Sour Puss

SOUR PUSS

RITA MAE BROWN

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

Dedicated to Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses.

Their many acts of generosity go unheralded in keeping with their sensitivity and kindness.

Acknowledgments

Ruth Dalsky dumped a cartonload of technical information concerning diseases and pests that attack grapes. It's the only time in my life I have regretted not taking organic chemistry in college. She proved a whirlwind of research as well as a cherished friend.

Lynn Stevenson, my neighbor, trooped herself out to local vineyards. She also made numerous phone calls for specific information to vintners. She was in her element because she and her husband, Gib, appreciate fine wine, but also Lynn isn't happy unless she's learning something or doing something productive. God forbid she sit idle. Nor would she take a penny for her considerable efforts. Kay Pfaltz, an expert in these matters, put together a carton of reds and whites for Lynn. Well, Lynn thought that was too much, so she wrote a check to the hunt club for my foxhounds. Lynn, you really are worth the money/wine! (And you're an original.)

Kristin Moses of Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard helped Lynn in her efforts, as did David King of King Vineyards. Veritas Vineyards and White Hall Vineyards also answered questions. Those who go from the vine to the bottle, every step of this arduous process, are so happy to share their knowledge. Truly, it is a great passion.

Kaiser Bill, retired polo pony, feels strongly that Lynn Stevenson would not have been able to perform her wonders without his contributions. That horse lives like a king thanks to "Mom" Lynn

One of the most unique experiences in preparing for this novel was visiting Chellowe, an estate founded in the early 1700s, near what is now Route 15, in Buckingham County, Virginia. Owned by Mr. and Mrs. Gene Dixon, this extraordinary place is being restored using all the original methods and, in most cases, materials. It has been years in the doing and will be some years yet before completion. Chellowe was the site of the first grant in the Old Dominion to create a vinery. Its original owner, Mr. Bollin, was also a poet. Perhaps the wine induced the Muses.

Mr. Lucius Bracey, Jr., provided prompt answers to my question about the disposition of bail money. In over thirty years, Lucius has always come through.

Should you become interested in any of the above-mentioned vineyards, some are occasionally open to the public, others are open year-round.

You can find out more about them and other Virginia vineyards if you go to: www.virginiawineguide.com

I should confess here that I don't drink wine. I don't drink, period. I'm not an alcoholic who must avoid spirits. I never learned to like the taste, and as a youth, being varsity, I never wanted to risk getting on the bad side of Coach, which drinking would do.

However, I was born to farming and farm now, so studying the methods of cultivating the various types of grape, the necessary soil, sun and altitude conditions, provoked intense admiration for those people running vineyards. Farming is not for weak hearts anyway, but operating a vineyard is unbelievably intense in both labor, intelligence involved, and cold, hard cash. Next time you drink a good vintage, say a prayer for the person out there in the fields who started it all.

Ever and Always,

R.M.B.

***

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor Haristeen, "Harry"—Curious, hardworking, logical, she's almost forty. Having left her secure job at the Crozet post office, she's starting a new career in nursery stock.

Fair Haristeen—An equine veterinarian specializing in reproduction, he's finally won back his ex-wife. He's honest, extremely handsome, and, in many ways, more emotionally mature than Harry.

Susan Tucker—As Harry's best friend, she knows all her faults and loves her despite or maybe even because of them. These two were cradle friends and have been through a lot together.

Ned Tucker—Susan's husband serves in the state legislature, having been elected last November. He's learning the ropes and is in Richmond more than Susan likes, but she'll adjust.

Olivia Craycroft, "BoomBoom"—She's drop-dead gorgeous, another cradle friend of Harry's, although they've been enemies as well as friends. She's a good businesswoman, running a cement plant, and is now becoming fascinated with Harry's return to farming.

Alicia Palmer—Abig movie star in the seventies and eighties, she came home last year, free at last to be herself. It took her a year just to detox from Hollywood .

Miranda Hogendobber—Harry's former work partner at the post office, in her late sixties. She's very religious but has moved away from the more-radical elements of her Church of the Holy Light. She will work with Harry once the crops come up, but for some of this volume she has been visiting her sister in Greenville,South Carolina .

Marilyn Sanburne, "Big Mim"—Fabulously wealthy, often imperious, very bright, she rules Crozet with an iron hand in a velvet glove. She has a good heart, if you can stand being bossed around.

Marilyn Sanburne, Jr., "Little Mim"—She's become her own person, at last, moving out of her mother's shadow. Becoming vice-mayor of Crozet (Republican) was her turning point.

Jim Sanburne—Husband to Big Mim, father of Little Mim, he is the mayor of Crozet and a Democrat. This certainly makes for interesting family discussions.

Deputy Cynthia Cooper—Observant, intelligent, loves law enforcement, she's respected in the community. She's a good partner for her boss.

Sheriff Rick Shaw—He tries not to become cynical. Cooper is good for him even as his Camel cigarettes are not. He's surrendered all hope of quitting. There are times when he could throttle Harry because she gets in the way.

Rev. Herbert C. Jones—Warm, wise, and observant, he is on call not only to members

of his congregation at St. Luke's but to anyone who needs help. He practices Christianity and sidesteps dogma.

Rollie Barnes—Aggressive, driven, needlessly competitive, he's made a bundle in the stock market, "retired" to Crozet, and is starting a vineyard, Spring Hill.

Chauntal Barnes—Much younger than Rollie, she possesses the sensitivity and tact her husband lacks.

Arch Saunders—Passionate about making wine, he studied at Virginia Tech, taught for two years, then took a job in NapaValley to learn as much as he could. The chance to develop his own wine with Rollie's resources brought him back to Virginia . He had an affair with Harry when she was first divorced.

Toby Pittman—Another brilliant graduate of Tech, he started Rockland Vineyards, a success. He's beyond competitive and probably mentally ill. But he is damned smart.

Hy Maudant—A middle-aged Frenchman who started White Vineyards. He brings

insouciance as well as the depth of French knowledge of the all-important grape to his work. Toby flat-out hates him. Hy is quite shrewd about money.

professor Vincent Forland—Diminutive, ready to lecture at the drop of a hat, he taught both Arch and Toby. Like many academics, he's so good in his field and pretty useless outside of it.

The Really Important Characters

Mrs.Murphy—Harry's tiger cat watches everything and everybody. She's smart but more critical, given the messes her human gets into. Mrs. Murphy is level-headed and a quick thinker.

Pewter—Harry's gray cat. She has a bit of a weight problem and does not appreciate being reminded of same. She goes along with Mrs. Murphy, often grumbling, because she lives in fear of missing something.

Tee Tucker—The bravest corgi in the universe. She puts up with Pewter's complaining. She and Mrs. Murphy make a good team. She does love Pewter too, if only Pewter would shut up.

Owen—Tucker's brother is Susan's dog. He possesses all the corgi qualities of brains, sweetness, stamina, and the willingness to herd anything.

Flatface—The great horned owl, female, lives in the cupola of Harry's barn. She slightly disdains the groundlings but recognizes they are her family, damaged though they are. Life without wings must be dreadful.

Simon—A possum who never saw anything shiny he didn't like. He takes anything broken or left out. He's timid, but he likes to show his treasures to the other animals.

Matilda—An old, huge blacksnake, she doesn't much like anyone but she tolerates them. Her comings and goings are determined by the temperature, and the chatter of the warm-blooded creatures can be irritating. Like Flatface and the cats, she is death to vermin and, therefore, highly useful on a farm.

Jed—Toby's donkey doesn't have much between those two long ears. Jed may be the only creature Toby loves and trusts.

The Horrid Blue Jay—Devious, beautiful, likes to shout in that most unmelodic voice of his, he lives to torment the cats. He also drops stones on other birds' eggs. He's an all-around bad actor.

Harry's hunters and broodmares—As it's spring, they're turned out, so they're not part of the story this time. The foals are healthy and happy. Mrs. Murphy especially likes horses. Pewter would like them better if they ate tuna or even chicken, because they often drop some of their food. She's not lowering herself to eat hay or crimped oats.

***

Sour Puss

1

"Mary Minor, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only to him, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will," Harry answered in a clear voice.

The Reverend Herbert Jones, in his sonorous tone, then asked, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Susan Tucker, next to Harry, said, "I do."

Fair, smiling, repeated what he had memorized. "I, Pharamond Haristeen, take thee, Mary Minor, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sicknessand in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

Perched on the balcony ledge, Mrs. Murphy, Harry's tiger cat, and Pewter, the roly-poly gray cat, observed intently. Tucker, the corgi, sat on a bench next to Mildred, the organist.

"Finally,"the dog sighed.

"They're right for each other."Mrs. Murphy had cat's intuition about such matters.

"They tried it once, the second time should be the charm."Pewter wished the ceremony would speed along, because she was eager to attend the reception. The extravagance of foods thrilled her far more than contemplating human rituals.

"If you think the farm runs along like a top now, you just wait until Fair puts his back into it. He's strong as an ox."Tucker had always loved the six-foot-five-inch veterinarian. The feeling was mutual.

"Doesthis mean we won't be sleeping on the bed? I mean, do we have to put up with their thrashing around and all that moaning and groaning?" Pewter cherished sleep almost as much as food.

"Why would it be any different now, Pewts? Flop on the end of the bed and when they're done then go up and sleep on the pillow,"Mrs. Murphy replied.

"Well, if they're married maybe they'll be doing it more, you know?"Pewter considered human physical intimacy an irritation. Then she giggled."Or less."

"Won't be any different, except he'll be more relaxed. He's worked so hard to win her back. He'll be happy. Harry really is his great passion."Mrs. Murphy watched as Herb blessed the rings.

"Is Fair her great passion?"Pewter cocked her head.

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker said anything. After long thought, Tucker finally responded,"That's a hard question to answer. "

"See, I don't think he is, even if she is marrying him,"Pewter blurted out."Look at Miranda and Tracy. He's loony about her and she swoons every time she looks at him. I mean, BoomBoom and Alicia, besotted with each other. Cow eyes, you know. But I never see that in Harry."

"Too rational."Tucker understood Pewter's point.

"Oh, we've all seen Harry toss reason to the winds. Not often, granted, but she can lose her temper or let her curiosity get the better of her. Judgment flies right out the window."Mrs. Murphy, too, pondered pewter's observation."She loves him. She wouldn't be standing there in that pretty dress if she didn't love him. She's," Mrs. Murphy paused,"diffident. Our dear mother gets more excited about ideas, about building a shed or planting redbud clover than she does about people. She likes people well enough and, like I said, she truly loves Fair, but her passions aren't about people. But he knows that. He knows just what he's getting."

"Guess so. They've known each other since before kindergarten."Tucker noticed Miranda wiping her eyes with a Belgian lace handkerchief. She also saw Paul de Silva holding Tazio Chappars's hand. He obviously was wildly in love with the young, talented architect. Alicia and BoomBoom didn't hold hands, but she saw Alicia give BoomBoom a handkerchief, as the Junoesque blonde was crying, too.

