The Bordeaux Betrayal

Chapter 16

I woke up early Saturday and went downstairs in my bathrobe to make coffee. On the way to the kitchen I looked through the parlor window to see if Quinn’s car was still in the driveway, though I doubted he’d spent the night in the summerhouse with the temperature dipping into the forties. The car was gone but a bright red trail of something led up the gravel driveway toward the house.

I opened the front door. If I hadn’t looked down, I would have stepped on the bloodied, gutted animal on the doorstep. I cried out and moved back. A dead fox.

Or meant to be. A stuffed animal. I’d seen him in a couple of shops in town—Freddie the Fox, bright-eyed, tail pointed straight as an arrow, feet positioned as though he were on the run, and a goofy, sly smile on his face.

Someone had ripped Freddie open and poured red paint on him, leaving his “entrails” for me to find. I listened at the bottom of the staircase in case my shriek had wakened Pépé but there was no sound from the second floor. Thank God, because I didn’t want him to see someone’s twisted idea of a prank.

I went back upstairs and got dressed. Freddie’s final resting place was a black plastic trash bag, which I left in the old carriage house we used as a garage. It seemed like a good idea to hang on to Freddie, at least for a while. A few minutes with the garden hose, the nozzle turned to a hard spray, washed away the paint until the pale pink rivulets disappeared into the border gardens and bushes.

That was the end of the fox, except for the image still in my mind. Somehow such a juvenile act didn’t seem like something Claudia and Stuart Orlando would pull to get their point across about foxhunting. But if not them, who else was angry that I planned to let the Goose Creek Hunt ride through my farm in three days? This afternoon Pépé and I planned to watch a couple of Mick’s maiden horses run in the GCH’s fall Point-to-Point. Whoever left Freddie on my doorstep probably expected me to be upset enough to react—maybe even call off the meet at Highland Farm.

I put away the hose and decided to keep my mouth shut.

From an oak-shaded ridge overlooking 112 acres of green velvet hills that tossed and rolled, spectators gathered to watch thoroughbreds gallop across the vast, sweeping panorama of Glenwood Park. On the far stretches of the four-mile course, the horses and riders would look like toys as they cleared fences of brush or timber. I liked coming here for the spring and fall races. For all the breathtaking beauty of Glenwood, the atmosphere was less formal and less pressured for the horses, owners, and jockeys than the big-purse races like the International Gold Cup held nearby at The Plains.

The relaxed mood spilled over to the tailgate picnics where people with kids and dogs in tow sauntered from group to group to mingle, chat, drink, and eat. It was possible to feast royally at these events—smoked salmon, caviar, pâté, champagne served in Waterford flutes, fine wine in Riedel stemware, and handmade chocolates and exquisite cakes for dessert. The drinks were kept on ice and served off the tailgate of a Range Rover or Mercedes station wagon. The food—sometimes catered, sometimes homemade—was arranged on tables with pretty tablecloths and matching napkins. Fox- or horse-themed decorations and elaborately arranged flowers in antique silver urns or crystal vases were centerpieces. I liked the grace and easy flow of these parties and the chance to see so many friends and neighbors on a cool sun-spattered afternoon.

Amanda always had a betting pool at her tailgate, asking guests to make dollar wagers on each race. The maiden races were pure fun because the horses were unknown and untested in racing, which meant bets were often placed because someone liked an interesting name or the color of the jockey’s silks. The winner always donated the money to one of Amanda’s charities.

Her position as secretary of the Goose Creek Hunt gave her the clout to secure a railside space next to the finish line for her picnic. Although post-time wasn’t until one o’clock, I knew from experience that her party started at eleven when the gates opened. It was twelve-thirty when I parked the Mini on the grass field behind the paddock where dozens of cars and trucks had already lined up in ragged rows. Pépé and I walked toward the enclosed area reserved for patrons, past a line of empty horse trailers. Today all the horses that were racing were foxhunters since the Point-to-Point was the GCH’s annual fund-raiser. Mick, I suspected, would be in the owners’ tent near the stables and the jockeys’ area though he’d promised to join us once the races began.

As we got closer to the paddock I saw Shane Cunningham on a chestnut thoroughbred, talking to Sunny Greenfield. He wore his foxhunting Pinque, the red jacket that supposedly got its name from the British tailor who first made them, and a black hunt cap. Though he wouldn’t be racing, he’d be out in the field once the races started, working as an outrider to bring back any horse that got away from its jockey. He waved an arm over his head when he saw me and Sunny turned around. When we got to the paddock I introduced them to my grandfather.

