came the acid reply. “He was thirty-six going on thirty-seven.”
“I didn’t mean old, Mom, I meant older. Don’t get weird.”
“Everyone gets weird when they hit forty,” Grace, thirty-eight, added.
Hunter brought Tabasco into the aisle. Laura picked out Go To’s hooves. “About ready here.”
“They don’t look brushed to me.” Cig cast a careful eye over the horses.
“Mom, that takes two minutes. They’re really clean ‘cause I washed everyone yesterday afternoon,” Hunter replied. “You just didn’t notice.”
“Okay, okay. We’ve got Mosby and Reebok to load up for Bill and Roberta.”
“Chill out, Mom. We haven’t been late yet.” Hunter tried to pacify his mother. For whatever reason, it was easier for Hunter to communicate with Cig than it was for Laura who was always ready to come back with a full-scale defense about how she was on time, she was always prepared, she would always be on time and prepared. Hunter deftly headed off his sister while calming his mother.
As the kids loaded the horses, Cig and Grace repaired to the tackroom to throw off their duck boots and pull on their good boots. Grace’s had black patent leather tops whileCig’s had brown leather tops. Then they tied each other’s stock ties, careful to stick the pin through the knot horizontally, although Cig was tempted to stab Grace in the throat. They put on their canary vests and rummaged around for their deerskin gloves. Grace brushed off her coat with the plum colors piped in gold on the collar. Cig wore scarlet, bold for a woman in this part of the world, but she was the Master of the Foxhounds and she knew from her own experience that it was a lot easier to find the MFH in the field if she was wearing scarlet. This also entitled her to wear the brown tops on her boots, normally a flourish reserved for men. Male masters always wore scarlet.
Cig put her hands on her knees, ready to stand up and wiggle her toes in her boots. “If I could only figure out how to keep my feet warm without extra heavy socks.”
“Tried those space-age insoles?”
“I’ve tried everything. My toes ache from the cold.”
“Scorn pain. Either it goes away or you do.” Grace quoted Seneca. “Laura seems fine. ‘
“Yeah.” Cig was noncommittal.
“This isn’t the end of the world.”
“Am I acting as though it is?”
“Don’t get dramatic.”
“Just because I raised my voice a hair doesn’t mean I’m getting dramatic.”
“Don’t pull one of your turtle numbers either—close up your shell. I can’t stand it when you get like that.”
Cig tapped the horn handle of her hunting whip against her boot. “I’m not shutting down, I’m not in a huff, I’m not going to suffer the vapors,” she sarcastically replied. “But I am going to get to the meet on time and things will work out however they work out. So shut up and come on.” She paused. “You’re always fishing.”
“I am not,” came the stout defense. “I don’t want you to be laid low by some emotional boomerang.”
“Come on, Grace. Nothing’s going to lay me low.” Cig gave Grace a light whap.
“Shotgun,” Grace called to Hunter and Laura as they opened the truck door. Riding shotgun was Grace’s favoriteplace, and she had precedence over her niece and nephew who also wanted the passenger seat.
As the two sisters walked to the rig, a casual observer would be struck by how similar yet dissimilar they were. Cig was an imposing woman of Junoesque proportions. Her clean features, strong body, and lustrous eyes would mark her out as stunning in a European country, but American men liked their women less powerful and majestic. Grace, more to their taste, markedly resembled her older sister facially: even features, great teeth, beautiful eyes. Smaller of stature, Grace was more huggable. Grace derived her sense of importance from male attention so she carefully rehearsed those tricks so obvious to other women, so beguiling to men. When
“I didn’t mean old, Mom, I meant older. Don’t get weird.”
“Everyone gets weird when they hit forty,” Grace, thirty-eight, added.
Hunter brought Tabasco into the aisle. Laura picked out Go To’s hooves. “About ready here.”
“They don’t look brushed to me.” Cig cast a careful eye over the horses.
“Mom, that takes two minutes. They’re really clean ‘cause I washed everyone yesterday afternoon,” Hunter replied. “You just didn’t notice.”
“Okay, okay. We’ve got Mosby and Reebok to load up for Bill and Roberta.”
“Chill out, Mom. We haven’t been late yet.” Hunter tried to pacify his mother. For whatever reason, it was easier for Hunter to communicate with Cig than it was for Laura who was always ready to come back with a full-scale defense about how she was on time, she was always prepared, she would always be on time and prepared. Hunter deftly headed off his sister while calming his mother.
As the kids loaded the horses, Cig and Grace repaired to the tackroom to throw off their duck boots and pull on their good boots. Grace’s had black patent leather tops whileCig’s had brown leather tops. Then they tied each other’s stock ties, careful to stick the pin through the knot horizontally, although Cig was tempted to stab Grace in the throat. They put on their canary vests and rummaged around for their deerskin gloves. Grace brushed off her coat with the plum colors piped in gold on the collar. Cig wore scarlet, bold for a woman in this part of the world, but she was the Master of the Foxhounds and she knew from her own experience that it was a lot easier to find the MFH in the field if she was wearing scarlet. This also entitled her to wear the brown tops on her boots, normally a flourish reserved for men. Male masters always wore scarlet.
Cig put her hands on her knees, ready to stand up and wiggle her toes in her boots. “If I could only figure out how to keep my feet warm without extra heavy socks.”
“Tried those space-age insoles?”
“I’ve tried everything. My toes ache from the cold.”
“Scorn pain. Either it goes away or you do.” Grace quoted Seneca. “Laura seems fine. ‘
“Yeah.” Cig was noncommittal.
“This isn’t the end of the world.”
“Am I acting as though it is?”
“Don’t get dramatic.”
“Just because I raised my voice a hair doesn’t mean I’m getting dramatic.”
“Don’t pull one of your turtle numbers either—close up your shell. I can’t stand it when you get like that.”
Cig tapped the horn handle of her hunting whip against her boot. “I’m not shutting down, I’m not in a huff, I’m not going to suffer the vapors,” she sarcastically replied. “But I am going to get to the meet on time and things will work out however they work out. So shut up and come on.” She paused. “You’re always fishing.”
“I am not,” came the stout defense. “I don’t want you to be laid low by some emotional boomerang.”
“Come on, Grace. Nothing’s going to lay me low.” Cig gave Grace a light whap.
“Shotgun,” Grace called to Hunter and Laura as they opened the truck door. Riding shotgun was Grace’s favoriteplace, and she had precedence over her niece and nephew who also wanted the passenger seat.
As the two sisters walked to the rig, a casual observer would be struck by how similar yet dissimilar they were. Cig was an imposing woman of Junoesque proportions. Her clean features, strong body, and lustrous eyes would mark her out as stunning in a European country, but American men liked their women less powerful and majestic. Grace, more to their taste, markedly resembled her older sister facially: even features, great teeth, beautiful eyes. Smaller of stature, Grace was more huggable. Grace derived her sense of importance from male attention so she carefully rehearsed those tricks so obvious to other women, so beguiling to men. When
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