Too late now. The check had been written, the merchandise carried home. No more time to fret over it anyway because Blair was knocking at the front door.
She opened it.
He studied Harry. “You’re the only woman I know who looks as good in jeans as in a skirt. Come on.”
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stood on the back of the sofa and watched the humans motor down the driveway.
“What do you think?” Tucker asked the cat.
“She looks hot.” Mrs. Murphy batted Tucker. “Aren’t you glad we don’t have to wear clothes? Wouldn’t you look adorable in a little gingham dress?”
“And you’d have to wear four bras.” Tucker nudged Mrs. Murphy in the ribs, nearly knocking her off the sofa.
That appealed to Mrs. Murphy’s demented sense of humor. She rocketed off the back of the sofa, calling for the dog to chase her. She dashed straight for the wall, enticing Tucker to think that she was trapped, and then hit the wall with all fours, banking off it, sailing right over Tucker’s head while the dog skidded into the wall with a hard bump. Mrs. Murphy performed this maneuver with a demonic sense of purpose. Enraged, Tucker’s feet spun so fast under her that she shook like a speeded-up movie. Around and around they ripped and tore until finally, as Tucker charged under an end table and Mrs. Murphy pranced on top of it, the lamp on the table teetered and tottered, only to wobble on its base and smash onto the floor. The crash scared them and they flew into the kitchen. After a few moments of quiet they ventured out.
“Uh-oh,” Tucker said.
“Well, she needed a new lamp anyway. This one had gray hairs.”
“She’ll blame me for it.” Tucker already felt persecuted.
“As soon as we hear the truck, we’ll hide under the bed. That way she can rant and rave and get it out of her system. She’ll be over it by tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea.”
32
“The meringue tarts.” Little Marilyn triumphantly nodded to Tiffany to serve the dessert.
Little Marilyn practiced nouvelle cuisine. Big Marilyn followed suit, which was the first time mother had imitated daughter. Jim Sanburne complained that nouvelle cuisine was a way to feed people less. Bird food, he called it. Fortunately, Big Marilyn and Jim weren’t invited to the small dinner tonight. Cabell Hall was, though. Fitz continually flattered the important banker, his justification being that three years ago Cabell had introduced him to Marilyn. Little Marilyn’s septic personality had been somewhat sweetened by the absence of her maternal unit, so she, too, showered attention on Cabell and Taxi.
“Tell Blair how you were nicknamed Taxi.” Little Marilyn beamed at the older woman.
“Oh, that. He doesn’t want to hear that.” Taxi smiled.
“Yes, I do.” Blair encouraged her as Cabby watched with affection his wife of nearly three decades.
“Cabell is called Cabby. Fine and good but when the children were little I hauled them to school. I picked them up from school. I carried them to the doctor, the dentist, Little League, dance lessons, piano lessons, and tennis lessons. One day I came home dog tired and ready to bite. My husband, just home from his own hard day, wanted to know how I could be so worn out from doing my duties as a housewife. I explained in vivid terms what I’d been doing all day and he said I should start a local taxi service, as I already ran one for my own children. The name stuck. It’s sexier than Florence.”
“Honey, you’d be sexy if your name were Amanda,” Cabby praised her.
“What’s wrong with the name Amanda?” Brenda Sanburne asked.
“Miss Amanda Westover was the feared history teacher at my prep school,” her husband told her. “She taught Cabell, me—she may have even taught Grandfather. Mean.” Stafford Sanburne and Cabell Hall were both Choate graduates.
“Not as mean as my predecessor at the bank.” Cabell winked.
“Artie Schubert.” Little Marilyn tried to recall a face. “Wasn’t it Artie Schubert?”
“You were too young to remember.” Taxi patted Little Marilyn’s bejeweled hand. “He made getting a loan a most unpleasant process, or so I heard. Cabby and I were still in Manhattan at the time and he was approached by a board member of Allied National to take over the bank. Well, Richmond seemed like the end of the earth—”
Cabby interrupted: “It wasn’t that bad.”
“What happened was that we fell in love with central Virginia, so we bought a house here and Cabby commuted to work every day.”
“Still do. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays I’m at the branch in the downtown mall in Charlottesville. Do you know that in the last ten years or so our growth rate has exceeded that of every other bank in the state of Virginia—by percentage, of course. We’re still a small bank when compared to Central Fidelity, or Crestar, or Nations Bank.”
“Darling, this is a dinner party, not a stockholders’ meeting.” Taxi laughed. “Is it obvious how much my husband loves his job?”
As the guests agreed with Taxi and speculated on how people find the work that suits them, Fitz-Gilbert asked Blair, “Will you be attending opening hunt?”
Blair turned to Harry. “Will I be attending opening hunt?”
Stafford leaned toward Blair. “If she won’t take you, I will. You see, Harry will probably be riding tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you help me get ready in the morning and then you can meet everyone there?” Harry’s voice registered nothing but innocence.
This drew peals of laughter from the others, even Brenda Sanburne, who knew enough to realize that getting ready for a fox hunt can be a nerve-racking experience.
“Nice try, Harry.” Fitz-Gilbert toasted in her direction.
“Now my curiosity’s got the better of me. What time do I have to be at your barn?”
Harry twirled her fork. “Seven-thirty.”
“That’s not so bad,” Blair rejoined.
“If you drink enough tonight it will be,” Stafford promised.
“Don’t even mention it.” Fitz-Gilbert put his hand to his forehead.
“I’ll say. You’ve been getting snookered lately. This morning when I woke up, what a sorry face I saw.” Little Marilyn pursed her lips.
“Did you know, Blair, that Virginia is home to more fox-hunting clubs than any other state in the Union? Nineteen in all—two in Albemarle County,” Cabell informed him. “Keswick on the east side and Farmington on the west side.”
“No, I didn’t know that. I guess there are a lot of foxes. What’s the difference between the two clubs here? Why don’t they have just one large club?”
Harry answered, a wicked smile on her face, “Well, you see, Blair, Keswick Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money living in old, old, old Virginia homes. Farmington Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money that’s subdivided.”
This caused a whoop and a shout. Stafford nearly choked on his dessert.
Once recovered from this barb, the small group discussed New York, the demise of the theater, a topic creating lively debate, since Blair didn’t think theater was pooping out and Brenda did. Blair told some funny modeling stories which were enlivened by his talent for mimicry. Everyone decided the stock market was dismal so they’d wait out the bad times.
After dessert, the women moved over to the window seat in the living room. Brenda liked Harry. Many white people were likable but you couldn’t really trust them. Even though she knew her but slightly, Brenda felt she could trust Harry. In her odd way, the postmistress was color blind. What you saw with Harry was what you got and Brenda truly appreciated that. Whenever a white person said, “I’m not prejudiced myself . . . ,” you knew you were in trouble.