Outfoxed (5 page)

CHAPTER 7

The Garage, an after-hours club in an abandoned garage, drew a young crowd on Saturday night. The music was good, the drinks were watered, and drugs were sold in the parking lot.

Bored, Doug sat at a small round table wondering why he bothered to go out. He'd downed two martinis and knew, given the weather, that drinking a third and driving those twisty country roads home wouldn't be the smartest choice. He left money on the table and walked for the door just as a wet Cody Jean Franklin dashed in.

“Doug. Don't go. I just got here.”

“I can see that.”

“Have I ever told you what beautiful green eyes you have?”

“In first grade.”

“Buy me a drink?”

“No.”

She tossed her long black hair. “Why are you so pissed at me.”

“One word: Fontaine.”

“That? Don't be silly.”

“You're sleeping with him, Cody. I know you.”

“Maybe you just think you do. I could care less about Fontaine and I'm not sleeping with him.”

He grabbed her forearm, his grip tight. “Don't lie to me.”

Coolly she said, “Let go.”

He released her arm as though it were on fire, brushed by her, and walked outside.

Livid, she ran after him.

Doug had opened the door of his truck by the time she reached him. They were both soaked.

She slammed him against the side of the truck and kissed him hard. He put his hands on her shoulders, intending to push her away, but instead he kissed her back.

“Cody, don't do me like this.”

She whispered in his ear, “Dougie, life's full of secrets. Some are even worth keeping. Trust me.” She kissed him again. “Let's go to your place.”

“Where's your car?”

“Jen dropped me off. I saw your truck.”

He leaned his forehead against her forehead, flesh cool in the wet night. “Don't lie to me, Cody. I'm taking you home.”

“Great. You can stay at my place.”

“I'm taking you home. Period.” He unlocked his truck. They both got in, the seats wet from their drenched jeans. “As long as you're fucking around—”

She flared up. “I'm not fucking around.”

“Let me finish.” He turned on the motor and the heat. “As long as you're doing drugs I'm not getting involved.”

“But we are involved.”

“Were. We broke up Memorial Day. One gram of coke and half a bottle of Absolut. Christ, I'm amazed that you lived.”

She slunk down in the seat, staring out the window.

CHAPTER 8

By Sunday the streams, creeks, and rivers hovered dangerously near their banks. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The sun, trying to break through the clouds, cast an ethereal glow over the morning.

Crawford Howard worried about the water as he crossed the arching stone bridge leading out of his property. A hurricane in '97 washed away the bridge and he'd rebuilt it to the tune of seventy-five thousand dollars. Stonemasons commanded exorbitant fees, especially in collaboration with engineers. They vowed the bridge would withstand everything except a hurricane of Force 5, the worst of the worst. Crawford had no desire to find out if that was true. The water, boiling and muddy underneath the bridge, appeared to mock human planning.

The arched bridge with its large keystone provided a symbol for Crawford. Opposing forces, lined up against one another, held everything in place, made the bridge strong. It reminded him of Elizabeth I's statecraft, playing the great continental powers off one another while England grew stronger. He admired farsighted people. Bismarck was another favorite, as was Peter the Great, although Peter was a touch too emotional for Crawford, who considered himself supremely rational. It was one of the reasons he was an Episcopalian. One should worship in a civil and controlled manner. Evangelism was for the unwashed.

Then, too, the power in most towns gathered at the Episcopal church. A spillover might be Lutheran or one or two might even be Catholic, always regarded with slight suspicion, of course. Lutherans were also suspicious because of the manner in which they'd broken from the Church of Rome. Crawford thought Luther might have tried more negotiation and less passionate denunciation. He could see no reason why Lutherans weren't members of the Anglican Church. After all, it was English whereas the Catholic Church was Roman. That would never do. Too much color and incense for Crawford. Besides which, the Italians perfected corruption and ill-advised business practices.

Crawford made no secret of being an Anglophile in everything except cars. Anyone worth their salt was.

He pulled into the parking lot of Saint Luke's, secure in leaving his Mercedes surrounded by other Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, and Volvos. His ex-wife's flame-red Grand Wagoneer stood out like a sore thumb. He grimaced, then cut his motor and reached down for his umbrella. He hadn't yet put the parking brake on, so the car drifted a bit before he realized it. He pressed the brake, irritated at his loss of focus. He turned the motor on and backed properly into the parking place. He locked the car and walked confidently into the church. He sat next to Marty, who smiled reflexively as he nodded to her.

The first year of their divorce he avoided her, sitting on the other side of the church, but he thought of himself as a proper gentleman, so as time passed he moved closer to his ex-wife each week until finally he was sitting beside her. Loath to admit the guilt and loneliness he felt, he couched his behavior in terms of friendship and civility.

The sermon by Reverend Thigpin, a young, swarthy man, intrigued Crawford because he'd chosen as his text Christ's admonition about a rich man entering heaven.

Reading from Luke, chapter eighteen, verses twenty-two through twenty-five, where Jesus is speaking to a rich man, Reverend Thigpin's deep voice filled the old building: “ ‘There is still one thing lacking: sell everything you have and distribute unto the poor, and you will have riches in heaven; and come, follow me.' At these words his heart sank; for he was a very rich man. Then Jesus said, ‘How hard it is for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.' ” Reverend Thigpin surveyed his congregation as he took a deep breath. “Are we to divest ourselves of all our worldly goods? Let's look at this in another fashion. At the time this text was written the gulf between rich and poor was cavernous. There was no strong middle class as we know it. Life was brutal, nasty, and short, to paraphrase Hobbes.” Reverend Thigpin could use such references. Episcopalians went to college. They may not have read Thomas Hobbes but they knew who he was.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“No, but I only just did.”

“I thought women feared age more than men.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My fault.”

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

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

“Constricted.” Her hand reached for her throat.

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

“I went into therapy, you know.”

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

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

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

“You won't rat on me?”

“No.”

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

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

“Tuesday nights?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate that you work for him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He didn't say?”

“No.”

“How long was she there?”

“Oh, twenty minutes.”

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

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

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

“Don't underestimate Fontaine.”

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

“That's graphic.”

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

“And you want to be joint-master.”

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

“Sister is full of surprises.”