Outfoxed (4 page)

“It does pass.”

“In two days or two weeks.” Betty laughed.

Cody rode over to Douglas. They were on the hounds' left. Jennifer was on the right as Sister and Betty now brought up the rear.

“Hi,” Cody said.

“Hi,” he replied.

They rode along, water spilling over their cap brims.

“You aren't very talkative.”

“I think you're making a big mistake,” he replied.

CHAPTER 5

The world was wrapped in silver-gray. Fontaine couldn't see the town square from his office window at Mountain Landscapes, the rain was so heavy.

Marty Howard buzzed him. “Mr. Buruss, Mrs. Arnold is here to see you.”

“I'll be right there.” Surprised, he pressed the disconnect button on his intercom, stood up, and checked himself in the mirror. He straightened his charcoal-gray tie with the small fuchsia squares; then he strode into the small well-appointed reception room, beaming, hand outstretched. “Sister, what a pleasure to see you on such a wicked day.”

She smiled. “You're a fair-weather foxhunter.”

“I certainly was today. Come on in.” He winked at Marty, her blond hair in a long braid down her back. “Bring Sister a steaming cup of coffee.”

“We were just discussing that. We were also discussing you giving me Tuesday mornings off so I can hunt. I'll work late Wednesdays,” Marty said, happy to have Sister standing there.

“Two against one. Not fair.” Fontaine, black hair razor cut to perfection, tan despite the season, wagged his finger at his good-looking secretary. Each time he thought of the distress he caused Crawford Howard, he laughed silently. Fontaine lightly cupped Sister's elbow, leading her into his office, a hymn to eclecticism.

She sat on the burgundy leather sofa. “Fontaine, I'll get to the point.”

“You usually do, Mother Superior.”

“First, you didn't fix the coop you smashed.” She held up her hand as he started to apologize. “I know what happened there. But you wrecked it. You fix it. Those are the rules. Now as to the situation that caused it, talk to me.”

The rainy weather affected his energy. He got up to pace on the other side of a coffee table inlaid with granite. He thought moving around would wake him up. “Chalk and cheese. Simple as that.”

“I understand that.” Marty lightly knocked on the door, bringing in half-coffee, half-cream, Sister's favorite midday drink. “Oh, thank you, Marty. By the way, I think Cochise is going very well. You've worked wonders with that stinker,” she said, referring to Marty's horse.

“He just needed time. He's only six, you know.”

“Yes. They learn at different rates of speed, just as we do.”

“Whoops, there's the phone.” Marty hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Let's stay on line, Fontaine.” She used a foxhunting phrase referring to keeping on one line of scent.

He finally sat across from her in a leather chair, a burgundy that glowed against the taupe walls filled with exquisite hunting prints in old gold frames. Fontaine's family had left him the prints. “I can't abide that man. I'd use stronger language but not in the presence of a lady, a grand lady.” He smiled, his even teeth a testament to good genetics.

She gratefully swallowed her coffee, the warmth chasing the chill she'd taken that morning. Then she put the mug down, composed herself, and said, “Yankees are what they are. However, he contributes to the hunt. He contributes to every charity in town, even the AIDS foundation, and most of our friends won't give them a penny. He rubs my fur the wrong way, too. He's loud, given to voicing many opinions, and he divorced one of the best women God has ever put on this earth. For nothing, I might add, but then you know all that. The truth is—we need him.” She drew in a deep breath, which seemed harder than usual, the air was so heavy. “For all his faults, I think his heart is in the right place, except for the episode with Marty.”

Fontaine weighed his words. “I can only address what I see. He uses money like a club or a wedge, depending on the circumstances. He pours money into Jefferson Hunt because he thinks he'll soon be joint-master.” Fontaine, being a Virginian, could not say that he himself wanted to be joint-master. That would have been social suicide. He had to wait for Sister to bring up the subject and she had remained ominously silent for the last three years. He knew that she knew that he wanted the job.

“That's obvious. Another problem.”

“You are the master. You've been the master for forty-some years. I grew up hunting behind you, Sister. You know I will support you whatever.”

“I do know that. It's one of the reasons I'm here. I remember you walking out puppies when you were no bigger than they were. You know hunting even if you are a wimp when the weather turns a little, oh, damp. But a few words. Take a couple of lessons. You're getting sloppy in the saddle.”

Fontaine, vain about his riding ability, blushed. “I hadn't realized—”

“No more on the subject. Just do it. Next, hound walk at least once a week.”

“I will definitely make time.”

“Money. Do you have anything left?”

He grinned. “Not much. I'm not a businessman, Sister. I'm just not.”

“I know.” Sympathy played on her even, delicate features. “We live in a time where money is the only value for most people. It wasn't that way when I was young and that isn't the nostalgia of an old woman. The golden calf is the true god now. I hate it and I can't do anything about it. Some would say you've squandered your inheritance but you gave to friends, to family. You were not and are not an unfeeling man.”

