Rae sat down by a long keyboard, much like a director’s board in television, pushed switches, popped in a DVD. “This was for women’s crew at UVA. You see a bit of a practice, the boathouse, then you see everyone traveling to the nationals. Action. Action is always preferable to talking heads.”
“It is, and please call me Harry.”
“If you call me Rae. Okay, this one is for Harkaway Stud. I needed help because I don’t know much about horses. I looked at the websites for the big studs in Lexington, gorgeous work, but they have big bucks to spend. Harkaway, just getting off the ground, did not.”
The DVD played out, horses seen on the tracks are then viewed walking in the paddock once at stud and finally standing still so the viewer can closely examine conformation.
“That’s Justin doing the narration. Good voice,” Harry remarked.
“All you horse people know one another.” Rae smiled. “I learned that. And I learned a person needs to know a great deal to be successful in the equine industry. Huge in our state.”
“And even then, Rae, something like a rise in gasoline prices can really hurt you. Remember, the mares have to be vanned to the stallion, which usually stands in Kentucky, New York, Maryland, West Virginia, even Florida.”
“Never thought of that. Okay, here’s one that called for a lot of thought.”
The DVD opened with Edward Holloway Cunningham talking to an African American couple in front of their tidy brick house. The voice-over filled viewers in on rising taxes yet lowered services. There was a shot of Cunningham walking on UVA’s lawn, the Rotunda in the background. Other images showed a dynamic young man shaking hands, talking to all kinds of people, mothers pushing strollers, a garage mechanic, a farmer. Cut to his grandfather sitting at his library at a large desk, poring over law books. The voice tells how he often asks the old man for advice. Finally, there’s a picture of all the Holloways: the ex-governor; his wife, Penny; his two daughters: Eddie’s mother standing to his right, Millicent Grimstead, Sam’s other daughter; Eddie’s wife, Chris, is next to him. In front of the candidate stand two children, a boy of about six and a little girl, maybe four. Adorable, of course. The images, the flow, were good. The script was what one would expect. Eddie wanted an easy-to-access website, the old one now outdated. He attacked his rival as a spendthrift while concentrating on his tightfisted monetary policies. He vowed to shrink government, fight for workforce, not welfare, and to combat the delusional left, as he called them, every step of the way. The website would be constantly updated, too. This was a plum assignment for Crozet Media.
“He certainly has the advantage of name recognition,” said Harry.
“Yes, he does, but with his grandfather’s illness, Edward felt it was imperative to get good footage of the two of them together.” Rae put in another DVD. “Some of these images will fold into Edward’s website. We’re still sifting through them. We don’t want to overdo the family connection.”
A terrific shot of Governor Holloway in his World War II Navy uniform, followed by a photo of him taking the oath of office to be governor, followed by a final picture of the old man walking upright, hair gleaming silver, looking up over the horizon.
“Very dignified.” Harry admired it.
“Good. I’m glad you like it. Crozet Media, us, had access to the old photos when we shot Edward’s footage. I’m being blunt, but Edward—indeed, most men running for office these days—have no military service record. He’s leaning on his grandfather’s heroics pretty hard.” She then changed subject. “As you have seen, we’ve created websites for a variety of clients.”
Harry smiled. “I liked what I saw. Each website is individual, tailored to the task or the company. I guess for me you want shots of the crops. The sunflowers are dramatic.”
“Raindrops on plump grapes,” Rae continued. “I assume you have horses, a shot of them in the field.”
“But I’m not selling them.”
“Harry, this is Virginia. Anything with a horse in it gets attention. We’ll do a storyboard. Easier to make changes. We are very efficient. How does that sound?”
“And when this website is done, you can cross-reference to other sites where there might be an interest? I’m not conversant with all the new technologies.”
“I can. Each of those videos you watched has a presence or an ad on other Web formats. You reach an amazing amount of customers. It’s an inexpensive form of advertising, compared to traditional advertising, which is through the roof.”
“Can I stop anywhere in the process?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Who writes the copy?”
“Usually I do, but you can do it or help me. You know your farm better than anyone. There’s a lot of information and territory to cover.”
“How much will this cost?”
“Tell you what, I’ll ballpark it at two thousand dollars, but I can be much more accurate once we shoot. I’ll break it down by hour. If we go over the time limit, we’ll stop or keep going. Up to you.”
“Want to come by next Wednesday?”
Rae walked into her office, brought out her diary as well as her cellphone containing her schedule on it. “Wednesday I’m shooting at Keswick Club. What about Thursday?”
“That day doesn’t work for me. What about Friday?”
Rae nodded. “Perfect.” She looked up into Harry’s eyes. “Don’t you wonder when you schedule what happens to your time?”
Harry laughed. “We’re all overcommitted.”
“I don’t know how people with children do it.” As Harry stood up, Rae extended her hand. “I look forward to this.”
“I do, too. Before I go, where did you go to college?”
“Savannah School of Art and Design.”
“Ah.” Harry grinned, opened the door to heavier rain. “The best.”
She slid in the driver’s seat, wet on the left side, but it wasn’t terrible.
“I could have drowned.” Pewter wailed, quite dry sprawled out in the back.
“A raindrop fell on the tip of her tail. It’s too terrible for words,” Tucker solemnly intoned.
Whap!
“Ouch.”
“Pewter, let’s go back up front.” Mrs. Murphy hustled the fatty forward before a real fight broke out.
Once in the passenger seat, the tiger next to her, Pewter squinted at Harry, who started the motor, shut the windows. “Nobody has any idea how much I suffer.”
Tuesday, September 14, 1784
Bent over his drafting table, Charles West squinted, moving the T square farther up the page. Karl Ix had built him a table to his exact specifications. It raised and lowered, plus the flat surface would tilt.
Piglet snored under the table.
A rumble of not-too-distant thunder awakened the dog. Charles walked over to the handblown glass window, four rows of panes horizontally, six vertically. He needed lots of light. Having seen Mr. Jefferson’s windows, which doubled as doors when slid upward, he had copied the design, somehow managing to pay for the considerable expense.
“Those are boiling black clouds,” Charles said out loud.
Thunder cracked again, closer.
“Staying inside is a good idea,” the corgi advised.
Although the sun had not yet set, a pitch-black sky had blotted out the late-afternoon light.
Peering out the window of his and Rachel’s tidy house, he looked south toward the main house built on a soft rise and saw candles moving from room to room in Ewing’s house.
“Piglet, storms do pass over England, but here in the summer it’s almost every day, or so it seems to me. This one”—he paused, whistled low, which made Piglet bark—“is flying, just flying, toward us.” No sooner had he said that than the west wind picked up, trees bent toward the east, their leaves fluttering like supplicants.