"Funny, BoomBoom crying, since everyone blamed her for the breakup of Harry's marriage even though they were separated,"Tucker remarked.

"No one can seduce a man who doesn't want to be seduced. Fair was wrong and he paid penance. I say we forget the whole thing. Harry finally has."Mrs. Murphy was glad that Harry and BoomBoom had reclaimed a friendship out of painful circumstances.

"Guess BoomBoom and Alicia can't get married, huh?"Pewter twitched her tail, massive boredom setting in along with a grumbling stomach.

"They can, sort of, but the state doesn't recognize it."Tucker shifted her weight on the bench, which made Mildred Potter, the organist, pat her on the head.

"Why do people get married? We don't. It's such an expense, a big public display, and it costs a bloody fortune. Can't they just pair off and be done with it? Think of all the chicken and salmon and tuna and catnip you could buy with that money."Pewter honed in on her passion.

"This wedding isn't that expensive, because it's a remarriage."Tucker was getting hungry herself.

"Ha. The reception is going to cost about six thousand dollars. Probably more once the bar bill comes in. That's a lot of tuna,"Pewter said.

"There's more than tuna at stake for humans. Marriage establishes paternity so a man isn't putting a nickel in another man's meter."Mrs. Murphy laughed."'Course, now with DNA, paternity can be established in ways that don't please all men. You play, you pay. They can no longer claim the baby isn't theirs." She paused."The whole marriage thing is so ingrained in society that they can't really do without it. Doesn't even matter if they have children. It's something you've got to do."

"Like death and taxes."Pewter giggled.

"Aren't you glad you don't have to go through all this rigmarole?"Tucker sighed."I'm happy Harry is marrying Fair, but it is exhausting."

"Who wants to be human? If there is reincarnation I'm coming back as myself."Pewter puffed out her gray chest.

"My, my, don't we think a lot of ourselves."Mrs. Murphy slyly batted at Pewter.

"Oh, and you'd like to come back as a caterpillar?"Pewter sassed.

Mrs. Murphy lashed out, a real whack.

Pewter struck back.

"Hey, hey, you two!" Mildred cautioned them, because it would be a long tumble down into the congregation.

Just as Herb uttered, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," the people gathered below were treated to a hissing fit of such volume that a few heads tilted upward. Harry cast her eyes to behold the spectacle of Pewter giving Mrs. Murphy such a swat that the tiger cat slipped over the side of the balcony, hanging on by her claws.

"Dear God," she sighed.

"Little pagans," Herb whispered, which made Fair laugh.

With heroic effort, Mrs. Murphy hoisted herself up onto the balcony railing. Pewter shot off the railing, hit the organist's bench with all fours, endured a reprimand from Mildred and a yap from Tucker as she leapt onto the keys, which produced a mass of discordant notes throughout lovely St. Luke'sLutheranChurch .

She then soared off the organ as Mrs. Murphy, in hot pursuit, gained on her. Up to the last row of the balcony, down to the exit, thundering down the carpeted stairs,Pewter skidded across the highly polished vestibule floor, knocking over the lectern with the red leather visitor's book opened. The book hit the floor. Mrs. Murphy left a few claw marks as she scrambled over the book. Pewter then turned a ninety-degree angle, bolting down the center aisle of the church.

BoomBoom reached out to grab her, but Pewter eluded the bejeweled hand, as did Mrs. Murphy. The two crazed felines headed straight for the nuptial pair.

Tucker had sense enough not to stop either cat. She watched with fascination, as did Mildred.

"You're a good doggy," Mildred crooned between her laughs.

"Yes, I am."

"I will kill you. I will kill you on Harry's wedding day!"Mrs. Murphy shouted.

"Gotta catch me first."Pewter, realizing she was the center of attention, was loving the limelight, quite oblivious to the discipline that might follow.

Herb bravely continued, and as he was pronouncing Fair and Harry husband and wife he rolled his eyes skyward, imploring the Lord not only to bless those two humans but to bless the two cats in quite a different way.

Pewter ducked under Harry's train. Mrs. Murphy wiggled right under. Pewter then emerged from the back of Harry's train with such force that Fair held on to her as Herb ended the ceremony with "... that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen."

Before Fair kissed his bride, they both watched Pewter land on the altar. She crouched behind the large gold cross. Mrs. Murphy landed on the altar, as well, the two towering floral displays on either side of the cross swaying unpredictably. The cats fought each other on either side of the cross.

Fair whispered, "Honey, let me kiss you before they wreck the place."

He kissed her and she kissed back, and when they broke the kiss, they just laughed until the tears came to their eyes. By now everyone was mesmerized, and it was dawning on Pewter that as much as she adored all these eyes upon her there might be hell to pay.

"She started it!"Pewter bellowed.

"/did not, you fat fat water rat!" Mrs.Murphy aimed a precise blow across the top of the cross.

Rushing in from the back to the side of the altar were Herb's cats, Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur.

"What are you doing?"Cazenovia called to the warring kitties.

"You'd better stop or there will be blue murder,"Lucy Fur, a sensible type, admonished.

"I'll kill her for sure!"Mrs. Murphy, livid, agreed to the murder rap.

The three church cats positioned themselves in front of the altar.

Elocution very sweetly pleaded,"If you don't stop, Poppy will get awfully upset. Come on." She loved Herb.

Mrs. Murphy, her back to the congregation, turned to look down at the three cats. Then she looked at all the people. She'd forgotten about them.

"Holy shit!"She leapt down.

"See,not only did she start it, she's a blasphemer." Pewter rejoiced in this moment.

With three strides of his long legs, Fair walked up and scooped Mrs. Murphy, ears flat against her head, into his arms.

"Pewter, you get out from behind the cross," Fair commanded.

Harry lifted her train, joining her husband. "Pewter, come on now. We'll forgive you if you come off the altar. Remember, forgiveness is Christian."

"Do it"Cazenovia added to Harry's plea.

Pewter slunk out from behind the cross. "/am innocent"

"That's what they all say." Fair laughed as though he understood Pewter's meow.

Bride and groom, each carrying an extremely naughty cat, walked down the center aisle as Mildred hit the keys.

Miranda, the lead singer in the choir of the charismatic Church of the Holy Light, said as the bride and groom walked by, "My delight is in the Lord; because He hath heard the voice of my prayer."

"Happy that they're finally married, honeybun?"Tracy held her hand.

"Yes, but my prayer was those two bad cats would get caught," Miranda replied.

The reception, held at the farm, exceeded everyone's expectations for a perfect April day. Small tables set up under the trees each had a lovely spring-flower arrangement. The food was truly superb, and Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses supplied all the wines from their Kluge Estate Vineyard. Over two hundred guests came to celebrate this glorious day. Even Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were forgiven as Harry fed them bits of turkey, ham, roast pork, and salmon.

She said to Fair, "No one will forget our wedding day."

He'd just given Tucker a whole sweet potato as people toasted the bride and groom. "I know I won't."

It was all seemingly perfect.

2

The heaven-sent warmth and sunshine of Sunday, April 16, Harry and Fair's wedding day, evaporated on April 17 as a cold front swept down from Canada, bringing glowering skies, a drop in temperature, and cool showers.

T. S. Eliot wrote, "April is the cruelest month." It is doubtful he had agriculture in mind when he penned that immortal line, the beginning to one of the most famous poems in English letters, but any farmer inVirginia can tell you he was right.

A sixty-eight-degree day can be followed by a blizzard. This Monday, while not blizzard weather, proved cold enough for scarf, gloves, Barbour coat, and Thinsulate-lined work boots, all of which Harry wore as she checked the mares and foals. The mares,bequeathed to her and Fair by a friend who died quite young, unexpectedly, each delivered beautiful foals. Harry could never have afforded the stud fees. She marveled at how correct the three fillies and one colt were as they nuzzled up to their respective mothers.

Most couples marry in June; October is the second-most popular month, and the Christmas season is also popular. Since Harry worked the farm and Fair, a vet, specialized in equine reproduction, April was the best choice. The crush of delivering foals at two in the morning abated for him; the press of farm chores remained relatively light.

Harry walked the paddock fence lines. So many horse injuries are fence-related. Checking the fences every day was part of her routine. The health of her animals came first.

Tucker trotted behind Harry. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stayed in the barn, the excuse being that the mouse population had mushroomed out of control. The reality was that Pewter didn't like cold and Mrs. Murphy wanted a good gossip with Simon, the possum living in the hayloft.

Also living in the hayloft was Flatface, a great horned owl, and Matilda, a huge slumbering blacksnake.

In Pewter's defense, she did perch on the tack trunk in the heated tack room, peering down at the cleverly hidden mouse hole behind the trunk. Her whiskers swept forward in anticipation of seeing a mouse snout appear. So far, the mice, smelling her, elected to stay put.

In the hayloft, Simon, a kleptomaniac, displayed his latest treasure for Mrs. Murphy.

"Doesn't it sparkle?"He proudly pushed forward a little clear tube of iridescent sunscreen.

"Where'd you find that?"

"In the old bucket full of the natural sponges."

"Hmm, Harry must have dropped it last summer. She rarely uses sunscreen. She should but, well, she gets busy and forgets those things."

"How was the wedding?"

Mrs. Murphy declined to relate her participation in the ceremony."Harry was a beautiful bride. Just seeing her in a dress was worth the trip, and Fair wore a morningsuit, which makes him more handsome, if that's possible."

"He is a handsome fellow. How come they didn't take a honeymoon?"

"Ha,"Mrs. Murphy laughed."Harry told Fair that every day with him was a honeymoon, besides which they'd been married before so why not just press on? I think they'll take a little vacation midsummer. Anyway, Simon, it was pretty good. I'm surprised you didn't come out for the party yesterday. Lots of little tidbits on the grass."

"Too many people. And so many people are afraid of possums. They think I'm ugly."

"Nah,"Mrs. Murphy lied. She thought Simon looked as he should.

"Well, is there anything left out there?"

"With Tucker and Pewter on patrol?"She laughed.

"Pipe down!" came astentorian voice from the cupola.

"Sorry, Flatface."

The huge owl ruffled her feathers, looked down."Chatterers. I never met two creatures who could run their big flannel mouths like you two. I had a busy night."

"Okay."Simon didn't want to get on the bad side of his frightening roommate.

"If she had little owlets, she'd be nicer,"Mrs. Murphy whispered, her lustrous green eyes bright.

Simon whispered back,"If she had owlets, then we'd have the daddy to deal with, too. They raise them together, you know. One owl is bad enough. At least she's a great horned owl and she sings so beautifully. "

"True."Mrs. Murphy admired Flatface's melodic deep voice, a dark alto.

