Harry’s mother used to say, “A woman must suffer for beauty.”
Harry’s reply was, “Let someone else suffer. I’m happy to look at her.”
Her suffering wasn’t nearly as bad as she thought it was. She’d never endured plastic surgery, she didn’t spend bags of money once a week for facials and manicures. She’d only once enjoyed a massage. She dabbed on mascara, blusher, and lipstick. That was it. However, she had spent a pretty penny on the gown, and it showed.
So exclusive was the fund-raiser that it was white tie, not black. Years ago, Fair had bought a bespoke suit of tails, two tuxedos, and one white dinner jacket with a satin shawl collar. Like Harry’s mother, his father had sought to prepare him for many of the social functions one needed to frequent. Nothing looked better than clothes cut for you, and if a man kept his weight steady, he need never buy more.
“I didn’t paint my fingernails.”
“I didn’t paint mine, either.” He smiled.
She looked out the window at the sun, forty-five minutes from setting. “I think it’s going to cool down.”
“You have your mother’s fabulous coat.”
“I do. I wish I had my mother’s fabulous style.”
“I like your style: fresh and natural.”
She looked at him. “You must want hot sex tonight.”
He leaned back. “Harry, whenever I’m with you the thought is uppermost in my mind.”
“Do you think men think about sex more than women or do you think it’s cultural? You know what I mean.” Harry wasn’t always the most articulate soul.
“We’ll never know what’s cultural and what’s biological, because science is always in service to power. Even veterinary medicine. What do I personally think after forty-two years of observation? That men think about sex more than women do. However, I don’t think women are that far behind. They display it more discreetly, if they display their thoughts at all.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I’m bored sitting in this line and I’m already crabby about being in this gown. I feel like a drag queen, even if I am a woman.”
“A lady. You’re an elegant Virginia lady of black-type bloodlines.”
“Honey, if you said that to someone who wasn’t a horseman, they’d think you were talking about race.”
“Guess they would.”
Black type in a Thoroughbred pedigree meant the animal had won Grade I races. Obviously, this was highly desired.
“I admire Tazio’s outlook,” Harry said. “Being half African-American, half Italian certainly provided her with insight, not just into race but into culture, people’s petty prejudices, you name it. You know, I have never heard her once utter a remark about race, pro or con.”
“You can bet she heard about it in school.”
“Well, her parents sent her to the most expensive girls’ prep in St. Louis.”
“Doesn’t mean she didn’t brush up against ugly remarks. If anything, rich kids can be even more snide than poor ones.”
“I don’t know about that. Small little minds looking for something to hold against someone else bite you sooner or later.”
“Luckily for her she is beautiful.”
“She really is, and that’s another thing I admire about her: she doesn’t use it. Some women can use it like a whip against men and women.”
“I know.” He smiled ruefully. “Lately, though, Tazio has looked drawn.”
“Carla and Mike. She’s worried about offending Big Mim, too, over this ball.”
He cleared his throat, moved forward a bit. “The whole situation with Little Mim is pretty ridiculous. It’s not Tazio’s fault. And, remember, let us always remember, it was Big Mim who suggested—no, insisted—that Folly chair the fund-raiser.”
“I know and you know that, but it’s still going to be sticky with Little Mim and Blair at Folly’s table.” She sighed. “At least Tazio and Paul will be at ours.”
“There’s a reason I work with horses and not people.”
“I hear you.” She laughed. “Have I told you how handsome you look?”
“You’re trying to soften me up for sex tonight, aren’t you?” He paused. “Soften is the wrong word.”
“I never worry about you.” She smacked his arm. “God, this is taking forever.”
“Look at it this way, the ball is already a success.”
“Tell that to my bladder.”
“Mine, too.”
Another fifteen minutes, amid lights flashing on sheriff vehicles, and the Haristeens had parked.
Harry, holding on to Fair’s arm as would a proper lady from the early nineteenth century, whispered, “There’s got to be Porta-Johns somewhere.”
Since Fair was so tall, he looked around. “Over there. A whole row, before we even are escorted to the festivities.”
They made a beeline—not easy, since Harry was in low heels. Her long dress covered up that she wasn’t tottering in high heels.
Each hurried into adjoining Johns.
She heard him laughing.
“What are you laughing at? I can hear you!”
“I’m not telling.”
He emerged first, of course, and waited dutifully. Finally, a red-faced Harry came out, the metal and plastic door reverberating behind her.
A line had already formed for the Johns, so she kept her voice low as they walked away. “What’s so funny?”
“I was imagining you trying to balance yourself, hold up all the voluminous material, pull your panties down, and then go. Whew.”
She laughed so hard she had to stop. “At least you appreciate the problem. One of these days, I’ll dress you up and you can really learn what we go through to please you brutes.”
“You’ll never find shoes big enough.”
“Oh, yes, I will. There have got to be drag queens as big as you are.” She glanced up at him, his face baby-smooth, as if he had used a five-bladed razor. “Ever do drag?”
“Hazing for Phi Delta Theta when I was a pledge.” He named his college fraternity. “I actually liked the silk and the colors, and I loved being hairless. You know, I hadn’t really seen my chest muscles or my arms so clearly since I hit puberty. I could see every muscle, plus it felt so smooth. Sexy, really, and then the hair started to grow out. Itchy. Awful. Awful.” He giggled.
“Were you a pretty girl?”
“Not as pretty as you.”
“Right answer.”
A gentleman in attire from the second decade of the nineteenth century held out his gloved hand for Harry, and a young lady in pale-salmon silk held out her hand for Fair.
They walked through a promenade of shaped boxwoods in huge glazed pots, which led to the back lawn. The effect was that of walking through a corridor and suddenly coming into the light.
What light it was. The three hundred guests glowed in the long, slanting rays of the sun, its bottom a few degrees above the Blue Ridge.
Servants in livery opened glass lanterns on wrought-iron stands to light the beeswax candles within, using long tapers.
Small hanging lanterns, strung high, surrounded the stage, and occasional fanciful lanterns suspended from trees added to the extraordinary effect.
Harry could only glimpse the tables beyond the first gathering level. She and Fair would be ushered into the seating area later. But she could just see red, gold, white, and deep-purple floral arrangements.
On a broken Corinthian column in the center of the lawn towered a floral arrangement using the same colors again, with trailing ribbons of silver and gold and one baby-blue ribbon.
Thomas Jefferson would have loved it. The symmetry gave structure to everything and echoed the symmetry of the house. The occasional whimsical items, such as the lanterns or another boxwood carved as a rabbit on its haunches, would have amused him. The animal boxwoods were in large glazed vases.
Could Jefferson have seen Tazio Chappars, in a gown with crisscross chiffon straps over her bosoms, a long waist, and flowing skirts to the ground, all in the palest of pinks, he would have fallen head over heels. Those green eyes flashing above the pink added to her potent appeal.