Each year, more and more people slid onto the list for help. Rich as Albemarle County was and always will be, it, too, has people struggling.
“Look at that,” Harry exclaimed when Brian tottered into the meeting room struggling under the weight of a huge carton.
Fair quickly grabbed the other end. “What’s in here?”
“Wait until you see it.” Brian and Fair edged the box onto the toy table, which was filling up.
Brian pulled open the cardboard top, plucking out a shiny model of an F-150 truck.
Ever excited by anything with wheels, including a toy, Harry hurried over to the box. “Wow! Who donated these?”
The box was filled with toy trucks, all Ford models from various years. It was a history lesson in Ford products.
“Peter and Charlene Vavilov,” Jessica answered.
At the mention of Peter’s name, a hush fell over the room. Reverend Jones walked over, lifted up a perfect truck, 1954. He opened a door on the toy.
“These are collector’s items.” He looked into the box again. “Beautiful, just beautiful. We haven’t had time to talk about the terrible news about Cynthia finding poor Peter last night. That makes this gift even more special.”
The cats, now on the table, also peered into the box. Being less impressed, they leapt over to the table with sweaters, each snuggling into one. As the humans were mesmerized by the toy trucks, they didn’t notice.
“Charlene had mentioned she and Peter had put this together last week,” Brian informed them. “Of course, she thought they’d deliver this together. This is so sad. I can’t quite believe it.”
Susan, voice low, said, “How can we ever thank her?”
“By handing out the toy trucks,” Brian simply replied. “That’s all I know to do.”
Arden Higham walked over. “Somehow we’ve all got to focus on the task. After all, Peter was so happy last night.”
Everyone seemed to talk at once. A few of the people had still not heard the horrible news of Pete’s death, since it had just happened.
Leaving St. Luke’s, Fair, in his vet truck, headed east toward Garth Road.
“Honey, I just need to check the de Jarnettes’ gelding. Won’t take a minute. We’re halfway to their farm.”
“Okay. I keep thinking about Pete. How terrible for Charlene. Christmas will always be a reminder.”
“Yes, it will. You never know, do you?”
They drove on twisting roads, alongside fields glistening with fresh snow. Snow piled onto branches, the conifers bending under the weight, dark green peeping out against the white.
Ten minutes later, they entered through a tall, open, tremendously expensive wrought-iron gate. They drove up to a large new barn, also expensive looking. Lots of money was spent on show. The barn was functional, though, a relief to Fair, who dreaded working in barns with chandeliers, brass polished everywhere, yet the horses’ stall floors were uneven. Things like that drove him crazy.
Fair returned to Harry waiting in the truck ten minutes later. He slid behind the wheel. “Doing fine.”
Before he could drive around the circle, Max de Jarnette appeared on the house’s porch, waving them over.
“Fair. Hello, Harry.” After a brief acknowledgment of Pete’s accident, the buff middle-aged man asked, “Fair, would you donate a free vet check for the youth riding program?”
“Sure. Max, go back inside. You’ll freeze to death out here.”
“Yeah. Well, I apologize for not asking at the Silver Linings event. Too much going on. I’m glad it was a great event. I’m glad Pete drove off happy.”
“He surely did. The night was the most successful fund-raiser ever.”
At last headed home, Harry sighed. “How do we get roped into these things?”
“I don’t mind donating a vet check.”
“I know, but I mean all the fund-raisers and parties we have to attend between now and New Year’s.”
“Honey, the only way I know to get out of them is death.” Right away, he realized he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“Bite your tongue.”
“You’re right.” He paused, hoping to lighten the mood. “How about a dread disease? Is that better?”
Gray skies dimmed the glare from the snow, which now sported a crust on top. Foxes, raccoons, and possums could walk on it without sinking into deep powder and struggling. Occasionally a small animal would hit a drift, fall in, and scramble out, but for the most part travel was easy, with the occasional slip here and there.
Having been holed up in their dens, or wherever they’d made a nest, everyone was hungry. The birds that hadn’t flown south had built their nests with care in protected tree hollows. No one built a den or nest facing northwest, although the clever foxes might put an escape route in that direction.
Monday, December 9, was cloudy and cold. It would have been frigid if skies were clear.
Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and a grumbling Pewter headed out from the barn. In the pastures, Tucker, being heavier than the cats, used deer trails. The three animals moved west toward the swift-running creek between Harry’s farm and that of Reverend Herbert Jones. As St. Luke’s offered beautiful living accommodations, Reverend Jones rented his old home place to Cynthia Cooper. Like so many Virginia farms, the clapboard house and small barn had been built to stand for centuries and did. The Jones place cornerstone, laid in 1811, had withstood two wars on Virginia territory, blizzards, sleet storms, hurricanes, a few small tornadoes, and, as always, the searing summer sun.
The three friends perched on a fallen tree trunk next to the creek. Although the trunk was snow-covered, it was a comfortable spot. One flat end on the ground was easy for the corgi.
Upstream, the edges of the ice-encased beaver dam glittered. The sides of the creek were also ragged with ice, testament to the frigid temperatures.
A little puff of breath rose up as Mrs. Murphy spoke. “Beavers carry so much fat. I bet they never really feel the cold.”
“Just like Pewter,” Tucker ungraciously replied.
Fat though she was, Pewter’s reflexes were lightning fast. She whacked Tucker so hard the dog fell off the log and began sliding into the creek. The ice along the banks cracked, but the dog, with a mighty pull, managed to haul herself up.
Fangs bared, she threatened, “I could grab you by the neck.”
“Ha.” The gray butterball nonchalantly closed her eyes for a moment.
Watching a coyote, Mrs. Murphy suddenly shot off the log, heading east.
“What’s gotten into her?” Pewter’s eyes widened. Never one to miss any event if possible, the gray cat tore out after her friend, bits of snow flying off her claws.
The corgi followed, somewhat slowed down when she veered off to a deer path.
Now smelling the heavy scent of the coyote, Tucker barked loudly.
The unconcerned marauder loped off, carrying in his jaws the bones of an intact human arm from the elbow down. A bracelet hung at the wrist.
Pewter caught up with the tiger cat. “Are you crazy, running after a coyote?”
“He has a prize. He’s not interested in me.” Mrs. Murphy searched the snow, saw the shiny object that had caught her attention, and walked over. “I saw the arm, saw something slide off.”
Pewter reached out to pat a gold bracelet: a simple band of hammered gold with a small buckle.
Tucker plowed through the snow. “Murph, don’t you ever do that again!” Seeing the bracelet, she put her nose on it. “Nothing.”