From Here to Home

by Marie Bostwick

  Instead, she smiled with as much sympathy as she could muster and said she’d better let him rest, before tiptoeing from the room, marveling at his utter cluelessness.

  But the minute Holly went outside and looked across the barnyard, spying Stormy in the paddock with his ever-faithful friend and mascot, Mildred the goat, by his side, all thoughts of Artie and the show and the gleefully nasty tabloid headlines disappeared. If you believed the papers, Rachel supposedly had a “love child” with a despotic ruler of a banana republic and hideously botched plastic surgery she had undergone in a “desperate” attempt to rescue her flagging career. There were also completely untrue reports about drug and alcohol addictions, angry public meltdowns, and a suicide attempt that, thank heaven, Rachel had called to disprove before Holly heard the story. Even those worries melted away as she walked toward the paddock and she saw her beautiful Stormy, his sleek brown head low to the ground as he calmly munched a tuft of grass.

  She remembered being a little girl, desperately begging her mother for a horse, saying how much she loved them, and how Rachel had rolled her eyes.

  “Of course you do. But wait till you have to feed, water, comb, and take care of a horse. Wait until it bites you, or rears at you, or throws you. Wait until you’ve got to shovel out a smelly stall and pay the vet and board bills. Then we’ll see how much you love horses.”

  With the exception of being thrown—something that might well still occur—Holly had experienced every one of the situations her mother had listed, and it hadn’t diminished her ardor in the least degree. She couldn’t say for sure if she loved all horses, but she did love Stormy; of that she was certain. And more and more she believed that Stormy felt something for her too.

  Not love, at least not yet, but perhaps . . . trust? Maybe.

  Today would be the test, and an important one, because as everybody knows, trust is the place where love begins.

  With Rob Lee watching from his usual spot about ten feet back from the fence, Holly entered the paddock and clicked her teeth with her tongue.

  Mildred, who was standing right next to Stormy, trotted toward Holly, eager for a snack. There was nothing unusual in that—Mildred was a bottomless pit, with an appetite nearly as big as the hapless Artie’s.

  What was unusual was that Stormy was leading the way.

  He walked right up to Holly, nosed her shoulder in greeting, inviting and allowing her to scratch his forelock.

  “Hey, sweetheart. Did you miss me? Yes? I missed you, too.”

  She reached into her pocket for a piece of carrot, holding her hand flat while Stormy picked it up, mouthing her palm with his velvet lips, ignoring the goat’s insistent bleating until Mildred started butting her head against Holly’s legs.

  After tossing a carrot butt to Mildred, who gobbled it greedily, Holly turned her attention back to Stormy, stroking her hands along his neck, then working her way down past his shoulders to the gentle bow of his back, laying her head sideways against his body and resting there for some long moments, breathing in the earthy scent of hair and flesh and sweat that was his particular perfume, then closing her eyes and feeling the heat and life of his body and a sensation like being adrift on a summer day in a small boat, rocking on the waves of a gentle sea, as her head rose and fell with each breath he took.

  It was such a calm feeling, so peaceful, that she might have stayed much longer, perhaps even fallen asleep resting against him, but she and Stormy had more to accomplish that day, or so she hoped.

  Holly attached the long lead to Stormy’s rope halter. It was the same lead she had introduced him to many days before, having let him sniff and mouth it before she laid it over his back and then moved it back over his rump, then drawn it forward in the opposite direction all the way to his neck so he understood it was nothing to fear. With the lead attached, she reached for the green saddle blanket, showing it to Stormy before settling it evenly across his back, then took a gentle hold on the halter rope and walked confidently ahead of him, knowing that he would follow her left and right and left again, anywhere in the paddock, trusting Holly to safely lead him.

  She did this for some minutes, talking softly to him all the while, until, feeling the time was right, she brought him to the center of the paddock and signaled him to stop and to stand. He did so, readily. Holly stroked his neck again, then walked around to his side and reached up and took hold of his mane, as she had on previous occasions, holding the hair tight in her fist and tugging a bit.

