“Well,” Xavier put his arm around the smaller man's shoulders, “I would love to be joint-master. Really, I would, but right now the business is demanding. Insurance has been in a slump since September eleven. You can imagine the hit the huge carriers have been taking. Rates are changing, and that impacts even a small guy like me who deals with those carriers. I try to find my people the best rates, and even I'm appalled. I don't know where this is headed, but I do know these next couple of years, I've got to keep my nose to the grindstone.”
“Sorry to hear that. You'd be good.”
“And Dee would love it.” He mentioned his wife by her nickname. “Saw our Explorer, so she's already here and wondering why I'm not at the house. Come on.”
They walked through the snow, following the line of other hunters.
“Crawford would rile everyone but Jesus, X.” Ronnie called Xavier “X,” as did other old friends. “The pressure financially would be off. Of course, it would be off if Edward or Sybil logged on.”
“Edward is in his midseventies, and he's glad to pitch in, but he doesn't want the full-time responsibility. Same for his daughter. Sybil would be good, I think, but her boys are in grade school, and, truth be told, I don't think she's recovered from that whole gruesome mess with her ex-husband.”
“She still loves him.” Ronnie, for all his paying attention to money, did have a romantic streak.
“Jesus Christ, I hope not. What a rotter.”
“Yep. That leaves Bobby Franklin.”
They neared the front door, festooned with a sumptuous wreath, bright red berries dotting the dark evergreens.
Xavier whispered since people were close, “Bobby's got some money. Their business has been really good this year. He knows hunting. Wife and daughter know hunting. Great family, except for the daughter in prison, but hey, she's not the first person in America to go haywire on drugs.”
“True.” Ronnie felt quite sorry for the Franklins. Cody, their oldest girl, once showed such promise.
“He and Betty work like dogs down at the press. That's why they're successful, but I don't see how he'd have the time to be a master.”
The Franklins had weathered the challenge from home printing off computers only because their work was of such high quality. They had invested in a Webb printing press back in the early nineties, which expanded their capabilities, bringing in business throughout the mid-Atlantic region.
“So we're back to Crawford?” Ronnie thought Crawford would tone down, and he thought Shaker would come around.
“Sister will pull a rabbit out of the hat. You just wait,” Xavier predicted.
“Time's a flyin'.”
“You just wait.” Xavier smiled, then focused on Sam Lorillard, holding a glass, whom he could see as the front door swung open. “That sorry sack of shit.”
Ronnie's gaze fell on Sam. “He was in the hunt field behind us. Riding groom.”
“Yeah, well, I don't have to like that either, but you know the rules: you hunt with whoever is out there. Doesn't mean I have to drink with the son of a bitch.”
“He's dry now.”
“Oh, bullshit. He'll be back on the sauce before Valentine's,” Xavier predicted.
“Well, I hope not.”
“I don't give a rat's ass. That piece of excrement cost me thousands of dollars; you know that.”
“I know that, Xavier, I do. What he did was terrible, but the past is past. Maybe he can be useful and productive. And maybe he can make amends. He didn't do right by me either when he worked in my stable. Not that I had it as bad as you did. He cheated you, and he betrayed you.”
“If he dies, that will make amends.” Xavier pressed his full lips together.
Ronnie stood up on his toes to whisper into Xavier's ear as they walked past the cloakroom. “Why didn't you say something when Crawford hired him?”
“Because I don't give a good goddamn what happens to Crawford. In fact, I figured I'd sit back, watch the show, and eat popcorn.”
Inside the Brancrofts' house, the two men brushed through the crowd as they moved toward the bar.
Dee, who kept her shape even as her husband lost his, spied him. She pushed through the throng. “Honey, I was starting to worry that perhaps you'd bought some real estate.” She used the phrase for hitting the ground.
“Dee, he rides Picasso very, very well,” Ronnie defended his friend. “Now I wish you'd come out. We need a little pulchritude.”
“Liar!” She poked Ronnie in the ribs. Since he was gay, she figured he was teasing about pretty women.
