Sour Puss Page 5

His light-blue eyes merrily danced from one pretty lady to the other. “Oh, you know how extremely sensitive he is. Why, when he was pruning the vines at Rockland Vineyards this March, I mentioned, I hinted, I barely breathed the suggestion that perhaps he might be a bit more aggressive to encourage growth. He threw me off the place! I swore that would be the last time I’d try to help him. No one can work with him.” Hy held up his hand, the palm outward. “I remain dedicated to the revitalization of the Virginia wine industry, thanks to the brilliant effort started thirty some years ago by Felicia Rogan at Oakencroft Vinery, but I will not lift one finger, not even my pinky, to help that insufferable malcontent. If his grapes were infected with an anthracnose and I had the last ton of lime sulfur in the county, I wouldn’t sell it to him.”

  “Runs in the family. All the Pittmans are difficult people.” Harry accepted Toby but avoided him.

  “What’s an anthracnose?” Susan asked.

  “Bird’s eye,” Hy replied. “It’s a fungus on the leaves that looks like a bird’s eye. Tricky. The grapes seem okay, but the leaves wilt. Two or three years pass, everything seems okay. Eventually, though, the infection reaches the fruit and one gets misshapen grapes.”

  “Sure are a lot of things that attack grapes.”

  “There’s no foolproof crop.” He shrugged.

  “Weeds.” Susan cupped her head in her hand.

  Harry laughed. “When people talk about a natural garden, I figure they mean weeds.” She turned her attention back to Hy. “By the time I apply every remedy to my little vines, I won’t have a penny of profit.”

  He smiled. “You’re too smart for that.” Tapping his thick cup, he continued. “You only apply fertilizer or spray when it is needed or at the right time as a preventive. We’re lucky here, so far. We’ve managed to keep grapes healthy.”

  “Persistence.” She paused, then smiled slowly. “And ego.”

  “You need ego to do anything well.” He agreed. “Gargantuan ego. Pantagruel. Yes, the Pantagruel of ego. That’s Toby. I have an ego. Felicia has an ego. Patricia has an ego, but we also have sense. Toby has none.” He assumed both ladies knew their Rabelais, and being well educated, they did know the work of France’s greatest comic writer, who worked in the first half of the sixteenth century.

  “Can anyone be a vintner without a huge ego?” Susan marveled at the complexity of the task. One had to select the correct grape for the soil, nurture it, harvest it, then sell it or actually make the wine oneself.

  It remained a science and an art to create the right medley of sensation on a discriminating palate.

  Harry, a foxhunter, evidenced a bit of the slyness of the fox herself. “Hy, surely Toby didn’t threaten to knock you off the stool because of pruning grapes. What exposed nerve did you touch today?” She smiled flirtatiously, since Hy believed himself attractive to all females worldwide.

  “Ah, yes.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Vincent Forland. I said I thought both those men at the panel gave everyone a blueprint for bioterrorism. Irresponsible!”

  “Hy, I didn’t think of that at the time. It was so fascinating, but you know, you’ve got a point there,” Harry said.

  Hy shrugged a Gallic shrug, one imitated but never perfected by those not born to the greatness of France. “Mark my words, ladies. It will all come to a bad end.”

  “Why would that set off Toby?” Susan knew Toby had a short fuse, but he seemed extra agitated.

  “Ah, Toby, the morally superior Toby. When I suggested to him that Professor Forland and Dr. Jenkins might as well work for the terrorists given that they’d told us too much, he cursed me and swore that was ridiculous. I said, no, smart. The two experts appear to be warning us, but they’re scaring people. Plants as lethal agents, common enough plants, such things could be distilled by someone who knows less than Professor Forland.”

  “Toby seems to have a volatile relationship with Professor Forland,” Susan said.

  “Toby likes him, but I guess he’s never really gotten over not being hired by Tech,” commented Harry, who in her typical fashion didn’t believe there would be emotional repercussions in her life because of Arch’s return.

  “He takes things so personally,” Susan said compassionately.

  “And now Arch is here, a partner to Rollie Barnes. That grates on Toby’s high-strung nature,” Harry said.

