Outfoxed Read online

  As Crawford listened to the sermon, he admired the young man’s audacity in speaking thus in the lion’s den. And he agreed with Thigpin’s conclusions. We must read the Bible in historical context. We must cherish the message of forgiveness and redemption.

  As to wealth, if one shares, one is doing one’s duty. After all, in ancient Judaea there were no relief agencies. No one today led such a wretched life as the maimed and poor of that time. And what would happen if people of means chose poverty? There would be even more mouths to feed. The choice was to use one’s wealth in a structured, moral manner

  Crawford liked that. He was going to remember that phrase, “structured, moral manner.”

  When the service ended he leaned over. “May I take you to breakfast?”

  Marty studied her fingernail polish, then replied, “The club?”

  “Yes.”

  Within fifteen minutes they were seated at Crawford’s favorite table by the large fireplace, cherry logs crackling, each drinking a robust coffee.

  “You know, Marty, time teaches us all and it has taught me that I allowed my lawyers to manipulate my complex feelings over our parting. I’ve spoken to Adrian”—he mentioned the director of the country club—“and I have purchased a full membership in your name. Now you can golf without those long waits at the public course.”

  Her lovely light brown eyes opened wide. “Crawford.”

  He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would tee off with me from time to time, although I will never be as good a golfer as you. Used to frustrate me, Martha.” He leaned forward. “I have been foolishly competitive and controlling. Then I turned forty and I don’t know what happened exactly. Male menopause and all that but it was more. Some kind of primal fear. Didn’t you feel it when you turned forty?”

  “No, but I only just did.”

  “I thought women feared age more than men.”

  “Depends on the woman. Crawford, this is a generous gift. I’ll regard it as a thoughtful birthday present.”

  “I sent you a dozen roses for your birthday. I almost sent forty but then I thought, ‘Maybe not.’ ”

  “How’s the farm?” She changed the subject.

  “Good, although I’m afraid the water will jump the banks again. If that bridge goes down, I’m building a suspension bridge out of steel girders.”

  “You’ll rebuild what is already there because it’s utterly perfect. You have an incredible eye.” She laughed low. “Your strip malls look prettier than anyone else’s.”

  “Do you ever regret leaving Indiana and moving here with me?”

  “No. It’s magical here. I only regret our marriage blew up like a grenade.”

  “My fault.”

  “I’d like to think that but maybe I’ve had to learn a few things myself. I thought I was inadequate. Then I thought you were inadequate. I’m not using the words I used at the time.” He tipped his head to one side as she continued. “I was raised to believe my task was to complete you and that you would complete me. But I lived through you. When we were young that must have made you feel quite manly, I suppose. But as we jostled along in years, it must have been a burden. And face it, the sex wears off. No one wants to admit it. God knows, the bookstores are filled with remedies about how to keep the fire in your marriage. Perhaps some people can, but we didn’t. I understand your chorus girl.” Using the words “chorus girl” was the only hint she gave of a trace of bitterness. “So you see, it wasn’t exactly your fault. You acted on your feelings. I didn’t.”

  “You were bored, too?” He felt so incredibly relieved that she wasn’t swinging the wronged-and-superior-woman cudgel.

  “Constricted.” Her hand reached for her throat.

  They stopped the conversation while the waitress, the same one he usually had at the club, brought her eggs and his waffles. She refilled their coffee cups, then retreated.

  “I went into therapy, you know.”

  “I did, too.” She giggled. “I’m still going.”

  “Me, too. No one knows but you. Doesn’t look good for a man to be, well, you know.”

  “I know.” She told the truth. The double standard cut both ways.

  “You won’t rat on me?”

  “No.”

  “Martha, do you think we could date? Get to know one another again on a better footing?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Crawford, I never stopped loving you. I stopped trusting you. Perhaps we should take it slow.”

  “Tuesday nights?”

  “Why don’t we hunt together in the morning first, provided you don’t run Fontaine into any more jumps.”

  A sly smile betrayed his glee. “Still mad, is he?”

  “Fontaine has an endless capacity for revenge. Underneath that priapic exterior lies something darker than I realized.”

  “He has to one-up every other man he meets. Like you once said to me, it’s ‘testosterone poisoning.’ I have a fair amount of the stuff myself.” He poured more maple syrup on his waffles, which were so light they might have flown away.

  She leaned closer. “Maybe it’s a deep anger because he’ll never be the man his grandfather was. People say Nathaniel Buruss crushed people underfoot.”

  “It’s hard to become rich in business without crushing others. I thought that was a good sermon. Thigpin is quite good. When Tom Farley retired I worried for Saint Luke’s but I think Thigpin is tough, good tough.”

  “Me, too. Back to Fontaine. I mean it. Don’t run him into another jump. He’s a pretty good rider. You were lucky this time but I’d stay behind him in the hunt field if I were you.”

  “I hate that you work for him.”

  “I’m learning a lot and much as you dislike him, he’s been very good to me. Only good to me and a gentleman . . . and I’d like to open my own landscaping business someday. I really love it.”

