by Kit Ehrman
* * *
Saturday morning dawned warm, and by late afternoon, it was downright hot. I took off the flannel shirt I'd been wearing over my T-shirt and ran it across my face and down the back of my neck, then tossed it through the Chevy's open window. I leaned against the back fender and watched Marty unload the last case of soda into one of the plastic tubs under the canopy. That done, he walked past me, reached across the tailgate, and picked up a bag of ice.
"Here. This'll cool you off." He tossed the bag at me.
I caught it, just.
"Oooh, good reflexes." He grinned then hoisted another bag out of the bed.
We made a race out of filling the tubs, and by the time I'd dumped my last bag of ice on top of cans of Coke and 7-Up and root beer, my arms were frozen.
Marty ripped open his last bag and dumped the ice into the nearest tub. "You know," he said, "warm as it is, this won't be enough."
"I know. Terry and Cliff are going to haul in some just before the party."
I went into the lounge and bought a soda. When I walked back outside, Marty had already helped himself to a 7-Up.
"Isn't that warm?"
"A little."
I made a face, parked my soda on one of the picnic tables, and sat down. The clip-clop of horseshoes echoed off the barn siding, and a mild breeze rustled the canvas above our heads. I took a swig of Coke and rested my elbows on the table. The day had been a long one, just a taste of what lay ahead with the show season right around the corner.
I looked up in time to see one of the new boarders walk past on her way to the barn. Her name was Rachel, and she'd hauled her horse in two weeks earlier. Since she rode in the evenings, I'd been staying at work later and later with each passing day. She looked in our direction and waved. I waved back. Marty, ever observant, took it in.
After she walked out of sight beyond the corner of the barn, he said, "Holy shit. You're alive after all."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was beginning to worry about you Steve, ol' buddy, ol' pal. Is that the new boarder?"
"Yeah."
"How comes I haven't seen her 'til now?"
"She comes in after you leave." I grinned. "She must of heard about you."
He chuckled and, as if proving my point, said, "Man, oh, man. That's the best part of this job. More girls here than flies on shit. Girls and their horses. And the way they move their hips when they're riding, wearin' those tight britches like they do. Man, it's enough to make a guy crazy. What's her name?"
"Rachel."
"She's got a great ass. Must have somethin' to do with all that ridin'. Bet she's good in--" Marty looked at my face, correctly read my expression, and rephrased his statement, "eh . . . a lot of fun. Fun to be with, I mean." He sat on the edge of the table. "I was wondering when you were gonna wake up? You gonna ask her out? After that girl of yours, what's her name . . . Melanie . . ."
"Melissa."
"You haven't gone out since she dumped you, have you? I get dumped all the time. Matter of fact, Jessica dumped my ass the other night. But I don't let it stop me. There's always a honey out there somewhere. You shouldn't let it get to you. I don't."
I fingered my Coke can. "Sorry about Jessica."
Marty shrugged it off.
"And you're wrong," I said. "I didn't let it get to--"
"Yeah, Steve. Right. Anything you say. But I know you."
I picked up my Coke and smeared the ring of wetness across the varnished wood. As much as I hated to admit it, Marty was right. I'd been devastated, though I'd pretended otherwise. Almost believed it. But what really bothered me was that I'd gotten it so wrong. I wasn't going to let that happen again, and yet, here I was, crashing headlong into those old, overwhelming feelings. At least Rachel wasn't attracted to me because she thought I was loaded, like Melissa had been. Being poor had its advantages.
"So. You gonna ask her out, 'cause if you aren't--"
"We already have."
"Have what?"
"Gone out. Three times, in fact." I grinned at him.
"You're shittin' me?"
I shook my head.
"Well, fuck me." He jumped off the table, extended his arms toward me, and wiggled his fingers. "He no longer slumbers," he said with what he hoped was a spooky-scary voice. "He's--"
I threw my empty Coke can at him.
With the party clearly on everyone's mind, the crew wrapped up the day's work in record time. I drove home, shaved and showered, brushed my teeth, then struggled over what to wear. I decided on a striped Oxford that I'd always liked, pulled on a reasonably new pair of jeans, and found a pair of clean socks that actually matched. The nights were still chilly, so I topped everything off with my old leather jacket.
I went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My hair was too long. The warmer the weather, the shorter I kept it, and it wasn't behaving. I combed it again, without effect, then leaned over the sink and squinted at the scars on my face. Even though they'd faded since my stay in the hospital, they were still depressingly noticeable.
