by Orly Konig
She glances at the clock and yanks the breeches on. She’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry. She stops in front of her parents’ bedroom and knocks. There’s no answer. “Mom? I have to go. Are you in there?” Still no answer.
She darts down the stairs, sending out a few halfhearted “Moms” into the silent house. She opens the door to the garage. Empty. Had she missed a note? She scans the kitchen on her way out. No note. Now she’s really going to be late.
The rain has stopped but the path through the woods is slippery. There’s no time to take the longer path to avoid the mud. Emma’s boots skate through a mud puddle and she slows to a fast walk. The passing time ticks in her head with each squishy step. With the edge of the woods in sight, she picks up a jog. Her right foot lands on a patch of soggy leaves and she sails forward, landing on her side, her left arm jammed under her body.
A few squirrels chatter their annoyance at her cry, but there’s no one around to help. Emma pushes herself up but can’t put weight on her left arm. She twists sideways, getting the right side of her breeches as muddy as the left, but finally manages to scramble up.
By the time she reaches the barn, it’s fifteen minutes into her lesson time. Simon tells her to hurry. Cleaning and tacking up a pony one-handed turns out to be much harder than she’d imagined.
In true pony fashion, Pogo picks up that his rider isn’t in control and takes every opportunity to tug the reins out of her hands.
Every bouncy pony step jars a spear of pain up her side. By the time Simon calls the end of her lesson, Emma can’t hold the reins in her left hand. She lets Pogo walk himself to the middle of the ring.
“Hey, what’s going on? You certainly aren’t on top of your form today?” Simon takes hold of Pogo’s bridle and studies her face.
Maybe it’s the pain finally catching up or the concern in a grown-up’s face, but Emma loses the battle to hold it in. She melts from the pony’s back into a crying heap at Simon’s feet.
The X-rays confirm a broken wrist.
It’s only when the pain medication finally kicks in and the doctor is putting the cast on her arm that Emma notices her mom sitting in the corner of the hospital room, legs crossed in a tight pretzel with the top foot jiggling to a spastic beat. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and boots. Emma can’t remember ever seeing her mom in jeans. Boots sure, but always high-heeled, fancy boots. These are low heels and have mud on them. Maybe her mom had been gardening. Except, she hadn’t been home.
Emma tries to force her brain to cooperate. If Mom hadn’t been home, then who had brought her to the hospital? And why does it smell like horses in the hospital?
The only thing she knows for sure is that she really, really wants to sleep.
* * *
She hears voices from somewhere far away. Her mom. Now Dad. Mom again. Dad’s voice louder, saying it’s hardly surprising she got hurt and they should reconsider this riding nonsense. Her mom shushing him. The sound of the door clicking shut.
More voices and the sharp light as someone opens the curtains. Emma groans at the light and rolls away from it, then gasps at the pain from rolling onto her arm. She’d forgotten about that.
“Careful, honey. You’re due for a pain pill. Can you sit up?” Her mom steps to the side of the bed, blocking the view of the door. Emma is sure she heard a man’s voice. She says a silent plea that it isn’t her father, coming to tell her she isn’t allowed to ride again.
She takes the pill and water glass from her mom and swallows with a noisy gulp, then allows her mom to fluff the pillow behind her back.
That’s when she sees them standing at the door.
“Hey, Toad. You gave me quite a scare yesterday.” Simon walks to the side of the bed and sits on the desk chair. Emma giggles at how small and girly it looks under him.
“Your mom said it’s a clean break. You’ll be good as new and riding again in no time.” He pats her shoulder gently. So they’re not going to make her stop. She nods, not wanting to release the emotional frog in her throat.
She shoots a quick look at Jillian, hovering behind her grandfather and clearly uncomfortable. Emma scoots up in the bed and motions for Jillian to sit.
Jillian’s eyes are locked on the cast as she perches on the edge of the bed. “I’ve never broken anything. Does it hurt a lot?”
