Sour Puss by Rita Mae Brown, Michael Gellatly Page B
Authors: Rita Mae Brown, Michael Gellatly
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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
C arter’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
“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
C arter’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
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