Sunny was cool but polite. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’d better get going,” she said. “I have an appointment with a client in Charlottesville.”

“You’re missing your own Point-to-Point?” I asked.

“Can’t be helped. I think it may turn into a big job.” She glanced at Shane. “I’ll talk to you later.”

She nodded to Pépé and me. After she left there was an awkward silence and I wondered what she and Shane had been discussing.

“I hear your neighbors are trying to get you to close Highland Farm to the hunt,” he said to me. “Are they giving you much grief?”

I thought about Freddie. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good for you. So we’re still on for Tuesday?”

“Of course.”

“Okay if I come by before that and check the jumps and fences?”

Shane was one of the Goose Creek Hunt’s whippers-in, which meant he not only helped the Master of the Hunt but also was responsible for controlling the hounds—catching stragglers and making sure the pack stayed together as they chased the fox. Though the name sounded savage, a whipper-in didn’t abuse the hounds. Instead he rode ahead with the pack, often alone, before the other members of the hunt joined him.

I was glad he was conscientious enough to check in advance that nothing was damaged or broken before the meet, especially after what happened this morning. If whoever dropped Freddie off at my door decided to do some real harm out in the field, a rider or horse could get hurt.

“Of course you can come by,” I said. “When would you like to do it? We’ve been letting one of Quinn’s friends hunt deer lately since we’re overrun. I need to make sure no one’s out shooting that day.”

“How about Monday morning?”

“Monday’s fine.”

He touched his hand to his cap. “Thanks. I’d better go. They’re calling the riders to the starting line.”

“We’d better go, too,” I said to Pépé.

We got to Amanda’s crowded tailgate as the race, a novice flat, was about to begin. The horses, four-year-olds and up, had never won a race on the flat and would run for a mile and a half on turf only—no jumps or hurdles.

“You’re too late to bet.” Amanda sounded disappointed as we joined her at the fence where a dozen jockeys and horses waited for the starting gun.

“We’ll bet next time,” I said. “Sorry we’re late. I had to take care of something at the vineyard.”

“The riders are up.” The voice, which came over the speaker from the tower next to us, spoke soothingly. A moment later the same calm voice said, “And away they go.”

Amanda watched the course through binoculars as the horses moved farther away. “Good Lord,” she said. “I think I bet on a dud. Well, forget that race.”

“It’s only a dollar. And you give it to charity,” I said.

She lowered her binoculars and clutched her wide-brimmed hat as a gust of wind rustled the leaves in a nearby oak tree and blew others that had already fallen to the ground in a small whirlwind around us. “I still like to win,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get some champagne.”

We made our way through a crowd of her friends and family who clustered around the buffet tables or congregated in small groups with their food and drinks. A few older guests sat in the camping chairs, which had been arranged in rows facing the racecourse. People dressed up for these parties—women wore dresses or skirts and jackets with jewelry or scarves with foxes or horses on them. Men dressed in blazers, buttoned-down shirts, and khakis; the horses and foxes showed up on ties, cuff links, and belts.

The fashion exception was a teenage girl who leaned sulkily against Amanda’s car with the martyred expression of someone who’d been ordered to show up or else. Black makeup and clothes—lips, eyes, and nail polish on chewed fingernails went with tight, ripped jeans, high-topped black laceless sneakers, and a ratty jacket. Her lower lip and nose were pierced and she wore a studded leather collar around her neck that looked like it belonged on a dog. It took me a moment to recognize Amanda’s daughter Kyra. The last time I’d seen her, a few years ago at a landowner’s party given by the Goose Creek Hunt, she’d been a pretty, sweet-faced girl with honey-colored hair. Now the hair was midnight black and streaked red like bloody stripes.

Amanda noticed her, too. “Excuse me a moment,” she said and walked toward her daughter. She kept her voice low but Kyra, who looked as though she’d come to prove a point and embarrass her mother, did not.

“I told you I didn’t want to be here.” She folded her arms and looked away. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I’m dressed. I look fine.”

“Kyra—”

The girl bent and picked up a dirty satchel from the ground. “Can I go now? I have to meet someone. I showed up, didn’t I?”

Amanda looked as though she were trying to salvage whatever she could from the situation. “I want you in by midnight.”

Kyra slung the satchel over her shoulder and gazed at her mother with a look of contempt and incredulity. “I’ll be in when I feel like it.” She turned to leave. “Stupid cow.”

“Kyra!”

