Ron Spears had called Joanne on Monday and asked for an appointment to see Ben Reach. She had set the appointment for 4:00 the next day, knowing, without asking, that Ben would want it then.
Spears was the long-time manager and bird dog man on Twisted Pine Plantation, recently sold by the Yankees who had owned it a century to a Silicon Valley Venture capitalist said to be “richer than Croesus.” (When Joanne had heard that at her beauty parlor she’d Googled “Croesus” to find he was the King of Lydia in 560 BC and was plumb rich. Lydia, Google said, was now part of Turkey.)
Ben had represented the selling family which had sold for the usual reason— a death had splintered the ownership among too many family members to operate the plantation happily.
“What does Ron Spears want to talk to me about?” Ben asked Joanne, when he saw the appointment on his calendar.
“He didn’t say,” Joanne answered, “but he sounded worried.”
Ben saw the worry on Ron’s usually sunny face when he walked into the reception room to greet Ron. He was dressed in the semi-official uniform of Georgia quail plantation managers, Dickies khaki slacks and work shirt, a dog whistle lanyard around his neck, dusty Russell Moccasin boots with the tell-tale imprints of spur leathers.
In Ron’s hand was an orange gimmy cap bearing the plantation’s logo, a tall longleaf pine twisting skyward, replica of a two-hundred-years-old corner line tree (few knew if but that tree still stood, braced by steel cables placed in it a half century ago).
When they entered the library-conference room, Ron saw on the side table bottles of Crown Royal and The Macallan, standing by an ice bucket and plastic mugs.
Seats taken, Ben asked, “What can I do for your, Ron?”
Ron’s answer was one of several Ben had thought he might hear.
“Mr. Sutton (the new owner of Twisted Pine) has told me to cancel the field trial,” Ron said.
Ben was not surprised. He knew Sutton was not a field trailer, in fact had only recently discovered quail shooting. And he had learned at the closing that quail shoots for family and prospective investors in his fund had motivated Sutton’s purchase of Twisted Pine.
He knew too what was coming next from the mouth of Ron Spears.
“Mr. Ben, I am hoping you will talk with Mr. Sutton and see if you can convince him that hosting the field trial is in his best interests.”
“Of course I will,” said Ben. “But you have got to help me with our argument for that.”
The phone rang, and Joanne told Ben that Sam Nixon had called and asked if he might stop by.
“Tell him to come now. We need him,” Ben said. Sam arrived in five minutes.
Drinks were poured and the three began to conspire.
Ben had also learned at the closing of Twisted Pine’s purchase that Sutton loved to fly fish. He and Sam invited Sutton to fish Mossy Swamp Plantation’s fabled pond with them and to bring his son, Freddie, a lad of fifteen who was also an avid fisherman.
Ben waited until they returned from the pond to Mossy Swamp’s club house to raise the subject of the field trial with Sutton. The fishing had been fabulous, and Freddie had caught what might be a record large-mouth bass on a light leader. Ben had arranged to have it transported live to be weighed and then released in a Twisted Pine pond, and they were awaiting a call from the official weigh-in at a nearby Bass Pro-Cabelas store.
After drinks were poured, Ben broached the dreaded subject.
“Ron tells me you won’t be hosting the field trail on Twisted Pine in March.”
“That’s right. My lawyers say it’s too risky. Do you agree with that advice, Ben?” Sutton asked.
The burden had been put squarely on Ben’s shoulders. He was not sure he was ready.
“Well, I’ve heard that argument before. I guess it’s like most things, a question of weighing the risks against the benefits,” Ben said.
“And what are the benefits to me? I know nothing of field trials,” Fred Sutton asked.
Ben looked at Ron who had rowed one of the boats and was now tending bar.
“There are many, Fred. I’ll start with the one I think is most important. Good relations with neighbors and bird dog people.”
“How so—I didn’t think many of the plantation owners give a damn about field trials,” Fred said.
“What do you want most for your plantation, Fred?” Ben asked.
“Real good bird dogs,” Fred answered without hesitation.
Ron had tipped Ben that Fred had an obsession with owning the very best string of wagon dogs in the quail plantation world (the little sporting heaven between Albany and Tallahassee).
Ben had the opening he had hoped for.
“If you want the best for your wagon dog string, the patrons of your field trial are your best source. And if Ron lets them know that you are looking for prospects, I’ll guarantee you that you will get a first look at plenty of good ones. Ron is friends with all the folks that raise good ones across the continent, and knowing you will sponsor the field trial will make them want you to have first look, not only at pointing dogs but also retrievers.” (Ben had also been tipped off by Ron that Fred Sutton’s wife was crazy about labs and cockers.)
“On the risk question, I know you are used to risks in your businesses. Insurance is available,” Ben closed.
Ron’s cell phone rang. It was from the Bass Pro-Cabelas store. Freddie’s catch was just two ounces short of a new Georgia record. It was being transported in a live well to a pond on Twisted Pine.
“You will have plenty of chances to catch him after he grows a little,” Sam said to Freddie, who was taking the miss of the record graciously.
When Ben and Sam were ready to drive home to Albany, Ben asked Fred for a moment alone. They stood by Ben’s old pickup as Ben stowed his fishing gear.
“Fred, I know Freddie is the biggest joy and concern in your life. I’ve watched a lot of boys his age be introduced to the quail belt culture. The best thing for them is summers with bird dog folk on the prairies. Ron is great with youngsters up north in the summer. I hope you will encourage Freddie to go with him this summer.”
“You are right about that, Ben. Our children are the source of our greatest joy and our biggest worries. And in my world everything seems centered on money. I want Freddie to realize money is not where happiness comes from.”
Ben had hoped he would hear something like that. It gave him the second opening he needed.
“Fred, the reason I have come to love field trials, and field trial folks, pros and amateurs, is that they are not about money. The biggest appeal of trials for me is that there is no money in them for anyone. The best trainer-handlers make just a living wage; nobody gets rich on bird dogs or field trials. Hard work and fresh air and pride are what they are all about.”
“You can have your field trial in March, I guess,” Fred Sutton said to Ron on the drive back to Twisted Pine Plantation.