"Think Harry's happy?"

"Yes. She's struggled so long over these years, you know, Just making ends meet, and now she has his help, they've bought Blair's two hundred thirty acres, and those pastures are really good, plus she's reviving the old Alverta peach orchard. Rev. Jones bought the house and ten acres, so it worked out Blair's farm was the Jones home place, remember? Harry and Susan are timbering Susan's land, the old Bland Wade tract. She gets a commission for that, and the girls have started their sunflower business. They're going to start a small tree nursery, too."

"What about the grapes?"

"Well,"Mrs. Murphy lowered her voice as she realized she had raised her level to a normal tone,"she's put in a quarter acre of petit Manseng. A white kind. It will take about three years to really produce. She's being cautious. Too cautious, I think."

With all the preparations for the wedding, Mrs. Murphy and Simon hadn't had a good jaw in weeks.

Simon remarked,"Will be pretty easy to grow."

"You know last fall when Harry was in such a crisis over what to do after leaving the P.O.—"

Before Mrs. Murphy could finish, a bloodcurdling scream of triumph wafted out the animal door of the closed tack room.

Simon, not the bravest fellow, shrank back into his nest in the hay bales."A dragon!"

"A gray one."Mrs. Murphy, the bravest of all tiger cats, leapt to the edge of the hayloft, then backed down the ladder fastened flat to the wall. She burst through the animal door to behold Pewter, mouse between her paws.

"Triumph!"Pewter, mouth wide open, eyes wild, bellowed.

"Brute!"The mouse wasn't going down without a fight.

"Pewter, how'd you do it?"

"She cheated, she lied!"the little mouse, Martha, accused the cat in whose front paws she was securely imprisoned.

"Bull!"Pewter drew her up to eye level.

"You haven't kept the bargain,"Mrs. Murphy reminded the mouse."So she's within her rights to snap your neck."

"We are keeping the bargain!"Martha defended herself.

"Then why is there so much noise back there and why do I see you all running around?"Mrs. Murphy coolly surveyed the back of the tack trunk.

Many little noses were poking out of the rather grand entrance to their living quarters.

"Sugar high,"Martha stubbornly replied.

"Oh, come on, there isn't that much candy left in here,"Pewter said disbelievingly.

"You're right. It's the food from the wedding reception. First, remember all the preparations? And then goodies were left behind after the reception and dinner; do you have any idea how much we've eaten?That's why you nabbed me, Pewter, I can't hardly move."

"It's true, it's true,"came the chorus from behind the trunk.

"Well."Mrs. Murphy considered the evidence.

The cats heard a conference. Within a minute, ten little mice came out from behind the tack trunk, led by Arthur, Martha's spouse.

"See," Arthur, robust, pointed to his stomach."Icing from the wedding cake. We're so full of sugar that if Pewter ate Martha, she'd be on a sugar high, too, and as I recall, cats don't like sugar."

"True."Mrs. Murphy inclined her head toward Pewter.

"/didn't say I was going to eat her. I said I was going to break her neck. Crack!" Pewter gleefully threatened.

"Pewter, I think they're telling the truth."

Simon peeped through the animal door, the flap comically resting on his head."No bloodshed. Please."

"Oh, Simon, for Christ's sake."Pewter, disgusted, let Martha go.

Contrary to expectation, Martha didn't scamper off. Instead, she lifted her small paw, the black claws glistening as she was a well-groomed mouse, and she patted Pewter's paw."We would never break our contract with you and Mrs. Murphy. It's a good deal, and we mice respect a good deal."

"Yes!"the other mice agreed.

"All right."Pewter, terrifically pleased that both Mrs. Murphy and Simon had witnessed her prowess, was now magnanimous.

As the mice returned to their home, the cats and Simon heard Harry come into the barn just as the phone rang.

She hurried into the tack room and picked up the receiver. "Hello."

"Harry, I'm a mother." BoomBoom Craycroft laughed. "Keepsake delivered a mule."

"No!"

"Your husband has just delivered a mule. You know, I had hoped when Keepsake jumped her paddock last year that she had run over to Smallwood Farm and gotten bred by that son of Castle Magic, but, no, as I feared, she visited the donkey two farms down the road. Oh, well."

"Mules are pretty smart."

"I know. They can jump, too, so I'm going to work with my little fella and one fine day he'll be in the hunt field. Don't you think it will give Big Mim fits?" BoomBoom mentioned the Queen of Crozet, a superior rider, passionate foxhunter, and breeder of winning steeplechase horses. She was also rich as Croesus.

Mim could be imperious.

"She'll get over it." Harry liked the sexagenarian and especially liked Mim's Aunt Tally, who was closing in on one hundred.

The Urquharts, Mim's family, lived forever, it seemed.

"Is Alicia there?"

"No, she's coming over for dinner. She'll see him then."

"Name?"

"I'm going to call him Burly since he's the color of bright burly tobacco leaf. Burl, for short."

"Good name. Names are important, you know. I wonder about women named Candy or Tiffany. It's hard to imagine calling a woman in her eighties Candy. 'Course, it will be some time before the Candys and Tiffanys of the world achieve eighty."

"You come on over and see Burly when you can. Oh, almost forgot, I ordered Italian sunflower seed. You should have it in a few days. Thought you might try a few different varieties."

"Great."

After Harry hung up, she sang and whistled to herself. Most barns have radios blaring, but Harry loved silence, broken occasionally by her singing. She only turned on the radio for news or, more important, weather. Truth be told, popular music gave Harry a terrific headache, whether it was from the 1920s or current.

That evening, when she and Fair ate their first quiet supper as renewed husband and wife, they caught up on the day's events.

"He's a perfect specimen." Fair smiled as he related Burly's entrance into the world. "He's truly a little beauty."

"I'll swing by tomorrow."

The two cats and dog, having eaten, snuggled in the sheepskin bed in the kitchen. Tucker didn't mind cuddling with the cats, but she had heard quite enough about Martha and the largesse of Pewter.

Fair, paper opened to his right as he drank a cup of hot green tea, peered more closely. "This ought to be exciting."

"What, honey?"

He handed her the paper, opened to the state section, pointing to a column with a photo.

Harry read aloud, "Professor Vincent Forland, a Virginia Tech world expert on various fungi, especially black rot, Guignardia bidwellii, a fungus devastating to winegrowers, will join a panel on agriterrorism." She paused. "Poor fellow, looks like a worm with glasses."

"You should see all the material I get concerning safety procedures in veterinary bacteriological laboratories. The other panel member is an expert on anthrax. Let's go." He took the paper back as she handed it to him. He again checked the photo. "Forland does kind of look like a worm with glasses."

3

As luck would have it, Fair got to meet Professor Forland before the evening presentation. He'd been at Kluge Estate to check on a mare, and Patricia Kluge and her husband, Bill Moses, asked him to please stay for the small luncheon that would include the professor and a few local vineyard owners.

Leaning forward across the mint-green tablecloth, Professor Forland held the guests at the informal luncheon spellbound. "We have knowledge that mycotoxins have been used in warfare and are probably being used now. Substantiating the information proves difficult, as there is much at stake politically."

"What? Arousing the nation, you mean?" Hy Maudant, a transplanted Frenchman, asked, his English enlivened by a seductive accent.

"Not just theUnited States , but verifying chemical-warfare attacks calls an entire complex of international relations into play. There are those who will deny that Iraq used them and those who simply sit the fence. Naturally when all is resolved the fence-sitter wants the best deal on oil and wants to rebuild Iraq ." Bill Moses wasn't cynical, just realistic.

"But did Saddam use mycotoxins?" Toby Pittman, a former student of Professor Forland's, now proprietor of Rockland Vineyards, asked earnestly.

"I believe he did." The diminutive professor pushed his thick glasses further up on his nose, as they had a habit of slipping down. "On January nineteenth, 1991, during the Persian Gulf War, I believe an Iraqi aircraft penetrated our defenses and sprayed aflatoxin over Seabees and the Twenty-fourth Naval Mobile Construction Battalion near theport ofAl Jubayl inSaudi Arabia ."

As an undergraduate at Virginia Tech, Toby displayed such brilliance that he secured a teaching fellowship as a graduate student. His thesis adviser was Professor Forland.

After completing his Ph.D., Toby assumed he would start as a lecturer to undergraduates. His classmate, Arch Saunders, not as gifted as Toby in Toby's estimation, also was awarded his Ph.D.

When no offer to stay on at Tech was forthcoming, Toby approached his adviser, who told him, truthfully, there was a budget crunch. What Professor Forland didn't tell him was that after working closely with Toby for three years, he felt the young man lacked mental stability.

When Toby found out, a few days after he'd packed up, that Arch Saunders was offered the position, he was beside himself. Two years later, Arch left to work at a large vineyard inNapaValley . Somehow, that seemed like another slap in the face to Toby. Arch repudiated what he, himself, wanted.

Out on his own, Toby worked like a dog to make a success of his vineyard. He often wondered what his life would have been like if he'd been given the job at Tech along with a regular paycheck.

"I'll spare you the denials and the subsequent explanations by our government." Professor Forland tenaciously kept on his subject. "Perhaps what threw off authorities about this event, what led to denials, was the fact that our intelligence people were still back in the mustard gas or anthrax stage of chemical warfare. How could they admit they hadn't kept pace with what Saddam was really doing, which was developing various toxic substances in dizzying array?" Professor Forland shrugged, then continued. "But the fact remains that fungal toxins are easier to produce than anyone can contemplate without feeling deeply depressed."

"How easy?" Rollie Barnes, rich and aggressive, had been invited to the small gathering because of his large plans for Spring Hill Vineyards. He betrayed his nervousness by cracking his knuckles under the table.

Accompanying Rollie was his newly hired vineyard manager and partner, Arch Saunders. It seemed to Toby that Arch had come back from California to taunt him.

Fair was polite to Arch and vice versa, but neither man warmed to the other. When Harry and Fair divorced, she'd enjoyed a brief affair with the outgoing, good-looking Arch. He fell hard. She didn't.

Arch burned gas driving back and forth from Blacksburg to Crozet. When Harry broke off the affair, he resigned his position and burned more gas hauling to California . He flourished there, learning even more about soil, grapes, sunshine, and rain and how they combine to form magic in a glass. Arch steered clear of entanglements, which may have been a good thing since he had so much to soak up.

He had returned to Crozet only two weeks ago.

"A bright student of chemistry, of agriculture, could figure this out. Now, figuring it out means you have to assemble the laboratory to produce the mycotoxins. Still, the knowledge is well within the grasp of a good student." Professor Forland's bushy eyebrows darted upward. "The trichothecene mycotoxins are fungal toxins. The molds attack corn, barley, rye, oats, millet, even straw and hay. If a bright soul had access to lab equipment or the money and determination to build his or her own lab, he could distill the trichothecene mycotoxins from the mold. A lethal dose for humans need only be from three to thirty-five milligrams, depending on the severity ofthe toxin. For instance, T-2 is the most potent. A ridiculously low dose would kill someone. Unfortunately not without prolonged agony."