“No.” Emma shakes her head, the movement sending a sharp jab down her arm. “Yes.” She nods.
“Guess that mud cast you were wearing during your lesson didn’t do much.” Jillian giggles, then slaps her hand across her mouth and looks from Emma to Simon to Emma’s mom.
But the giggle is contagious and soon Emma and Jillian are in tears over the mud Emma had been coated in—more than even Pogo himself had managed—and the giggling only escalates when Simon mentions the wet-horse smell taking over the emergency room.
An hour later, Emma’s mom ushers Simon and Jillian out of the room. Jillian bends to pick something up. “Almost forgot, I brought you these. They’re my favorite books of all time.”
Emma blinks at the book covers through a haze of tears. Billy and Blaze. Kathy had gotten one of those books for Christmas and Emma had started reading it during one of their sleepovers, but Kathy hadn’t let her borrow it to finish.
“Thank you.” Emma clutches the books to her chest with her one good arm.
Jillian lifts the end of her braid up to squint-distance and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Well, I’ll stop in tomorrow. If that’s okay?”
Emma nods, the tears making it look like Jillian is swaying and suspended in midair.
Alone again, Emma opens the first book. Inside, Jillian has scribbled a note. Get better soon. Pogo misses you. And next to “Pogo” she’s inserted, as an afterthought, the letters small and angled, and me.
15
After coffee and a quick breakfast, I fire up the laptop. Today, I’ll choose the lesser of the two evils—Bruce and work over my father and his secrets.
I open an e-mail from Howard with URGENT in all caps in the subject line. Three words in and I’m wishing I’d chosen family secrets.
In three days, Howard has rewritten a brochure that took me two months to write and get approvals on. Since Bruce dictated the changes, he’s going with that as approval since it’s now a tight print deadline. No shit. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem if he’d proofed and fact-checked the damn thing. I’ve caught four mistakes in a cursory glance at page 1.
My call to Howard lands in voice mail. I’m both annoyed and relieved. I call the printer and leave a message there, too. If it hasn’t already gone to press then maybe we can fix the mistakes without a huge expense.
Five hours later, I’ve responded to the majority of really-truly-need-a-response-today e-mails and left half-a-dozen voice messages. Why isn’t anyone calling back?
When I’m down to only a handful of unopened messages, I stand and stretch. From the balcony, I see a handful of people having lunch on the patio. My stomach growls in protest.
“Bruce.” I wheel around on my heel and stab at the laptop keyboard to wake it up. How had I not paid attention until now? In all the e-mails and voice mails, there was not one recent message from Bruce. Not one. This from a man who texts or e-mails or calls at least twenty times an hour.
My insides twist into a knot tight enough to keep a horse from bolting.
I type a quick “just checking in” e-mail and hit Send. And wait.
“Shit.” I stare at the nail of my left ring finger, where a drop of blood has appeared. Dammit, I can’t start that again.
“Your mother would be appalled, Emma,” my father used to scold. But the more stressed or nervous I was, the harder I chewed. Only that finger.
My psych-major roommate in college was fascinated by me and convinced she’d be able to cure my crazy habit. She hadn’t. Another friend insisted a manicure was the only way to break me. She’d been almost right. Weekly manicures for most of my professional life ensured that I didn’
t chew. Until now. Another reason I need to get back to Chicago as quickly as possible.
The computer pings with an incoming e-mail. A notice for 20-percent-off water bottles and limited-edition logo towels from the gym.
“Shit,” I grumble and hit Delete. No point staring at the screen. Maybe lunch will help distract my nerves.
Two hours later, still nothing from Bruce.
Still nothing from Howard.
Still nothing from the printer.
But I’ve been invited to a happy hour and last call for getting in on the group baseball ticket purchase.
At 5:30 P.M., I get my answer.
From: Bruce Patchett
Subject: Follow-up to the All-hands Meeting
All–
Thank you for attending the impromptu all-hands meeting today. I appreciate that everyone is busy and taking so much time from your day puts a strain on deadlines. In the coming days, HR will be meeting with the individuals affected by today’s news.
