Fox Tracks (3 page)

“Well, humor me,” said Jane.

“All right. I was back home the last time I saw the studs. I went to my dresser after packing my clothing in this bag. I opened the top drawer, lifted out my personal case, carried it to the safe behind the painting that Daddy did, opened it, and took out my studs. I opened the little green leather case, counted them, closed it, and put it in my Gladstone bag.”

“Why don’t men say jewelry case?” Jane interrupted.

“How many years were you married? As I recall, it was twenty-eight. Did you ever ask Raymond?”

“No, but I didn’t talk to Raymond as openly as I talk to you,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, smiling, liking the compliment.

“Really. I loved him in my fashion, but it was a different time. Ray had a bombastic streak, which meant he had a difficult time dealing with anything that didn’t emanate from him.”

“I lived in D.C. for most of your marriage, but Ray did not strike me as the sensitive or introspective type. How could you stand it?”

“I had a son, remember?” This was said in an upbeat tone. Any memory Sister recalled of her son, who died in a tractor accident in 1974, still brought her happiness.

She loved Raymond, Jr., beyond reason, but then doesn’t every parent feel that way? Jane long ago came to terms with his death at age fourteen, growing determined to live each day with joy. Her son would have wanted that for her, not a lifetime of grieving and anger.

“It’s not that I forget,” Gray quickly replied. “It’s only that I don’t associate you with sorrows. You’re a force of nature.”

“You know, that may be the most wonderful thing you ever said to me. Now back to your studs.”

“That’s the chain of events until now.” His hand went to his left pec again.

“Do I need to buy you a man bra?”

“No.” He laughed. “I’m out of cigarettes.”

“You can’t smoke in hotel rooms anymore, at least not in this town. Actually, Gray, you can’t smoke in public parks, the list goes on. If the mayor sees you smoking, he will assume you are a lowlife, possibly a cheap criminal. It never occurs to these health nuts the damage they do to others.”

“You mean the loss of jobs in our state, North Carolina, and Kentucky? Devastation.”

“That, too, but I was thinking about the people who love laws that inhibit other people’s choices. Is smoking a good thing to do? No. But those sanctimonious rule-makers live rather luxurious lives. They aren’t working on an assembly line or in scorching sun outside. If your job is repetitive and boring or dangerous, sometimes that little hit of nicotine takes the edge off. The people that make the laws go get prescriptions for Prozac, and how does anyone know the long-term effects of all that crap?”

He blinked, as he hadn’t heard her that impassioned in months, in fact, not since a person blundered and turned the fox back toward the hounds at a hunt in November. Fortunately, the fox escaped.

Sister and Gray, this January 27, had traveled from central Virginia to attend the Masters’ Ball, an annual extravaganza under the aegis of the Masters of Foxhounds Association of America. For forty years, Sister had attended the annual ball, always at the end of January. She loved to dance, loved to catch up with old friends scattered across the United States and Canada.

Over the last ten years, oftentimes when she spoke to city dwellers or suburbanites about foxhunting, she would notice the concern or distaste in their faces, so she invariably hastened to add that in the New World, foxes were chased, not killed. Usually, that opened up a torrent of quite intelligent questions and Sister
would once again be reminded of how far most people lived from nature.

The last thing Jane Arnold ever wanted to do was kill a fox. She wouldn’t mind dispatching a few humans, though, one of whom would be at this very ball. She wondered, could you kill a man with a butter knife?

Gray couldn’t find a cigarette. “I am hooked and that’s that.” He came and sat down again, forlornly gazing into his opened Gladstone bag as though it would croak an answer concerning his stud. “I have stopped many times. Then pressure gets to me and I light up. I hate being controlled by an outside substance.”

“I can’t say that I understand. I don’t have an addictive personality. I wish you could stop if only to suit yourself. However, smoking doesn’t make you crazy, you don’t lose your teeth like those pathetic meth people, and it isn’t illegal. And although you say you aren’t moody, honey, there are times when I would happily shove a cigarette in your chiseled lips.”

“You say.”

“Look, you search for your stud. We have three hours until the Ball. I’ll pop around the corner to Madison Avenue. As I recall, there’s a beautiful little tobacco shop there that sells gorgeous small humidors, cigarette lighters, cases from as early as World War One and, of course, tobacco.”

