by Celia Jerome
“I don’t see why not. I look at expensive jewelry all the time. If your parents are home, why don’t we try to talk them into it?
She told Lewis to ask her mother and stepfather to come out to the pool. I was disappointed that Mr. Froeler was around, figuring the mother was the easier one to convince, but I sat down where Letty showed me, at a grouping of tables and chairs and umbrellas set up at the far end of the pool.
She called after Lewis: “And bring refreshments, please.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. Miss Tate won’t be staying long.”
“My mother always offers her guests a drink. She says it’s the polite thing to do. And the dog needs a bowl of water.”
Lewis clenched his hands into huge fists that were bigger than my thighs. This was one scary dude I wouldn’t want to meet on any dark corner, but he listened to Letty and went through a set of sliding doors to the house.
“He wouldn’t do it if my mother wasn’t home,” Letty whispered. “But he doesn’t like her to see how mean he can be.”
“He never hurts you, does he?”
She laughed. “He wouldn’t dare. Where else could he work and live and have the afternoons and nights to himself unless they need him to drive somewhere? Mostly he makes me do boring repetitions while he talks to his friends on the phone. I don’t mind. It’s something to do.”
The parents came out. Mrs. Froeler hurried on her high heels, rushing to protect her baby from my evil influence. She was as pretty and polished as Louisa had said, and as twitchy. She took the tray from Lewis and put it on one table, then another, watching her husband all the time as if seeking his approval. Jeez, another marriage made in heaven.
Mr. Froeler himself wasn’t what I expected, a storm trooper or something. He was slight of build, wore glasses and a comb over and was much older and several inches shorter than his wife. He should not be wearing khaki cargo shorts, not with those pale, thin legs. He sat down without shaking my hand or acknowledging my presence. He took the martini glass his wife handed him. The rest of us had lemonade.
He never looked at Letty or thanked Mrs. Froeler for the drink or the bowl of melon balls she placed in front of him. He did give me a brief, assessing look, sneered at the dog in my lap, and said with a slight German accent, “I hope you’re not going to be as much of a pain in the ass as your mother.”
Letty gasped, but I forced myself to laugh. “I doubt anyone could be. I just want to get Letty”—the mother frowned slightly, trying to avoid wrinkles, I supposed—“to come to a class for young people that I am teaching next week at the arts center.”
“She already has tutors in every subject required by the state and additional on-line courses for advanced credits. Taught by instructors with the highest credentials, I might add.”
He might as well have said, “Instead of by a comic book hack.” I hated him, too. I know I was making snap judgments, and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough to change them. “But this is a session on creative writing and illustrating, not schoolwork. I already know your daughter has a great imagination, which should be encouraged and nurtured.”
“What for? Will that get her into a better college? Find her a better job? My stepdaughter is handicapped. She needs to excel at her academics in order to compete with the other students who captain this foolish team or win that useless championship.”
“Expanding one’s thinking helps in every aspect of life and learning. Besides, she’ll have fun. We’re starting next week, and the class goes for two hours, for two weeks.”
“She needs her therapy.”
“She needs playtime, too, don’t you think? She’s a kid. I’ll pick her up and drive her, if that’s a problem.”
Lewis was standing behind his boss’ chair. He grunted.
“No, Lewis will drive. I do not trust anyone else with my stepdaughter’s life.”
For such a caring, devoted parent, Willem Froeler did a good job of ignoring his daughter’s presence. Letty might have been another servant standing behind his chair like Lewis for all the notice he took of her. No “Do you want to go, Letty?” or “Do you have any interest in this course?” For that matter, I would have trusted Attila the Hun before letting Lewis near any kid of mine, but if that got her into town, I’d be content. “Then she can come?”
I looked at Mrs. Froeler, but she just looked at her husband and wrung her hands together. Great relationship these two had, and no business of mine why she accepted such treatment. His business was funded with her money, wasn’t it?
“Please, Father. I can make up the training later in the day. We can get one of the maids to watch me in the pool if Lewis is busy or out on the boat. I’d really like to go.”
Froeler still ignored her. He emptied his martini glass and fished out the olive. “Tell me about the horses,” he demanded of me. “Are they gone?”
“I don’t know. No one has seen them in a couple of nights. I am still looking for the lost colt.”
Now he smiled, showing teeth so white and perfect they had to be implants. “Are you? I doubt you’ll have any luck. Is that cowboy looking, too?”
“No, Mr. Farraday is too busy planning the riding show and looking into establishing a horse ranch at Bayview.”
Lewis grunted again. Froeler frowned at him. “I need another martini, Lewis.”
“Yes, sir.” I could tell Lewis hated being treated like a servant. Those clenched fists were held tightly to his sides.