As always, I have an open-door policy and welcome you to stop by if you have questions.
With thanks,
Bruce Patchett
President, NewComm
An all-hands meeting? I scan through my e-mails looking for clues. Nothing. The last time we had a surprise all-hands meeting was three years ago, when the company was sold. The new owners had corporate pinky-promised that they wouldn’t be making big changes.
Nothing major. A more casual dress code followed by tighter restrictions on telecommuting. A fancy coffee machine in the kitchen but fewer paid holidays.
Management hadn’t called meetings for any of those changes. This feels like a renege on that pinky promise.
My butt hits the chair and I blink at the computer screen.
“Dammit, Bruce, what is this about? And why the hell aren’t you responding?”
HR will be meeting with the individuals affected by today’s news.
I glare at the phone, willing it to ring, then I hit Bruce’s smug face in the contact list and listen as his assistant’s voice tells me to leave a message. Apparently Bruce’s open-door policy doesn’t translate to an open-call policy.
I send a text to Anita. We’d exchanged a couple of quick messages since her surrender or suffer e-mail but only about personal matters. She hadn’t said a word about what was happening at the office.
Hey, cookie. Be thankful you’re not here. Although I wish you were!
At least she answered.
What the heck is going on? Saw the all-hands e-mail. Bruce is AWOL with messages. Fill a girl in?
Give me a few.
I wait a few. Then a few more.
When my phone rings I pounce. But it’s a Maryland number, not Anita’s face staring at me from the ringing screen.
“Hello?” My voice breaks, an unfortunate combination of not having spoken for much of the day, nerves, and frustration.
“Is this Emma?” a deep male voice pokes my brain for placement.
“Yes.”
A sigh of relief. “It’s Ben.” Then, “Ben Barrett? From the stable?” His voice ends in the uptick of a question mark.
“Yes. Ben.” I pull in a deep breath. Relax, Emma. Don’t assume the worst. They’re just busy getting ready for the trade show.
HR will be meeting with the individuals affected by today’s news. That’s not trade-show prep. That’s serious corporate crap that’s about to ruin your life.
Ben’s voice pulls me out of the panic spiral. “It’s a beautiful afternoon and I have a couple of horses that need hacking. Can I tempt you with a ride?”
“Thanks, but I don’t ride.”
“There are a few pictures around this place that bunk that excuse. Not to mention an old man with quite a few stories.”
“What stories?”
“Ah, gotcha. You’ll just have to join me for a ride if you want to know.”
“I don’t ride.”
“So you’ve said. Still not buying it.”
“I don’t have riding clothes.”
He laughs. “Good try. We can find a pair of chaps and boots that will fit you. I know of at least one person in this stable who’s your size.”
Before I can counter, Ben adds, “Jillian is out of town for a couple of days. Any other excuses you want to try on me?”
“I have a lot of work to do?” We both laugh at the tentative question.
“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
Ben ends the call and I’m left staring at a black screen.
“This can’t possibly end well.”
I look from the now-silent phone to the all-hands e-mail. Neither “this” will end well.
* * *
“I thought you’d enjoy Wally since the two of you seem to have some little thing happening.” Ben shakes his head and smiles when the gray horse shoves his forehead into my chest.
A large bay stands in the next tack stall, pawing the rubber matt underfoot. She snorts a reminder to Ben that it’s her turn for attention.
“Do you remember how to tack or do you need help?” Ben’s eyes twinkle and the right corner of his mouth twitches.
“I think I can figure it out.”
“I’m right next door if you run into trouble.” The twitch spreads into a full-out smirk and he ducks under the crosstie before my hand can make contact with his upper arm.
“Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging your students instead of making fun of them?”
“You’re not my student.”
“So does that mean I can poke fun at you, too?”
Ben peeks at me from under his horse’s neck. “You could. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Oh really?”