  “The only reason he’s a gentleman to you is I’d kill him if he weren’t.”

  “Craw, in the beginning you didn’t care. You were happy to be rid of me and he truly helped me through that awful first year. It was awful. If I learned nothing else, I learned that divorce lawyers have everything to gain by fanning the flames. They don’t want to settle. They don’t want people to work it out. My lawyer was as reprehensible as your lawyer, except he preyed on my being a woman. He was ‘taking care’ of me and I fell for it.”

  “A plague on both their houses. I should have given you all the money I paid that bastard. Well, it’s over. We’re going to go on. I’m a different man, Martha. I truly am.”

  “Parts of the old one were quite wonderful, you know.” She smiled flirtatiously and suddenly looked like the beautiful Kappa Kappa Gamma he’d met at Indiana University all those years ago.

  He smiled magnanimously. “I owe you a great deal. You believed in me when I was young, and I wouldn’t be foxhunting had it not been for you. You got me up on a horse and I will always be grateful for that.”

  “At first I didn’t know if you’d stick it out. If you’d learn to ride. When you did, well, I think it made me love you more than I could ever imagine. You did it for me.”

  “Yes.” He folded his hands together. “Now I can’t imagine not hunting. I’ve put a lot of myself into the club, you know. I hope it pays off.”

  Crawford couldn’t give to give. There had to be a payback.

  “Sister visited Fontaine. . . .” Realizing she might be betraying a confidence, she quickly shut up.

  Crawford tensed. “There’s no reason for her to visit him unless it’s about the mastership.”

  Fumbling, Martha finally squealed, “Maybe not. He has to fix the coop he smashed.”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “No.”

  “How long was she there?”

  “Oh, twenty minutes.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Damn! Fontaine is such a lightweight.”

  “Well, we were kind of talking about that. There’s this part of Fontaine that wants to prove he’s not. He�
�s been cooking up some business deal he won’t discuss. I only know it because I see the name Gordon Smith penciled in on his daybook occasionally.” Gordon Smith was a commercial contractor building large office buildings in northern Virginia, especially around Dulles airport. Wealthy, highly intelligent, and driven, he lived in Upperville. “I also saw Peter Wheeler’s name penciled in last week.”

  “Fontaine doesn’t know the first thing about commercial real estate.” He thought a moment. “Why would Gordon Smith waste his time with Fontaine? Peter Wheeler, though, that is bad news. I’d better get over there to see him.”

  “Don’t underestimate Fontaine.”

  He grimaced, then smiled indulgently. “You’re fond of him. He protected you when I was at my worst. I suppose I should be grateful to him. I’m not sure I’ve evolved that much. Just once I’d like to knock his fucking block off. I want to hear his teeth rattle across the floor.”

  “That’s graphic.”

  “Sorry.” He drained his cup. “I can’t help it. I hate that bastard.”

  “And you want to be joint-master.”

  Downcast, he said, “Sister hasn’t paid a call to me.”

  “Sister is full of surprises.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sister was full of surprises. She walked out into the Sunday drizzle just as Cody Jean Franklin pulled into the kennels. Cody was furious about Doug dumping her at her door. She’d had a whole night to get even more angry.

  “Cody,” Sister called out, Raleigh at her heels.

  Cody turned, her baseball cap low over her eyes. She pushed the cap back. “Good morning. You must have gone to church early this morning.”

  “Six-thirty service. I get claustrophobic sitting there with the eight o’clock rush. Where are you working now?”

  “Freelancing. I catch a ride in the mornings and work at Shear Power in the afternoons. I quit waiting on tables.”

  “I didn’t know you could cut hair.”

  “I’m the receptionist.”

  “Cody, what’s wrong with you?” Sister bore down. “Learn the print business. Your parents spent their whole lives building that business. It hasn’t made them rich but they paid for their home and sent you to college, and Jennifer will go, too.”

  “Jennifer can run the business.” Cody feared Sister, but then most people did have a touch of fear about the dynamic old lady. “I’m not cut out for that.”

  “Well, what are you cut out for? You’re twenty-five. You can’t just do nothing.”

  “Not quite twenty-five.”

  “Don’t quibble. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You must have a special interest.”

  “Horses.”

  Sister whistled to Raleigh, who had walked on ahead. He hurried back. “Hard way to make a living but if you love it, truly love it, then do it. You’ve only got one life and you spend most of it working. Do what you love. I did.”

  “You had Mr. Arnold.” Cody showed some backbone.

  “I didn’t start life with Raymond. I taught geology at Mary Baldwin College. Of course, I graduated with a degree in English but they needed a geology teacher so I learned. Funny, it’s helped me so much in hunting. Anyway, I worked. I taught even after Raymond and I were married. That was long before your time. I stopped when I had the baby. So there. Find something you like and stop wasting your life.”

  “I wish I knew. You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is easy. You’re waiting for someone to live your life for you, Cody.”

  “I’m not. I’m a little, uh, rudderless right now.”

  “I’m talking to you because no one else will.”