“I love looking at beautiful women. I just don't want to marry one.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“Hey, you're my best friend,” Xavier said, shaking his head good-naturedly, “but I tell you, that's the one thing about you I don't understand.”
Ronnie flattered him. “When I look at Dee and the life you've made together, I don't know that I understand it, either.”
“Oh, Ronnie, you are sweet.” Dee threw her arms around him, giving him a big hug.
“I saw that!” Betty Franklin yelled from the crowd. “Another Jefferson Hunt affair.”
“Ronnie, take a number and get in line,” said Walter, walking up behind the three, and towering over them.
“Walter, you don't need a ticket. I'll take you right now,” Ronnie fired right back at him.
“Three points.” Walter laughed. “Dee, can I freshen your drink?”
“No, I'm going to drag my husband to the bar. I want to hear every detail of the hunt, and hopefully a few misdeeds as well.”
“Crackerjack day.” Walter smiled.
As husband and wife left, Ronnie said, “There's something about hunting in the snow.”
“Indescribably beautiful,” Walter agreed. “Say, Ron, how about a drink for you? Hi, Sorrel.” Sorrel, in her middle forties and a recent widow, walked over.
“Gentlemen, they've gone through two cases of champagne, a case of scotch, two and a half of vodka, and we're running low on the roasted boar. You'd better hurry to the table.”
“The muffin hounds have struck again.” Ronnie called nonriders muffin hounds, as did everyone else who rode.
“Let's go.” Walter led the way. The men chatted, touching hands or shoulders of others they met along the way.
Lorraine Rasmussen, slight and shy, stood with her daughter, Sari. The two closely resembled each other.
“Mom, everyone is friendly. Come on.”
“Oh, honey, I don't ride. I feelâ”
“Lorraine!” Sister emerged from the kitchen. It was the only place she could grab a bite. Once people saw her, she never got the food to her mouth.
“Sister, this is so grand.” Lorraine smiled. Her light brown hair, well cut, fell to her shoulders.
“Tedi and Edward never do anything halfway. And, of course, Sorrel is the best social director we've ever had. Now come meet people, Lorraine. Most of the people here didn't hunt today. You can tell. Their shoes are clean, and there's no blood on their faces.”
“And they're fat.” Sari giggled.
Sister saw Shaker squeeze through the crowd. Shaker had to attend to the hounds, but today was a High Holy Day. Staff were allowed a spot of socializing before driving hounds and horses back to the kennels and stables.
Today, while not particularly long, had been hard, thanks to heavy footing. Shaker didn't like hounds or horses standing around too long after a hard hunt.
“Shaker, let's all get a drink, shall we?” Sister suggested, intercepting Shaker's escape from socializing.
“Why don't I get a plate for you, sir?” Sari, polite, knew how hard Shaker worked.
“Thanks, Sari.” He liked the young girl and could see some of her mother in her. Though he knew little of Lorraine, he thought her a polite woman. Looking at her now, he realized she was pretty, too.
“Sari said today was just one of the best,” commented Lorraine. “She said when the hounds ran into the stone ruins, she got goose bumps.”
He smiled at Lorraine. “We got lucky.”
“Nonsense,” said Sister. “You're a fantastic huntsman.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Excuse me.”
“Sister,” Marty Howard called to her.
As Sister reached Marty, she brushed against Gray Lorillard. A flicker of electricity shot through her.
“The weather fouled our lunch date,” Gray said. “How does January third at the club sound to you?”
“Do I have to wear lipstick?” She laughed.
“Sister, you don't have to wear anything at all.” Gray smiled. “Twelve.”
“Twelve.”
“Sister,” Marty breathlessly grabbed the master's hand, “Sam has found me the most exquisite horse. I am so excited. A gelding. I like geldings, and he's right out of a Stubbs painting.”
“To hunt?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I'm so excited. No. To run. A timber horse. Oh, I've always wanted a timber horse. He's been calling around, and he just now told me. I've been on cloud nine. I'm calling him Cloud Nine!”
“Where is Sam? I can't wait to hear the details,” she replied.