"Has this happened?" Fair thought it revolting that so much of human intelligence was harnessed to produce pain instead of alleviating it.

"Yes, I think so. You can't lock up knowledge. It's been tried over the centuries and, sooner or later, it leaks out." Professor Forland leaned back in his chair as dessert was served. "Can I prove other nations have used chemical attacks in the last twenty years? Not conclusively. Do I believe Saddam deployed them when he was in power; do I believe the former Soviet Union used chemical warfare inChechnya ? I do." The professor compressed his thin lips until they disappeared.

Toby Pittman spoke up, eager to shine, especially with Arch present. "There was a case in 1944 when thirty percent of the population of theOrenburg district nearSiberia came down with sickness because they ate tainted food. It wasn't chemical warfare, just moldy grain. I think it was alimentary toxic aleukia, or ATA."

Professor Forland smiled indulgently at Toby- "I commend you for remembering after all these years."

Hy Maudant, no fan of the intense Toby, nor the more congenial Arch for that matter, piped up, "Ah, well, I can see you covered a lot of ground in your classes."

"Well, I did, and as you have occasionally asked for my monographs, Mr. Maudant," Professor Forland pointed his finger good-naturedly at Hy, "you know that we study fungi and insects as part of our preparation to go to war for the health of the grape."

"Which brings us back to our original table talk, the health of the grape." Bill genially prodded them, although he, too, was fascinated with this discussion about chemical warfare.

"Before we get back to that, Professor, how many countries have developed chemical warfare using fungus?" Rollie found himself morbidly curious.

"Obviously Iraq , but really they benefitted from the work of the former Soviet Union , work that began in the 1930s. It's reasonable and will someday be proven beyond contest that any client state of the Soviet Union 's had access to the substances, and even to the scientists who produced it. That means that the communist forces inVietnam ,Laos , andCambodia as well as Afghanistan used it on insurgents. It will all come out in the wash, as they say, but the victims remain victims, and the dead remain safely dead."

"What about us?" Fair raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Meaning?" Rollie was wary of Fair because he was blond and handsome; Rollie was neither.

Arch prudently kept quiet, letting Rollie talk. He glanced once at his old classmate Toby when Toby rolled his eyes. Toby thought Rollie a perfect ass and Arch a fool for going into business with him.

"What have we developed?" Fair replied. "I doubt we've been twiddling our thumbs."

"We are advanced in these matters, but exercising restraint. That's the policy." Professor Forland sounded unconvincing.

"Meaning we haven't sprayed Al-Wherever with mycotoxins?" Fair thought about the animals who suffered for these killing agents and devoutly wished the leaderswho could be so cruel to man and beast vvere sprayed themselves.

"No, we have exercised restraint," Professor Forland repeated.

"I find that hard to believe. It seems that if men have a toy, a weapon, sooner or later they have to use it." Patricia, who had quietly taken all this in, spoke at last.

"History would support your thesis." The professor smiled amiably at his hostess.

"Is there no vaccination against these bioweapons?" Bill asked.

"No vaccination exists against mycotoxins. There is a vaccination for anthrax and for botulism toxin but none for these mycotoxins." Professor Forland reached for wine, the Pinot Gris with a seven percent Riesling, a product of Hy's vineyards. He tasted the liquid, smiling broadly. "Fortunately, our grapes are not used for any such nefarious purposes."

"But couldn't it be done? Couldn't some of the fungi that attack grapes be used for chemical warfare?" Fair wondered.

"Yes. Any fungus could potentially have a lethal application if reduced to its most potent form, but the molds that attack the grain crops are available, the technology has been around for decades. There's no need to besmirch our beautiful grapes, our thriving viticulture, with such a dreadful misuse of our knowledge."

"Having said that, Professor, what is the health of our vines?" Bill was determined to bring them back on course.

"So far so good." The professor held up his glass, nodding his head toward Hy. "Very good, I might add."

"A modest effort." Hy smiled. "I'll be most interested in your opinion," he swept his eyes over the others, soliciting their opinions, too, "of my estate mix—that's what Fiona and I call it." He mentioned his wife, whom he loved deeply without feeling the need to be faithful. "We age it in French oak. It's my baby." He inhaled deeply, then smiled again at Patricia. "You've had success with your Simply Red."

"Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc." Bill happily supplied the information.

"We thought about using casks fromHungary but decided against it." Patricia exhaustively researched the different properties of oak, even hickory, from around the world.

Arch listened pensively, then said, "I was down in North Carolina last week visiting an old friend who sticks to Concord grapes"— this made the others smile, since they considered the Concord lowly—"and he swears the sharpshooter is becoming cold-resistant."

"We'll see about that!" Professor Forland's mouth snapped shut at the mention of the insect pest. "That would be like the bubonic plague to grapes." He frowned. "In the thirties, the sharpshooter destroyed the vines of entire states. A very nasty customer."

Toby, happy to contradict Arch, however, said slightingly, "It can't happen. It would have to mutate."

"Or be genetically altered." Professor Forland stared into his wineglass. "That would take a twisted genius."

"Let's not yell before we're bitten, gentlemen." Bill interjected a note of color. "I fear late frosts more than the bugs."

"Indeed," Hy replied.

Patricia lifted the mood. "You know, I was reading the other day about resveratrol, which is an antioxidant that helps prevent heart attacks and cancer, too. Red wine isthe best medicine. Pinot Noir contains 5.01 milligrams per liter. We should market our wines using this information. Think of it as a little medical pizzazz."

"Ah." Hy liked this. "What aboutBeaujolais ?"

"It's got 3.55 milligrams per liter," Patricia quickly replied.

"You read carefully." Professor Forland was impressed. "Cabernet Sauvignon fromChile contains 1.56 milligrams of resveratrol per liter, yet Cabernet Sauvignon fromCalifornia contains only .99 milligrams per liter. The medley—the magic of soil, sun, temperature, elevation, drainage, and the skill of the vintner—can never be quantified."

"But we can taste it," Arch added.

"Indeed." Hy sounded self-satisfied.

"To the vine." The professor toasted them all.

4

"...delivery." Professor Sidney Jenkins finished his remarks concerning bacteriological agents via cattle.

He followed Professor Forland, who listened with great interest. "If I might ask a question before the audience does. You've detailed how bacteria and viruses can be developed in labs and even how they can be delivered. But what do you think are the chances our cattle will be infected?"

Inclining his balding dome, the fortyish Professor Jenkins said, "Highly unlikely. Terrorists can strike more fear and disruption into our system if they aim directly for humans."

Rita Nicolas, former head of the Virginia Angus Association, raised her hand and was recognized. "While I agree, Professor Jenkins, infecting even a few thousand beef cattle would create a negative economic climate for cattlemen immediately."

"Yes, and that is one of their goals—not just to harm cattlemen, but to bleed us dry, if you will." Professor Jenkins nodded.

The audience, standing room only, contained soybean farmers, cattlemen, poultry farmers, and other interested parties. Local doctors and nurses had also turned out in large numbers.

All the large vineyards were represented: Kluge Estate, White Hall Vineyards, Prince Michel Vineyards, Veritas Vineyards, King Family, Mountain Cove, Rockland Vineyards, White Vineyards, Spring Hill, and many others.

Dr. Donald Richardson, a leading breeder of polled Herefords, a gorgeous type of cattle bred without horns, asked, "Are there protocols in place should an outbreak occur in cattle?"

"Yes, Dr. Richardson," Professor Jenkins acknowledged the dermatologist with whom he'd spent many an interesting time at various polled Hereford conferences and auctions, "the problem is, we really won't know how effective they are until we are under siege."

"What are the chances of grapes being tainted?" a tiny woman asked Professor porland.

"I would think terrorists would be much more successful if they destroyed hops," he replied.

This drew a laugh from the audience, since beer drinkers far outnumbered wine drinkers nationally.

Arch Saunders, a slight potbelly growing on his tall frame, stood up and said, "Professor Forland, you've discussed fungus and virus as agents. Are there other ways to kill crops, any crops, outside those you mentioned?"

Professor Forland pushed his large black-framed glasses to the bridge of his short nose. "There are. I hasten to add, they are not my expertise, but a casual knowledge leads me to believe that our enemies have access to Agent Orange, and to various other types of defoliants. As Professor Jenkins has reminded us, it's not access to these substances that's the real issue. Face it, they have them. The real issue is, can they deliver these agents where they willcreate the most harm? Unlike Professor Jenkins, I think they can. Let me modify that. I think they can create chaos to vegetation, to crops. Perhaps it is more difficult to infect or kill enough stock. Certainly Professor Jenkins would know far better than I, but in terms of, say, corn, it's not that impossible or even unthinkable if you have determined, well-trained people. We've been concentrating on mycotoxin contaminants, but let's reflect on our own history: the boll weevil." He paused as his audience sat utterly silent. "Insects are easy to disperse, they reproduce at a rapid rate, therefore they spread at a rapid rate."

Hy Maudant quickly spoke. "Indeed, Professor, but each insect has an Achilles heel. As you know, the sharpshooter," he cited the terrible pest to grapes grown south ofVirginia , "can't endure frost. SoSouth Carolina can't grow the type of grapes we can here inVirginia . We're safe. Any insect that would be unleashed could be stopped fairly quickly once you identified the vulnerability."

"Correct." Professor Forland pursed his lips. "Unless, monsieur," he acknowledged

Hy's origins, to the delight of the audience, "the insect has been genetically altered."

"Can't do it," Toby Pittman called out.

Professor Forland replied, "If not today then in some not-too-distant tomorrow."

"We do know that insects as well as viruses become adaptive." Professor Jenkins addressed the issue. "Look at how the protein shell of the AIDS virus mutates. And a more virulent AIDS strain developed, possibly in response to the drugs. It's one of the reasons, to date, that no effective vaccine has been developed. All that can be done now is to try to limit the virus once a human is infected."

"What are you saying exactly?" Big Mim wanted it in plain English, although she was capable of understanding what they were saying. She also knew many people would be embarrassed to ask for that. She was above embarrassment.

"I'm saying it is possible to create a supervirus. It is possible to create a bacteria resistant to conventional treatments. It is also possible to develop a superinsect." Professor Jenkins ran his hand over his dome.

"Has it been done?" Fair finally spoke.

"Nature is already doing it," Professor Jenkins flatly stated.

Emily Schilling, who specialized in exotic breeds of chickens, raised her hand, was acknowledged, and said only two words, "Avian influenza."

Professor Jenkins audibly exhaled. "H5N1. Julie Gerberding, Director of the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, said in 2005 that there is a real risk of avian influenza—bird flu transforming into a global threat comparable to the great influenza epidemic of 1918, which killed between twenty and forty million people."