Not expecting this, he quietly said, “Thank you, Sister.”

“And I appreciate that you haven't drawn out Crawford in public despite your antipathy. You can be hotheaded.”

“I can't promise I won't deck him.”

“Well—who knows what tomorrow will bring. Fontaine, I'm seventy—”

He interrupted. “And beautiful. Truly, Sister.”

“You do have a way with women.” She lowered her eyes, then raised them, a gesture that had drawn men to her since she was a child. “I can no longer put off preparing for the future of the hunt without me. I hope I can hunt as long as Ginny Moss of Moore County Hounds, still whipping-in at ninety, but nonetheless, I must do something I have never wanted to do: I must take a joint-master.” Fontaine held his breath as she continued. “You are one of us. You are known throughout the state by other masters. You've hunted with other hunts in other states. You've participated in many Masters of Foxhounds Association functions. You've chaired committees on public land use. You've made connections in Richmond and in Baltimore, too. You're politically astute, as was your mother, god rest her soul. You have a good sense of what it takes to keep a hunt going although believe me, you never know until you're master. But Fontaine, you also have drawbacks. You are a philanderer of the first order.” She again held up her hand. “I'm not judging. You know what Raymond used to say, ‘Men have balls. They have to use them.' That's when I brought out the frying pan. At any rate, that caused problems. Messy problems. And you have little money to throw into the pot. Am I right?”

He gulped. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Now I must ask you something directly. I am sorry to do this but circumstances compel me. Have you had or are you having an affair with Marty Howard?”

Relieved, he said, “No.”

Her black eyebrows rose. “Why?”

He laughed. “Chemistry. And no matter what you may think of me, Sister, it wouldn't have been sporting. She was devastated during the separation and divorce.”

“I believe you. Thousands wouldn't.” She laughed with him.

“I deserve that.”

“Sorrel”—she named Fontaine's wife—“is an unusually tolerant woman.”

“Oh, Sister, we married too young. She's my best friend. We have an arrangement. Rather European. I would not end my marriage for anything in the world. I value her and I love her. Can you—?”

He didn't finish because she knew the next word was “understand.” She finished her coffee, then simply stated, “Of course I understand. It's eminently civilized. And you have two small children to consider. As long as you and Sorrel”—she accented the “el,” which was the proper way to pronounce the name—“can bring stability and comfort to one another, I applaud you. I am only telling you it is something one must consider. You may be rational about such liaisons but that doesn't mean the women will be when things have run their course. Or their husbands if they find out. There's no point in mincing words. Too much is at stake, Fontaine.”

“Ma'am?”

“You should be my joint-master but I must consider everything.”

His face drained of color, then grew flushed. “Yes. I do understand.” His heart was beating wildly and he told himself it was a pastime. Why should he care so much? But he did. To be joint-master, serving with Sister Jane, would be a crowning achievement for Fontaine.

“Here's the hard news. I need you and I need Crawford Howard. Each has what the other lacks. If I chose two joint-masters, could you swallow your distaste and work with him?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you're honest.”

“I would be proud to be your joint-master. I would give it everything I've got. You know how much I love hunting.”

“You didn't love it this morning.”

“You're right. I was a wuss. A wimp. A candyass. But I do love hunting.”

“I know you do.” She softened. “You know our history. You know the struggles we've had to breed the kind of hound suitable for our territory. You've seen the ups and the downs for much of your life. That continuity is vital for the club, especially now that we've tipped over into the twenty-first century. I still can't get used to saying it or writing the year.”

“Me neither.”

“I ask you to keep this to yourself no matter how much you want to discuss it.”

“Have you spoken to Crawford?”

“No, I have not. I will do so this week and then I have to sit down and make a decision. By opening hunt.”

“November sixth.”

“Three weeks away and it still feels like opening night on Broadway.” She beamed. “But I must. The club needs time to adjust to the joint-masters. We need those transition years while I'm still strong.”

“May it always be so,” he fervently prayed.

“I can't live forever, Fontaine, but I'd like to. Keep thisunder your hat. I will come back to you. Depending on Crawford's response, we may need to sit down together, the three of us. Fontaine”—she reached for his hand—“think this through. I need you. Loyalties are already dividing concerning you and Crawford. We need a united club. That's another reason why I must make this decision now.”

“Sister, I promise I'll think about this. And I'll think about my own feelings toward Crawford. I'm not perfect but I can change.”

She squeezed his hand, then rose to leave.

CHAPTER 6

The winds shifted from the south, bringing in even more moisture, but at least the rains scaled back to steady precipitation instead of a deluge.

Landowners called asking Sister Jane not to chop up their fields, so she canceled Saturday's cubbing. The landowners had more to fear from the trailers churning up the fields than from the horses.

