“Andall this over Norman Cramer. Mr. Bland. “Pewter giggled.
The animals caught their breath for a moment.
“Boy, it’s a dull summer if we’re laughing about that tired love triangle, “Mrs. Murphy said wistfully.
“Nothing happens around here, “Tucker carped.
“Fourth of July parade was okay. But nothing unusual. Maybe
someone will stir up a fuss over Labor Day…” Pewter’s voice trailed off. “We can hope for a little action.”
Mrs. Murphy stretched forward, then backward. “You know what my mother used to say, ‘Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.”-
The three friends later would remember this prophecy.
2
Ash Lawn, the Federal home of James and Elizabeth Monroe, reposes behind a mighty row of English boxwoods. When the fifth president and his lady were alive, these pungent shrubs probably rose no higher than waist level. The immense height of them now casts an eerie aura yet lends an oddly secure sense to the entrance. The formal entrance isn’t used anymore; people must pass the small gift shop and arrive at the house by a side route.
The warm yellow clapboard creates an accessibility, a familiarity—one could imagine living in this house. No one could ever imagine living in the beautiful and imposing Monticello just over the small mountain from Ash Lawn.
Harry walked among the boxwoods and around the grounds with Blair Bainbridge, her new neighbor—“new” being a relative term in Crozet; Blair had moved there more than a year ago. A much-sought-after model, he was out of Crozet as much as he was in it. Recently returned from Africa, he had asked Harry to give him a tour of Monroe’s home. This irritated Harry’s ex-husband, Fair Haristeen, D.V.M., a blond giant who, having repented of his foolishness in losing Harry, desperately wanted his ex-wife back.
As for Blair, no one could divine his intentions toward Harry. Mrs. Hogendobber, that self-confessed expert on the male animal, declared that Blair was so impossibly rugged and handsome that he had women throwing themselves at him every moment, on every continent. She swore Harry fascinated him because she seemed immune to his masculine beauty. Mrs. Hogendobber got it more than half right despite arguments to the contrary from Harry’s best friend and her corgi’s breeder, Susan Tucker.
Mrs. Murphy chose the shade of a mighty poplar, where she scratched up some grass, then plopped down. Tucker circled three times, then sat next to her as she eyed the offending peacocks of Ash Lawn. The shimmering birds overran the Monroe estate, their heavenly appearance marred by grotesquely ugly pinkish feet. They also possessed the nastiest voices of birddom.
“Oh, how I’d like to wrestle that big showoff to the ground,” Tucker growled as a huge male strutted by, cast the litde dog a death-ray eye, and then strutted on.
“Probably tough as an old shoe. “Mrs. Murphy occasionally enjoyed a wren as a delicacy, but she shied off the larger birds. She prudently flattened herself whenever she perceived a large shadow overhead. This was based on experience because a redtailed hawk had carried off one of her tiny brothers.
“I don’t know why President Monroe kept these birds. Sheep, cattle, even turkeys—/can understand turkeys—but peacocks are useless.” Tucker jumped up and whirled around to bite something in her fur.
“Fleas?It’s the season. “Mrs. Murphy noticed sympathetically.
“No. “Tucker grumbled as she bit some more. “Deerflies.”
“How can they get through your thick fur?”
“I don’t know, but they do. “Tucker sighed, then stood up and shook herself. “Where’s Mom?”
“Out and about. She’s not far. Sit down, will you. If you go off and
chase one of those stupid birds, I’ll get blamed for it. I don’t see why we can’t go into the house. I understand why other people’s animals can’t visit, like Lucy Fur, but not us. “The younger of Reverend Jones’s two cats, Lucy Fur, was aptly named as she was a hellion.
“Bet Little Marilyn would let us through the back door. “Tucker winked. She knew Mim Sanburne’s daughter loved animals.
“Good idea. “The cat rolled in the grass and then bounded up. “Let’s boogie.”
“Where’dyou hear that?“T’ticke,t asked as they trotted to the side door. A bench under a small porch made the area inviting. No humans were around.
“Susan said it yesterday. She picks up that stuff from her kids. Like ‘ABCyd’for when you say good-bye.”
“Oh. “Tucker found the semantics of the young of limited interest, since every few years the jargon changed.
Underneath Ash Lawn’s main level, docents dressed in period costumes spun, wove, boiled lard for candles, and cooked in the kitchen. Little Marilyn—Marilyn Sanburne, Junior, recently divorced and taking back her maiden name—was the chief docent at Ash Lawn this day. Although only in her early thirties, the younger Marilyn had contributed a great deal financially to Ash Lawn as well as to the College of William and Mary. The college maintained the house and grounds of James Monroe and provided most docents. Little Marilyn was a proud alumna of William and Mary, where she had switched majors so many times, her advisers despaired of her ever graduating. She finally settled on sociology, which greatly displeased her mother, and therefore greatly pleased Little Marilyn.
As Harry had graduated from Smith College in Massachusetts, she was not one of the inner circle at Ash Lawn, but the staff was good at community relations, so Harry and her animals felt welcome there. Of course, everyone at Ash Lawn knew Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
The other docents that July 30 were Kerry McCray, a pert strawberry-blonde and Little Marilyn’s college roommate; Laura
Freely, a tall, austere lady in her sixties; and Aysha Gill Cramer, also a friend of Little Marilyns from William and Mary. As Aysha had been married only the previous April, in a gruesome social extravaganza, it was taking everyone a bit of time to get used to calling her Cramer. Danny Tucker, Susan’s sixteen-year-old son, was working as a gardener and loving it. Susan was filling in at the gift shop because the regular cashier had called in sick.
A scheduling snafu had stuck Aysha and Kerry there at the same time. The two despised each other. Along with Little Marilyn, the three had been best friends from childhood all the way through William and Mary, where they pledged the same sorority.
After graduation they traveled to Europe together, finally going their separate ways after a year’s time. They wrote volumes of letters to each other. Kerry returned to Crozet first, getting a job at the Crozet National Bank, which had started locally at the turn of the century but now served all of central Virginia. Little Mim followed soon after, married badly, and then divorced. Aysha had returned to Albemarle County only six months ago. Her impeccable French and Italian were not in demand. Career prospects were so limited in this small corner of the world that marriage was still a true career for young women, providing they could find a suitable victim.
The friends picked up where they had left off. Aysha, a bit chubby when she was younger, had matured into a good-looking woman bubbling with ideas.
Little Marilyn, recovering from her divorce, was still blue. She needed her friends.
Kerry, engaged to Norman Cramer, often invited Aysha and Litde Marilyn out with them for dinner, the movies, a late night at the Blue Ridge Brewery.
Weedy and timid, Norman possessed a handsome face framing big blue eyes. He, too, worked at the Crozet National Bank as the head accountant. Excitement was not Norman’s middle name, so everyone was knocked for a loop when Aysha snaked him away from Kerry. No one could figure out why she wanted him except that she was in her thirties, disliked working, and marriage was an easy way out.
Her mother, Ottoline Gill, far too involved in her daughters life, seemed thrilled with her new son-in-law. Part of that may have been shock from ever having a son-in-law. She had despaired of Aysha’s future, declaring many times over that a girl as beautiful and brilliant as her darling would never find a husband. “Men like dumb women,” she would say, “and my Aysha won’t play dumb.”