"What else?" He offered her a cigarette which she took.
Cynthia bent her head for a light and took a drag. She looked up, noticing how perfectly brilliant the stars were. "Rick, this thing is a long way from being over."
He nodded in agreement, and they finished their cigarettes in silence.
The big purple van with the glittering gold lettering—Dalmally farm on both sides and horses on the rear—was parked next to an earthen ramp. The loading ramps, heavy and unwieldy, could injure your back so Mim had had an earthen ramp built. The horses walked directly onto the van without hearing that thump-thump of metal underneath them. Of course, once they were at the races, the loathed ramp did have to be pulled out from the side of the van, but still, any easing of physical labor helped.
Harry loved to inspect Mim's vans. Mim also had an aluminum gooseneck trailer for hunting. Although purple was the racing color of her mother's family, for hunting Mim used red and gold on her three-horse slant-load Trailet. Harry coveted this trailer as well as the Dodge dually with the Cummins turbo-diesel engine that pulled it. That was red, too.
She'd stopped by the stable after work to see if Little Marilyn was around. She didn't want to seem as though she was checking up on her peer, but she was. Little Mim had finally sent out the invitations for the wild-game dinner, but she hadn't reported who had RSVPed and who hadn't. As it was, Susan Tucker had had to pick up the invitations from the printer in Charlottesville.
Just as Harry climbed back into her truck, Big Mim cruised into the parking lot in her Bentley Turbo R. Mim never stinted on machines of any sort. It was an irrational thing with Mim: she couldn't resist cars, trucks, or tractors. Fortunately, she could afford them. She probably ran the best-equipped farm in Albemarle County. She even had a rolling irrigation system, a series of pipes connected to huge wheels that ran off a generator.
"Harry."
"Hi. I was trying to find Little Marilyn but no one's around.
"She's in Washington today." Mim opened the heavy door and slid out. "Worried about the dinner?"
"A little."
"Me too. Well, don't worry overmuch. I'll check the messages on the service and tell you who's accepted. I'll resort to the telephone tree, too, if necessary." She mentioned the system wherein designated callers were each responsible for calling ten people.
"I can do that."
"No, she's my daughter, and as usual, she's falling down on the job." Mim fingered her Hermes scarf. "Marilyn hasn't been right since her divorce was final last year. I don't know what to do."
Harry, forthright, said, "She isn't going to learn much if you do it for her."
"Do you want the game dinner to fall apart? My God, the hunt club would have our hides. I'd rather do it and get after her later."
Harry knew that was true. Their foxhunting club, the Jefferson—which chased foxes, rather than truly hunting them—was filled with prickly personalities, big egos, and tough riders as well as those of calmer temperament. Foxhunting by its nature attracts passionate people, which is all very well until the time comes for them to cooperate with one another. Little Marilyn would stir a hornets' nest if the game dinner didn't raise the anticipated revenue.
"I wish I could help you, but Marilyn has never much cared for me."
"Now, Harry, she's not demonstrative. She likes you well enough."
Harry decided not to refute Mim. Instead, her attention turned toward Tucker and Mrs. Murphy chattering loudly about who had been in Orion's stall.
"Mrs. Murphy and Tucker appear to be hungry," Mim said.
"Mim, I wish you'd listen." Mrs. Murphy mournfully hung out the driver's window.
"Yeah, well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help," Harry said.
"You're part of the telephone tree." Mim started for the stable, then turned. "Harry, what are you doing next weekend?"
"Nothing special."
"How would you like to come to Camden this weekend to see the Colonial Cup? It would mean a lot to Adelia and Charles, I'm sure."
"Don't go." A bolt of fear shot through Mrs. Murphy and she didn't know why.
"If Miranda will take care of my babies, I'd love to go."
"I thought Miranda might like to attend as well. Her sister lives in Greenville. Perhaps she could drive over."
"Let me see what I can do about the kids here, but I'd love to go."
"It's Adelia's twenty-first birthday. I thought we could celebrate down there and put her troubles behind us."
"Good idea."
Gray clouds hung so low Harry felt she could reach up and grab one. Although the temperature stayed in the mid-forties, the light wind, raw, made her shiver.
She dashed out of the bank on her lunch hour just as Boom Boom dashed in.
"Harry."
"Boom Boom."
"I'm sorry I lost my temper in the supermarket."
"Uh, well, an avalanche of toilet paper will do that to you." Harry continued down the steps.
Boom Boom placed a restraining, manicured hand on her shoulder. "Miranda says you can have the next hour off."
"Huh?"
"I was just in the post office and I asked her if I could borrow you for an hour."
"What?"
"To go to Lifeline with me."
"No."
"Harry, even if you hate it, it's an experience you can laugh about later."
Harry wanted to bat Miranda as well as throttle Boom Boom, a vision in magenta cashmere and wool today. "No. I can't do something like that."
"You need to reach out to other people. Release your fears. We're all knotted up with fear."
Harry breathed deeply, removing Boom Boom's hand from her shoulder. "I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid I won't be able to pay my bills. I'm afraid of sickness, and I guess if I'm brutally honest, I'm afraid to grow old."
"Lifeline can not only banish those fears but teach you how to transform them to life-enhancing experiences."
"Good God." Harry shook her head.
Mickey Townsend walked up behind her, a deposit envelope in his gloved hand. "Harry, Boom Boom. Harry, are you all right?"
"No! Boom Boom keeps pressuring me to go to Lifeline with her. I don't want to go."
"You'd be surprised at the number of people who do go." Boom Boom fluttered her eyelashes. Harry assumed this was for Mickey.
"I've never been to Lifeline, but—" He paused. "When Marylou disappeared I went to Larry Johnson. He prescribed antidepressants, which made me feel like a bulldozer ran over me, except I could function. I hated that feeling so I went into therapy."
"You?"
"See!" Boom Boom triumphantly bragged.
"Shut up, Boom. Lifeline isn't therapy."
"Did it help? I'm sure it did." Boom Boom smiled expansively.
Mickey lowered his already low voice. "I found out I'm a real son of a bitch, and you know what else I found out?" He leaned toward Boom Boom, whispering, "I like it that way."
Harry laughed as Boom Boom, rising above the situation, intoned, "You could benefit from Lifeline."
"I could benefit from single malt scotch, too." He tipped his hat. "Ladies."
Harry, still laughing, bade her improvement-mad tormentor good-bye.
"You know what, Harry?" Boom Boom shouted to her back. "This is about process, not just individual people. Process. The means, not the ends. There are positive processes and negative processes. Like for Mickey Townsend. Ever since the whole town turned on him for courting Marylou—negative process."
Harry stopped and turned around. "What did you say?"
"Process!" Boom Boom shouted.
Harry held up her hands for quiet. "I hear you. I think I'm missing something."
"A lot."
"Go back to Marylou."
"Not unless you come with me to Lifeline."
"Look. I've got to pack now, I'm going to Camden for the weekend. I haven't got time to go with you to Lifeline. Talk to me about process right now. I promise I'll go when I return."