  But then she did something she never had before. After saying, “Are you ready, Stormy? Good boy,” she pulled harder on his mane, grabbing hold of it as if grabbing a length of climbing rope, using the leverage she gained to propel her body forward, up, and over, onto Stormy’s back.

  Over many days now, she had dreamed of doing this—days, not weeks, because when she first laid eyes on Stormy, fearsome and frightening all at once, she had not dared to dream that such a day might come. Her only thought upon buying Stormy was to rescue him from slaughter, to keep him safe, bring him home, and give him as much peace and happiness as he might accept.

  And even now, after the weeks of patience and presence, letting him slowly, slowly get to know her and, even more slowly, to believe that what she did for, with, or to him would bring him to no harm, she had not been entirely sure Stormy would permit her to ride him. As she made the attempt, every muscle in her body and thought in her mind was on high alert, ready to abort the action or jump clear of danger should Stormy begin to buck or bolt.

  But he didn’t. Not at all.

  Yes, he gave a sputter of surprise, feeling her weight on his back. He jerked his nose up, startled, and took two short steps to the side, as if trying to regain his balance, but then, as Holly settled into the center of him, Stormy settled, too, standing quiet and still, waiting for what came next.

  At first, she just sat there, grinning and so enjoying the moment that she almost feared risking more. But finally, deciding there was nothing to lose, Holly leaned down low to grab hold of the lead rope, using it like a rein, then sat up again and squeezed her legs firmly but gently around his girth.

  Stormy walked forward without hesitation, his gait easy, moving around the paddock to the left or to the right, responding to Holly’s gentle pressure on the reins as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. He seemed utterly relaxed.

  So did Holly, from outward appearances, but inside, her heart was doing cartwheels. And when she looked out over the top of the paddock fence and saw Rob Lee standing where he always stood, with his feet planted wide and his arms crossed over his chest, the way they always were, but with the widest, brightest smile she had ever seen on his handsome face, it was all she could do to keep from whooping for pure joy.

  If there was ever a time when Holly had been happier with the world or herself, she couldn’t remember it. But the day wasn’t over yet.

  After five trips around the paddock, Rob Lee, still grinning, shifted his stance and moved from his accustomed spot, walking around the short end of the paddock and then climbing up three slats of the pasture fence before swinging his legs over the top and jumping lightly down to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Holly asked, careful not to raise her voice too much, as Rob Lee approached the paddock from the pasture side.

  “What do you think?” he called back, reaching for the latch and then letting the paddock’s back gate swing wide.

  “Horses are meant to run. Let’s see what he’s got.”

  Never having had a horse of her own before now, Holly’s opportunities to ride at more than a walk had been few and far between. At this point, she wasn’t even sure she remembered how to gallop and was almost afraid to try.

  There was no reason to worry.

  After exiting the confined regions of the paddock and entering the open pasture, Stormy was more than ready to stretch his legs. With an encouraging click of Holly’s tongue and a slight pressure from her legs, Stormy tran
sitioned easily from a walk to a trot and, after a few minutes, from a trot to a canter, warming up nicely as horse and rider found their balance. And when, at last, Holly sensed his eagerness and confidence and felt confident herself, she gave him his head and allowed him to full-out gallop.

  They practically flew across the fields, up, over, and down the gentle slopes and hills, with Holly angling her torso lower but keeping her back strong, moving her body forward, down, up, and back in a steady, rolling rhythm that matched the drumbeat pounding of Stormy’s hooves across the open prairie. They moved like one being, single of mind and purpose, exhilarated and free, for a long time.

  And when they became tired, both rider and horse, gallop became canter, became trot, became walk, as they returned to the gate, where Rob Lee was waiting. And though Holly’s body was tired, her mind and heart were still doing cartwheels.

