Sugar, in Second Flight, followed the other horses. Her ears swiveled, her nostrils opened wide. She didn’t know what this was but everyone moved off so she did, too.
Czapka, next to the Thoroughbred, reassured her. “We might run, we might not. We have to do what hounds do.”
“What about the horn noise?” Sugar thought it brassy.
“I’ll teach you the calls. Right now it’s one long note and three short ones, kind of in ascending order. The huntsman is telling the hounds to draw the covert. If they find anything, he might scream. He’s not hurt.”
Sam possessed hands that transmitted confidence to a horse. Sugar relaxed because his rider was relaxed, plus Czapka knew everything. Not two minutes later Tinsel opened. They were off.
“Stick with me. You’re gonna love it.” The big warmblood broke into an easy canter, the sounds, the smells, the pace lifting all spirits.
—
As Sister and Jefferson Hunt broke into a run, O. J. Winegardner and Catherine Clay-Neal admired Andre Pater’s paintings in the gallery of Headley-Whitney Museum.
“Nobody paints jockey silks or jockeys like Andre Pater.” O.J. admired Fox Hill Farm Silks with Ramon Dominguez. The jockey, a handsome man who radiated thought, glowed resplendently in silks, the body divided into four red and white squares in front, the sleeves white with three red hoops, the cap red-billed with pie wedges of white and red silk. His wedding ring shone on his left hand. All the paintings of silks provoked amazement, but this one showed you something of the man’s character.
“You see fabric handled this way in paintings from the sixteenth and seventeenth century, but after that, with the exception of John Singer Sargent, we seem to have lost it.” Catherine stood before the work. “Or maybe we no longer value that kind of beauty or seem to realize that clothes really do make the man. Think of the representations of Henry VIII or Elizabeth I. Their clothing was a statement.”
“I fear we’ve become slothful, mmm, or we’re distracted by obvious things. We no longer look at jewelry, fabrics, colors, you name it, as tiny trails into a personality. Then again, so many of those who now have fame wear so little.” O.J. burst into peals of laughter.
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Catherine crossed to the other side of the gallery.
“If I spent as much on my body as those women have, I suppose I’d flaunt it, too.” O.J. stopped before a painting of a German shorthaired pointer with a pheasant. “Gorgeous.”
The two longtime hunt friends strolled through the exhibit, each painting drawing them in.
“I like that he paints African American jockeys.” O.J. stood before a painting of a turn-of-the-century jockey in green and pink silks, an unusual combination that was stunning; then again, the jockey wore the colors with nonchalance.
“What was it, the first three Kentucky Derby winners were African American jockeys?” Catherine remarked. “So the men in charge passed a rule that black men couldn’t ride the big races. And you know, now we don’t have nearly enough African Americans in equine sports.”
“Well, the men go into baseball, football, or basketball. Big bucks. I can’t help but believe working with horses is a better life. Then again, I couldn’t imagine a life without horses.”
“Me, neither.” Catherine turned. “Do you think we could make this work?”
“One minute. I want to stare at Andre’s painting of you and Dude.” O.J. walked to a thirty by thirty-four painting of Catherine, sidesaddle, on a large, well-made flea-bitten gray, the flecks tiny specks of chestnut. She faced the viewer, a soft smile on her face, her top hat with a thin veil, almost transparent, over her face. Her right hand, white glove, rested on her hip and her left gloved hand held her crop. Her vest peeking out a bit added a touch of mustard. Her tack, perfect, down to the sandwich case, would impress even people who knew nothing about tack.
Catherine stood next to her friend. “Dude is the perfect gentleman. Everyone needs at least one great horse in their life.”
“This really is one of his best paintings, and I’m not saying that because we hunt together.” O.J. smiled broadly.
“Thank you. Then again, Andre has a way of capturing you. This exhibit has been a smashing success. And the timing is right for the joint meet, or the movable feast, however you think of it.”
The two walked back to Catherine’s office, passing one marvelous painting after another, into the center hall, thence to a tidy office. The two sat near each other as O.J. pulled her chair closer to Catherine.
“My idea is to have a formal tea here after the Sunday hunt. Given the distances people are traveling, I do think we need back-to-back hunts.”
Catherine replied, “If we get on one of our marathon coyotes, I don’t see how someone can go out the next day on the same horse.”
A pause followed this. “Sister and probably Deep Run may well bring their own horses, so that leaves us, Big Sky, and Red Rock people. I called Bull Run, too. I expect some of them will come. But they can trailer their horses. I know we can find stalls for them.”
“I don’t doubt that, but we have enough trouble finding mounts for visitors and now we will need two per person. We’d better think this through.”
“Okay.” O.J. looked down at her hands a moment, mind whirring. “But what about a tea? We can’t really do a dinner in here but a tea in the center part of the museum, we might can do that.”
“Hear me out.” Catherine leaned forward toward O.J. “If it were May or June we could have a high tea in the garden but March can be filthy. If we have it in here we almost have to ask people to leave their shoes at the door. You know, it will either snow or rain and, if not, the temperature may be twenty degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Or sixty-four Fahrenheit.”
“Yes. So why don’t we allow everyone to go to their hotel, shower, change, come here to savor the exhibit. Then we can either go to one of the halls at University of Kentucky or to the big room at Embassy Suites.”
“Why University of Kentucky?” O.J. wondered.
“Some of our guests will have children ready, or soon ready, to go to college. If they see our university, meet a few people, a few might enroll. When people think of University of Kentucky they think of basketball and there’s so much more to it than that.”
“You know, I never really thought of that. The Maxwell H. Gluck Equine Research Center is one of the best in the country.”
“We have a lot to offer.”
“Well, if we do as you suggest, then we should provide a dinner. They’ll be hungry by the time they get to the venue, whichever one it is.”
A knock on the open door captured their attention.
“Mrs. Clay-Neal, you might want to turn on your TV. Louisville channel.” Her assistant then walked over to turn on the TV and she left the room.
Both women sat without speaking. When the report ended Catherine turned off the television and sat back down.
“I don’t know what to think.” O.J. finally spoke. “I would guess some people here already have this virus and don’t know it. Have shaken it off.”
“A few, probably. If it’s in Italy and Germany, probably more than a few. How many Chinese have traveled here and back before China took harsher measures? Does anyone know anything?”
“Like what?”
“How long does the virus live? Say, on a table? Hours, days? How long does it gestate? The speaker didn’t specify anything.”
“Catherine, do you expect the media to pass up the opportunity to have us glued to the set, interrupted by ads for great discounts on new trucks? They’ll keep this thing going as long as they can.”