“Do we have a value on that stuff?” Amy was curious.
“Well, we really don’t.” Charlotte wrinkled her brow for a second. “I guess we could hire an appraiser, but how would you value a page from George Washington’s diary or his wife’s hunting crop?”
“That’s just it, Charlotte, someone has to, because those things are irreplaceable. National treasures.” Christopher’s pleasant voice filled the room. “Course, if the girls smash the cabinets, I’ll have to get them on breaking and entering.” He smiled.
“Would you like me to find an appraiser?” Al asked. “I’m sure many of our alumnae have valuable items and would be a source for recommendations.”
“Al, with all due respect, I don’t think we should go that route until the waters are becalmed.” Knute sailed in his spare time and dotted his conversations with sailing terms.
“That’s a thought.” Charlotte leaned toward Knute. “If we discuss what we have in our care in terms of cold cash, at this moment, we may invite more reprisals. But I definitely think this is necessary for the near future and we must find someone whose credentials are impeccable.”
“You know, if I’d known it was going to be this much trouble, I’d have picked the cotton myself,” Amy commented and languidly sipped her coffee.
“That is so insensitive! Amy, you astonish me.” Al’s face reddened.
“For Christ’s sake, get a sense of humor.” She stared at him.
“But that’s always it, isn’t it?” He bore down on Amy. “The oppressed are supposed to laugh when the oppressor makes fun of them. How can you laugh at your own suffering? I mean, do you think it’s funny if someone white wears blackface? Used to be a scream. Do you think it’s funny if a man gets up in drag?”
“Watch it, Al, you’ll kick off the transgender discussion.” Christopher, unlike Amy, chose his words with some care.
“Oh, balls!” Al put down his coffee cup with force.
An assistant quickly took it away, replacing it with a filled one that hadn’t spilled.
“Al, Amy is direct. Perhaps she is insensitive sometimes, but give her credit for being honest.” Knute wearied of these two sparring.
“You can be honest and dead wrong,” Al replied.
“I suppose you’d like to emphasize the dead.” Amy did have a sense of humor.
“With all due respect, this has been a trying morning. I value each of you for your contributions, but I’m not up to being a referee for my faculty and staff at this exact moment.” Charlotte’s voice was firm. “Everyone here has appointments. If you haven’t had enough to eat, take a sandwich, we can put a drink in a carry mug for you. But let’s get back on course.”
Charlotte cleared her office in ten minutes. She thanked the assistants, then she walked out to Teresa.“Can you believe those two?”
“I tune them out.” Teresa glanced over a list of calls she’d taken while Charlotte met with the group. “Your husband called. He’ll be home by six. He said he has a surprise.” Teresa looked up and smiled. “Bunny called. Said call her back when you have a minute. Nothing urgent. Um, Sonny Shaeffer called, you’ll receive an invitation for the bank’s Christmas party but he wants you and Carter to put it on your calendar now, um-m, December sixteenth, Friday.”
“Teresa, what do you think of all this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you saying that because I’m white?” Charlotte didn’t hold back.
“After all we’ve been through? Now you’re getting as sensitive as Al Perez.” She waited a beat. “If I’d had reporters in my face and Pamela Rene, you know, I’d be a little touchy myself. I don’t know what I think except—”
“Except what?”
“I have a strange feeling. I can’t pin it on anything. I know you hate clich?s but, Charlotte, I think this is the tip of the iceberg.”
C H A P T E R 5
“Lights, camera, action!” Marty Howard threw up her manicured hands, one magnificent marquise diamond catching the light. “Every year every hunt club puts on the standard, three-speed hunt ball. We’re breaking out.”
“As long as break out doesn’t mean break bad,” Sister slyly inserted into Marty’s eruption of ideas.
“Oh, Sister, how bad can it be?”
At that, Betty roared,“You have no idea. Get a mess of foxhunters in their best duds liquored up, all that cleavage suddenly in view, and fistfights and running off with other people’s spouses seems normal.”
Marty exclaimed,“Nothing like that ever happened in Indiana.”
“That’s why you moved here, dear,” Sister said in a silken voice.
Marty, while bright, missed the gradations of Virginia humor. She blinked.“Well, we came because Crawford wanted to retire at forty and get into the horse business, but I guess we got more than we bargained for. He’s built the hunter barn, the steeplechase barn, and now he wants to breed Herefords, the kind with horns. He’s either researching bloodlines on that computer he had built—to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars—or he’s reading stock market quotes on it.”
“Back to this hunt ball. Marty, I so appreciate you taking on this task. Getting Bill Wheatley and the theater students to help with decorating was a master stroke,” Sister praised Marty. “And I know even if you don’t make it public that you and Crawford have given a generous donation to Custis Hall for the theater department’s services.”
“We were happy to do it.” Marty glowed, for she did like being useful, and after eleven years she was finally feeling like part of the group.
“Betty as vice chair—and I accentuate thevice—really does know where all the bodies are buried and she can take care of the table sittings.” Sister smiled at Betty. “What else? Forgive me, by the way, for not being better organized. Over the years our social chairs have kept the Jefferson Hunt hopping and popping. I didn’t have to do but so much. Also, I’m not too good at this kind of thing.”
Betty was scribbling on a notebook Sister had given her.“Your job is to show sport. Our job is to show we’re sports.”
“What a good way to put it,” Marty agreed. “Well, this will be the hunt ball to end all hunt balls.”
“Key position: head of the silent auction. Hunt balls can’t pay for themselves. The silent auction is your one hope to get in the black.” Betty reminded them of the ever-present need for money. “How’s Sorrel Buruss doing on getting items?”
“So far so good. She’s gotten the usual stuff—framed prints, weekend getaway spots, and dinners. What we’re lacking are the big, flashy items,” Marty answered.
They chatted awhile longer, drew up lists, again picked through the budget.
They experimented with different days over the years, throwing the ball the evening of Opening Hunt, or the evening of Closing Hunt. They found December to work the best. Everyone was in a holiday mood, people could get off work, and the bills had not rolled in to spoil everything. This year’s ball was set for Saturday, December 17.
The venue, the Great Hall at Custis Hall, had been used by Jefferson Hunt for over one hundred years. The vaulted ceilings added a medieval air to the many celebrations, concerts, convocations that took place there.
Ten years ago the whole facility had been rewired, refurbished. A rock band could play without frying the electrical system.
The serving kitchen had also been updated.
The Great Hall supplied Custis Hall with bonus money, as groups would rent it to the tune of thirty-five hundred dollars before food, service, linens, tables.
Given the long relationship with Jefferson Hunt, the club need only pay for the food, service, and tableware.
Their century-plus relationship was the reason Jane Arnold sat on the board of directors. The senior master of the hunt club had served in this capacity since 1887.
As the ladies finished their coffee and biscuits, wrapping up details, Marty’s cell rang.