“People are gonna do what they’re gonna do.” He polished off the coffee cake. “Maybe those places give folks some understanding.” He beamed. “If it feels good, they’ll do it again.”
“That’s just it, though, isn’t it? Feels good when you’re doing it and feels bad when you’re not.”
“Life’s just one big hangover.” He held out his cup for a refill.
“Had a few of those.” Roger laughed.
“Coming to opening hunt?”
Roger, a foot follower, enthusiastically said, “Best breakfast of the year.”
“Muffin hound.”
“I do my share of running. Tell you who did blow through here . . . Crawford. Not twenty minutes ago. He asked me what my annual take was.” Roger laughed. “I said, ‘Why do you want to know?’ and he said, ‘I’d like to buy this place.’ I don’t know what to make of that guy.”
“Would you sell it?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Man’s gotta work at something.”
“If he gives you a fair price, you can work at something else. But that man’s a snake.”
“You know, he might be.” Roger, like a bartender, tried to stay out of other people’s disagreements and personality clashes. “When I first met him I thought he couldn’t pull piss out of a boot if the directions were on the heel. I was wrong. He’s smart enough but he’s not—what am I trying to say?”
“No practical knowledge. Couldn’t start up a chain saw if his life depended on it.”
“Kinda.”
The small pile of cellophane, white wrappers, and napkins diverted Fontaine’s attention. “Did I eat all that?”
“Yep.”
He sighed. “Better go straight to the gym. See you, bud.”
However, he didn’t head for the gym. He headed for Cody’s place, taking the precaution of parking his car behind old holly bushes.
He knocked on the door, rain funneling off his cowboy hat like a downspout.
Hairbrush in hand, she opened the door. “Fontaine, what are you doing here?”
He stepped inside. “You look as wet as I do.”
A towel wrapped around her head looked like a fuzzy turban. Her white bathrobe was worn thin at the elbows.
“I’ve got an appointment.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Fontaine didn’t unzip his raincoat.
“I needed time to think.”
“I thought that’s what you were doing in rehab.”
“I did. I needed time to think in my own place.” She stuffed her hairbrush in her pocket. “I need to change a lot of things, break a lot of habits.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t see you anymore. I guess this is as good a time as any to end it.”
“Why don’t you settle back in before you make sweeping decisions,” he smoothly replied, his voice pleasant, seductive.
“I need to be clear. Look, you’ll always have a mistress somewhere. It’s your nature. For all I know you’ve got two or three stashed in Richmond or Washington. I don’t know. You’re a player.”
“Only you,” he lied.
While he chased skirts with a kind of predictable boredom, he liked Cody. He liked any woman that could ride well, hold her liquor, and make love with abandon.
“I can’t do it.” Her lips compressed.
“Anyone else?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah,” he said sarcastically.
“One other thing, Fontaine, and I mean this. You stay away from my sister.”
His eyes opened; he took a half step back involuntarily. “I resent that.”
“I know you.”
“Nobody knows anybody.” He turned on his heel and left, far more upset than he imagined he would be.
Cody locked the door behind him, sat on the edge of the twin bed that served as a sofa, pushed against the wall, embroidered pillows everywhere. Love didn’t enter into this decision. She’d never loved Fontaine. He was fun, spent money like water. His approach to life was “Do it now.” There was a kind of wisdom to that, since you only have the moment you’re in, but Fontaine never gave much thought to the future. Again, that was part of his charm.
Cody was realizing she had to think a great deal about her future. She’d seen too many human shipwrecks at forty and fifty and sixty in rehab. Seeing and hearing the old druggies and drunks knocked sense into her head far more than the counseling sessions with the doctors.
She had to get some training, find a decent job, and forget going out at night to the bars until she could handle it—or maybe forever. What was there about the soft wash of neon light over a polished bar that made her reach for a vodka martini or sneak into the back for a toot? Night seemed to absolve her of tomorrow but then tomorrow would come. Wasted, the sunrise rarely gave her hope. A panic would set in. She’d snort another line until there wasn’t anything left except the shakes and a black hole into which she’d tumble.
She wasn’t going down that rabbit hole again.
Tears ran down her face. She knew better than to take up with Fontaine in the first place. She thought she could forget Doug. She did for a while. Maybe she’d treated him badly last spring before he got fed up with her boozing and coking. That way she felt in control. Junk him before he’d junk her.
She’d thought a lot about him in rehab, too. She dreaded the apologies she needed to make. She knew her mother and father would forgive her. She knew Doug would forgive her, too. In his way, he already had but she had to sit down, face-to-face, and truly apologize. She thought after opening hunt she might have the courage.
She rubbed her hair with the towel, tossed it toward the bathroom, shook her head. She brushed out her long sable hair.
“Hell.” She reached for the phone, dialing Doug’s number. The answering machine came on. “Doug, I bet you’re at the stable. I know this is an intense week. Why don’t I take you to dinner after opening hunt? Bye.”
CHAPTER 31
The last week before opening hunt kept everyone frantically busy. Turnout for cubbing was heavy and people who should have been legging up their horses starting in July thought that two shots of cubbing would do it.
Shadbellies for the ladies, weaselbellies or cutaways for the gentlemen, frock coats, Meltons, were brushed out and hung on the line or brought back from the dry cleaner. Caps were knocked off with a small wisk brush as were top hats and the always charming derbies. Spurs submitted to rigorous polishing. Shirts and stock ties were ironed, buttons wiped clean, on the coats. Stock tie pins dangled in open buttonholes, where they wouldn’t be lost in the nervousness of preparation. The last thing a hunter did was to fasten that stock pin horizontally across the tie.
Ties would be four-in-hand or just flipped over in a cascade of white. Not a hint of yellow or gray for opening hunt; those ties had to be white, white, white.
Garters—and many still used them, as was correct—were also polished. They’d be just above the boot line and if a lady or gentleman wore the old buttoned pants, the garter would be between the third and fourth button.
Breeches, whipcord or the newer materials, were checked along the seams, the suede knee patches checked, too.
The one item everyone appreciated most and talked about the least was a good pair of underpants. Anything with a raised seam eventually rubbed your leg raw. A few underpants were even padded on the crotch to protect that sensitive area from damage. Of course, if they were riding properly, the next generation should be safe.
Vests also dotted clotheslines. The fortunate few wore white vests handed down from the nineteenth century and the most proper attire for the High Holy Days of hunting: opening hunt, Thanksgiving hunt, Christmas hunt, and New Year’s hunt.
Most people wore a canary vest. Tattersalls were used during formal hunting but not during the holiest of holies, although a few hunts demanded tattersall in the hunt club colors. A vest in the hunt’s colors was also proper, although few wore them because they needed to be specially made.