He pondered that. “You know—maybe you should have.”
“Done is done. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and it’s not going to bring togetherness if you get pushy.”
“You’re the only woman in the world who talks to me like that.”
“I suppose the rest of them swoon, bat their lashes, and tell you how wonderful you are. Bet their voices coo.”
He suppressed a grin. “Let’s just say they shower me with attention. And I have to be nice about it. I can’t cut them to shreds over it.” He paused. “You make me so mad, I could—I don’t know. But I’m never bored with you like I’m bored with the, uh, conventional model.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you go with me to Mim’s party next Saturday?”
“Oh”—her face registered confusion—“I’d love to, but I already have a date.”
“Blair?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Dammit to hell!”
“He asked me first, Fair.”
“I have to line up for a date with my wife!”
“Your ex-wife.”
“You don’t feel ex to me.” He fumed. “I can’t stand that guy. The other day Mim was carrying on about his curly hair. So what? Curly hair? That’s a fine recommendation for a relationship.”
“Apparently it is for Marilyn Sanburne.” Hany couldn’t help herself. She wished she were a better person, but his discomfort was too delicious.
“Then I am asking for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Eve.”
“What about Labor Day weekend?” she teased him.
“Laminitis conference in Lexington,” he replied, referring to the hoof disease.
“I was only kidding.”
“I’m not. Will you save me those dates?”
“Fair, let’s just take it as it comes. I’ll say yes to the next summer party—someone’s bound to have one—and we can go from there.” She sighed. “Given the way the days are clicking off, I ought to say yes to Thanksgiving.”
“Tempus fitgit,” he agreed. “Do you remember Mrs. Heckler singing her congratulations to us?”
“Yeah.” She grew wistful. “Isn’t it funny what we do remember? I remember that old sweater Dad would wear every homecoming.”
“His Crozet football letter sweater.” Fair smiled. “I don’t think he ever missed a game. Your dad was a good athlete. He lettered in football, baseball, and didn’t he play basketball too?”
“Yeah. In those days I think everybody did everything. It was better. Healthier. Tenth-graders now are dreaming of their en-dorsemenf contracts. Doesn’t anybody play for fun anymore? Dad sure did.”
“What year did he graduate?”
“Forty-five. He was too young for the war. Bothered him all his life. He remembered some of the boys who never came home.”
“Thank God my father made it back from Korea—seems like no one remembers that war except the guys who fought in it.”
“I’m glad he came back too. Where would you be?” She urged Poptart over next to Gin Fizz, reached over, and punched Fair in the arm.
“Love tap? Mother, can’t you brush his hair with your fingertips or
something?“‘Tucker advised. Tucker had been watching too much TV. She declared it was to study human habits, but Mrs. Murphy said there was plenty of that to study in front of her face. Tucker loved the television because it put her to sleep.
“Tucker, don’t yip so loud,” Harry pleaded.
“You’re hopeless!“Tbit dog ran in front of them. She could see Mrs. Murphy sitting in the hayloft door. “The soul of romance.”
“You or Mom?” Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“A fat lot you know about /W, “the dog replied.
“/know it can get you in all kinds of trouble.”
7
Harry was the first to notice it because she walked to work that Monday morning. The Harley, like a raven with folded wings, was perched in front of the post office. Although Tucker and Mrs. Murphy accompanied her, she had no desire to be alone in the P.O. with that man even if Blair did think he was nonviolent.
She peeped into Market’s store. “Hey.”
“Hey, back at you,” Market called to her.
Pewter thundered out the front door when it was opened, the flab on her belly swaying from side to side. She and Mrs. Murphy immediately ran around the back of the buildings. Tucker was torn whether to join diem or stay. She finally followed the cats.
“Where’s the biker?”
“The what?” Market wiped his hands on his apron and walked toward Harry behind the counter.
“The Hell’s Angel who owns the Harley. If he’d been in your store, you would have noticed.”
“Nobody like that this morning. Of course, it’s just seven-thirty, so maybe he’s out for his morning constitutional and I’ll yet have the pleasure.” Market offered her a sticky bun. “Is he really a Hell’s Angel?”
“Sure looks like one.”
“Well, then, Miss Priss, how do you know him? You been hanging around biker bars?” Market teased her.
“He roared up to Ash Lawn the other day when I was giving Blair the tour.”
“A cultural Hell’s Angel. Harry, you’re pulling my leg.”
“No, honestly.” Harry’s inflection rose with her innocence.
“Maybe it’s a surprise from Fair.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Blair?”
“Market, what is this? You’re getting as bad as the biddies around here, trying to get me tied down again.”
“Better than being tied up.” He paused. “Then again…”
“Have you been talking to Art Bushey?”
As Art was famed for his sense of humor, dwelling mostly on sexual topics, this was not a long-shot question.
“Oh, I’m pricing a new Ford truck over at Art’s. I’d like to move up to a three-quarter ton.”
“Better sell a lot of potato chips.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“This roll is delicious. Are you using a new bakery?”
“Miranda. She’s decided she needs pin money, as she puts it, and she’s going to be bringing in whatever she whips up. She’s such a good baker, I think this arrangement might work.”
“Put in a Weight Watchers clinic down the street, and you’ll have all your bases covered. There’s no way you can eat her concoctions without carrying extra freight.”
Aysha and Norman Cramer pushed open the door. Harry stepped aside.
“Hi.” Aysha bubbled over. “Sweet’n Low, please. I’m manning, I mean womanning, the phones over at the Junior League charity roundup today. We’ll be drinking lots of coffee.”
“Norman, what about you?” Market pointed to a sticky bun.
Norman blinked. He blinked a lot, actually, Harry observed.
“I, uh, yeah, I’ll try one,” he said.
“Now, honey, I don’t want any love handles.” Aysha pinched him.
“Lovegirl, just a little eensy bite.” He smiled. He had beautiful big white teeth.
Laura Freely and Mim entered.
Laura went over to the headache remedies while Mim asked Harry, “And why aren’t you in the post office? You’re five minutes late.”
“Waylaid by a Miranda Hogendobber sticky bun,” Harry replied.
Norman swallowed. “They’re delicious.”
“Don’t tempt me!” Laura instructed. “And don’t take any to my husband over there at the bank.” She nodded in the direction of National Crozet across die street. “Hoganlooks at sweets and he gains weight.”
Mim hovered over die buns. The odor enticed even her considerable willpower. The swirls in the buns resembled tantalizing pin-wheels. “What the heck?” She plunked down a dollar and grabbed two buns. “Does she bring these to work?”
Harry nodded. “She’s been baking a lot these last few weeks. She didn’t tell me she was going into business though. Guess I was the guinea pig.”
“And you don’t have an extra pound on your frame,” Aysha complimented her.
“Oh, thanks.”
Laura pushed her BC Powders on the counter. “If you did all the farm chores, you wouldn’t have to worry either. Harry can probably eat three thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce.”
“Speaking of fat, where’s Pewter?” Norman, who liked cats, leaned over the counter to look for her.