“You look like a golfer.”
“Exactly,” Harry shot back.
Since high school, Harry had caddied for her best friend. Not a golfer herself, she nevertheless had an uncanny ability to read terrain, which she attributed to farming. Dutifully she wore long shorts or a skirt along with golf shoes, so comfortable that she sometimes wore them walking through the pastures.
Harry could pick the right club given the terrain, distance, and wind conditions. And unlike others, she could tolerate Susan’s fretting over her game.
Susan teed off at ten in the morning. The soil, soggy from the recent rains, drained as best it could.
As one of the better golfers in the state, Susan often preferred to play alone. She could move faster, study without boring a companion, and she could try to work out a kink or two. She was determined to win the club championship this year. Coming in as runner-up two years in a row wasn’t good enough. Practicing hard now, working with the club pro, Susan felt she would be ready when the championship rolled around in September.
Harry decided she would wear the white coat caddies wore during tournaments. That and keeping Susan calm were her only concerns.
Pushing open the door of Over the Moon bookstore, Harry spotted the book display right in front of her. Susan made a beeline for it.
Harry and Susan adored Over the Moon, in part because of the featured books. Of course, they shopped at Barnes & Noble when in Charlottesville, yet something reverberated with them about the small store, with an owner, Anne DeVault, who loved books. Both friends were avid readers, although of quite different books. Susan favored works written by women about women. Harry loved history, any kind of history. She also couldn’t resist books that she had to order from Kentucky about various equine bloodlines.
Susan called her a snob. Harry always giggled at that, because when it came to horses, she was. When it came to human bloodlines, she felt they were all besmirched. How many thousands of Virginians claimed to be descended from Pocahontas, known as “Poke”?
“Did you make par today?” Anne asked Susan.
“You know, I shot two over today, but I’m working on it.” Susan beamed. “Do you recommend anything?”
“Every book in the store.” Anne smiled, left for the back room, returned handing a little book to Harry. “Just for you.”
“Why Princess Margaret Will Never Be a Kappa Kappa Gamma,” Harry read out loud as she fished in her golf skirt pocket for the modest sum the humorous book cost.
Back in Susan’s car, Harry read out loud from her purchase. The two began screaming with laughter as Harry read aloud.
“My God, that’s what Mom used to say,” Susan howled while still managing to keep the car on the road.
“Oh, here’s one. Silverware. I can’t read this, you’ll have to look at the drawings, but it’s about what different patterns reveal about the woman. Counts if it’s inherited, even though she didn’t pick it. Well, Susan, the whole point of silver and china is they’re supposed to be inherited. If you buy something, you don’t have any people. Oh, listen to this, and this is true: Georg Jensen silver is expensive and beautiful but suspicious. I’m paraphrasing, but it says the owner of this silver probably has Yankee liberal tendencies.”
Susan hooted with laugher. Both she and Harry, drilled from early childhood, never could quite shake the Dixie Dame imprint. “Well, it is kind of true. Meagan Underhill has Georg Jensen.”
“She really is a Georg Jensen person,” Harry uttered with relish.
“What is there about laughing about yourself and your people? Everyone is related to everyone in the South. Cousins, first, second, third cousins, first cousins once removed, and the dreaded shirttail cousins. You couldn’t escape your relatives even if you didn’t know them.” Susan spoke the God’s-honest truth.
“Hang on.” Susan was careful backing out of the bookstore, as the parking was quite close.
“Hey, you’re going in the wrong direction.”
“No. We’re going to Mom’s. I want to give her that book and I’ll buy you another copy.”
“Okay.” Harry took the cellphone that Susan handed her.
“Call her to say we’re coming,” said Susan. “You know how she gets.”
“Uh-huh.” So Harry punched in the numbers. “Mrs. Grimstead.” She listened as Millicent Grimstead recognized her voice. “Susan is on her way to see you and she has a present.”
“Tell her I’m at Momma’s. Come on over here,” her modulated, cultured voice replied.
Susan knew her mother deeply felt the decline of her father, Susan’s grandfather. She went to Big Rawly every day to help where she could, to keep things as normal as possible.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll see you shortly. Bye-bye.” Harry pressed the button. “Go to G-Mom’s. She’s over there.”
“Right-o.”
Within ten minutes, they turned right by Beau Pre, then continued down the drive to turn into Big Rawly, the Avenging Angel glaring from the graveyard, as always.
Walking down the grand house’s long hall, Harry looked at the paintings of Holloway ancestors, as she had since childhood. The men on the east wall faced their wives on the west wall.
Some of the men had died in wars, a few even suffering heroic deaths. Governor Holloway’s great-grandfather died in 1863, standing by his post under heavy artillery fire. His line held because of his steadfastness. Even with his arm blown off, he refused to be carried behind the lines. All the Holloway men had served in our various wars.
As for the women, granted paintings flatter, but they appeared a good-looking lot, the change in fashions apparent. The governor’s maternal ancestor from President Monroe’s days wore a daring low-cut bodice, while Sam’s grandmother wore a high-necked dress, major pearls encircling her covered throat. The hallway was a journey through time, through fashion, through physical attractions.
Better nomenclature for passing developed. Each portrait carried a story about the person’s passing, often relayed by Governor Holloway to Susan and Harry when they were young. Consumption became tuberculosis. Wasting became cancer. Malaise became stroke, blood disorder became leukemia. If anyone remarried, the second spouse hung on the wall to the sunroom, not exactly excluded, but the first spouse got to shine in pride of place.
Harry knew Susan’s family history as well as her own. She found history and people fascinating.
In the hall, the governor’s office, other rooms, huge glazed pots filled with walking sticks, caught one’s eye. Samuel Holloway collected them, and the house bore testimony to this unusual passion, which had started in his childhood. At ninety-six, he probably had more walking sticks than anyone in the state. In his will, he cited his many friends who would receive one when he was gone.
After many kisses and offers for tea or more from Penny Holloway, the governor’s wife, the two sat down as bidden in the covered back porch.
Susan’s grandmother read aloud from the humorous book Susan had brought and they all screamed. An attractive young woman ducked her head in the room.
“Mignon, sit down,” Penny invited her. “We’re having too much fun.”
“The governor felt sure you were laughing about him with his wife, his daughter, his granddaughter.” Mignon smiled slyly. “How shall I tell him he’s not the center of attention?”
They all laughed. “Mignon, do invite him in. He hasn’t seen Harry in some time. This, forgive me, is Susan’s cradle friend, Mary Minor Haristeen, Harry. We all know one another”—she paused—“too well.”
More laughter, and as Mignon disappeared down the center hallway, Penny conspiratorially mentioned, “He doesn’t know yet about Barbara Leader. He’s so frail and we’re trying to keep his spirits up. You do understand.”