The Big Cat Nap (14 page)

With the great lady’s death, Susan became determined to sharpen her game and make an effort to teach youngsters. Susan couldn’t have cared less if they were boys or girls, rich or poor. Of course, at FCC, those youngsters came from privileged backgrounds, although not all of them lived in happy homes. Susan also would go to the city golf course once a week in the good weather to work with young people who didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

This concern for others drew Susan and Dr. Yarbrough together. Each had achieved athletic fame in their own sports, which gave them respect from the young and allowed them to reach some kids that others thought unreachable. The interesting thing about both the powerfully built dentist and the gracefully built housewife was they didn’t talk about what they did, even to each other. They just did it.

Latigo Bly stood in sharp contrast to this. Given his wealth, he supported the Cancer Society, the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation, and the Salvation Army. His name and often his photo were prominently displayed. Nor was he loath to call attention to his acts of charity.

All three of these golfers lived the good life in their way, but Latigo certainly lived more of it: fast cars, faster women, disgruntled ex-wives. His garage was filled with a Porsche 911, a Camaro, a Mustang convertible, even a Lamborghini. His bed had been filled with female counterparts easy on the eyes, hard on the wallet. His wife, Vivien, instrumental in his success, looked the other way. He loved her, but he used her. Some might define him as narcissistic, others as a man driven to win, to profit.

Halfway down this snaking fairway, using an eight iron, Dr. Yarbrough ripped a tremendous shot. It arced up like an artillery shell, coming almost straight down next to the pin. A big smile crossed his rugged features.

“Show-off,” Susan teased, calling from across the fairway.

She pulled out her seven iron, hit the ball with backspin. It landed
on the green, fifteen feet from the pin, but then began to roll backward, stopping a beautiful four feet away. If there was one thing Susan could do, it was read greens.

Latigo was not as powerful a driver as either Dr. Yarbrough or Susan. He hit the ball, which was about twenty-five yards behind their fairway shots. It was a good, clean shot, landing just in that first halo of taller grass surrounding the green, taller by maybe a quarter of an inch. That quarter of an inch was enough to make the man stare hard at his ball and then hard at the distant pin.

Golf didn’t take bravery like, say, foxhunting, but it sure could break your heart.

The remaining four holes played fast. The three, enjoying one another’s company and the lovely light breeze, wrapped up on the eighteenth hole.

Susan shot a 72. Dr. Yarbrough came in at 75, and Latigo scored a very respectable 82. The three cleaned up, walked up the outside stairway to the nineteenth hole, and sat down for a refreshing drink.

“That mockingbird put the mojo on my ball.”

“Latigo, if we were in Florida, you’d say it was an alligator.” Susan gratefully sipped her sweetened iced tea.

“Well,” the tall fellow drawled, “there are a lot of alligators on the greens down there.”

“You know, they can run faster than we do,” Dr. Yarbrough noted. “You wouldn’t think it to look at them.”

“Speaking of alligators …” Latigo looked intently down at his drink while a former affairette swished by, gave him a hard look, sniffed, then continued.

“Latigo, the lipstick and fingernail polish alone should have put you off.” Susan winked at him.

“I beg pardon?” Latigo’s eyes opened wide.

“Black fingernail polish and dark-purple lipstick. What were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t.” Dr. Yarbrough laughed, and his two companions laughed with him.

“Purple.” Susan just shook her head. “I will never understand men.”

Latigo touched her hand with his forefinger. “I think you understand us well enough.”

“Sometimes I think I do, until my wonderful husband, love him to death, goes into a hardware store. Oh, my God! Hundreds of dollars later, he totters out under the weight of wrenches and screwdrivers.”

Dr. Yarbrough plucked a menu off the table. “Anyone hungry? On me.”

Both Susan and Latigo expressed thanks, ordering light salads.

Harry must have rubbed off on Susan, because she asked Latigo, “You send clients to ReNu. What do you think is going on over there?”

“I don’t know. Victor doesn’t know. It’s deeply upsetting.”

“Why do you refer clients to ReNu?” Susan pressed.

“Good work for good prices. Collision-repair shops indemnify their work.”

“That means you’re not responsible?” Susan blurted out.

“It means if they perform shoddy work, I can go after them. Even the best shops can have a lemon day, for lack of a better phrase. Insurance is more complex than you might think. The Code of Hammurabi mentions an insurance practice in 1750
B.C.
”

Susan, sensing he was about to warm up to his pet subject, insurance history, diverted him. “Did you ever consider that love is a fire for which there is no insurance? Even if you crash and burn.”

Dr. Yarbrough laughed, both because of the sentiment and because Susan had cut off the potential lecture of boring information.

O
n Friday, June 1, the cool morning air refreshed Harry as she cut the endless lawn at St. Luke’s. At ten, the turquoise blue skies were dotted with cream cumulus clouds hovering over the emerald grasses. Once Harry adjusted to the zero-turn mower—her old belly-mount conventional mower had finally died after twenty-five years of cutting grass—she wondered how she’d ever lived without the new manner of mower. Instead of a steering wheel, the driver grasped two long handles, which could move forward and back. She could cut corners so much closer than with a conventional mower. Still she’d have to use an edger along the pathways and the special gardens lining those pathways, but the zero-turn saved so much time.

Peonies, in full bloom this late in the season, crowded the long, brick-laid pathways. The gardening club of the church—now full of men as well as women, since gardening had become just about as competitive as grilling with some of them—created masses of white, pink, and magenta with the peonies. Harry marveled at how beautiful the grounds looked, regardless of season. Even in winter, the hollies shone with red berries, and pyracanthas grew up the side of Herb’s garage, providing a long-distance blast of orange, often against snow. While she liked gardening, she lacked the time to devote herself to it. Her focus was her crops, the foals, and working the horses. Wistfully, she looked down at the cemetery on the lower level, old cream-colored
climbing roses spilling over the stone walls. If only she had more time.

