“Did she really say ‘oo-scoobs’?”
“Yes.”
Betty replied,“I thought only Southerners used that expression.”
“She’s acclimating. Anyway, I asked her if she knew about Sam’s history.” He paused. “She said she knew he’s fought his battles, hit the bottom, but he’s recovered.”
“Recovered?” Sister spoke into the phone.
“His brother, Gray, who made all that money in Washington, D.C., put him in a drying-out center. He was there for a month.”
“So that’s why we haven’t seen him passed out on a luggage cart down at the train station?” Betty mentioned one of the favorite hangouts of the county’s incorrigible alcoholics. The downtown mall was another.
“How long has he been dry?” Sister again spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Do you want the phone back?” Betty asked.
“Actually, you ask better questions than I do.”
“According to Marty, Sam has been sober four months. She said that they extensively interviewed him. They also spent two hours with Gray, and they’re satisfied that Sam’s the man for the job. Crawford intends to get into chasing in a big, big way.”
Betty took a long time.“Well, I hope it all works out.”
“But you don’t think for a skinny minute that it will, do you?” Ronnie sounded almost eager.
“Uh, no.”
Sister took the phone back,“What do you think?”
“I think there’s going to be hell to pay.”
Sister sighed, then brightened.“In that case, let’s hope Crawford’s bank account is as big as we think it is.”
After they hung up the phone, Sister and Betty just looked at each other for a moment.
Betty finally said,“Heisgood with a horse, that Sam.”
“And with a woman.”
They said in unison:“Jesus.”
CHAPTER 2
Heavy snow forced Sister to drive slowly to the Augusta Cooperative, usually just called the co-op. Since the Weather Channel predicted this storm was going to hang around for two days, she figured she’d better stock up on pet food, laying mash, and kerosene for the lamps, in case the power cut. She also took the precaution of putting the generator in the cellar. Shaker did likewise for the kennel, as well as for his attractive cottage, also on the property of Sister’s Roughneck Farm. Inthese parts, such a structure was called a dependency.
Last year, Sister broke down and bought a new truck for her personal use. The truck used to haul the horses and hounds, an F350 Dually, could pull a house off its foundation, but those Dually wheels proved clunky for everyday use. Installed in her new red half-ton truck was a cell phone with a speaker so she didn’t have to use her hands.
“Shaker.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I’m on my way to the co-op. Need anything?”
“Mmm, late thirties, early forties maybe, good sense of humor, must like hounds and horses and be in good shape.”
“Get out.” She laughed.
“Mmm, pick up some Espilac if they have any,” he said, referring to a milk replacer for nursing puppies. “And if you want extra corn oil for kibble, might could use some.”
“Okay. I’ll drop it in the feed room at the kennel. Oh, hair color preference?”
“Bay or chestnut.”
“I’ll keep my eyes wide open, brother.”
Ending the call, she maintained a steady fifty miles an hour. The snowplows kept the main arteries clear, and even the secondary roads remained in good shape. If the storm kept up, the volume of snow would overwhelm the state plows, the dirt roads would become difficult to negotiate, and even the major highways would be treacherous. Sister knew that as soon as he hung up the phone, Shaker would pull on his down jacket, tighten the scarf around his throat, jam that old lumberjack hat on his head, and crank up the huge old tractor with the snowplow. He’d keep their farm road open, not an easy task; it was a mile from the state road back to the farm, and there were the kennels and the farm roads to clear out, plus the road through the orchard. Apart from being a fine huntsman, Shaker was a hard worker who could think for himself.
She pulled into the co-op’s macadam parking lot, trucks lined up, backs to ramp. The ramps, raised two feet above the bed of a pickup, made it easy for the co-op workers to toss in heavy bags of feed, seed, whatever people needed. Huge delivery trucks fit the ramps perfectly. A man could take a dolly and roll straight into the cavernous storage area.
Each section of the co-op had its own building. The fertilizer section off to the side even housed a shed for delivery and spreading trucks. The special seed section was to the right of the fertilizer building. Catty-corner to both these buildings stood the main brick building, which contained animal food, gardening supplies, and work clothes.
As Sister pushed open the door to the main section, she saw many people she knew, all doing the same thing as she.
Alice Ramy, owner of a farm not far from Sister’s, rolled her cart over. “Heard you chased an interested quarry today. I always did think Donnie Sweigert’s elevator didn’t go all the way to the top.”
“Poor fellow. He was stiff with fear.” Sister laughed. “He thought the hounds would tear him apart.”
“Would we miss him?” Alice tartly remarked.
“I reckon we would. Now Alice, all souls are equal before God.”
They both laughed, then rolled down separate aisles to wrap up their shopping before the storm worsened.
As Sister reached for milk replacer, another cart whizzed by her before stopping.
“Jane Arnold,” a deep voice called.
She turned to look into the liquid brown eyes of Gray Lorillard, a man of African American descent. Gray was the name of his maternal family, and everyone had always teased him about it when he was a kid. Few teased him these days; he was a powerful, wealthy tax lawyer and partner in a top-notch Washington, D.C., firm.
“Gray, how good to see you. We hardly ever do see you. Home for Christmas?”
He leaned on his cart.“I retired.”
“I hadn’t heard that. How wonderful.”
“Well, I turned sixty-five last August, and I said, ‘I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life.’ I want to farm. Took me this long to wrap things up. Kept the apartment in D.C., still do consulting, but Sister, I am so glad to be back.”
“Will you be at the old home place?” She referred to the Lorillard farm, which abutted the eastern side of After All, the Bancrofts’ enormous estate.
He looked her directly in the eyes.“Have you seen it?” “I drive by.” She tactfully did not mention its state of disrepair.
“Sam didn’t even change the lightbulbs when they blew out.” He breathed in, lowering his voice. “I won’t be living there with him, though I think he’s beat the bottle this time. God, I hope so.”
“I’m amazed he’s still alive,” Sister honestly replied.
“Me, too.” He smiled, his features softening. “I expect this storm will have us all holed up. But it has to end sometime.” He hesitated a moment. “When it does, may I take you to lunch at the club? We can catch up.”
“I hope it ends tomorrow.” She smiled.
All the way home, Sister thought about the Lorillards: Sam, Gray, and Elizabeth, each with different destinies. Elizabeth, the middle child, married well, a Chicago magazine magnate. She sat on the city council of the expensive suburb in which she lived, Lake Forest. She evidenced no interest in the home place, Virginia, or, more pointedly, Sam. Gray, a good athlete and horseman, won an academic scholarship to Syracuse, going on to New York University Law School. Sam, also a good athlete and horseman, won a scholarship to Michigan, finished up, then returned to attend the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business. He couldn’t stay away from the horses, which everyone understood, but he couldn’t stay away from women either. These disruptions and his ever-escalating drinking seemed intertwined.
Sister had ridden with Gray and Sam when they were young. It baffled her how someone like Sam could throw away his life as he did. Not being an addictive personality, she failed to understand willful self-destruction.