Given the people attending this soiree, Crawford seethed but he was plotting his parry even as the assembled were shepherded into the dining room, a phenomenal shade of cerise with linen-white trim. Only Sorrel could have thought of such a color, which in the glow of the candelabra and wall sconces was fabulous. Sorrel believed anyone having a dinner party using electric lighting was an infidel.
The Heart Fund dinner and dance, headed by Crawford, would trump this, or at least Crawford Howard hoped it would. He’d hired the best dance orchestra in the country and was transporting all of them to Virginia at his own expense. The Heart Fund would have been better served had he just given the medical charity the forty thousand dollars he would spend on the orchestra. But then these fund-raisers were about far more than raising money for the charity.
Sister Jane sat at Fontaine’s right and the president of the university sat at Sorrel’s right. Even if Fontaine hadn’t wanted to be joint-master, the seating arrangement would have been the same. The president, powerful as he was, was transient. Sister Jane was permanent.
Sister observed Sorrel shining in a turquoise sheath dress, one shoulder exposed. The color, set off by the dining room walls, made Sorrel the center of attraction.
She probably would have been regardless, for she possessed a seemingly effortless elegance and a ladylike sense of decorum. Sorrel’s blond hair carried a few streaks of gray, which somehow made her even more appealing. Even Sorrel must bow to the vulnerability of age.
Sister had bowed to it emotionally years ago but she wouldn’t give an inch physically.
Sorrel, a Richmond girl, could have married many a fine fellow but Fontaine, carefree, bursting with obvious masculinity, won her heart. That he still held it said a great deal about his wife’s perseverance as well as Fontaine’s own qualities, which perhaps he shared only with her. She knew about the other women. She didn’t always know who they were but she knew. Since she viewed passion as a danger and not a delight, Sorrel had little desire to retaliate. As long as appearances were maintained, the children protected, she closed her eyes.
Fontaine’s foolishness with money caused her much more concern. But tonight none of that was apparent.
A harpist played after dinner. Real Cuban cigars, not fakes, were offered to the gentlemen in the smoking room. The ladies retired to a drawing room, relieved of the burden of supporting male egos.
The men felt the same way, although they wouldn’t have put it in terms of supporting female egos, only that paying court to women was tiring. That rigid law of southern life, women must be flattered, could try a man’s patience as well as his imagination.
Fontaine racked up the balls on the pool table. Bobby, Walter, and the university president reached for their cues. The other men sat along the park benches against the wall, waiting for their turn. Four fellows dealt cards over the inlaid-wood card table, the monogrammed chips in neat stacks by each player’s right hand.
Bobby won the toss and broke. Brightly colored balls ricocheted everywhere. He socked away one, two, and three but just missed putting the fourth ball in the pocket. Walter took over, bending his muscular frame. As Fontaine watched the young man fire away he was glad he hadn’t bet more than five dollars on this game. Walter was too good.
Fontaine leaned into Bobby as they observed Walter’s deft touch.
“Why are you supporting Crawford?”
Knowing he hadn’t told anyone but his wife as well as hinting to Sister, Bobby nonetheless knew that his lunch with Crawford at the club had to have been reported.
“The money.”
“I’m hardly a pauper.”
Bobby felt a tightness across his huge chest. Tiptoeing around Fontaine’s financial history he said, “Of course not.”
“Crawford Howard will alienate everyone in the club sooner or later.”
“I fear that,” Bobby honestly answered.
“Then why in bloody hell are you supporting him?” He kept his voice low, a light voice for such a butch-looking man.
“He knows how to generate money.”
“Off other people’s hides.” Fontaine displayed the aristocrat’s disdain for trade.
“I’m afraid that’s true, too, but half the fortunes in this room were made off other people’s hides. That they were done so long ago simply sanitizes them,” Bobby shrewdly said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Walter finished out the game.“Guess I had a lucky run.”
Each player handed him five dollars.
“More than luck.” The president smiled. “I don’t know if I can afford another game.”
“You break.” Fontaine picked the smooth balls out of the pocket.
“How much?” The president brushed his sandy hair from his forehead.
“Five dollars,” Fontaine said, then remembered his guests who were sitting. “Bobby and I will bow out. Ronnie, Ralph, up next? Ready?”
“Sure,” they said.
Fontaine walked over to the bar, pouring himself a brandy and one for Bobby. Not a true drinker, Fontaine would sip socially. He’d snorted two lines of good cocaine after dinner. Retiring to his own bathroom away from everyone, he quickly inhaled his stimulant of choice. A touch of booze after that put him in a mellow yet quite clearheaded state. He could take or leave drugs. He knew most people couldn’t. He genuinely liked coke but he watched himself. He’d seen men ruin careers and families thanks to the white powder.
“Bobby, I give you a lot of business and I bring you a lot of business.”
Bobby’s bushy eyebrows shot upward. Crawford was a cornucopia of business, too. “You do and I am grateful.”
“We’ve known each other all our lives. I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m trying to …”
He didn’t finish because Walter joined them, having just won the game in record time. “May I?”
“Of course. Brandy?”
“No thanks. Soda water.”
“Not a drinking man?” Bobby mildly asked, knowing that Walter’s father sure was.
“No, not much. Seeing the insides of alcoholics cured me of any desire to be a drinking man. That … and Dad.” Walter smiled.
“You must hate Crawford Howard.” Fontaine, wanting Bobby to hear this, asked.
“I do,” came the swift reply.
“How old were you when all that happened? Twelve? Fifteen? Time goes by so fast.” Fontaine swilled the deep golden amber liquid in the glass.
“Fifteen.” Walter leaned his arm on the bar, putting his foot on the brass footrail.
“Painful.” Bobby lifted the brandy to his lips.
“It was but, Mr. Franklin …”
“Call me Bobby.”
“Thank you. I will if you’ll dispense with Dr. Lungrun.” He nodded. “Anyway, I learned. I learned self-reliance. I learned I wasn’t the center of the universe. Mom needed help and I learned to put the family first. As much as I hate Crawford Howard, in a sense, he made a man out of me.”
“You made a man out of you.” Fontaine placed his glass on the countertop. “Plenty of other young men would have escaped somehow—booze, drugs, women, you name it.”
“Why did you come back?” Bobby was genuinely curious.
“I love this place. I came back for Mom. It’s what she wanted.”
Neither Fontaine nor Bobby could think of what to say until finally Fontaine said,“We’re glad of that.”
Harry Xavier, having cleaned up at the card table, stood, shoving money in his pocket.“Dr. Lungrun, you young pup. I’ll take you on at the pool table.”
The men crowded around. Xavier’s skills had emptied many a wallet.
Back in the drawing room the ladies surprised themselves with their vehemence. It began innocently enough with Betty Franklin mentioning Peter Wheeler“hunting” from the back of his pickup.