  Reining Stormy to a standstill, she felt no less exhilarated, or less free, than she had in those minutes before, flying at full gallop across the field, as happy as she could ever remember or imagine feeling, until she dropped Stormy’s rope and slid from his back into Rob Lee’s embrace.

  When his mouth pressed to hers and she parted her lips, Holly understood that happiness is not measured by or limited to what you have known in the past but by what you will allow yourself to experience in the present and risk for the future.

  CHAPTER 34

  It had been a good day for Mary Dell. A challenging day to be sure, but a good one—partially because it was challenging.

  Mary Dell had always loved learning new things. That was part of the reason she loved quilting so much, because it constantly provided new opportunities to stretch herself, master new skills or refine old ones, and express her creativity in new and different ways. Because of that, some of her quilting experiments turned out better than others and there had been more than a couple of notable disasters, but over the years, Mary Dell had come to realize that she could learn as much from her failures as from her successes. That knowledge helped her to become fearless in her willingness to tackle new quilting challenges, a quality that often spilled over into other areas of her life.

  However, in spite of what Taffy had said about the job of directing and editing a television show not being all that complicated, Mary Dell approached the task of overseeing the editing for the two episodes of Quintessential Quilting she had helped to direct with a degree of trepidation that was not unwarranted. Though seven years of standing in front of the cameras had given her a pretty accurate sense of what did and didn’t work when it came to content, presentation, timing, and camera work, when it came to editing and directing, there was a world of technical knowledge that Mary Dell simply did not possess.

  The edit suite of the Dallas studio really wasn’t much more than a big desk in a windowless room, but on that big desk was a computer with an enormous screen with graphs, tabs, displays, and tools that could be used to edit, add, or alter sound and lighting levels, video and audio effects and transitions, and much more, all done by operating the tabs and buttons on a special color-coded editing keyboard loaded with buttons and dials that bore no resemblance to anything Mary Dell had on her home desktop.

  The whole thing reminded her of an airplane cockpit, and upon sitting down in the edit suite, Mary Dell felt nearly as nervous and intimidated as if she’d been asked to land a plane single-handedly and without benefit of prior instruction or access to an operations manual. Fortunately, Mary Dell was not alone.

  Gina, the quiet but capable assistant director, was there by her side, just as she had been on the set, and Mary Dell wasn’t too timid to ask for her advice, nor too proud to follow it. Working side by side for three days straight, the two women pulled together two finished episodes they could be proud of. It was a truly successful collaboration.

  At the end of the third day, as they were going through the credits that came at the end of the programs, Mary Dell gave her collaborator one final instruction.

  “Okay, stop right here,” she said, standing behind Gina and peering over her shoulder.

  Gina pressed some buttons. The screen froze.

  “Good. Now click on the directorial credit.” Eyes glued to the screen, Gina complied. “And type in your name.”

  Gina’s head snapped to the right. “No, Mary Dell. You don’t have to—”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” she insisted. “You’re the one who deserves the credit for pulling this whole mess together, and I want people to know it. So do as I say: List your name as the director and me as the assistant. Go ahead.”

  “All right,” Gina said with a reluctant shrug.

  She typed in the changes. When she was finished, she said, “Thanks, Mary Dell. I gotta say, this is the first week since I started working on this show that I’ve felt good about an episode. If you took a poll, I’m pretty sure the rest of the crew would say the same thing. It’s been a real pleasure working with you. Hope we get to do it again sometime.”

  Gina stuck out her hand. Mary Dell gripped it.

  “Thanks. I hope so too.”

  Mary Dell was in excellent spirits when she met up with Howard and Hub-Jay at Habanero, her favorite Mexican restaurant, and proudly handed each of them a DVD of the two completed episodes.

  “Wow, Momma!” Howard said, gazing at the disc with wide eyes and a kind of reverent fascination. “You’re a director now?”

  “Not quite.” She laughed. “Gina did most of the heavy lifting, but I sure learned a lot in the last few days. It was really fun.”