Her daughter walked away, head down and satchel bouncing on her back, but with a spring in her step that said she wasn’t sorry she’d just humiliated her mother in front of her friends. I felt sorry for both of them but I knew what I’d just witnessed was probably nothing compared to what went on at home.

After my mother died, Mia decided to pay God and everyone else back for her loss by getting into as much trouble as possible as fast as she could. Her downward spiral and the screaming matches with Leland over boys, school, booze, and drugs scared and exhausted all of us. No one knew if she was prepared to go past the point of no return when there’d be no saving her. I used to lie in bed at night and wonder whose life had become the living hell—Mia’s or the rest of the family’s? Then I would try to recall the past and which cracks she’d slipped through that I’d missed seeing, until finally one day I woke up to find my sweet baby sister had become a raging, rebellious stranger. Though Mia had calmed down since then, we still weren’t out of the woods. Last spring she’d nearly gone to jail after a drunk driving accident had resulted in a death.

Amanda stood with her back to us, watching Kyra walk away. When she joined us, two bright red spots flamed on her cheeks.

“I apologize for my daughter and her bad behavior.” Her voice was stiff with embarrassment.

“No apology necessary,” I said. “You probably won’t believe this, but she’ll grow out of it. Mia did.”

Amanda looked at me like she was trying to focus on my words. “Not if I don’t kill her first. There’s no reaching her, nothing we can do or say.” She gestured around her. “All this—she says it’s materialistic and pretentious. Says she loathes the way we live. Of course it didn’t stop her from taking the car we bought her. Or her horse. Or spending the summer backpacking in Europe when we paid for her.”

As she spoke, Pépé left and went over to the drinks’ cooler. When he came back he handed us two glasses of champagne.

Amanda’s hand shook when she took it. “Thank you, Luc.”

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

She sipped her champagne. “I will be. Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about any of this. Look, the race is nearly finished. Let’s see who won.”

Mick arrived just before the third race to watch Sweet Emma, one of his three-year-old mares, run in the maiden flat race. It was the first time I’d seen his colors—blue and white squares with a red stripe in between and red trim on the collar and cuffs. The jockey’s red, white, and blue cap reminded me vaguely of a Union Jack.

He kissed me on the cheek and shook hands with Pépé. After a few pleasantries he moved on to the rest of the crowd—more social kisses for the women and a genial arm around the shoulders of the men. His kiss had been cool and dry and seemed devoid of affection. It was one of the many things I didn’t understand about him—his ability to turn his emotions on and off—and it kept me off-balance. Maybe he wanted it that way or maybe he was trying to keep our relationship private, but the second-guessing and uncertainty about where I stood with him on any given day was growing tiresome.

“I’d like to invite your friend to dinner,” Pépé said in my ear as Sweet Emma won and Mick opened a new bottle of champagne with a loud pop that sent liquid fizzing all over his hands.

Mick laughed and his eyes met mine. He blew me a kiss and a few women standing next to him noticed.

“It’s a nice idea, Pépé, but I don’t know—”

“I would like to become acquainted with this man who flirts with my granddaughter in front of everyone.”

“He’s not flirting—”

He clicked his tongue. “Lucie,” he said, “a man knows when another man is flirting with the woman standing next to him. Give an old Frenchman some credit.”

I smiled. “Okay, you can invite him to dinner.”

But Mick already had dinner plans. “I’d love to,” he said. “Unfortunately it’s business and I just can’t get out of it.”

“If it’s not late when you finish, come join us for dessert and coffee,” I said. “Or a brandy. We’re taking the last seating at the inn since my grandfather prefers dining after eight.”

Mick caressed my arm with the back of his hand. “I’ll try, but I think it’s going to go all evening.” He looked at Pépé. “Thank you for the invitation, Luc. Some other time, I hope. Lucie has spoken so much about you.”

“Mick!” Amanda called. “Are we betting on Casbah in this race or not? The riders will be up in a few minutes.”

Mick had entered Casbah, a black gelding with a white snip on his nose and two white socks, in the next race, which was three and a quarter miles over timber.

“Of course we’re betting on him. He’s going to win.” Mick pulled out his wallet and handed Amanda a hundred-dollar bill. “Here you go.”

“The bets are a dollar,” she said. “Though I’ll take it since the money is going to the Loudoun Hospice.”

But when the jockey riding Casbah came up to the starting line, the horse balked and didn’t want to take his place. Mick looked tense as the jockey trotted Casbah in a small circle, talking to him quietly. Finally the horse seemed to calm down. When the gun went off, he bolted ahead of the others, holding on to a lead of at least ten lengths for the first two miles.

