His brother, Lloyd, had fought with Special Forces in Vietnam. He'd tell his big brother, Matthew, about the magic of the rain forest. Lloyd died at thirty-two of a stroke, way too young.
Matthew always said his hobby kept him close to Lloyd.
From the receptionist's desk one hallway headed into the left building, one into the right.
Matthew's office was at the end of the left hall, a hall lined with prints of macaws, toucans, and other aviary exotica.
His office, door always open, boasted a beautiful ebony Louis XVI desk. The walls were painted a lobster bisque, the woodwork a creamy eggshell. Against one wall stood an antique drafting table. Tazio Chappars leaned over the blueprints with him.
"-here." He pressed his index finger on a second-story window. "If we switch these to revolving windows we can entice fresh air into the structure."
"And additional cost."
"I'll get my guys to research that." He smiled. At least she didn't blast his suggestion. His experience with architects was that most were prima donnas.
She checked the large man's wristwatch she wore. "Oh, dear."
He checked his. "Here. Before I forget." He walked to his desk chair, picked up a small carpet sample and returned, handing it to her. "Tell Herb to give this to Charlotte. She can start thinking about fabrics to re-cover her office chair."
"The cost. The Parish Guild will have another long meeting." Tazio grimaced.
"No they won't. What's the most it can cost? Five yards. She's not going to pick embroidered satin." He inhaled. "A hundred dollars a yard if she goes wild. The most it will cost is five hundred dollars." He held up his hand to quell the protest. "I'll pay for it. I'll bet you she goes down to the Second Yard and finds a nice something for twenty dollars a yard. She deserves it." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm thinking about time."
"Pardon?" She noticed his countenance.
"Time. As in my life."
"H.H.?"
"Well, yeah. If it happened to H.H. it can happen to any of us. He took great care of himself and poof." He snapped his fingers. "Gone before forty."
"Pretty shocking." She was thirty-five herself.
"H.H. and I got along just fine, for competitors. He was a good builder. A little outspoken. A little hotheaded but a good builder."
A wave of sadness swept over Tazio's attractive face. "Such a waste. To die so young."
"Shame it couldn't have been Fred Forrest." The corner of his lip curled upward.
She hesitated. She loathed Fred but she didn't want to show it. "You know what I think about Fred?"
"No. Tell me."
"He works too hard at being unlikable."
Matthew blinked, his blue eyes focusing on her. "Perceptive."
"He doesn't want us to know who he really is."
"I never thought of that."
"You've known him for a long time."
"Over forty years. We both started out in construction. In fact, he and I worked on the Barracks Road shopping center the summer we were in junior high school. That ought to tell you how long ago." He smiled, citing a shopping center first built in 1957. "And one day the building inspector at the time, Buelleton Landess-there's a name for you-cussed out Fred. Up one side and down the other. And you know, Fred said, 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' So he did, when he graduated from Lane High School. And he missed the biggest building boom Albemarle County ever had. Could have made a fortune. Fool."
"Hindsight."
"No balls, forgive the expression." Matthew smiled again.
"Well, I'd better head out."
"Nice to see you."
"Same here." She slipped her arm into her navy leather coat lined with sheep's wool, dyed to match. "I'll give Charlotte the carpet sample."
Matthew walked her to the door, wishing he were a younger man.
As Tazio drove away she thought that Matthew was easy to work with-which was a good thing. They'd be working closely together in the future on the new university sports complex.
And she also noted that it didn't seem to have occurred to Matthew that Fred Forrest didn't want people to know him. His nastiness was calculated. But then her observations on life taught her that people of color had to look more closely at white people than white people looked at themselves. Simple survival, really.
11
Preparing a sermon vexed Herb even though he'd been doing it all of his adult life. He'd jot down a few notes throughout the week and then each Saturday morning he'd settle into his office at the rectory to pull those notes together. Sometimes he'd work in his study at home but he often found his mind would wander. He'd pull a book off the shelf and hours would pass. He'd learn a great deal about Francis I of France or trout fishing but he hadn't written a word of his sermon.
As it was the second Sunday after Epiphany, he wanted to expand on the theme of discovery, of finding that which you have been seeking.
Cazenovia, her fluffy tail languidly swaying, sat on the desk. She closed her eyes and was soon swaying slightly in rhythm with her tail. Was the tail wagging the cat or the cat the tail?
Elocution slept in front of the fireplace, framed by an old mantel with delicate scrollwork carved on it.
Each morning the cats would cross the small quad from the house to the rectory. Bound by a brick wall three feet high, the complex exuded a peacefulness and a purpose of peace.
Not having to pay a mortgage proved a blessing for Herb. He'd saved from his modest salary and was considering buying a cottage as a retreat for himself. Herb was drawn to the Charleston, South Carolina, area, and he thought when the time came, he'd find something there. Escaping the worst of winter's depredations appealed to him, especially this Saturday afternoon, for the sky was a snarling gray, the temperature dropping back from its high in the mid-forties. He rose from his desk to look out the window toward the northwest. The clouds, much darker in that direction, promised another storm.
"Oh well, at least the cold will kill some of the larvae. We'll suffer fewer bugs come summer."
His rich, resonant voice caused Elocution to open one eye. She closed it again.
He opened the dark blue hymnal on his desk. He'd selected his biblical passages, the ones open to him from the church year readings, organized for centuries. Picking just the right mix of hymns appealed to him and he often wished as he hummed to himself that Miranda Hogendobber were a Lutheran. With that angelic voice the choir would surely improve.
"Yes, this is perfect." He reached over to pet Cazenovia as he sung the first stanza of Hymn 47:
"O Christ, our true and only Light,
Illumine those who sit in night;
Let those afar now hear Thy voice,
And in Thy fold with us rejoice."
He cleared his throat. "Cazzie, that was written in 1630 by Johann Heermann, six stanzas. Isn't it glorious how such gifts come down to us?"
"True, true," Cazzie agreed with him but wished Herb could appreciate the gifts of the cats who'd kept Johann Heermann company.
Many times Cazenovia, Elocution, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker discussed the outrageous self-centeredness of human beings. Good as they might be as individuals, they assumed the world revolved around them, blinded by their arrogance to the extraordinary contributions of other creatures to this life.
Herb hummed some more. For all his nervousness about writing his sermon, he cherished his Saturdays in the rectory. He had it all to himself.
The large square carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked.
"Two-thirty! How did it get to be two-thirty?"
Just then the wind stirred the bare branches of the majestic walnut tree by his office. The tree looked as if it were dancing, its black arms moving against the backdrop of racing clouds.
"Fast," was all that Cazenovia said.
"Low pressure. That's why I've been sleepy." Elocution opened her eyes, stretched fore and aft, and walked over to the window, a large one with a deep sill. She jumped up. "Fifteen minutes before it snows. Want to time it?"