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was the beautifully carved white marble monument to Dante, the firehorse of South Runnymede and beloved of all. He was born in 1878 and died in 1907, having lived a long and useful life. Dante had a bigger stone than my father, but then Dante, at the turn of the century, benefited from lower prices. Besides, the firehouse gang took up a collection. Dad had only Mother and me to pay his final bill back in 1961. I was still in high school. I figured Dad would understand.
    We dismounted to give our horses a break from our weight and to give Lolly a breather too.
    Frozen flowers rested on Dante’s grave.
    “Kids are still bringing Dante flowers.” Regina smiled. “Remember when we used to do it?”
    “Maybe it was how we learned about death. And Dante’s birthday is an annual firehouse celebration, so we were reminded of him, his heroics. Anyway, kids love animals, even dead ones.”
    “To what do I owe this burst of analysis?”
    “I don’t know.” I shrugged.
    “Paper?”
    “Uh-huh.” I’d told her about Charles’s impending sale. What I didn’t tell her about was my other preoccupations, preoccupations closer to home. Hers and mine.
    “Has Wheezie recovered from her party?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Do you know that was one of the few times I’ve been in your esteemed aunt’s presence when she didn’t try to convert me to Catholicism.”
    “Mother and I want to put her on rosary methadone.”
    “Good luck.” Regina remounted. “Let’s get back before Ursie comes to pick up her munchkins. She’ll start on me about our annual Tri-Delta alumnae horse show.”
    “That’s months away.” I stood on a tombstone to get up on Kenny, who was sixteen hands and too big for me to leap up on. Regina, much taller than I, could gracefully swing her leg over any animal this side of seventeen hands. I envied her that. I envied her other things, too, namely that she was our Master of Foxhounds—that and Jackson.
    “You know how compulsive she is. I swear Ursie has lists and then lists of her lists. She also wants to talk hunt club business—the newsletter.” Regina rolled her eyes.
    “You should never have given her that job.” I pushed Kenny onward.
    “Given it to her! I begged you to take it.”
    “Come on, Gene, we’ve been over this
ad infinitum
. My doing the newsletter is like taking coals to Newcastle. I’m on the breakfast committee.”
    “You’re rather bad at that.”
    “I am?” This surprised me. Lolly stopped for a tantalizing sniff of something. “Lolly Mabel, come on.” She lifted her leonine head and hurried after me.
    “You don’t care much about food, Nickel, and while you’re a wonderful organizer—don’t get me wrong—you’re terrible with menus.”
    “But it’s not my job to plan the menus. It’s only my job to get people to sponsor breakfasts after our hunts.”
    “Yes and no.” Regina patiently continued. “You should supervise the menus to make certain there are no duplications and that the food is good.”
    “Let Verna BonBon do it.”
    “Verna’s not a member of the hunt club.”
    I knew that. I also knew that Regina was right but one of the great advantages of having an old friend is that you can be childish and irrational. It refreshes both parties.
    “Bet Ursie was the first to bitch, too, wasn’t she?” I had advanced from kindergarten to junior high school in my approach.
    “Actually, no. She was the second.”
    We trotted a bit. The frost flew from under our horses’ hooves. Their breath, our breath, and Lolly’s breath escaped from our mouths like billows of creamy cumulus clouds. When Regina pulled up for a walk my nose was no longer out of joint.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I accept your resignation. You are now appointed to the newsletter.”
    “Gene! What a sneak you are, a real sneaky pie. Ursie will never stand for it.”
    “Ursie is now head of the breakfast committee and all entertainments,assuming you will take over the newsletter. She thinks