“Farraday will never get it through the local planning board. They give preferential treatment only to locals, and no Texan is going to get by putting that much manure into the underground water supply. Times have changed since Scowcroft owned it. Rules and regulations are much stricter.”
There was talk about a small composting facility on the grounds, so the manure could be turned into valuable fertilizer for people’s gardens, or another income-producing business. I saw no reason to discuss that with Mr. Froeler.
He wanted to know what I did for a living, my credentials for teaching a course. I padded my bio a bit, lied a bit, and turned the table by asking what he did for a living, although I had a good idea, from Louisa. “You’re not a banker, are you?”
His wife poured herself another glass of lemonade, the pitcher hitting the glass. “My husband is a medical researcher. He is going to find a cure for Letty. His company is looking into building another facility near here so he does not have to commute.”
Ah, he mightn’t be hoping to build on the Bayview Ranch property, by any chance? They’d never permit a medical facility there. My mother would be on it like an ant on a peony. So would Grandma Eve.
He took his martini from Lewis without commenting on his wife’s burst of information and conversation. He asked again about the night mares, if I was affected, if I’d seen them, how I knew the colt was still nearby, where they went when they disappeared. He asked too many technical questions for someone supposed to have no paranormal sensitivity. I wondered if Vincent, the barber who saw auras, had ever cut his hair. I doubted it. Froeler would go to a city stylist—or a hair implant clinic—not a local barber where you waited on line for your turn. Luckily, I could be vague in my answers. I truly did not know enough about the mares myself to give out any details, and I knew better than to mention Margaret’s weaving or Joe’s scrying or Mrs. Desmond’s alphabet soup. Or my dreams, for that matter.
He seemed angry that I had no answers for him. “You’re Eve Garland’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”
I admitted I was.
“Did you inherit any of her talent with herbs and spices?”
“I can’t cook.”
His eyes narrowed. “I meant her supposedly healing potions and poppycock.”
What, did he think I was going to steal his medical research? “No, I have no interest in what she grows or mixes.”
“Is she a witch?”
Letty gasped again, and Mrs. Froeler paled beneath her bronzed skin. I set my lemo
nade down and sat up straighter in my seat. No one called my grandmother a witch besides me. “My grandmother is a world-renowned herbalist. And she thinks my course is perfect for young people who don’t use their brains for much more than texting and video games.” I smiled, showing my teeth, and I poked Little Red, so he showed his, too, only not in a smile. “She does not discuss the occasional frog who appears in her workshop.”
“Frog, eh? I suppose it wouldn’t hurt Letitia to attend your course.”
It paid to have a grandmother with street cred.
I decided not to push my luck with mention of Ty’s show. When they saw how happy Letty was with the arts center program, then maybe they’d relent about keeping her wrapped in a cocoon. She was grinning now, racing her wheelchair around the pool, laughing like a regular kid.
Her mother smiled. Froeler scowled at them both, and me. “I am sure we all have better things to do than make up fairy tales. Alice, the tennis pro says your backhand needs work. Letitia, if you are going to miss exercising next week, I’ll insist on double time now. Lewis, I want to see if the mechanic fixed that throttle on the port engine. We’ll take the boat out after lunch.
“And you, Miss Tate. Take your cur and leave. I am too busy for this nonsense about missing horses. Go write your little stories, but do not fill my daughter’s head with such claptrap.”
Little stories? At least I wasn’t promising to cure a paralyzed kid.
“Janie, do you know Joe the Plumber?”
“Sure. How is he, anyway? I heard Natalie came back to take care of him. Or to see if he changed the life insurance policy.”
“He’s getting better, but he needs to get rid of her. He could use a little TLC, maybe some home cooking, a friendly face. You busy?”
“Can he fix the hose at the hair-washing station?”
“Maybe not today, but soon.”
“I’ll stop by after work with some fried chicken.”
“That’d be great. Show Natalie he has woman friends of his own. Don’t look at Joe—he’s not at his best after the accident—but take a look at his bathroom if you get the chance. It’s to die for. And he’s kind of lonely.”
Janie grinned. “I hear what you’re not saying, sweetie. Thanks.”
Two missions accomplished. Umpteen million to go.
CHAPTER 33
A NEW KIND OF CRAZY WHACKED Paumanok Harbor over the head. Not that Paumanok Harbor or the Hamptons needed another mania, especially in the summer season, but there it was: Ty Farraday’s Ride for the Ranch. Suddenly the whole East End was turned into a rock concert fairgrounds, almost overnight.
It wasn’t magic, but it was close. Huge trucks, tents, trailers, livestock, and mobile sound stages—and port-a-potties—moved into town, tying up traffic for hours, but few people were complaining. The merchants were swamped and happy. Even the grouchy owners of the little grocery store were pleased.