  Hy nodded gravely. “This is so. You have a big heart, Susan. First, Toby lost his temper when I suggested that his esteemed Professor Forland might as well give terrorists a blueprint if he’s not already in their employ. Then when I said Professor Forland could also work for Homeland Security or some other agency, he erupted. He shook his finger at me and declared Professor Forland would never stoop to cooperating with our right-wing government.”

  “Is that what he called our government?” Susan’s cheeks reddened.

  “Alas, madam, he did.”

  “Toby prides himself on being an anarchist.” Harry felt the warmth from her cup on her hands. “But you know, irritating as he can be about stuff like that, it’s good we hear it. Otherwise, we’re just a bunch of sheep.”

  “Still, can’t a man be amusing?” Hy held up his hands in bafflement.

  6

  Rollie Barnes touched a stock; it surged upward. His gorgeous wife, twenty-two years younger than Rollie, prudently hid her intelligence from him, for he was not a man comfortable with formidable females. For all his brains, Rollie was rather a weak fellow emotionally. This in turn made him aggressive, a quality not appreciated in its raw form in the South.

  Born on the wrong side of the tracks in Stamford, Connecticut, Rollie slogged through the local community college. Yet once he found his gift, to his credit he made the most of it.

  “Periosteal elevation.” Rollie pronounced this with finality.

  Fair, who had delivered the foal, tried not to smile. “An invasive procedure, Mr. Barnes. This little fellow doesn’t need a P and E.” He used the shorthand version for the procedure, one known to horsemen.

  Mim would have known instantly what Fair was discussing—surgery required on the knee of the foreleg.

  “I want this foal to have straight legs.” Rollie folded his arms across his chest as he stood, legs apart, under a completely unnecessary chandelier in the stable.

  “Honey, he likes me.” Chauntal put her blonde head down to the colt, who nuzzled her as his mother turned to look.

  Fair smiled. He liked Chauntal. He didn’t envy her. It’s easier to make money than to marry it.

  “Mr. Barnes, this colt has carpal valgus: knock-knees. I think he’ll straighten out in time. Right now I wouldn’t do anything restrictive. I wouldn’t even put a splint on him, because it’s not that bad.” He didn’t say a P and E would be the wrong thing to do, because, being a sensitive man, Fair didn’t want Rollie to take offense.

  “Well, it looks bad to me.” Rollie’s lower lip jutted out.

  “I’m sure it does, but it’s a mild case. Truth is, you don’t want a horse with straight, straight legs. A truly straight leg actually promotes knee problems.”

  “But I read that this stripping is used on knock-kneed foals.”

  “I guess some vets do it, but I’d really only do a P and E for an ankle problem or badly bowed legs. It really will take care of itself. This little fellow will be just fine.”

  Chauntal couldn’t keep her hands off the lovely bay colt. “Dr. Haristeen, what is periosteal stripping?”

  “It’s pretty interesting, ma’am. You make a small, inverted T-shaped cut through the periosteum, right above the growth plate. You lift the edges of the periosteum, and in most young foals the leg will grow straight after four to six weeks. What the surgery really does is allow the slower-growing side of the leg to catch up. The cut releases the tension on the membrane that covers the growth plate—that’s what’s called the periosteum. Guess I should have said that in the first place.” He smiled reassuringly.

  “Well, I’m going to ask
Dan Flynn.” Rollie mentioned a nationally famous equine vet who lived in Albemarle County.

  “Sir, you won’t find anyone better. You can also call Reynolds Coles or Anne Bonda or Greg Schmidt. They’re all excellent vets. Dan, as you probably know, is so famous he’s in demand all over. I’m surprised one of those Saudi princes hasn’t offered Dan and Ginger,” he mentioned Dan’s wife, a small-animal vet, “a million to practice in Dubai.”

  That Fair hadn’t been insulted surprised Rollie, who imagined every exchange with another man as a contest of wills, wits, and, of course, money.

  Chauntal, often embarrassed by Rollie, tried not to show it. Born poor in Mississippi, she was raised by people with beautiful manners, people who respected other people. Her mother, father, and sister didn’t rejoice in Rollie’s wealth. They thought him rude and unfeeling. They prayed their beautiful girl would have a good life. That her husband would respect her. Not that they showed anything to Rollie but pleasantness. He tried to buy them things, which they refused.