“It’s snowing out there. I’ll go.”

“Gray, that stud is more important than a little snow on my nose. We hunt in weather worse than this.”

“Yes, but you don’t hunt in high heels.”

“I’ll start a fad. I’ve got my pull-on rain boots. My skirt is wool and my sweater is glorious cashmere. You look on your DROID to make sure the store is still operating and I’ll ring up the girls. They can come along to keep me company.”

The girls were two young women, freshmen at Princeton, who
had hunted with Sister while attending an exclusive girls’ school, Custis Hall, in central Virginia. They and quite a few other young women hunted with her for the duration of their secondary school education. Some of the faculty hunted, too, always swearing it made environmental studies more exciting for students.

Within minutes, Sister had rounded up one of the girls, Anne Harris—who was called “Tootie.” Using his phone, Gray verified the store was still in business.

“You can calculate minute by minute the national debt on that thing.” Sister admired his toy, as she thought of it.

“If I do that, I won’t enjoy the Ball.”

As it turned out, none of them enjoyed the Ball for entirely different reasons than the national debt.

A
gust of wind sent snow swirling around Sister and Tootie as they walked on a side street toward Madison Avenue. “I think there have only been about three times in forty years that I’ve come to this Ball and the weather hasn’t been filthy. No wonder they stop hunting in New York State early. Genesee Valley stops when the river freezes, which has to be now.”

Sister was telling Tootie about a hunt founded in 1876 by hard-riding upstate New Yorkers, among them the Wadsworth family, who still led them.

“I’d love to go up there and hunt,” said Tootie. “I can take a train up to Rochester and then rent a car to drive down to the Genesee Valley.” Turning her head from the wind, the snow on her creamy café au lait skin added to her considerable beauty.

“Next year. I’ll come with you. Watching Marion Thorne hunt hounds is always a treat. Then again she has good whippers-in. You know, that’s the hardest position to fill.”

“That’s what you always told us.” Tootie listened closely to everything the older woman had ever told her, as the gorgeous young woman loved hounds, horses, foxes, and Sister, herself.

Another gust of wet snow smacked them right in the face.

“Well, who needs skin abrasion up here?” said Sister. “Just go outside. You’ll get a few layers peeled right off.”

Tootie wrinkled her nose. “Sounds awful.”

“Ah!” Sister stepped faster as the shop came into sight.

“Ladies.” The owner rose from behind the store’s counter when the two swept into the shop. “Welcome.”

“We’re glad to be here.” Sister laughed, brushing off her snow-covered coat.

Adolfo Galdos, balding, pudgy, and sixtyish, smiled broadly. “One must submit to the weather. That’s what my dear papa always said. He never could fathom how people endured this.”

“Cuban?” Sister inquired.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve never met a proprietor of a tobacco shop from Barcelona.” She smiled, but she had recognized the lilt in his voice.

“There you have it.” He beamed anew. “For us, tobacco is gold, is art. Someday, and I hope I live to see it, we will return and once again, the finest cigar tobacco in the world will be available to you.”

Tootie quietly studied the shop. Cigarette cases with sapphire clasps, lighters of perfect weight and simple design, sparkled alongside impossibly long cigarette holders.

Adolfo noticed the object of Tootie’s scrutiny. “A Dunhill. 1938. That lighter will work as good as the day it was made.”

Now also studying the display case herself, Sister murmured, “Beautiful. Oh, look at that.”

He reached into the case, retrieving a heavy silver cigarette case with handwritten names incised. “This was given to a British
officer by his surviving men.” He flipped it open where it was gold inside, the officer’s name—Cpt. Mitchell Markham—was inscribed therein.

Sister’s hand flew to her heart. “What a tribute. My father fought in World War One. He never spoke of it, but I expect it affected him all his life and may be one of the reasons he married so late.”

“Do we not ask impossible things of people?” Adolfo’s beautiful green eyes met hers. “We left Cuba in 1959. My own father, who owned a tobacco plantation, saw there was no hope and left. Those who grew sugar also fled. Others, thinking the revolutionaries would not come for them, lost everything. Everything.”

“This is called progress.” Sister grimaced. “No one learns. It didn’t work for the French in 1791 and it will never work, period.”