The whole audience gasped as one.

Professor Forland added, "I believe Shigeru Ome, the World Health Organization regional director, was even more dolorous in his pronouncements. And if we know anything about virii, we know H5N1 will evolve, as well. There may well be H5N2s, etc."

Professor Jenkins nodded in agreement. "Rural southeast Asia lacks the means to halt the potential threat. It's spread by poultry traders and unfortunately has been found in wild birds inChina ."

"Consider these two factors quite apart from the social disorganization caused by wars, tidal waves, the Khmer Rouge, etc. The first factor is that chickens are used as currency inCambodia for many rural people. The second factor is it's one of their few affordable sources of protein. The third and most disturbing factor is that chickens die when infected with H5N1. Waterfowl do not. Ducks calmly go about their business, seemingly uninfected, but they spread the virus through their droppings."

Jim Sanburne, mayor of Crozet, asked, "Then what triggers an epidemic?"

Both Professor Jenkins and Professor Forland simultaneously answered, "Opportunity."

The two men looked at each other, smiled, then Professor Jenkins elaborated. "To date, the people who have died from H5N1 have handled infected or dead chickens or have handled human corpses. Within a few days of contact, the person develops a fever, coughs violently. They die in about ten days, and the percentage of those who die once infected is a very high seventy-two percent."

Another collective gasp in the roomprompted Professor Forland to soothingly amend Professor Jenkins's statements. "But the virus doesn't easily spread from birds to humans or humans to humans. You must have direct physical contact."

"True," Professor Jenkins said, then added more gloom. "But each time H5N1 finds a human host it has an opportunity to evolve into a more communicable form."

"Is there a vaccine?" Big Mim inquired sensibly.

"The French have manufactured a vaccine. Sanofi-Aventis SA is the company responsible. We are testing it here. The British are stockpiling Tamiflu. It's proven effective."

"Obviously, tracking human cases is a top priority, but the areas where the outbreaks have occurred make that extremely difficult," Professor Jenkins finished.

"Could terrorists harness H5N1?" Fair asked.

"If it evolves into a more communicable disease, I think they could. The delivery would be easy. Send infected people into major cities before those people show signs of the disease. That gives them maybe a two-day window." Professor Jenkins folded his hands together.

"That's monstrous!" Hy blurted out. "They would deliberately infect a man or woman and deliver them toParis orLondon orNew York ?!"

"Hy," Professor Forland calmly replied, "they flew stolen commercial airliners into the Pentagon and theTwinTowers . They've killed people inLondon 's subway and on a bus, as well. The terrorists considered themselves holy suicides. Why would human time bombs, if you will permit the description, be any different? They would willingly die of the Asian bird flu."

"So we'd better stockpile flu shots, too." Jim thought of his responsibility to Crozet.

"Remember the last flu-shot shortage in 2004?" Harry felt as uneasy as everyone else.

"Yes," Professor Forland grimly replied.

Professor Jenkins shifted in his seat. "Let us remember that biological warfare has been with us since siege warfare. Besiegers would toss decayed corpses over the town walls in the hopes of spreading contagion or fouling the water supply."

"And let us not forget that Lord Amherst, for whomAmherstCollege is named, gave blankets to the Native Americans that carried the smallpox virus for which they had no resistance." Professor Forland shook his head in resigned disgust. "Smallpox and anthrax are always a danger."

"You're saying terrorists could break in to labs and use our own developments against us the same way they used commercial airplanes." Harry cut right to it.

"It is possible," Professor Jenkins conceded, "but why break in to our labs when they can use their own? They have them."

Professor Forland quickly interjected, "Our labs currently investigating such possibilities enjoy security. The problem is if some doctor or technician goes off on their own, a Unabomber of agriculture. That person could cause considerable distress, because we don't think of one of our own behaving in such a fashion."

"He's right. Our attention, thanks to the media, is focused on Muslim terrorists, on bombs, radiation, anthrax. Those are immediately understandable and, I guess, exciting in a way. Agriculture is only exciting if you're a farmer. Let's face it, city dwellers wouldn't know a boll weevil if they saw it and most of them couldn't tell the difference between tent caterpillars and a yellowswallowtail-butterfly caterpillar. We aren't on their radar screen, but they all demand cheap food," Pittman sarcastically said.

"Which makes it more dangerous, because they aren't prepared," Aunt Tally piped up, her voice still strong and clear.

"Well—yes," Professor Jenkins agreed. "Many of you remember when Dutch Elm disease swept the East Coast. People in big cities saw the trees die but it didn't register, in any way at all, that this would compromise oxygen. Think of it, that many trees dying in that short a time span means there is less photosynthesis. Less oxygen is being produced. Therefore pollution in the big cities becomes more pronounced. These basics do not occur to people who work in buildings where the windows don't open." He said this with a half smile, but it was obvious the ignorance distressed him. "Nor did they replenish their trees. While industry and cars cause pollution, removing trees exacerbates the problem."

"Do either of you think we are more in Danger from an American crackpot than a true terrorist?" Tracy Raz, an ex-Army ex-CIA man, asked.

"Who knows?" Professor Jenkins threw up his hands.

"I'll take that on." Professor Forland became animated. "We are in far more danger from foreign terrorists than homegrown. Number one, they are highly trained, motivated by political and religious concerns, and well funded. An American may be highly trained, they may have some hideous motivation that makes perfect sense to them. To date we've suffered a few isolated crackpots. It's not inconceivable that sometime in the future an extreme religious or political organization could fund such activity. Right now that appears unlikely. But I think it's much harder to guard against a well-organized group with an expressed purpose."

The discussion rolled on. Jim Sanburne could add up the time spent in meetings, conferences, and lectures in years. He'd been mayor of Crozet since 1964. He leaned over and whispered to his daughter, "Never seen anything like this."

A glow of enthusiasm lit Little Mim's face. "Isn't it wonderful to see people so involved?"

"Sooner or later even the laziest son of abitch wakes up when the Yankee soldier tramps through his potato patch." Jim chuckled low.

"Daddy." She pinched his arm.

Blair Bainbridge, born and raised in the North, leaned past his fiancee, looked at his soon-to-be father-in-law, and whispered, "Who won the war?"

"No one. The North thinks they won, but it was the worst thing that ever happened to this country."

"Killed the nascent wine industry in the South," Hy Maudant, a keen student of wine history worldwide, turned and whispered from his seat in front of the Sanburne clan.

"If you were an agriterrorist, what crop would you attack?" Jim shrewdly asked the Frenchman.

"Wheat."

"Ah." Jim nodded.

"And you?" Hy asked.

"Since you took wheat, I'll take corn." Jim smiled genially.

The panel didn't really break up as much as those who worried about the babysitters reluctantly left for home.

Not until ten-thirty was the auditorium cleared.

Driving home in her truck, Harry and Fair reviewed the evening.

"Aren't you glad that horses aren't on the list of terrorist targets?" Fair draped his arm around Harry's broad shoulders.

"I'll sleep better at night."

"You sleep better at night because I'm next to you." He laughed.

"You know, honey, that really is the truth. There's nothing like falling asleep with your strong arms around me to make me feel safe."

"Likewise, when you're on the outside, I mean," he said.

"Really? You feel safe in my arms?"

"Of course I do, sugar. Love isn't just a way to open your heart, it's armor against the world." Fair squeezed her shoulder.

"I never thought of that. I am strong, though," she bragged.

"Yes, you are."

Aunt Tally's taillights glowed up ahead. She was being driven in her car by Blair and Little Mim. As her farm was two miles down the road from Harry and Fair's, they often passed or followed each other on the secondary state road.

"Bet she's chewing their ears off."

"The last thing to die on Aunt Tally will be her mouth," Fair laconically said.

Harry laughed, adding, "Actually, I do feel reassured that horses aren't a target."

"Terrorists won't bother using horses. Horses stay awake at night thinking of ways to hurt themselves."

A moment passed, then Harry, who knew what he said was only too true, smiled. "Baby, you'll never be out of work."

5

"... disappointed." Susan Tucker, Harry's best friend, exhaled, as the cats and Tucker and Owen, Susan's corgi, trotted after them as they walked down the steep path on the mountainside of the Bland Wade tract.

"What did Ned want?" Harry inquired as to Ned's preferred committee appointments since he had been sworn in as the state senator for District 7.

"He wanted Ways and Means. Since the whole legislature is controlled by the Republicans, he feels he is being pushed into the backwaters."

"He'll make the most of it. Ned's smart," Harry continued. "Susan, agriculture is the third largest industry in the state ofVirginia . It brings in 2.4 billion dollars, and guess what? One billion of that is thanks to the industry. And the profits from the horse industry would double if the damned legislature really fostered racing, in all its forms. We make that money despiteRichmond . Ned ought to be happy he's on such a committee."

"That's what I said. He says he knows nothing about agriculture, which is exactly why they stuck him on the committee."

"I can be his practitioner expert." Harry smiled broadly.

She was right. She'd been born on the farm on which she lived. She'd farmed all her life, with the exception of four years atSmithCollege , where she majored in art history. She figured it would be the only time in her life when she didn't have to be ruthlessly practical. Her father appreciated her attitude. Her mother did not.

Eventually, Mrs. Minor accepted Harry's "frivolity"—her view of Harry's major. She thought one should study what might produce income.

What Mrs. Minor failed to comprehend was that Harry, for the first time in her life, was removed from the South, far from blood ties and the close-knit Crozet community, and thrown into a world of bright, competitive women. On the weekends she could spend time with bright, competitive men fromAmherst , Yale,Dartmouth , Colgate, Cornell, and the odd Harvard man or two. She discovered, once everyone got over her softVirginia accent, that she could hold her own. The four years in coldMassachusetts helped forge her belief in her own intellect, her powers of judgment. Figuring out emotions proved more difficult than mastering complex material. Perhaps that's true for many people, not just Harry.

Susan, on the other hand, possessed formidable emotional radar. They joked with each other that together they made one genius.

The cold snap that had set in on Monday continued. The two friends, hands jammed in their pockets, hiked toward the tough little Jeep Wrangler that Ned had bought his wife to mollify her during his long absences. Susan needed something rugged to tend to the Bland Wade tract her great-uncle had willed to her, since there were only disused farm roads on the 1,500-acre property.

This extraordinary piece of land wrapped all the way from Tally Urquhart's Rose Hill Farm to behind Harry's farm. The two friends had gone almost to the top of the last ridge before theBlue Ridge Mountains to check a stand of black walnut, hickories, locusts, and pin oak. Scattered throughout the tract wereVirginia pines.

"We should thin the pines. The oldVirginia pine doesn't live much longer than twenty-five or thirty years, and then it just falls down and rots." Susan, though not a timber person, had been reading like mad on the subject of timber management.