  Rollie understood only money. He was a poor man for all his wealth.

  “You tell me what you want to do, Mr. Barnes, and if you want to go ahead with surgery, I’ll step aside for another vet or assist, if you choose. As I said, any of those folks are excellent. You can’t find better.”

  “I’ll have my secretary call you after Dr. Flynn has a look.”

  “Fine.” Fair reached over and patted the colt.

  The little fellow had a lovely eye.

  “Heard BoomBoom’s got a mule.” Rollie smirked.

  “Mules are good animals.”

  “Is she really going to train it? That’s what Paul said.” Chauntal was surprised.

  “When did you see Paul?” Rollie grilled her, because Paul de Silva was handsome and sexy.

  “When I went down to Tazio’s to see how she was coming with the plans for your wine-press building.”

  This pleased him. “Ah, yes, they’re an item.” He turned to Fair. “She’s easy to work with, and since she’s at the beginning of her career, I’m getting good value for my money.”

  Fair thought the world of the young architect. “You made a wise choice.”

  This puffed up Rollie. His sandy hair, thinned a bit on top, retained its color. A bit weedy, he at least didn’t sport a big potbelly like Hy Maudant. When he first made money, Rollie hired consultants to teach him how to dress, consultants to teach him what fork and knife to use. He’d mastered these intricacies.

  As they walked outside the brick stable painted a soft peach with white trim, dark-green shutters on the windows of the office, the breeze ruffled Fair’s thick hair.

  Chauntal skipped along, slipping her arm through Rollie’s. “Honey, show him your latest.”

  Rollie pointed down to the south side of the farm. “Merlot.”

  Arch could be seen walking along the straight rows of vines.

  “Heard you planted them last November.”

  “Twenty acres of Merlot. Fifteen in Pinot Gris. And that’s just the beginning.”

  “Arch will know just what to do,” Fair noted.

  “Veritas Vineyards wanted him, but I offered a partnership and that closed the deal. He’s thirty-four, his best years ahead.” Rollie smirked.

  Fair bit his tongue, then replied, “Arch has a lot of hands-on knowledge and ambition. Those years in the Napa Valley gave him a lot of experience.”

  “Chauntal and I intend to make the best red wine in the state of Virginia. Great design on the label, too. ’Course, we’re still in the creative stage.” He pulled drawings out of his pocket. They were pretty.

  Fair thought of Hy Maudant’s white square label, with a gold fleur-de-lis underneath the simple logo “White Vineyards.” He murmured about the colors.

  “Dr. Haristeen, can we get you anything to drink, a sandwich perhaps? You’ve had a long morning, I’m sure.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Barnes. My next call is at St. James.”

  “Alicia Palmer.” Rollie’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen her, but I’ve never met her.”

  “She likes her solitude, her horses, and her Gordon setter, Max. She’s a thinker.” Fair wasn’t one to gossip.

  Before Rollie could open his mouth and put his foot in it regarding the legendary Alicia, Chauntal said, “Congratulations on your marriage.” She’d heard that Harry and Arch once had an affair, but Chauntal would never mention this—not even to Rollie. Let him hear it, which he would eventually. She’d pretend surprise, which would please him. Then, too, the longer Rollie didn’t know, the longer she had before he blurted out something inappropriate.

  “I am a lucky devil.” Fair’s eyes twinkled.

  As he drove down the long drive lined with blooming Bradford pears, he thought how lucky he really was, how exquisite spring could be in central Virginia, three months of color and coolness that finally surrendered to summer’s warmth.

  He also thought that Rollie Barnes would be eventually disappointed in Crozet. In their first year, the Barneses had succeeded in being invited to the big parties but had yet to be asked to the small, intimate gatherings, which were far more important. People liked Chauntal. They had more difficulty liking Rollie. At least his new interest in making wine aligned him with the great powers in the county.

  Fair turned right on Route 810, headed down toward Crozet. St. James was a little closer to town.