  “I’m very impressed. Can’t wait to watch it,” Hub-Jay said, and then, without preamble or permission, leaned in and kissed Mary Dell on the cheek.

  His kiss would have landed on her lips had not Mary Dell, surprised by Hub-Jay’s gesture and that he would do it in front of Howard, twisted her head just as Hub-Jay made contact.

  Howard, watching this awkward interaction, looked at Hub-Jay with raised eyebrows and said, “Are you Momma’s boyfriend?”

  Mary Dell stammered and started to answer, but Hub-Jay beat her to it. “I’d like to be, Howard. Is that all right with you?”

  Howard’s forehead furrowed momentarily as he considered the question. “Yes. That’s okay with me. Momma’s been alone too long. And I like you, Hub-Jay.”

  “I like you too, Howard.”

  Hub-Jay reached under the table for Mary Dell’s hand. She let him take it.

  The dinner passed quickly. The food was delicious and they had so much to talk about.

  Hub-Jay shared more about the plans for the birthday party and told funny stories about some of the more eccentric hotel guests he had encountered during his career. Mary Dell filled Howard and Hub-Jay in on all the goings-on in Too Much and with family, and told them more about her experiences as a substitute television director, leaving out the part about Taffy’s role in making the substitution necessary.

  But for the bulk of the evening, the podium belonged to Howard. He filled them in on his daily routine and how he had mastered the use of public transit, meaning he no longer had to ask for a ride if he wanted to go somewhere, and how he had taken the bus to a fabric shop on the other side of town and purchased four yards of chenille in various colors, as well as several yards of cording, which he was using to make pillows for the sofa in his little apartment.

  “Jenna’s momma asked me to make two more for her. She’s paying me sixty dollars plus the fabric!” Howard exclaimed, his expression glowing with pride as he shared the news.

  Mary Dell was proud too. “That’s wonderful, baby!”

  “You know,” Hub-Jay said as he folded a spoonful of melted queso fundido into a homemade flour tortilla, “you might have the beginning of a nice little business there, Howard.”

  “I thought about that,” Howard said. “I like sewing pillows for a hobby, but I want to do something bigger. I’ve decided to be a fabric designer.”

  “You have?” Mary Dell asked.

  Howard bobbed his head. “Uh-h
uh. I’m going to take two classes next semester—computers and digital photography. There is this software now that lets you load your pictures or art onto a computer so you can print it onto fabric.

  “Jenna and I have been talking about it. Her sunflower painting would be pretty as fabric. I could design a fabric panel of the whole painting, and then some yellow, gold, and green solids, plus a blender fabric with the leaves, another with the seeds, and a border print with little sunflowers. We could make a whole collection. If people buy it, I could design more fabric from paintings by artists with Down syndrome and donate the money to help other people with Down syndrome.”

  “You’ve really spent a lot of time thinking about this,” Mary Dell said, sincerely impressed by his determination.

  “Uh-huh. I already thought of a name for the company,” Howard reported. “Down Home Fabric. Get it? It’s like Down syndrome.”

  “I like it!”

  “Me too,” Howard replied.

  The Habanero restaurant was located in the Arts District. Their original plan for the evening had been to walk from the restaurant to the Meyerson Center for a special screening of the musical West Side Story with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra performing a live accompaniment of the movie score.

  However, just as their dessert was being served, Howard seemed to run out of steam and asked if they’d mind if he skipped the movie and concert. Mary Dell was worried—he did look a little pale—but Howard insisted he was fine, just tired. “Going to college is a lot of work,” he said seriously.

  Howard said he’d take the bus back to his apartment, but it was late and dark, so Hub-Jay made a call and asked one of the hotel drivers to pick him up. Mary Dell stood on the curb, watching Howard waving excitedly from the window of the sleek black limousine as Hub-Jay stood next to her with his arm around her shoulders.