"One bolt of lightning will take care of the pines,"Pewter remarked as she tagged along, feeling the cold air's sharpness.

"Nature's clear-cutting,"Tucker agreed.

"Hasn't happened for a long time around here. We've had so much rain these last years,"remarked Owen, who, like all the animals, registered the weather's every nuance.

"Hey."Tucker stopped, putting her nose to the ground.

The other three walked over to her and also put their noses to the earth.

"Bear,"Owen simply said."Maybe an hour ago."

"All kinds of big fuzzies up here."Pewter fluffed out her fur.

"We may be little fuzzies, but we can take care of ourselves."Mrs. Murphy puffed out her tail.

"How many times have I bailed you out?"Pewter remarked.

"You? I pry you out of jams more than you do me."Mrs. Murphy couldn't believe Pewter's ego.

"Ha!"Pewter dashed in front of the humans, energized by her own opinion of her powers.

Susan noticed. "I don't recall ever seeing Pewter this lively."

Harry watched as Pewter followed up her burst of speed with a two-foot climb up a tree trunk, then a drop down. "She has her moods." She returned to the subject at hand. "Finding a timber company that will take on a job this small won't be easy. You're talking about sixty acres, which is nothing to the big boys. And we want someone who is responsible. Right now, prices for pulp timber, which is what this pine is, are low."

"If we wait it will just fall down."

"Maybe yes and maybe no. We've got a year or two." Harry climbed in and gladly closed the door to the lime-green Wrangler.

Tucker sat on her lap and Owen, Tucker's brother, sat on Susan's lap. She picked him up, placing him in the back with Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, who were already curled up in Owen's little sheepskin bed.

"I've got all G-Uncle Thomas's notes." She called him G-Uncle for great-uncle. "Those pines were planted in 1981. A long period of rain, some high winds, and they're crashing down."

"It's those bitty root systems. You wouldn't think such tall trees would have such small roots." Harry turned on the heater. "Okay?"

"Yeah, I'm chilled to the bone. Let's go into town for a big hot chocolate. I need to pick up mail anyway."

"Okay."

They bounced through the old rutted roads. Harry got out at the gate to her back pasture and opened it. Susan drove through and then Harry locked the gate, hopped back in. They cruised past the barn, down the long lane out to the paved state road.

"Any more thoughts?" Susan asked.

"Yes, actually. If we sign a contract with a good timbering company—not a management contract, mind you, just a timbering contract—for say, five years, we'll be able to attract a better grade of operator. The last thing we want is someone to go up there, take out the timber, leave slash all over the place."

"You want them to dig pits and burn it?"

"No. I want the leftovers pushed along into long piles of debris maybe five or six feet high. Let it decay. It will provide homes for lots of critters. I know why people burn the stuff, but it's wasteful. Slash provides habitat, and the cycle of renewal begins again for animals and plants."

"How much do you think we can make from the pine?"

"Well, I'd love to think we could pull out at least a thousand dollars an acre, but the market is so erratic. The black walnut's market has been really good. High prices."

"We've got two acres of black walnut up there."

"That's another thing that worries me. Let the wrong people in there and some of that enormous profit will just disappear. They'll steal the walnut."

"We'd know."

"I'd like to think we would, but it'd still be a great big mess."

"Hot chocolate first. I really need it." Susan pulled into the parking lot of what used to be the old bank building, now owned by Tracy Raz.

The bottom of the building housed a clean, simple restaurant.

As they plopped into a booth, the proprietor, Kyle Davidson, greeted them and took their order.

"Susan, one of the things I've been thinking about, especially since we did the soil tests, is why don't we, on the lower acres where the soil is more fertile, plant sugar maples, red maples, locusts, Southern hawthorne, trees that we can sell to nurseries once they are three or four years old? We can continually renew our stock from our own cuttings and we'll be efficiently using the land. Nursery stock has a much faster turnover than timber. We won't see much of a return for three years, but that's the beauty of taking out the Virginia pine and the old loblolly pine. The soil might be acidic, but most of those pine stands are a little higher up. We can use the money from the pine on the lower acres to start up the nursery stock. The sticking point is irrigation. If we suffer a drought we've got to get water to the saplings." Harry had talked out loud to her animals about this, since she often thought better out loud. However, she hadn't said anything to Susan until now.

Susan, cup in hand, drained it, brightened. "A water buffalo."

She cited a holding tank usually pulled by a pickup truck or tractor. Smaller ones could be placed on the bed of the pickup, but that was hell on the shocks.

"That's a lot of man-hours." Harry leaned back on the booth seat. "Still, it's a beginning. There's no way we can afford an irrigation system now. Leaky pipe is even more expensive, so a water buffalo makes a lot of sense."

"What about your sunflowers? Aren't you going to irrigate?"

"Actually, I'm going to irrigate everything—the alfalfa, the orchard-grass pastures, the sunflowers, and my one-quarter acre row of Petit Manseng grapes. I'll use the tractor to pull a boom sprayer. We've got that big tractor that Fair and I bought from Blair. Eighty horsepower. Perfect! I say we use the same system for the nursery stock."

"You'll rent it?"

"No. Susan, we're partners, remember?"

"Yes, but that's wear and tear on your equipment. I have to come up with something."

"You came up with 1,500 acres."

"I guess I did, didn't I?" She laughed.

Loud voices at the counter diverted their attention.

"That's a damned irresponsible statement." Toby Pittman loomed over Hy Maudant, who sat on a stool at the counter.

"No, it's not. What I'm saying is not a criticism of Professor Forland. You think the government is always the enemy. Go on, show me how morally superior you are. Then you can sit on your butt and do nothing."

"I ought to knock your fat ass right off that stool."

Kyle quickly came around from behind the counter. "Take it outside."

"Forget it. I'll go. I don't want to be in the same room with this French fascist anyhow." Toby glared at Hy, then left, thoughtfully not slamming the door.

Hy spun around on the stool, noticed Harry and Susan. "Entertainment?"

His light French accent made every sentence sound musical. This was also true of Paul de Silva, Big Mim's young equine manager, who spoke with a beautiful high-class Spanish accent.

"What's Toby bitching about?" Harry forthrightly asked as Hy picked up his cup and walked over to them.

"Sit down, Hy." Susan moved further inland, as there was quite a lot of Hy.

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 andhad the last ton of lime sulfur in the county, I Couldn'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 Pentagruel 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 aP 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 lowerjawjutted out.

"I'm sure it does, but it's a mild case.Truthis, 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 Annegonda 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. Baines, 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 potbellylike 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 spiciness, 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.

In the interval between dessert and cards, he stepped outside to gaze at the gardens, answering to spring. Up the hill, he beheld a statue beckoning in the night, a focus for the eye. Everywhere he looked he was seduced by a powerful aesthetic sensibility.

Bill, cigar in hand, joined him. "Cohiba? I needed a respite." He offered him a cigar from his leather carrying case.

"Gave up smoking," Professor Forland said as Bill pocketed the extra cigar—a nice fat gauge, too, so the draw would be deliciously smooth.

"Thank you for serving on the panel, for visiting our compatriots," Bill graciously said. "Virginia has two hundred fifty vineyards. You can't visit them all, but I'm delighted you've visited the ones here."

Professor Forland inhaled the fragrant cigar odor as Bill prepared his. "Like Galileo, I recant."

"Ah." Bill smiled, pulling the extra cigar from his blazer pocket, cutting off the nub end for the professor with a sharp mother-of-pearl cigar cutter. Then he carefully held the flame a bit away from the tip so Professor Forland could light the treasure, "A little bit of heaven, isn't it?"

"Nicotine serves a purpose," Professor Forland good-naturedly remarked. "You know, when your wife and I were out today We saw Toby's operation."

"Very opinionated."

"There are worse characteristics, but, yes, he can be difficult. What surprised me is his idea for a wine he hopes to bottle this year. He buys the Cabernet Sauvignon from—let me remember—"

"Dinny Ostermann." Bill nodded with admiration. "He's one of those people who can make a purse out of a sow's ear."

"The usual mix of Petit Verdot, and Toby's got the Verdot right, too, but the usual mix is eighty percent Petit Verdot with twenty percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Petit Verdot plays the dominating role. He wants to reverse it."

"Linden Vineyards Aeneus 2001 does that." Bill's studies showed themselves, although he wasn't a bragging sort of man.

Then again, if you catch a big fish you generally don't go home by an alley.

"Yes, yes, I know, but what really surprised me was Toby's aggressiveness. He says he can do it better."

Bill laughed. "In his own way he's as arrogant as Rollie Barnes. What'd you think of that operation, by the way?"

"Too early to tell. Spends money like water. Arch Saunders was one of my students, you know. Even taught for two years. Not as brilliant as Toby in the classroom, but a more balanced person. And sounds likeRollie is buying or renting any land with the right soils and drainage. Very competitive. Arch, too. They'll upset people, those two." professor Forland drew deeply on the heavenly cigar. "Despite the conviviality of tonight's dinner, every now and then Toby glares at Arch and Rollie. Toby's worked so hard, alone, and here Arch comes back from California and snags a plummy partnership."

"Heard that Rollie is building his own bottling facility. And the first grape hasn't appeared on the vine." Bill exhaled a blue plume, changing the focus of the conversation.

"Optimism."

"Mmm." Bill shrugged. He endured Rollie.

Bill was a secure man with a bubbling, effervescent humor. Bill's quiet confidence and, worse, his social grace infuriated Rollie, who felt clumsy.

"Did you know that Hy Maudant bought a mobile bottling line?" Professor Forland closed his eyes as he took a deep drag, the orange glow of the cigar tip shining.

"When did he do that?"

"Today. We stopped at White Vineyards first."

"Patricia and I haven't had a minute to catch up. I'll be interested to hear what she says. Those units cost $350,000. Hy is a good businessman, the French usually are. Instead of sinking all his money into his own bottling facility, he buys the mobile unit. He already has the huge tractor to pull it. He'll use it himself and then hire it out to other vintners. Shrewd." Bill made note of the fact that Hy, a guest this evening, didn't brag about his acquisition.

"Very, as long as you have someone who can service it."

Bill turned as he heard Patricia call from inside. "Be right in." He turned to Professor Forland. "Hy will have someone who can fix it. I know Hy. By the way, I'll put together a small box of different cigars for you to take home. Unless you have a favorite."

"Ah, your sampler will tell me more about you than my poor tastes." He stopped a moment. "But I have to say the best cigar I ever smoked in my life was a Diplomaticos, Cuban."

"Yes. I like them very much, although I tend more toward Cohibas, at least afterdinner. Romeo and Juliet and Dunhill make a good cigar even if the tobacco isn't Cuban. But you know, the Cubans really do have the perfect conditions for cigar tobacco. Funny, isn't it, cigars are as unique as wine and just as difficult to produce. Another fine art," he sighed. "Damned fool embargo. Hell, when the embargo was declared, President Kennedy had humidors stuffed with Cuban cigars. That's what raises my blood pressure more than anything—hypocrisy."

