"Nah. I'm going to paint the bathroom tonight. I can't stand it another minute.
"You work too much."
"Look who's talking."
"Isn't anyone going to come in here and play with me?" Murphy called from the bedroom as she threw a pillow on the floor for dramatic effect.
"She's vocal tonight." Fair finished his beer. "Bring me your mousie."
Seeing a six-foot-four-inch man of steel ask for a cat to bring her mousie never struck Harry as strange. Both she and Fair were so attuned to animals that speaking to them was as natural as speaking to a human. Generally, it produced better results.
Murphy ripped out of the bedroom, mouse in jaws again, and dropped the little gray toy on Fair's boots.
"What a valuable mouse. Murphy, you're a big hunter. You need to go on a safari." He threw the mouse into the kitchen, and off ran Murphy.
"You indulge her." Tucker sank her head on her paws.
"Miranda and I were going over to Mim's at lunch to poke around about the rumors of Nigel betting against himself in the sixth race, or was it the fifth?" She shrugged. " 'Course, the same rumor floated around about Linda Forloines."
"The thousand dollars?"
"Guess it's made the rounds."
"Yeah. Why didn't you go?"
"Larry relieved us late. Miranda got a call from her church group, some crisis to do with the songfest, so I went over to Crozet Pizza. No point in chasing rumors, which is why I can't believe that Colbert Mason is bothering about this one concerning you. Well, I guess he has to go through the motions."
"You were always better than I was at figuring out people. I'm not a vet just because I love animals. Don't much like people deep down, I suppose—or maybe I just like a few select ones like you."
"Don't start," Harry swiftly replied.
"Mom, don't be so hard on him." Mrs. Murphy deposited her play mouse next to her food bowl.
"Yeah, Mom," Tucker chimed in.
"I'm not starting." He sighed. "You know I've repented. I've told you. I'm changing. Hell, maybe I'm even growing up."
"Mother used to say that men don't grow up, they grow old. Actually, I thought Dad was a mature man, but then again a daughter doesn't see a man the same as a wife does."
"Are you telling me I can't grow up?"
"No." She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, "I'm not good at these topics. The conventional wisdom is that women can talk about emotions and men can't. I don't see that I'm good at it, and I don't see any reason to learn. I mean, I know what I feel. Whether I can or want to express it is my deal, right? Anyway, emotions are like mercury, up, down, and if you break the thermometer, the stuff runs out. Poof.
"Mary Minor, don't be so tough. A little introspection can't hurt."
"Not the therapy rap again?" She threw up her hands.
He ignored the comment. "I hated going, but I'd made such a mess of my life it was that or sucking on a gun barrel." He paused. "Actually look forward to those sessions. I'm taking a college course and the subject is me. Guess it means I'm egotistical." He smiled wryly.
"What matters is that for you it's a—" she rummaged around for the right word, "an enlarging experience. You're open to it and getting a lot from it. I'm not. I'm closed. It ain't my deal."
"What's your deal?"
"Hard work. Why do you ask what you already know?"
"Wanted to hear you say it."
"You heard me."
"Harry, it's okay to share emotions."
"Goddammit, I know that. It's also okay not to share them. What good does it do, Fair? And what's the line between sharing and whining?"
"Do I sound like I'm whining?"
"No."
They sat in silence. Mrs. Murphy padded in, leaving her mouse by her food bowl.
"Go to a movie with him, Mom," Tucker advised.
"Yeah," Murphy agreed.
"You know if there's any way I can help you with this inquiry, I'll do it."
"I know." He sat waiting to be asked to stay, yet knowing she wouldn't ask. At last he rose, tossed his long-neck bottle in the trash, and lifted his heavy shirt off the peg. "Thanks for listening."
She joined him in the kitchen. "Things will turn out right. It's a waste of time, but dance to their tune for a while."
"Like singing for my supper? Remember when I was starting out, Mim would give me odd jobs at the stable and then feed me? Funny about Mim. She's tyrannical and snobbish, but underneath she's a good soul. Most people don't see that."
"What I remember is Little Marilyn's first husband driving you bananas."
"That guy." Fair shook his head. "I was glad when she was shuck of him, although I guess it was hard for her. Always is, really. Are you glad to be rid of me?"
"Some days, yes. Some days, no."
"What about today?" His eyes brightened.
"Neutral."
He opened the kitchen door and left. "Bye. Thanks for the beer," he called.
"Yeah." She waved good-bye, feeling that phantom pain in her heart like the phantom pain in an amputated limb.
Bazooka, sleek, fit, and full of himself, pranced sideways back to the stable. Addie breezed him but he wanted to fly. He hated standing in his stall, and he envied Mim's foxhunters, who led a more normal life, lounging in the pastures and only coming into their stalls at night.
Like most competitive horses, Bazooka was fed a high protein diet with supplements and encouraged to explode during the race. Mostly he felt like exploding at home. He knew he could win, barring an accident or being boxed in by a cagey opposing jockey. He wanted to win, to cover himself with glory. Bazooka's ego matched his size: big. Unlike most 'chasers at other barns, he also knew that when his competitive days drew to a close, Mim wouldn't sell him off. She would retire him to foxhunting, most likely riding him herself, for Mim was a good rider.
The fact that Mim could ride better than her daughter only deepened Little Marilyn's lifelong sulk. Occasional bursts of filial devotion gusted through the younger Mim's demeanor.
Both mother and daughter watched as Bazooka proudly passed them.
"He's on today," Addie called to them.
"The look of eagles." Mim grinned.
"I am beautiful!" Bazooka crowed.
"Mom, I didn't know Harry was coming by." Little Marilyn had grown up with Mary Minor Haristeen, but although she couldn't say she disliked Harry, she couldn't say she liked her either. Personalities, like colors, either look good together or they don't. These two didn't.
Mim, by contrast, found it easy to talk to Harry even though she deplored the younger woman's lack of ambition.
The Superman-blue Ford truck chugged to the parking lot behind the stable. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy appeared before Harry did. They spoke their greetings, then ran into the stable as Harry reached Big Mim and Little Mim, occasionally called Mini-Mim if Harry was feeling venomous.
"What have you got there?" Mim asked, noticing that Harry carried a small box.
"The labels for the wild game dinner invitations. Little Marilyn was printing up the invitations."
"Did you run these off a government computer?" Mim folded her arms across her chest.
"Uh—I did. Aren't you glad your taxes have gone to something productive?"
Little Mim snatched the box from Harry's hands. "Thanks."
"How do the invitations look?" Harry asked.
Little Marilyn squinted at Harry, distorting her manicured good looks. "Haven't picked them up yet." Which translated into: She forgot to order them, and the labels told her she'd better get cracking. "I think I'll go get them right now. Need anything from C-ville, Mum?"
"No. I gave my list to your father."
"Good to see you, Harry." The impeccably dressed young Marilyn hot-footed it to her Range Rover.
No point in either her mother or Harry criticizing her. They knew she hadn't done her job, but she'd do it under pressure. Nor was there any point in discussing it with each other.