  “Guess they’re talking behind my back.”

  “This is a small town. The time to worry is when they’re not talking about you.”

  Cody laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “There’s a rabbit over there.” Raleigh could see it hop off in the drizzle.

  Sister put her hand on the sleek black head. “I don’t have any cookies.” She returned her attention to Cody. “I’m glad you came out to help with the hounds.”

  Cody pretended she was there for hound walk. “They need to go out.”

  “Missed a day hunting. Do you know last year I only canceled twice. Twice. And here it is cubbing and I’ve already canceled once.”

  “The weather is—” Cody shrugged.

  “Have your parents talked to you? About direction, I mean.”

  “Dad huffs. Mother is sympathetic.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t want to leave here. There’s more opportunities in Richmond but I love it here by the mountains. I’d rather bump along than move there or go down to Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte is totally unrecognizable to me.” Sister recalled the small textile town in North Carolina from her youth. “Here I’ve peppered you with questions but I haven’t provided any answers. Can’t, you know. Has to come from you.”

  “Well, when Jennifer gets out of college I think we’ll start our own business. Maybe if she really takes over Mom and Dad’s business I could work with her. I’m hoping—” She broke her train of thought and couldn’t quite get back to it.

  “Will you go out Tuesday?”

  “I’m trying a new horse for Fontaine. Could be a rodeo show.” Cody pulled her cap down again.

  “Ride in the back of the field, then.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Cody . . .”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You can’t drown your sorrows. They know how to swim.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Chickens amused Peter Wheeler. He’d built a sturdy chicken coop with a pitched roof, bought steel broody boxes, and built little ladders for them to perch on when not nestled in the boxes.

  He fed them in the mornings, then returned at sundown to count heads, refill the water bucket, pluck eggs from the boxes.

  Long ago he ran cattle, kept a few sheep, had hundreds of chickens, and grew hay as well. He’d always kept four horses, since he loved hunting.

  Children found their way to Peter. Doug Kinser wound up there. The Lungrun children would come after school, as they desperately needed a happy atmosphere. Children walked over from surrounding farms or hitched rides out from town.

  Age wore him down. In his eighties now, Peter had only the chickens left and a well-built harrier named Rooster.

  He’d sold his business, a tractor dealership, for quite a bit of money, so his declining years were not attended by that poverty sadly common among the elderly.

  He stooped a bit but still had thick wavy white hair plus all his teeth.

  Often “his kids” would drive down the country road to visit him. He’d go into town on Wednesdays to see old friends.

  Like many old people, he looked forward to chatting with anyone who dropped in.

  He heard a truck rumble up to the house.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice called out.

  “In the henhouse,” he answered.

  The door pushed open; Sister hugged him. “You love these damn chickens.” She leaned over. “Hi there, Rooster.”

  “Hi.” He wagged his tail.

  “Imelda, here”—he lifted up a plump chicken—“has turned into my best layer.” He gave Sister the egg basket.

  “Wish it would stop raining.”

  “Has been wet.” He handed her about a dozen eggs as he walked down the broody boxes. “I’ve got plenty. You take those home.”

  “Thanks.” She reached in, feeling the warm brown eggs. “Peter, has Fontaine contacted you?”

  “Wants to buy the place. Crawford, too. The numbers go up and up.”

  “Fontaine doesn’t have money anymore. Don’t let him carry you fast.”

  “Do I look like a fool?”

  “No. In fact, you look quite handsome.”

  “Bullshit. Fontaine says he has investors. Crawford has cold hard cash. Both say they want to s
ave the farm from developers. I say they’re both liars of the first water. What do you say?”

  “Suspicious.”

  “And then some.”

  “Good money?”

  “Yes. Crawford started at one-point-five million and is up to two-point-seven. Fontaine says to give him until November and he’ll come up with three million.”

  “Jesus.”

  “For a nature conservancy. I asked for papers, contracts, conservation easements. Crawford had them. Now, sugar pie, they look good, but any decent lawyer will spot the loopholes. Sounds like Wheeler’s Mill Estates to me.” He laughed.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m too goddamned old to enjoy it but I like the action. Used to love to make deals in my youth—my sixties and seventies.”

  “Do they know they’re competing?”

  “They do.” He laughed louder. “Lord, it’s fun. Those two boys hate each other.” He wrapped his arm around her. “Come on to the house. You look peaked, honey.”

  “I was scared you might sell.”

  “Come on.”

  They went inside, drank a little sherry, and laughed at all the things people know about one another and their community when they’ve lived together a long time.

  She checked her watch. “I’d better head out.”

  “Janie, I still love you. I want you to know that.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Ever wonder what would have happened if we could have married?”

  “I’d be feeding chickens.” She laughed, then said, “Life’s strange.”

  “It is that.”

  The fleeting image of the Grim Reaper jolted Sister. She said, “Peter, if I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing. You know when Ray Junior died I thought God was punishing me for our affair. Then time passed and I thought differently.”

  “God doesn’t punish us for love. Only people do that.”