She hated to cancel any hunt but decided not to grumble. She walked down to the kennels to play with the puppies.

Shaker joined her. Puppies were like people. The more you put into them, the more you got from them, the big difference being that puppies were more fun.

Sister and Shaker had worked together for twenty-two years as master and huntsman. They'd become so accustomed to each other, so relaxed when together, they could and did say anything to each other.

Neither was given to gusts of emotion. Both were dedicated to hounds and country life.

Each knew the other's virtues, faults, and secrets, and as is the way with old friends, each knew something about the other hidden from them. Sister knew that Shaker, for all his physical toughness, feared women deep down. He simply thought women were difficult, Sister, his best friend, excluded. Shaker needed love but he didn't know how to find it.

And Shaker knew that Sister's surface amiability masked a steely determination born of rank competitiveness. She didn't know that about herself, could never see that she had to best her older brother, a career officer, killed in Vietnam.

Each had endured the ups and downs of the other's marriage, secret affairs.

When Raymond Junior died, Shaker proved as considerate and strong as Raymond Senior. The bond forged in that sorrow would never be broken.

These two would be best friends until death do us part—united by time, temperament, and foxhunting.

“Good litter.” Shaker rubbed a little fellow, turned over to display a fat belly.

“Bywaters blood.” She mentioned a Virginian hound bloodline developed by Burrell Frank Bywaters (1848–1922). The Bywaters family, after the War between the States, used those hounds who had survived that violent upheaval to breed a strain of American foxhound with nose, brains, drive, and cry. Hugh Bywaters (1872–1952) continued the tradition, as did other family members.

“That and a touch of Exmoor Landseer.” He smiled, naming a fine hound born in 1986 from England's Exmoor hunt. Shaker studied bloodlines. It was his job but also his passion.

“Good litter. Good year.”

“Hope so.”

“Douglas seems a bit down. Do you know what's wrong?”

“Woman trouble.”

“What woman?”

Shaker reached for another puppy. “Same one.”

“Oh no.” Sister sighed. “I thought that was all over.”

“If she could let go of the shot glass—” Shaker shrugged.

“In the blood. Bobby's brother. Drove himself right into a tree the day he graduated from high school. Drunk as a skunk.”

“Bobby can put it away when he wants to. . . . He can hold his liquor, though.”

“True. Old Man Franklin loved his bottle, too. A lot of things pass in the blood.” She held a bright tricolor puppy in her lap. “Good and bad.”

“Girl's beautiful.”

“Her sister, too. Course Betty was a great beauty when she was young. She's put on a pound or two. Says it fills out the wrinkles.” Sister smiled, for she loved Betty.

“I guess.” A light red stubble shone on his chin.

“If any of us approached romance rationally, it would never happen and that would be the end of the human race.”

“Wouldn't be such a bad thing.” He smiled sardonically. “I married one woman and woke up with another.” He referred to his dreary marriage, which had ended many years ago, although the scars remained visible.

“For all our faults humans are marginally amusing and sporadically talented. I don't think any of these beautiful puppies will paint
Night Watch.
”

They sat in silence in the puppy wing of the kennel. The grown hounds were asleep in the adult wing, so it was quiet except for the patter of rain.

Sister spoke again: “I met with Fontaine Buruss.”

“Thought you might.”

“Time.”

“Naw.” He shook his head.

“I said that at sixty but it truly is time at seventy. We need a smooth transfer of power here over the next couple of years.”

“Won't be smooth with Fontaine.”

“There are precious few candidates. At least the man knows hunting enough to know what he doesn't know.”

“He's an empty-headed peacock.”

“Don't hold back.” She laughed.

“He is. Cock of the walk. Doesn't know a damn thing about hounds.” Since Shaker's whole life was hounds, that was his basis for assessing other foxhunters.

“But you do. One of my conditions, should I choose him, is he either stays out of the kennel or he shuts up and learns.”

“But he can't learn. He's too interested in how he looks.”

She knew there was a lot of truth in Shaker's assessment. Men judged other men differently than women judged men. They were harsher. “Crawford Howard.”

“If that goddamned Yankee winds up as joint-master, I'm leaving. He knows less than Fontaine and he can't ride a hair of that horse of his.”

“Fortunately, the horse is a saint. But if he were joint-master with me, he wouldn't bother you.”

“The sight of him would turn my stomach. He thinks he's a bleeding genius because he built strip malls in Indiana and Iowa. He made money and that's all he's done.”

“He plays the stock market and makes more. We need money.”

“That's a fact.”

“What if I made them both joint-masters? There's a strong current of support for Fontaine in the club. I can't ignore that, nor can I ignore our financial dilemma. We need a businessman. We need someone who can think ahead. Crawford has that ability, Shaker. I can't see my way out of this. I might have to make them both joint-masters.”

Shaker reached down, putting another puppy in Sister's lap. “They'll kill each other.”