“Last I saw him was by the fireplace in the living room.
But it will take you half an hour to reach him. We're packed like sardines.”
Twenty minutes later Sister reached the living room. Sam looked better than he had in years but still had the gaunt thinness of a lifelong alcoholic who forgets to eat. He smiled when he saw the master.
“Happy New Year, Master.”
“Sam, glad to see you in the hunt field. Gray, too. I hope you'll be out with us more often.”
“Depends on the man.”
Sister smiled. “In your case, it just might depend on the woman. She's levitating over the timber horse you've found.” She paused a moment as she nodded to friends in the crowd. “How's it going?” Sister asked.
“Pretty good.”
She placed her hand on Sam's shoulder. “Well, I hope the job works out. Crawford's a demanding man but, ultimately, a fair one. And I'm happy to have you in the hunt field.”
“Take it no one much likes Crawford,” Sam whispered.
“People who are against something or someone are always more expressive than those who think things are just fine. He has his detractors, but over the years I've learned to appreciate his good points. If you need anything, Sam, call or drop by.”
“Thank you. That's white of you.”
She laughed. “You are bad, Sam Lorillard.”
Sliding back through the crowd, Sister squeezed up behind Clay Berry. His wife, Isabelle, hair shoulder length and honey blonde, didn't see Sister behind Clay's broad shoulders. She might have changed her tune had she known Sister was there.
“Not another horse, Clay. You have two perfectly good field horses, and I never see you as it is.”
“Sugar, that's not true.” His light tenor hit a consoling note.
“The hell it's not. You disappear during hunt season. I have one month with you when it's over, and then you're off to the golf course. I might as well be a widow.”
“Izzy,” he called her by her nickname, “you're being overly dramatic.”
“I'm starting to think of you as my insignificant other.” She pouted. “And how you can think of another horse when you know I am dying, dying for that new 500SL convertible. I want it in brilliant silver with the ash interior.”
“That car costs a hundred and six thousand dollars with the options you want.”
“I'm worth it,” she coolly replied.
He shifted gears. “How could any man put a price on such a beautiful woman? Of course you're worth it, baby. However, it is a big hit at this time.”
“Oh, pooh.” She suddenly became flirtatious. “You're making money hand over fist. My birthday is coming up and,” she rubbed the back of his neck, her lips now very close to his, “you will never regret it. I'll do anything you want whenever you want it.”
He swallowed. “Honey, let's talk about this later.”
Sister tried to get beyond these two, but the crush of people was so great, the din of conversation so loud, she was pinned.
Izzy stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband. She bit his lower lip. In doing so, she saw the master.
“Sister!” She quickly reached around Clay to grab Sister's hand. “I need you to weaken Clay.”
More power to you, Sister thought to herself. At least you aren't denying what you are. She then spoke out loud. “Isabelle, I think you can weaken Clay all by yourself.”
“But I'd love to be between two beautiful women.” Clay rolled his eyes heavenward.
Izzy, in a studied breathless voice, crooned, “I must have that 500SL. I mean I am
dying
for that car. It's the sexiest thing on the road. Sexier than a Ferrari or Porsche Turbo or the redone Maserati. I'm nearing forty. I need a boost.” She now held both of Sister's hands as the crowd pressed them bosom to bosom, and both ladies were well stacked.
Sister found the situation comical. “It is a spectacular car, and you'd make it even more spectacular. Mercedes-Benz ought to pay you to drive one.”
“You say the sweetest things. I want to grow up to be just like you. You're so beautiful.” Izzy waxed enthusiastic.
“She's right.” Clay seconded his wife. “Except for your silver hair, you look just like you did when I was in Pony Club. I don't know how you do it.”
“She has a painting in her attic,” Izzy recalled the famous plot from Oscar Wilde's
The Portrait of Dorian Gray.
“Thank you. You're both outrageous flatterers, but it does my heart good to hear it.”
Clay leaned down, his face serious. “I do mean it. You're beautiful, Sister.” He smiled then. “And your arms are more muscular than mine, and I work out like a demon.”