“Blair, I’ve got only a hotpot down here. I don’t have anything for you to make fancy coffee with.” She was going to apologize for ending her sentence with a preposition, but then thought, Oh, the hell with it. Grammar and speech were ever diverging currents in the English language.
He silently walked back to his truck, returning with a black Krups coffeemaker, an electric grinder, and a small device for frothing milk for cappuccino.
“You do now.” He pointed to the espresso machine. “This will have to go in the kitchen. Now you’ve got everything you need.”
“Blair”—her jaw dropped—“this is so, so, uh, I don’t know what to say—thank you.”
“I was an ass. I’m sorry. If you’ll accept my apology, I’ll brew whatever your heart desires. How about a strong cup of Colombian to start? Then we can dig in the basket and follow with espresso or cappuccino, whatever you wish.”
“Sounds great to me.” Harry vigorously rubbed a rein. “And I do accept your apology.”
Mrs. Murphy, tail curled around her, swayed on the tack trunk.
She appeared to be sleeping while sitting upright. Humans fell for this trick every time. It was the perfect eavesdropping posture.
Tucker, rarely as subtle, hovered over the basket.
Blair spread a small tablecloth on the rickety table in the tack room. He spied an old coffee tin on a shelf that Harry used as a grain measure. He filled it with water, then dashed outside through the raindrops to pick black-eyed Susans. The coffee was brewed by the time he returned.
“You’re soaked.”
“Feels good.” His hazel eyes were alight.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at the table. “I admire people who are artistic. I couldn’t make anything diat pretty out of odds and ends.”
“You have other talents.”
“Name one.” Harry laughed.
“Fishingfor compliments, “Tucker murmured.
“You make people feel good. You have an infectious laugh, and I believe you know more about farming than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Blair,” she laughed, “you didn’t grow up on a farm. Anyone who has would seem smart.”
“1 see other farmers in the county. Their pastures aren’t as rich, their fence lines aren’t in as good repair, and their use of space and terrain isn’t as logical. You’re the best.”
“Thanks.” She bit into a ham biscuit drenched with the mustard. “I didn’t know how hungry I was.”
They ate, chatted, and ended their meal with spectacular cappuccino.
Blair inhaled the rich smell of leather, saddle soap, pine shavings, the distinct and warm aroma of the horses.
“This barn exudes peace and happiness.”
“Dad and Mom poured a lot of love into this place. Dad’s family migrated from the Tidewater immediately before the Revolutionary War, but we didn’t find this piece of land until the 1840s. The rich Hepworths, that was Mom’s family, stayed in the Tidewater. The Minors, hardscrabble farmers, took what they could. The Depression hurt Papaw and Mamaw, so by the time Dad came along and was old enough to pitch in, there was a lot to do. He realized there wasn’t a living in farming anymore, so he worked outside and brought home money. Little by litde he put things back in order, apples, hay, a small corn crop. Mom worked in the library. Early in the morning, late at night, they’d do the farm chores. I miss them, you know, but I look around and see the love they left.”
“They left a lot of love in you too.”
Tucker put her head on Harry’s knee. “Say something nice, Mom.”
“Thanks.”
“I came over today to apologize and to, well, to tell you I like you a lot. I’m not on my feet… I mean, I am financially but I’m not emotionally. I really like you, Harry, and I haven’t, oh—” He paused, as this was harder than he had anticipated. “I haven’t been fair to you. I know now that our spending time together has had much greater significance to people here than if we lived in New York. I don’t mean to be leading you on.”
“I don’t feel like you are at all. I’m happy with our friendship.”
“That’s good of you to say. I’m happy, too, but I vacillate. Sometimes I want more, but when I think about what it would mean here, I pull back. If we lived in New York, I’d know what to do. Here, uh, there’s more responsibility involved. I love it when I’m here, but I love being on the road, too, and I guess my ego needs it, the attention. I hate to admit that but—”
“Your ego is what makes you good at what you do.”
A sheepish smile and blush followed that remark. “Yeah, but there’s something silly about standing around in clothes, being photographed. It’s just—if I had any balls, Harry, I’d take acting classes, but I think deep down I know I don’t have a scrap of talent. I’m just a pretty face.” He laughed at his use of an expression generally used to describe women.
“You’re more than that. It’s up to you and hey, what does it cost to take acting classes—in money and in time? No one is going to throw tomatoes at you in a classroom. If you’re any good at it, you’ll know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She thought a moment. “The University of Virginia has a good drama department.”
“You’re okay.” He reached across the table for her hand but the phone rang.
“Sorry.” She stood up and reached for the wall phone. “Hi. Barn.”
The deep timbre on the other line, Fair, said, “Will you still speak to me?”
“I’m speaking to you now.”
“Very funny. I’m in the truck, had a call over at Mim’s, so I’m on my way.”
“Not now.”
“What do you mean, not now?”
“I have company and—”
“Blair? Is that son of a bitch there?”
“Yes, he came to apologize.”
“Goddammit!” Fair switched off his mobile phone.
Harry sat down again.
“Fair?”
“In an emotional tumult, as my mother would have said.”
The phone rang again. “I bet that’s him. I’m sorry, Blair.” She picked up. It wasn’t Fair, it was Susan Tucker. “Susan, I’m glad it’s you.
“Of course you’re glad it’s me. I’m your best friend. Scoop.”
“I’m ready.” Harry mouthed the name Susan to Blair.
“Ned and Rick Shaw had a meeting today about the fundraiser for the department, and by the bye Rick said the corpseis Mike Huckstep, same fellow that owned the motorcycle. It will be in the papers tomorrow.”
“I guess it’s not a surprise. I mean, it’s what we all figured anyway—that the cycle’s owner was the dead man.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the end of that. Got a minute?”
“Actually, I don’t. Blairs here.”
“Ah, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. He came to apologize, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“We can catch up later, but here it is in a nutshelclass="underline" Little Marilyn has the hots for Blair.”
“A nutshell is where that best belongs.” Harry felt that every female under ninety must be swooning over Blair.
“Ah-ha, getting proprietary, are we?”
“No,” Harry lied.
“Sure. Okay, I’ll call you later for girl talk.”
“Spare me. I can’t bear one more emotional revelation. Mine or yours or anyone else’s. Talk to you later. Bye.”
Blair’s face clouded over. “Did I just, uh, say too much?”
“Oh, no, no, I don’t mean that, but, Blair, all my friends are so busy psychoanalyzing me, you, Fair. I’m sick of it. I’m beginning to think I’m a free movie for everyone.”
“I think a single man offends them and a single woman is an object of pity.” He held up his hand before she could protest. “It’s sexist, but that’s the world we live in.”
She ran her forefinger over mesmooth surface of the high-tech coffeemaker. “Do you want to get married? Wait, I don’t mean to me, it’s not that kind of question, but in theory, do you want to get married?”