bad for an old broad.”
“Not bad at all,”Golly agreed.
Raleigh added,“I love you. You are the most beautifulwoman in the world.”
Rooster, pink tongue curling out, seconded that.“True.”
“You two are so slavish.”Golly snuggled farther down in the sink as Sister stood up straight again. Her cosmetics, lined up on the counter, included three different colors of blusher and an array of lipsticks, tossed in a big glass brandy snifter. This was self-defense; when cross, Golly would knock the cosmetics off the counter. A second line of attack for the cat was to pull toilet paper all over the bathroom and shred it.
The second sink, Big Ray’s, no longer held his implements. Golly might have hunkered down there, but then she wouldn’t have been close enough to be a bother.
As Sister’s hair dried, she ran her fingers through it. “All right, that’s it.”
She sprinted into the closet, yanked out a long plaid skirt, whipped on a pair of high Gucci boots—thirty years old and still fabulous. She slipped a thin belt with small gold stirrups for a clasp through the skirt loops. Then she pulled a cashmere turtleneck over her head and tucked it into the skirt.
She came out, inspecting herself in the long mirror. Checking the time, Sister hurried down the back stairs, grabbed her shearling three-quarter-length coat, heavy but so warm. Outside, she hopped into the truck.
Even with the snow, she was at the club five minutes before Walter.
Under a tall window with a graceful curve at the top, the two caught up. While she had already written him a note thanking him for the fine hunt breakfast, she again told him how wonderful it was.
Finally, after turtle pie dessert, her tea and his coffee steaming, she reached for the handsome young man’s right hand. “Walter, you’re a natural foxhunter.”
Beaming, he squeezed her hand.“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She laughed.“I don’t know about that, but you love the sport, and you pay attention. That means so much to me. Oh, I know most people are out there to run and jump. Makes them happy. I have no quarrel with that, so long as they respect the hounds. After all, we each take away from our pastimes what wemost need. But the natural foxhunter, the true foxhunter, loves the hounds and loves the quarry. And he knows that if he lived one hundred years, well, he’d still be outfoxed.”
Walter smiled, his large even teeth an attractive feature.“I expect even Tom Firr didn’t know it all.” He referred to an English huntsman from the nineteenth century, reported to be the greatest huntsman of his time.
“You’ve already contributed so much to our club. There are times, Walter, when I turn around and catch sight of you, and I think it’s Ray. If you had the military mustache, you’d be his twin.”
A quiet note crept into his voice.“You know, I often think about Big Ray, how I wished I had known he was my natural father. How strange that neither of us knew until last season, but everyone around us knew.”
“That’s Virginia.” She smiled, glad that something of Big Ray remained and simultaneously sorry that her genes would be washed away. Still, you take what life gives you.
“Dad didn’t know; I’m sure of that.” Walter referred to the man he knew as his father: a hardworking man bested in business many times over, the last time by Crawford Howard. It had destroyed him.
“I’m sure, too. We can both be glad of that, for your father did not live a happy life.” She paused slightly, changing the subject. “My mother used to say, ‘Eventually all things are known, and none of it matters.’ She was a foxhunter. They all were. Lucky me.” She smiled.
“Everyone needs a passion. If it were rational, it wouldn’t be a passion, would it?” He smiled back. “We’re both lucky.”
The waiter put the check on the table. As both were members, he did the correct thing, placing the bill midway between them, rather than assuming the man would pay.
Walter reached for it to sign it, but Sister was quicker and grabbed it.“I asked you to lunch.”
“Sister, let me. You do so much for all of us. I don’t know how to repay you. Allow me.”
“No. Speaking of passion, I’m here because of that passion.” She scribbled her name, club number, then added a tip. “When I look at you, Walter, I am reminded of love. I’m reminded of being young. I’m reminded of how life is one surprise after another, a jumble of emotions, events, but, ultimately, joy.” He sat stock-still as she spoke, her low voice resonant. “I am reminded that I must tend to my passion, for I want others to experience the same sharp grace that I have experienced in the hunt field.” She took a deep breath, reaching for his hand once more. “Walter, I want you to be my joint-master.”
CHAPTER 19
At eight o’clock Tuesday evening, the skies turned crystal clear. The last wisp of noctilucent cloud scudded toward the east. The mercury plunged to twenty-two degrees.
Like most horsemen, Sam Lorillard obsessively listened to the radio weather reports. Before he left Crawford’s, he double-checked each horse’s blanket. For those with a thin coat, typical of many thoroughbreds, he took the precaution of putting a loosely woven cotton blanket under the durable turnout sheet.
Like Sister, Sam believed horses needed to be horses. He kept them outside as much as possible, bringing them in to groom, feed, weigh, and carry on a conversation. Sam liked to talk to the horses. Roger Davis, his assistant, also took up the habit.
Crawford’s thoroughbreds knew a great deal about Super Bowl picks, college basketball, and socks—quite a bit more about socks because Sam’s feet remained cold until the middle of May.
The Lorillard home place, improving now that Sam was back on his feet, had a huge cast-iron wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen.
Sam was also trying to improve his eating habits. He hunched at the kitchen table, a heavy leather-piercing needle in his right hand, a workday bridle in his left. The small keepers, which kept the cheek straps from flapping, had broken. He patiently stitched them.
Jabbing a needle through leather hurt his fingers, which ached in the cold. Sitting by the wood-burning stove helped.
His cell phone rang. He no longer bothered with a line to the house, using the cell for everything.
“Hello.”
“Sam,” Rory croaked, “come get me. I’m ready.”
“Where are you?”
“Salvation Army. Thought I’d clean up.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”
Sam hurried to his battered 1979 Toyota truck, which, despite age, ran like a top.
One half-hour later, after a fulsome discussion with the sergeant in charge, Rory left with Sam.
“It’s a three-hour ride. Can you make it?”
A haggard Rory slumped on his seat.“Yes.” He produced a pint of Old Grand-Dad. “This is the last booze I’ll ever drink. If I don’t, I’ll get the shakes. You don’t need that.” Rory took a swig.