  7

  Carter’s Ridge, like a slender rib off a fish’s spine, runs northeast–southwest from the Blue Ridge Mountains from which it has become detached over millennia. Eppes Creek slides into the north fork of the Hardware River near the northeast ridge of Carter’s Ridge. The old bridge, washed out many times since Europeans arrived this far west in Virginia, was replaced with a trestle bridge a stone’s throw east of that confluence. Route 20, a snaky, dangerous road, rolled over the bridge.

  Turning left at Carter’s Bridge, if one had originally been traveling south on Route 20, estates such as Red Mountain were hidden from view. One mile and a half down the road, the land opened and a beautiful valley impressed itself on the viewer. James Monroe had lived on this road at Ash Lawn, a simple, yellow, gracious Federal home at the end of a curving tree-lined drive. Morven, once home to Thoroughbreds and those who loved them, was also situated on the northern side of the road, as was Albemarle House, the center of Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard, established in 1999.

  Professor Forland luxuriated in the lavish hospitality of Patricia Kluge and her husband, Bill Moses. During the days, chauffeured in Patricia’s much-used Range Rover, he inspected her Chardonnay grapes along with the rows of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. He counseled her on using three shoots off the main stem even though two was safer.

  “That third one is your insurance policy,” he declared.

  Given her legendary generosity, Patricia made certain that Professor Forland had an opportunity to visit other practitioners of the art. In her mind and in Bill’s, it wasn’t enough for her or for Felicia Rogan of Oakencroft to flourish; all should flourish. Throughout the week, she personally drove him to the vineyards of Hy Maudant, Rollie Barnes, and Arch Saunders. She also stopped at smaller places where a farmer nursed scarcely an acre under cultivation.

  Patricia believed in the theory that you can give a man a fish or you can teach him to fish. She thought teaching someone to fish was by far the greater service.

  The good professor made many a suggestion, and the recipients were suitably thrilled. None more than Toby Pittman.

  Toby prided himself on the types of grapes he was growing. One, Barbera, a red from Italy’s Piedmont region, did quite well in Virginia’s Piedmont. Toby aggressively promoted the grape. Barboursville Vineyard also used Barbera. The Italians, according to Toby, pushed their grapes, and the Barbera was suffering a loss of quality. He asserted that he was doing a better job of it. When Professor Forland sampled one of Toby’s casks, he agreed, with reservations.

  “Be wary of too much s
piciness, Toby.” Professor Forland spat out the small tasting on the ground, as one was supposed to do; otherwise the small fellow would have been drunk as a skunk by the end of the day. “Now, mind you, my strongest suit is under the canopy,” he alluded to his expertise being in the actual growing itself, “but I have an educated palate.”

  Toby waited while Patricia sampled his wine. “Medium-bodied, and I love the hint of tobacco flavor. You’re an artist, Toby.” Her smile dazzled him.

  Patricia had that effect on men.

  “As I said, mind the spiciness.” Professor Forland then sampled Toby’s newer type of grape, which was a Petit Verdot. “Mmm. Yes. I assume you’ll be blending this with Cabernet Sauvignon when all is ready. Growing that, too, are you?”

  “No. Tried. I don’t like what I get. I buy from Dinny Ostermann when I can. He cultivates five acres of Cabernet Sauvignon over in Crozet. Just the right combination of sun, rain, and soil.”

  “For all our studies, I sometimes think Dionysus smiles on one man and not another, all things being equal.” He paused, beaming at his hostess. “We know the gods smile on you, but none has smiled more than Aphrodite.”

  “Professor, you’re very kind.”

  Toby, not smooth enough to have thoughts of mentioning Aphrodite, scowled. “You know how I know I’m succeeding?”

  “Your wine tells you that,” Professor Forland said.

  “Yeah, but the way I really know is that Arch offered to buy Rockland. ’Course, it’s all Rollie’s money.” He laughed. “If Rollie and Arch ever got their hands on Rockland it would fry Hy Maudant’s last misshapen brain cell. They can bid against each other. I’m not selling one acre. I know what I’ve got.”

  Later that evening, another extraordinary dinner was hosted where Bill had wisely sprinkled the guests with politicians from all levels of state government who could or should help the wine industry along with local growers. Since he was a worrier by nature, Professor Forland felt for the first time that the hard years for Virginia vintners were behind them at last.