"The hypocrite honors morals or the law by pretending to obey."

Bill laughed, appreciating the fine point. "Another brandy?" As they walked inside, Bill draped his arm over the professor's narrow shoulders. "I married Patricia, but you know when I knew I was completely, totally, eternally in love with that woman? When she dragged me out of bed at four-thirty in the morning for weeks our first year to pick the grapes. She spared me nothing. We did much of the physical work ourselves, and I am not an early riser. But, you know, the happiness on her face, the shared goal—for the first time in my life I have a three-hundred-sixty-degree relationship with awoman, the most remarkable woman I have ever known."

"You are a fortunate man, because she's one of the most beautiful women in the world."

Bill puffed his last puff. "Beauty may bring you to a woman, but it won't keep you. She has to have beauty from within."

"Ah, like the vine. It, too, must express the beauty from within."

"Poetic." Bill smiled as they rejoined the guests in the den, where a lively discussion was in progress about the spiritual difference between baseball, football, and basketball.

Professor Forland knew little about sports, but the sight of women as impassioned about sports as the men was not unique to him. In Blacksburg, football was a religion both genders appeared to worship equally.

However, the true achievement of Virginia Tech lay in its vibrant social life. It was once written in a national magazine when rating the best party schools in America that they couldn't include Tech. It would be unfair to pit professionals against amateurs.

As the guests left, Toby and Arch fell in step some distance behind Rollie and Chauntal.

At the bottom of the curving outdoor stairs, Toby abruptly asked, "Why'd you leave Tech for California? Being a professor is a soft job, a good one."

"Hands on. Classroom's not for me, but I didn't know that until I taught for two years."

"Didn't have anything to do with Mary Minor?" Toby used Harry's true Christian name and her maiden surname.

They reached Toby's truck, parked well below the great house. "A little, I guess."

Toby leaned against the door, crossed his arms over his chest. "What was it like working out there in Napa Valley?"

"Different world, a totally different world. But the people who have been hired by the rich people—the movie stars' people and all that, those Italians and French that actually run the vineyards—they are something. They are true blue. They had to adjust to a different climate, soils, rainfall, and a whole different way of living, but, boy, look what they are producing." He paused a moment. "Good as it is and beautiful as it is, too many people in California, even in Napa Valley. They're like locusts just eating everything up."

"Never happen here."

"Oh, yeah? Toby, Charlottesville came in as the number-one place to live in America."

"Ah, just a poll. The rest of the country, outside the South, I mean, thinks we're all a bunch of dumb rednecks."

"Hope so." Arch laughed.

Toby laughed, too, a rarity for him. "Yeah, keep 'em out. Hey, want to see what I just bought?"

"Sure."

He opened the truck and pulled down the raised center console/armrest. He popped open the lid and removed a handgun. "Isn't this something? Brand-new. A Ruger P95PR. Bought two boxes of ten-round magazines, too."

"Hey, that's nine millimeter. You going to shoot targets with that?"

"Sometimes."

"Expensive ammunition. I stick to a twenty-two for practice."

"Yeah, but feel this in your hand." Toby handed the gun to Arch.

Arch knew it was unloaded. Toby wasn'tstupid. "Feels balanced." He handed it back. "I know that's expensive."

"Keep it right here in my truck. Never know when I'll need it." A puff of air escaped his lips, as the air was quite cool. "Did Forland get mad at you when you left Tech?"

"No, he understood I needed to be in the field. All he cares about is that his students make a name for themselves."

"Big ego," Toby flatly replied.

"He's entitled to it."

"Did he ever say why he didn't give me that job?"

"Thought you'd do better out of school, I suppose."

"I don't believe that."

"I don't know."

"Bet everyone knows in Blacksburg but me. University towns create more gossip than scholars."

"I don't know." Arch avoided the issue.

"You all think I'm nuts. Everyone thinks I'm like a radiator that overheats. I know that. Just because I say what I'm thinking when I'm thinking it. You all think I just boil over." He threw his hands up like water shooting up. "Whoosh."

"Toby, you'll never change." Arch kept his voice level. "Thanks for showing me the Ruger." He started toward his truck.

"I'll show you all. Just wait. I will make the best wine in this state and I'll make money, too."

Arch couldn't resist. "Not if I do it first."

"You try!" Toby's face reddened. "I'm gonna beat your ass. I'll show Professor Forland who's the best."

"Okay." Arch kept walking as Toby kept making promises of greatness to come.

Early the next morning after protracted good-byes, Professor Forland drove off in his Scion car, down the long, winding driveway, all paved, and out the main gate. He turned right, passed Keelona Farm as he headed toward Carter's Bridge. Then he simply vanished.

8

"Bullshit." Aunt Tally sharply rapped her silver-headed cane on the Aubusson rug, which slightly muffled the curse.

The light played on Ned Tucker's distinguished silver sideburns and temples as he bowed to the fabulously well-dressed nonagenarian perched on the sofa in Big Mim's living room. "I agree."

Aunt Tally used her cane topped off with the silver hound's head for punctuation as well as to help her walk. Spry enough at her age, she did find that sometimes she wasn't quite as sure-footed as she once was if the ground wasn't level.

Big Mim, equally well dressed, glided over to her aunt. "Cursing again?"

"Yes. I think bullshit ever so much more forceful than shit. And if I had time I'd bemore creative than bullshit, but what Ned has just told me infuriates me, so I responded immediately. Bullshit, I say, pure, unadulterated bullshit."

The small gathering at Mim's beautiful house, redecorated last winter by Parish-Hadley, the august interior decorating firm—"freshened," as Mim liked to say-gravitated toward the ancient lady.

Big Mim was giving a small Saturday luncheon party in honor of Harry and Fair. The luncheon was on a par with a hunt breakfast, which is to say it was sumptuous. She'd been close friends with Harry's mother, as had Miranda Hogendobber, who used to work with Harry at the post office. When Harry was left without either parent while studying at Smith College, both women did their best to look after her. Big Mim's daughter, a year younger than Harry, never really forgave her mother for this diversion of attention Little Mim believed she herself deserved.

Over the years, young Marilyn managed to reach an accord with Harry. After all, it wasn't Harry's fault that her parents had died within months of each other. It was just that even now, Little Mim sometimes resented the bond between her mother and this poor—formerly poor, anyway—country mouse. Harry, a terrific athlete, shared foxhunting, tennis, shooting clays and skeet with Big Mim.

BoomBoom, six feet tall and gorgeous, was also a natural athlete. Woe to the man who invited her to play golf just to see her form at the top of her swing's finish. She'd bet on each hole and clean the fellow out. BoomBoom understood the monetary value of outstanding physical attributes.

It seemed everyone was a good athlete but Little Mim. To her credit, she could ride, thanks to thousands of dollars' worth of lessons plus her own grit. No amount of money will give one the courage to take a big fence. Little Mim took her fences without blinking an eye.

The luncheon pleased Little Mim because she was grateful her mother hadn't gone overboard. She wanted her June wedding celebrations to overshadow anything that might be done for Harry and Fair or anyone else in the county.

Miranda and Susan walked over, flanking Ned. Jim, the host, noted whose drink needed a lift.

Also gathering around Aunt Tally were Tazio Chappars, Paul de Silva, Tracy Raz, BoomBoom, Alicia, and Hy and Fiona Maudant

"Well, Aunt Tally, once again you're the center of attention. Perhaps you'd like to recapitulate your conversation with Ned?" Big Mim goaded her.

"Ned, you start." Tally leaned forward, both hands on the head of her cane.

"As some of you know, I've been assigned to the Ag committee. I paid a courtesy call to the chair and he told me, his exact words, 'Ned, my boy, if you want to rise in government, don't drive a foreign car. Get yourself a good ole American piece of junk.' Here I thought we might discuss last year's corn surplus—the average price came to $1.95 a bushel—and he tells me to get rid of the Audi station wagon, which isn't my car, it's Susan's. I borrowed it to carry some things down to the apartment." He looked at Aunt Tally.

"Bullshit was my reply." Aunt Tally lifted an eyebrow.

"I guess so." Tracy Raz laughed.

"It is, but he has a point. Appearances count for more than reality in politics. Always have and always will," chimed in Jim, mayor of Crozet and a Democrat.

This created some friction in the family since Little Mim, a Republican, was vice-mayor. She had ambitions. Her father did not. He simply wanted to serve Crozet, for he loved the town and surrounding farms.

"I'm cooked either way, because my car is my old 1998 540i," Ned ruefully said.

"Don't buy another BMW. Not until they dispense with that ridiculous iDrive as well as the ugly bustle on the trunk." BoomBoom loved cars and read four magazines dedicated to the automobile.

"Under the circumstance, I'd say driving a BMW would be political suicide." Ned half-laughed.

"Considering that the German government has criticized our plans in the Mideast, you're right on two counts." Tracy Raz was a keen student of foreign affairs.

"Buy a truck," BoomBoom advised.

"Yes, but, Boom, if you want, you can go out and buy a damned Bentley." Ned was a little frustrated.

"I love my Bentley." Big Mim squared her shoulders.

It should be noted that Big Mim hadmore money than God, whereas Boom-Boom only had enough for an archangel.

"Your Bentley GT is beautiful. But you know I always had trucks because of the business and now it's my only vehicle. I sold my Mercedes two months ago. I don't know why I waited this long to have one set of wheels. God knows, it's easier." BoomBoom glanced over at Alicia, whose lavender-tinted eyes glowed, a feature the camera exploited in her long-ago film days.

"The Cadillac Escalade isn't so bad." Paul de Silva, in his early thirties, liked the big SUV, popular among his generation.

"He can't drive a Cadillac. Not if he wants to go above his present station." Aunt Tally nursed plans for Ned. "It's all silly, I know, but if Ned is going to be our next governor, then he has to be clever about these things."

"I thought I was going to be governor," Little Mim blurted out.

"You are, dear, if the gods are willing, but you're younger than Ned. Let him go first. As for all of us here, party is irrelevant. All that matters is what comes back to Crozet Ned, I presume you want to be governor?" Big Mim asked.

"Uh—"

Susan chirped, "Have you ever known my husband to refuse a pro bono case, an honor, or more work?"

"Am I that transparent?" He was shocked.

"No." Miranda patted his arm. "But politics is the ultimate seduction, you know. One actually believes things will be accomplished. True power comes not from an electorate. 'I can do all things in Him who strengthens me.' Follow that, Ned, and you will achieve what is necessary." Miranda quoted Philippians, Chapter 3, Verse 10.

"Miranda, I thought you'd given up being a religious nut." Aunt Tally minced few words. "And while you're on your feet, Jim, another martini."