The scent of fresh-cut grass filled her, lifted her up. Something about fresh-cut hay and grass made Harry glad to be alive.

Every now and then, Herb would look up from his desk to see one of his favorite parishioners out there mowing away.

Chuckling to Elocution on his lap, he said, “See the pattern? She cuts in one direction, then comes back on the other. Takes longer, but Harry wants there to be a pleasing pattern. Her mother was like that. Well, she inherited her mother’s sense of beauty and her father’s practicality. Not a bad combination.”

A thunk caused Harry to cut the motor.

Once on her hands and knees, Harry saw that a hidden rock, part of it above ground but covered by the grass, had sheared off one of the bolts holding the belly mount. If she continued mowing, she’d scrape the earth and the cut would be uneven. Couldn’t have that.

“Drat,” she muttered under her breath, then said aloud, “Well, I can fix it.”

As she walked toward the administrative buildings on the quad, Herb leaned out the window.

“What now?”

“Sheared a pin. You wouldn’t happen to have spare parts?”

“Don’t. We don’t have a zero-turn.”

“Right. Well, I’ll head to the dealer.”

“Go to Waynesboro. Better price.”

“That’s the truth. Buy something in Charlottesville, add ten percent to the price. Herb, I’ll need to drive over there and fetch a pin. I promise I’ll get this all ready before Sunday. Actually, I think I can finish it today.”

“I’ll drive you over there. It’s such a beautiful day. I’m getting antsy in the office,” Herb volunteered.

“Okay.” Harry walked inside the administrative buildings from the back door, washed grease off her hands, then met Herb out front, for he’d already pulled his truck around.

“Come on, girl. Time for an adventure, especially after your clean mammogram.” The older man grinned.

“Word gets out.” Harry smiled back at him.

“Your friends are very, very happy.”

Handsome, overweight, the Very Reverend Jones was a barrel-chested man, not tall but impressively built. All through his high school and college years, the football coaches wanted him to play on the line. He preferred baseball instead, playing catcher, where his wonderful memory served pitchers well. His knees held up better than if he’d been on the football line, but they creaked. He sometimes wondered how many times he crouched, rose, crouched again.

Within twenty-five minutes, Herb pulled in to the dealer’s. Light traffic helped, but it was actually faster, although a longer distance, to shop in Waynesboro rather than inching up Route 29.

Harry picked up some extra parts just in case. She reached into her jeans’ back pocket to pull out her wallet.

Herb grabbed her wrist. “Church purchase.”

“I don’t mind. It’s my mower and my little offering.”

“Your work is the offering.” He pulled out a silver credit card and handed it to the fellow behind the counter.

“I love doing it.”

“Looks good. My office affords me such a wonderful view, regardless of weather or season. I get most of my best sermon ideas just staring out the window.”

After Herb paid, they hopped back into the truck.

“Ready for our next vestry meeting?” Harry asked.

“We have a good board. Makes it easier. As you know, just maintaining the physical structures takes so much money and effort. Still, I wouldn’t want to be in modern buildings for all the tea in China.”

“Do they grow tea in China?”

“I don’t know, but they sure drink it.” Herb gave her a devilish grin. “We aren’t all that far from Wayne’s Cycle Shop.”

“Yesss?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Think what St. Luke’s could save on gas if I rode a motorcycle?”

Harry laughed, a light happy sound. “And half the board would have a fit and fall in it.”

Now they both laughed at the old Southern expression.

“Ever own a bike?” he asked.

“No. I’d love to. I mean, I’d just lose my mind, go everywhere. ’Course, the real decision would be whether to buy a dirt bike or a road one. Love the sound of the big ones.”

“Me, too. Like the old V8s from the fifties and sixties. That rumble.”

“If Fair and I weren’t facing a big bill for the hydraulic system on the old John Deere, I’d think about it. You really can save money on gas. Our gas bills have doubled, and, boy, that cuts into the budget. The estimate from the John Deere dealer—back to the tractor—is ten thousand dollars for a new hydraulic system, all new hoses, the works. We’re gonna get the work done outside the dealer, I think. It will take longer. Still cost, though.”

Herb whistled. “That calls for serious prayer and maybe a winning lottery ticket.”

The two people who loved each other drove back to St. Luke’s, chattering away.

As Herb pulled in to the driveway of the garage, the truck backfired, shuddered, and stopped dead.

Harry jumped out after Herb popped the hood. “Cut on the motor.”

He did. Nothing.

As this was a truck that still had an oil dipstick, Harry took it out, put the clean end to her ear. “Okay, try again.”

A click sounded, another.
Click. Click. Click
. But no ignition.

“I just picked this damned truck up, as you know.”

“I think it’s your alternator. But it could be more than that. Better call ReNu. They’ll need to tow you.”

He got out of the truck, slamming the door. “I do need a new
truck. Or that motorcycle. But you know there’s no way the church can afford new wheels. Given the hauling and odds and ends we need, half the parish uses the church truck. It has to be a truck.”

“Yes, it does.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll call ReNu. Got the number?”

Herb easily recalled the telephone number, as he’d called it so many times.

By the time Harry had the new pin on the belly mount—an easy job once she found a block of wood to steady the mount and once she was able to dislodge the sheared pin—the tow truck from ReNu had turned onto the driveway. To her surprise, Victor Gatzembizi emerged from the passenger side; Terry Schreiber, the driver, was about as greasy as she was.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry strolled down to them as Herb came out of his office.

Victor looked up. “Reverend Jones, let’s hope this is a hangover from your former problem.”

“Why?”

“Well, otherwise you and the insurance company are throwing good money after bad.”