Off to the side was a sturdy yellow cart.
Mrs. Murphy, like Harry checking each stall, puffed up her friend. “We did kill a lot.”
“Bud the chickadee will tell everyone. Bet mice don’t dare come back in here for months,” Pewter predicted.
A wheelbarrow at the end of the open aisle, rain blowing in a bit, filled with sweet-smelling shavings, next attracted Harry. She lifted up the handles, going to the first stall. A wide shovel allowed her to pitch in the contents. She returned to the shavings shed outside, moving quickly, filled the wheelbarrow, and returned to repeat the procedure. Once both stalls contained shavings, she took a rake, carefully spreading the shavings evenly. She wasn’t sure if one animal was coming or two, so she set up two stalls.
Most all barns have nails so one can hang up shovels, rakes, brooms, even lunge whips. Keeping equipment up off the ground guaranteed a longer life for same.
Finishing, she leaned on the rake, admiring her handiwork. “Ought to do it.”
“Who will pick out the stalls?” Tucker asked.
“Arlene, she’s in charge,” Mrs. Murphy answered.
“If she doesn’t, Mom will.” Tucker watched as Harry made certain everything was just so, including tack hooks, which she brought and hung up.
“She’s so orderly.” Pirate was learning to love Harry.
“A greatly overrated virtue,” expressed Pewter, who was not.
The rain, steady now, drummed on the barn roof. Harry walked to the end of the aisle, looked out. Checking her watch, she walked back and sat next to Pewter.
“Let’s give it a little time before we make a run for it.”
“It’s not going to stop.” Pewter put her front paws on Harry’s thigh.
“Sky’s gray. Coming down in sheets now,” Tucker observed.
“We should have left when it started,” Pewter complained. “Now I’ll get wet paws, which I hate. Takes so much time to dry between your toes.”
The five creatures listened. A tiny mouse peeked out from its hole in one stall. No one saw her at all because of the shavings. She ducked back in. No need to set off the cats, and her living quarters were dry, filled with rag bits, lots of rag bits.
“Jeez.” Harry listened.
“I’m telling you. It’s not going to get any better. Make a run for it,” Tucker advised.
“She can carry me.” Pewter rolled over to reveal an overlarge tummy.
“You can run, Fatty,” Tucker undiplomatically barked.
Pewter sat up. “I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
No time for scratching as Harry stood up, walked to the end of the aisle, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the cabin. It was far enough from the barn that she was soaked by the time she reached it, threw open the door, and everyone piled in, dogs and cats shaking themselves dry. Not being able to shake, Harry stripped off her wet clothes. She’d started a fire when she and Susan first arrived, for the lowering clouds kept the mercury in the high forties, low fifties. The threat of rain, the dampness, added to the coolness. The slight chill cut right through her. She draped her clothing over the one rocking chair in front of the fire, wrapped herself in a heavy towel, which she’d brought, and sat down to dry herself.
“Susan will get wet,” Pirate said.
“She’s in the Institute. She can find an umbrella if she decides to come back here before the dinner,” Tucker told him. “Susan can run between raindrops.”
“She can?” Pirate questioned.
“She’s pulling your leg.” Mrs. Murphy smiled.
Feet propped up on a heavy log turned on its end, Harry dozed off. Her animals did, too, as the rain beat down. The aroma from the fire filled the room.
A half hour passed. The door flew open. Susan, umbrella overhead, turned around, shook the umbrella outside the open cabin door, then shut it. Harry, awakened, knocked over her makeshift footstool.
“Get the work done?”
Susan, wearing a Barbour raincoat, slipped out of it, hanging the dripping garment up on a peg. “We did. Glad I brought my raincoat.” Noticing the drying garments, she said, “You didn’t.”
“I did.” Harry pointed to her Filson tin jacket. “I didn’t wear it. When we left the cabin, I really didn’t think it would rain. Wrong again.”
Susan dropped into the rocking chair next to Harry after carefully removing the drying clothing, folding them over the coat pegs. “I’m bushed.”
“Me, too. Fell asleep, obviously. I hardly ever do that.”
“Get the barn ready?”
“Oh, sure. Takes time, but it’s all easy enough. I don’t know who they buy their shavings from, but they’re good shavings. Personally I prefer peanut hulls, but they are so expensive. So I use shavings like everyone else.”
“M-m-m.” Susan inhaled the fragrance. “It’s not cold, cold but it’s raw. Know what I mean?”
“What time do we need to be back at the Institute?”
“Hour. Dinner. The Ogdens are coming.” Susan named a couple who had served for decades in the foreign service, and Geoff had also been president of Middleburg Hunt Club.
“Good. I don’t know them well, but the times I’ve been in their company have been interesting.” Harry smiled. “By the way, this bath towel is warm. I usually don’t wrap myself in a bath towel. Always have my robe, which I forgot. Actually, I forgot a lot of stuff.”
Susan turned to her, the light flickering on her face. “You’re too young for a senior moment. Is it sheer stupidity?”
“Aren’t you hateful?” Harry pointed a finger at her.
“No. Actually, I’m tired, too. It’s been a week, you know. Ned was in Richmond the entire week and he’s there now. Then there’s the planning for the homecoming. Great idea, don’t get me wrong. Now I’m stuck with Mags Nielsen and Pamela Bartlett. Everything is an issue.”
“There are just people like that and my feeling is there are more and more or maybe I’m just noticing.”
“No, Harry, I think it’s true. Everything is a potential problem, a potential lawsuit or, given the homecoming and food, how about ptomaine poisoning? You would not believe the bullshit.”
“Actually, I would. Not so much for me since I farm, although I receive pages and pages of questions annually from the U.S. Agricultural Department as well as Virginia’s. Given that no one in the cabinet or in Congress farms, the questionnaires are really about their careers, not my farming.” She smiled. “I’m a cynic.”
“We all are now. I imagine Fair handles his share of paperwork, sidesteps lawyers, has to account for controlled substances.”
“Fortunately, horses don’t have lawyers but their owners do. He fills out insurance forms, no kidding, and they get longer and longer. And now there is health insurance for horses. I’m not kidding.”
“I suppose if you have a horse worth two million dollars, that’s not such a far stretch,” Susan reasoned.
“No, but a foxhunter? A pleasure horse? Not one of my horses is insured.”
“Of course not. You’re married to the vet.” Susan let out peals of laughter and Harry joined her.
An hour later, dry, a bit of makeup, squeezing under Susan’s umbrella, they sloshed to the Institute. The work party, comprised of ten hard workers, sat at the table, glad to be finished, hopeful for the upcoming event. Some drank wine, others beer, and, for the purists, bourbon and scotch. Even Mary, hardly a drinker, would not have downed vodka. Bourbon still reigned in the South.
Geoff and Jan, sitting in the middle of the table, surrounded by old hunting friends, pepped up the conversation, as always. Geoff’s career in the State Department hit many high notes from being counsel general in Istanbul to specialized work on economics to personnel to being director of maritime affairs. Jan also covered many bases, truly enjoying it when she and Geoff were posted to the same countries. It seemed they knew everybody; they had known Jason well and later Clare.