"You've had enough." Big Mim glared at the diminutive lady on the sofa.

"Oh, balls, Mimsy. I can't engage in illicit affairs anymore. All the men of my generation are dead, and a young man of seventy Couldn't give me a tumble. I can't ride astride, so I drive that damned buggy. Who can live without horses? I can barely dance. You have no mercy. Gin is comfort. And I did'ntt insult Miranda, because I know that's why you are now hovering over me like a blowfly." She pounded the cane on the rug again.

"I'll fetch you another drink." Little Mim maliciously smiled at her mother. She couldn't help it.

"My beautiful girl here isn't a religious nut, Aunt Tally, but you know how she loves the Good Book." Tracy adored Miranda. "She has most of it memorized. How does she do it?"

"She has most of it memorized because all those years in the post office she would have lost her mind without a mental project." Aunt Tally cast her eyes over to Harry. "And you got out while the getting was good, young lady."

Big Mim's springer spaniel walked into the room, discerned no food would fall on the floor as it had at the dinner table, and padded back out.

Little Mim returned with a fresh martini for Aunt Tally, and Blair, her fiance, bore a small crystal glass filled with olives in case Aunt Tally wanted to pick at them. He'd speared them with tiny silver swords.

"We're off track." Alicia graciously brought them back to Ned's dilemma. "Ned, you haven't asked for my opinion, but given the company, I feel safe in expressing it. Buy a truck. Buy a three-quarter-ton Chevy, Ford, Dodge, doesn't matter, whichever one appeals to you."

"Why not a half-ton?" Harry asked. "Easier to drive and a bit cheaper to run." Harry's gaze rarely strayed from the bottom line, a good habit acquired from decades of living close to the bone.

"He's on the Ag committee. A half-ton is so glamorized these days, it's a city person's flash vehicle." Alicia displayed the sharp insights that had enabled her to survive the slings and arrows—or more often the knives in the back—prevalent in her former acting profession. "If he drives a three-quarter-ton, has a Reese hitch on the back, and is wired for a gooseneck, running lights, a running board, think about it, that's a working farm truck. When he goes down to Lee County the farmer he visits sees another farmer. And in truth, now that Susan is in the nursery business and timber business, he may not exactly be a farmer but he's married to one."

"How smart!" BoomBoom clasped her hands together.

Aunt Tally squinted at the movie star. "You're one hundred percent right, sweet pea."

"Do I have to trade in the 540i?" Ned's voice was mournful.

"No. Just don't ride it to Richmond or thereabouts." Fair, listening all this while, added his two cents. "And if you'll forgive me for changing the subject, did you see in the Richmond paper where Virginia beat out California in a number of wine-tasting events? I think I got that right. Is everyone in the state going to make wine now?"

Big Mim's eyebrows shot upward. "Jim, did you know that?"

"Darlin' girl." He added her pet name. "I did not. Ned, looks like you fell into the honeypot, or should I say the wine tub? You're on the right committee at the right time."

"Make the most of it, Ned," Aunt Tally commanded.

"It takes so much money to start a vineyard," Boom Boom noted. "Anywhere from twelve to eighteen thousand dollars per acre."

"Either you have a good harvest or you don't. Russian roulette, sort of." Little Mim finally interjected something, her mother's gaze having lost its sting as Big Mim accepted that Aunt Tally would have her martini one way or the other.

Ned remarked, "These new people can read all about grapes, they can realize they won't get good yields until the fourth or fifth year, depending on the grape variety and the weather. But they aren't country people. I don't know that they're tough enough. That's why Rollie Barnes impresses me. For all his gargantuan ego, his aggressiveness, he had the sense to know he needed someone like Arch Saunders."

A murmur of agreement filled the room.

"It's the crazy thing about being a farmer, isn't it?" Harry lamented. "You have a bumper crop and prices go down. You suffer through diminished harvests and prices shoot up. I know, I know, it's supply and demand, but when Mother Nature is your business partner, nothing is certain."

"Except uncertainty." Alicia smiled.

They heard the front door open.

"Anybody home?" A deep, resonant voice called out.

Jim hurried to the front hall and within seconds the Reverend Herbert Jones entered the room, Lucy Fur under his arm like a loaf of bread. She didn't much like it.

"Lucy Fur." Harry knew people's pets better than she knew them, really.

The extremely healthy kitty wiggled out of Herb's arms to run to Harry, who picked her up with a grunt.

"She hasn't missed too many meals when she was visiting at my sister's." Herb laughed. "Sorry I missed the lunch, but I needed to pick up the cat from Marty." He mentioned the local vet. "Shot renewal time."

"Let me fix you a plate, Herb." Big Mim kept a good table.

"I would never refuse your hospitality." He winked.

Everyone trooped back to the bright enclosed patio, which served as the luncheon site. They liked being with Herb and succumbed to the temptation of a second dessert.

Alicia, BoomBoom, and Harry summoned the strength to resist by sipping hot Constant Comment tea.

As Herb sliced his small partridge stuffed with wild rice, the fresh vegetables artfully

arranged on his plate by the cook, the conversation flowed.

Lucy Fur, standing on her hind legs on the floor, raised a paw, placing it on Herb's thigh. He cut a small piece of partridge for her, put it on a bread plate, and bent over. No one said a word, since everyone there would have done the same thing. The springer spaniel rejoined them upon hearing the plate scrape the floor.

These were animal people. The differences among them were differences of income, age, gender, and the mysteries of personality. But when it came to animals, they were as one. Every single one of them, even Tazio, new to animal ownership, cherished a deep respect for all life.

"Baseball season's fresh as a new born babe." Jim loved the Philadelphia Phillies. "Blair and I are going up to see this new Washington team."

"Yeah, I'd like to see them play, too,"

Fair, another baseball fan, commented.

"Orioles, now and forever." Harry placed her hand over her heart.

"Not going to be their year. In fact, it isn't going to be their year for years." Blair, no

Orioles fan, enjoyed tweaking his former neighbor.

"Ha. You just wait," Harry defiantly replied.

"Well, I think the Kansas City Royals will surprise everyone," Tracy declared.

"Yeah, by being at the bottom of the barrel." Herb paused between bites.

"Those are fighting words, Rev." Tracy lifted his forefinger.

"Dodgers." Alicia had season tickets for years and used to go to the games with Gary Grant. She didn't say that, as it would have been bragging. She liked Grant enormously and one reason was he had learned baseball, no easy task for an Englishman. He also took pains to explain cricket to her, and she found she quite liked it.

"They may be a factor," Jim said judiciously.

Once Herb, himself, reached dessert, the conversation turned to the panel discussion and terrorism in general, which they discussed for some length.

"Just think if someone contaminates the reservoirs that supply New York City. They could strike down, potentially, twenty-two million people between nine A.M. and five P.M.," BoomBoom added to the lively topic.

"Those are obvious targets," Alicia commented. "They'll strike us where we aren't looking."

"Exactly," Big Mim agreed. "Imagine if chemical-warfare specialists find a way to release a fungus that could make us sick? Not something that would kill immediately but something that would make people sick. It would incapacitate the sick, tie down the people caring for them, and damage the economy, too."

Harry added her two cents. "That's what was so fascinating about the panel: how common the types of fungus are that infect wheat, corn, grapes even. All of these could be used."

"Terrorists would use grapes?" Tazio's eyes widened.

Jim answered Tazio. "No, but let's say wheat becomes tainted. It passes on to humans. That's a one-two punch. But let's suppose our enemies are far more subtle than that. Let's say they infect hay, grass, crops. Cattle eat them. The meat becomes dangerous, and Americans consume huge quantities of beef. Meanwhile, thousands and thousands of cattle are eating poisoned grasses before the sickness can be traced to the source." Jim took a deep breath. "Now you have humans, cattle, medical people, and crops being destroyed or rendered useless for a time. You get the idea."

"I do. Become a vegetarian." Susan broke the mood of worry.

"Right. Drink wine, not water." Blair held up a glass.

9

After the luncheon, back at the farm, Harry walked through the quarter acre she'd planted with Petit Manseng, a grape used in Jurangon, perhaps the most famous of the white wines of southwestern France. She'd planted the rootstock herself in November, which would allow root growth over the winter. She planted each bare root eight feet from another. Her rows were also eight feet apart. She really wouldn't know until the growth spurt in high spring whether she had correctly spaced the vines.

She kept to the golden mean of spacing for grapes and hoped she was doing right by the Petit Manseng.

Naturally, as this was the first year, she didn't expect much. With help from Patricia and Bill and Felicia Rogan, she had settled on Petit Manseng because the small white grape stayed on the vine longer than most other types. This bumped up the sugar content even as it pushed down the acidity. Jurangon, at the foot of the Pyrenees, bears similarity to western Albemarle County. That helped Harry decide. But on one-quarter acre, once the vines were established, she should produce one ton of grapes, which translated into fifty cases or six hundred bottles. One barrel of oak is the equivalent of twenty-five cases.

Watching her pennies, Harry cultivated one-quarter acre at a cost of five thousand dollars and prayed all would be well, because, for her, that was a big outlay of cash.

She begged old oaken barrels from Patricia Kluge. One of the surest ways to produce inferior-tasting wine was too much oak. Although not a winemaker, she was a country girl and a quick study.

She loved agriculture. She liked growing grapes, but the expenses preyed on her natural financial caution. Reviving the Alverta peach orchard kept her on solid ground. And she kept her mother's pippin apple orchard flourishing. Fortunately, apples and grapes flourish with the same soil, water, sun conditions.

Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter followed her as she bent down to check the shoots emerging from the trunks. A few warm weeks, when the air reeked with heavenly fragrances from apple trees, viburnas, different varieties of scented bushes, and these babies—she thought of them as babies—would surprise everyone with their vigorous growth.

She stood up, casting her eyes over the farm. In the paddocks the foals—true babies—dozed, and her heart melted each time she looked at the horses.

The hay peeped up, spring green, a tender color promising life, nutrition.

Her two acres of various sunflower types also glowed spring green, except for the Italian sunflowers, which she'd just planted. The sun warmed the afternoon to the mid-fifties. Her ancient three-ply cashmere crewneck sweater with darning spots served her well. Harry could never throw anything out that might be useful even one more day.

Once a year, Susan, Miranda, and BoomBoom would descend upon her tothrow out tattered things. Her sock drawer alone took a half hour. She'd try to hang on to a threadbare sock by declaring it could be used to hold catnip.

The cats didn't care how they received their catnip, so long as it was forthcoming.

A car turned onto the farm road.

Tucker barked,"Intruder!"

A curly-haired, extroverted Bo Newell showed up. "Harry. I'll only be a minute." He checked his watch. "It's two-thirty, so I'll be out of here by two forty-five." Then he laughed.

"Do you think he has Miss Prissy in the car?"Pewter hated Bo's ancient cat, who was fond of travel and arguments.