“Really.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, then ducks back as the bay snaps at his behind. “Damn horse.”
I laugh. “Looks like she’s on my side.”
Our eyes meet for the fastest of beats before I scoot sideways to hide behind Wally’s massive body.
My fingers fumble with the buckles of the bridle before reconnecting with the memories. This had been second nature once upon a life. The sudden insecurity of my fingers is an unwelcome reminder. I close my eyes and breathe in Wally’s sweet smell until my fingers regain their composure, tightening the noseband, checking the throatlatch, tucking the ends of each leather strip into its loop.
When I’m finally done, I lean into Wally and bury my nose in his neck. This isn’t new. This is the one place I belonged. This is the one place I never doubted myself.
“Here, put these on?” Ben hands me a pair of paddock boots and dark gray leather chaps.
His voice from behind startles me and I step back, heat spreading up my chest. First the flirting, now I’m smelling his horse. What he must think of me.
Wally and I follow Ben and Lulu out the side door and across the back parking lot to the path leading to the jumping ring. Ben motions me to the mounting block, then holds Wally’s bridle while I climb the three steps. I’m painfully conscious of the tight leather chaps binding my thighs and calves. Even from the top step, I have to bend my left leg higher than it’s been lifted in quite some time. I curse my lack of stretching and the tight chaps and hope Ben doesn’t notice how awkward I look. Or what the chaps must be revealing of my behind, which, despite hours on the spin bike and in kickboxing, is no longer the size and shape it was the last time it poked out of chaps.
Lulu bites at the crop in Ben’s hand, distracting him long enough for me to hoist myself into the saddle. I say a silent thank-you to the grumpy bay mare.
I get into half-seat, lifting my butt slightly out of the saddle and letting my weight drop into my heels. My thighs and calves mold to the shape of the horse. A quiver of energy radiates through Wally into my legs.
Oh my god, it feels good to be on a horse. A small moan of pleasure rumbles up my vocal cords and I muffle the sound with a cough.
Ben mounts with a few choice words for his mount, who has spread her hind legs and is rocking side to
side.
“What the hell is she doing?” I laugh.
“The flaming bitch has learned all sorts of tricks for intimidating her owner. Which is why I’m being paid a small fortune to ride this beast. She does this stunt to freak Dawn out, who is convinced the mare will collapse and they’ll both have to be shot for broken limbs. Tempting.”
He grins. “Last time she was out for a lesson, Lulu dumped her, ass-up, at the end of the diagonal.”
He looks up from adjusting the girth and moves his foot before the mare can bite the toe of his boot. “The drill was to canter the diagonal and switch leads at the end. She does her flying changes but likes to play dumb. I wanted Dawn to use the wall to ask for it. She asked. Lulu here skidded to a stop, nose in the wall. Ugly pony stunt plus unbalanced rider equals face-plant in the dirt.”
“Ouch.”
“Only her ego. It was a slow-motion dive.”
“Still.”
“Yeah. Well. She’s actually a stunning mover under the right rider. She just doesn’t get along with her owner.”
We nudge our horses forward, side by side down the path until we enter the large jump ring.
“I thought you’d want to warm up a bit in the ring, get the feel for a horse under you again, and then we can head into the woods.”
“Good plan.” I swallow a large knot of anxiety.
For the next twenty minutes we walk, trot, and canter around the ring. Even after all the years away, my mind clicks into autopilot and I urge Wally through a typical warm-up. Sadly, my body doesn’t have the same sharp memory and I fight my hands and legs into what I hope looks like semi-proper position. My inner thighs are starting to burn and I feel a raw patch beginning to rub where the seam of my jeans is trapped between the chaps and the saddle.
I give Wally a loose rein and pat his neck. Ben and Lulu fall into step beside us and the two horses snort their complaints.
“Not bad for someone who hasn’t been on a horse in ten years.”
“Sixteen,” I mutter and resist adding that it feels like much longer.
“You haven’t forgotten much.”