Adolfo spoke to Tootie, delighted by her youth and femininity. “I hope, Señorita, that you will never encounter such foolishness.”

Shyly, Tootie responded, “I hope so, too.”

“Ladies, allow me to show you the humidor. The aroma alone is intoxicating.” He stepped out from behind the counter, twirled one hand like a drum major, walked to the rear of the store, and opened a glass door—the fragrance of various cigars, cigarettes, long-cut pipe tobacco, filled the room. “After you.”

The two entered the well-organized room. It was larger than it appeared from outside, looking at the glass door.

Closing the door behind him, Adolfo pulled a wooden box off the shelf. “I regret I cannot sell true Cuban cigars, but this is made from seeds taken from Cuba and planted in the Dominican Republic. It’s a very good cigar, sophisticated and mild.” He handed one Montecristo to Tootie.

She held it, in the wrapper, under her nose. “It’s almost like perfume.”

“A bit stronger. This one.” Adolfo handed her a Pleiades. “Now
this is a large cigar, a large gauge, but such a cigar draws smoother, easier than the small ones you often see women smoking. Granted those may be more ladylike, but I think in any social gathering it is the women who set the tone. If
you
smoked a Churchill,” he cited a monster gauge, “it would become the fashion.”

“Well, I—”

“We’ll take that,” said Sister, “and while I’m here, a box of Tito’s, if you have them. They’re somewhat hard to find.”

“Madam, I have them.” Adolfo leaned down and slid a box off the bottom shelf. “Not one of the famous brands, but a cigar for a discerning individual. Yourself, perhaps?”

“No, my gentleman friend. When he truly wants to relax, he smokes a cigar. When he’s nervous, he smokes a cigarette.”

Adolfo laughed. “Yes, well.” Then he lowered his voice. “So much has changed. Tobacco additives. Well, there was always that, but if you bought a pack of, say, Dunhill Regular, you knew they were made with the best leaf from the tobacco plant. Whether it’s cigarette tobacco or cigar, the upper leaves are most prized. The lower you go in price, the lower you go on the plant until you get to those discount brands—those are just chop.” He squinted his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “How anyone can put one in their lips, I don’t know. Smoking should be a ritual of pleasure.”

“We have few true rituals of pleasure in this country. No siestas. No teatime. Other nations have a special part of the day to relax, recharge, give thanks. We do not.”

“Well”—Adolfo paused for a moment—“I cannot criticize a nation that took us in as refugees where we flourished. It took some time but we have made our way, the Galdos family.”

“Galdos?” Tootie’s eyes opened wider. “Do you know the designer, Sophia Galdos?”

He broke into the biggest smile. “My middle child. My oldest is a vice president at Altria, my youngest is a lawyer.”

“Then, painful as your exodus was, I am grateful you are here.” Sister reached out and took his hand, squeezing slightly.

Tootie couldn’t stop grinning. “I can’t believe I’ve met Sophia Galdos’ father.”

“She gets her talent from me, of course,” Adolfo joked.

Sister plucked two packs of Dunhill Menthols to put with the one Montecristo, one Pleiades, and the box of Tito’s. “Ah, I think I must have that World War One cigarette case.”

He bowed slightly, handed her the case as well as the small white card, good stock, with the price: $2,800.

Sister noted it. “This is good fortune. And each time I hold it, I’ll remember my father and yours, too.”

“I believe it will bring you good fortune.” He wrote out the ticket for the items, carefully deducting fifteen percent from the cigarette case, which he then slid over to Sister for her approval.

“Mr. Galdos, you are very kind.” Sister misted up.

She didn’t know why she was getting emotional.

“To think of a beautiful woman with this case in her hands pleases me.” Then he looked over at Tootie. “Two beautiful women.”

Sister rooted around in her purse, pulled out the slender little cell phone, found her small wallet with only the credit cards, and handed over her American Express Platinum Card.

The transaction completed, the merchandise secure in a plastic bag, Adolfo came around the counter again and gallantly kissed both ladies’ hands.

“Go with God,” he said, and he meant it.

“And you, too,” Sister replied and Tootie echoed her.

Out into the fray they charged. If anything, the storm had worsened.

“I bet Galdos Senior nearly died when he suffered through his first New York blizzard,” Sister said, head down.