I thought about Rachel, combed my hair one last time, and grinned at my reflection.
Damn, you're a fool to be liking her so much so soon.
At Foxdale, cars and pickups and even a motorcycle or two were jammed into every conceivable space. I parked on the grass shoulder close to the road and, with an almost forgotten feeling of lightheartedness, walked down the lane and joined the party. The last trace of daylight had seeped from the sky, and the Christmas lights Mrs. Hill had strung in the dogwood saplings beyond the indoor twinkled in the gentle breeze. The sound system was impressive, and the food smelled great. I looked for Rachel. When I couldn't find her, I loaded a plate down with barbecued chicken and steamed shrimp, grabbed an ice-cold Coke, and sat on the grass.
I was thinking about seconds when the crowd shifted. Mrs. Hill was standing under the canopy, talking to a distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He was wearing an expertly-cut three-piece suit that went a long way toward disguising his bulging middle-aged gut. He bent forward, cupped his hands around the end of his cigar, and struggled to keep his lighter from going out in the breeze. I watched his cheeks work as he puffed on the stogie and idly thought that he shouldn't be smoking so close to the barn. Someone stepped in front of me, blocking my line of sight.
"Hello there." Rachel crossed her arms and grinned down at me. "I was wondering if you were going to show."
I stood up. "Wouldn't have missed it." I ran my fingertips along the corners of my mouth and hoped I didn't have any barbecue sauce on my face.
When she looked over her shoulder and checked out the crowd, I put the opportunity to good use. She'd ridden earlier, so I was surprised to see that she'd changed her clothes. She was wearing a soft-looking sweater and a pair of jeans that were snug enough to get my pulse racing. Her hair was no longer confined in a ponytail and hung well past her shoulders. I wouldn't have minded running my fingers through it. Wouldn't have minded kissing her, either.
She tilted her head back and gazed at the night sky. The line of her neck was immediately stimulating. Long, taught lines. Creamy smooth skin. Form and function blended in such a way that could only be viewed as sexual by an adult male.
"It's turned out to be a nice evening, hasn't it?" she said.
I imagined what it would be like to slide my hand into that sweater of hers. "Um-hum."
"I can't believe how many stars you can see out here. It's beautiful." When I didn't respond, she turned to look at me, and I thought it was a damn good thing she couldn't read my mind.
"Um-hum, beautiful," I mumbled.
She looked at me strangely, and I figured she wouldn't need to be a mind-reader if I kept acting like an idiot.
I cleared my throat. "Have you eaten?"
She nodded. "The food's delicious. How often does Foxdale have these parties?"
"Several times a year. The next one'll be in June, at the start
of the four-day A-rated show. Then there's a Halloween party for boarders and students. That one's a blast. It's held in conjunction with a fun-day horse show for the kids. They wear costumes and compete in silly games. Then there's the Christmas party. The boarders' committee plans and organizes that one."
"Very impressive. It must be a lot of work for you."
"Yeah, but it's fun." I ran my fingers through my hair.
We were standing close, the goings-on around us oblivious, at least, to me. Mrs. Hill chose that moment to walk over and say hello. I didn't hear her at first.
". . . Stephen?"
I turned around. "Mrs. Hill?"
"Stephen . . . this is Mr. Ambrose. Mr. Ambrose," she said with a look of amusement in her eyes that I think only I noticed, "Stephen Cline."
Wow. The man himself, and after all this time.
"Hello, Stephen." Ambrose held out his hand, and I shook it. "I've heard a great deal about you from Mrs. Hill. According to her, you're the driving force behind Foxdale's recent success. Well done, young man."
"Eh . . . thank you, sir."
He took a puff from his cigar and uninhibitedly looked me up and down. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one, sir."
He grunted. "I don't mind telling you I'm pleased with how the farm is prospering just now. When my wife decided to have it built, I thought it a foolish idea. I continued to think so for a long time, but when she passed away, I held onto it in honor of her memory. Now, it is no longer a burden but an enterprise I don't mind having my name connected with."
I glanced at Mrs. Hill and wished I hadn't. She was grinning at me with what I could only read as motherly pride.
"Well done, young man." Ambrose clapped me on the shoulder.
"Thank you, sir."
He gave me a curt nod, glanced at Rachel, then put his hand on Mrs. Hill's shoulder and steered her toward the parking lot. I heard his voice clearly over the crowd. "Imagine, losing a tax write-off because of a twenty-one-year-old kid."