“He looks good,” Amanda said to Mick.

“I don’t know,” Mick said. “Alberto is having trouble holding on to him.”

As he spoke one of Casbah’s hindlegs caught a timber jump and the horse stumbled. He managed to recover but Alberto lost his seat and tumbled to the ground. The jockey did not get up, remaining motionless as the rest of the field bore down on him. Unless the others coming up the hill realized what had happened and changed course, Alberto would be trampled to death.

The normally calm voice over the loudspeaker now sounded alarmed. “It looks like Casbah’s jockey has taken a fall. He’s not getting up—”

“Get up, Alberto, get up,” Mick said next to me, like a prayer. “Jesus, please. Get up.”

I saw one of the outriders go after Casbah, who was veering wildly, then suddenly Shane seemed to fly out of nowhere, galloping at full speed toward Alberto, who had gotten to his feet.

“Shane’s going after him,” Amanda said. “I don’t think he has enough time—” She put her hand over her mouth.

“They’re both going to be killed,” I said. “The rest of the field is coming up too fast.”

“Give me your binoculars!” Mick stood up on the fence for a better view and grabbed them from Amanda. “Come on, come on. Do it, Shane. Get him!”

I held my breath as Shane reached out a hand to Alberto, who grabbed it, and swung up behind him in the saddle just as the next horse cleared the jump, followed by the rest of the field.

I met Mick’s eyes. His face was ashen but he managed to smile.

“Remind me never to play chicken with Shane when we’re hunting.” Amanda had crushed her racing program in her hands. “That was incredible.”

“Bloody hell. It was close,” Mick said. “I’ve got to go.” He squeezed my arm. “See you.”

“Your friend is very brave,” Pépé said to me. “A superb horseman.”

“You should see him play polo,” I said. “He’s fearless.”

Pépé and I left after the race. As we walked back to the car, I saw Shane in the paddock being congratulated by the other jockeys, grooms, and owners. I wondered where Nicole was. Maybe she really was done with Shane, as she said.

I got my answer back at the vineyard. Frankie and Gina had spent a busy afternoon selling wine along with two waiters from the Goose Creek Inn. Most of the tables on the terrace were still occupied but we were closing within the hour. The crowd would begin clearing out, though I knew many would linger as long as possible.

My octogenarian grandfather flirted with Gina while Frankie and I went over the day’s sales in my office.

“You all right, Lucie?” she asked when we were done. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine. Did Quinn stop by today?”

“No, and you aren’t the only one looking for him. Nicole Martin showed up. You just missed her.”

“She came to see Quinn? That explains why she wasn’t at the Point-to-Point with Shane.”

“If you ask me, she was just killing time. Said she had a dinner meeting with Mick Dunne later on.” Frankie raised an eyebrow. “What’s that all about?”

I felt something break apart inside me. “I saw him at Glenwood and he told me he had a business dinner this evening.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “He’s planning on hiring her. Wants her to find him some out-of-this-world vintages for his collection.”

Frankie eyed me. I hadn’t fooled her. “Sorry, hon. She wasn’t dressed for business.”

I gave up the pretense. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

“Okay, she was wearing sackcloth and ashes and she looked like hell. Feel better?”

“No.”

“I thought it wasn’t that serious between you and Mick. You both seem sort of loosey-goosey about your relationship. Besides, if you ask me, he’s nothing but heartache. Too selfish to commit to anyone.”

I picked up her stack of sales receipts and straightened them so the edges were aligned to perfection. “Sometimes he reminds me of Leland the way he acts around women.”

Although my father’s indiscretions had been conducted away from home, I’d found out about them after he died. When I looked back, his laissez-faire attitude toward his wife and children probably explained why my mother had thrown herself into working so hard at the vineyard. And why she’d filled the void in her marriage with a close—and romantic—relationship with my late godfather.

As Tolstoy said, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Mine had parents who remained married and in love—except they were in love with other people.

Frankie shrugged. “I didn’t know your father, but you deserve better than a guy whose leitmotif is that it’s all about the thrill of the hunt. On and off a horse.”

That night at dinner Pépé ordered a spectacular bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild to go with our meal. “When I drink wine my pain is driven away and my dark thoughts fly to the ocean winds,” wrote Anacreon, one of the ancient Greek lyrical poets.

I ate and drank with my grandfather and enjoyed myself. For the rest of the evening I banished all thoughts of Mick, dark or otherwise, to the ocean winds.