Everyone who could swing a hammer was put to work. So was every caterer, every lawn mower, every electrician and every computer geek to handle the new website for ticket sales. I heard they emptied the jails to fill the jobs that needed doing, commuting sentences to community service.
Every hotel, B&B, spare room, or campsite was filled. As soon as Bayview’s front fields were cleared of brush and weeds, with permission from the Scowcroft Corporation, production trucks and entertainers’ campers moved in. And sheep.
The Royce Institute agreed to let Ty’s stage manager and roadies bunk in the elegant Rosehill mansion with its score of bedrooms. They were all filled and doubled-up, as were the guesthouse, the pool house, and the apartment over the garage. Connor moved into Ty’s master bedroom, because everyone knew Ty was sleeping at my house now. Cousin Lily imported all her in-laws, distant relatives, and old friends to help cook and clean and chauffeur.
I worried that the expenses would be so high the show couldn’t make a profit, until Mr. Whitside from the bank and Dante Rivera, who was now the financial manager for the event, with his own staff, assured me half the services were being donated and the rest were at base scale wages. We’d make a profit, a very nice profit indeed.
So many tickets sold before they were printed, the crews needed to add extra bleachers on the football field. The baseball and soccer fields and running track became tent cities for hospitality and vendor areas, dressing rooms, pens for the animals, and more port-a-potties.
Trucks brought in bales of hay for ground-level seating, and left an open space near the shortened, narrowed performance area for blankets and beach chairs. Ty approved the new arrangement as long as a fence secured the perimeter, security forces ensured no one got onto the field, and no alcohol was served. He insisted on a dry venue despite protests that beer made a lot of money. He talked to Uncle Henry about trading passes to retired policemen in exchange for checking bags the audience carried in. No coolers were to be permitted. Ty was not exposing Paloma Blanca or his friends to a tossed bottle or drunken rowdiness, not at this family affair. They compromised on wine sales by the plastic glass in the tents.
Giant cranes hoisted scaffolding for the lights and amplifiers, and one of Ty’s contacts donated the use of a camera crew and two huge screens to project the show from every angle, so people at the farthest points could still see everything, just like at a ball park. They even found a sign language volunteer and a Spanish translator.
Dante had the high school computer club making a PowerPoint presentation for the introductions and the intermissions. They were going to feature an airplane shot of Bayview this week, before the caravan arrived, and an archival picture of when Mr. Scowcroft had racehorses on it. They taped a spokesman from the Nature Conservancy talking about preserving open space and an address where people could send checks to help purchase the magnificent property. People from a horserescue organization made their pitch, too.
I worked up a logo for the event: Ty’s profile in woodcut style, with waves in front, horses on a distant hill behind. Louisa liked it so much, she ordered posters and T-shirts to sell, white ink on green shirts. As soon as they came back from the printer, and I signed the posters, she started the Boy and Girl Scouts hawking them and tickets at the post offices and supermarkets from Montauk to Bridgehampton. Meanwhile, Dante gathered so many corporate sponsors, he had to find new places to hang their banners and another tent with another wide screen for their reserved seating.
With no sign of the mares or sendings from H’tah, I stopped worrying about the money and started panicking about teaching at the arts center.
The twelve kids in my class were too excited to sit and think quietly about plots or characters. I chucked all my notes and lesson plans and decided we’d make a coloring alphabet book instead. They’d be for sale at the show with a tiny box of crayons, both a souvenir and a way to keep little children happy and quiet. If they made more money for the ranch, great. I promised to come back in August to teach the story session.
We divided up the alphabet letters and started to discuss what the kids wanted to draw to represent each letter. There were fights. Shouting, pushing, a few tears. And the kids behaved badly, too.
I never wanted to become a teacher. I didn’t even like children.
I took a deep breath and told everyone to sit down and talk one at a time without raising their voices.
Letty spoke first. She claimed the P for Paloma Blanca. One of the local girls thought it should be a map of Paumanok Harbor. K2, the pudge with the runny nose, wanted to draw a pinto pony, like his hero, Connor’s, horse. Letty was not used to being denied, especially by kids her own age, not as privileged, perhaps not as well-educated. They were careful of her wheelchair and friendly enough in greeting her, but they weren’t about to sacrifice their own ideas for some uppity summer kid who got escorted into the building by her own muscle-bound bodyguard. This was their town, their arts center, their chance to help buy the ranch. I could see a lot of trouble coming, and Letty not coming back.
So I decided some alphabet l
etters got two facing pages, with as many drawings as we had finished in time to get printed. They just couldn’t be too small for little hands to color in the lines.
One of the free, advertisement-supported newspapers offered to print up our pages tabloid size if their name went on the cover, so we worked on that, too. A bunch of my students had their own laptops to work on with intricate graphics programs, but the arts center had drawing pens and ink that made a wonderful mess. The kids loved them and produced wonderful drawings after their pencil sketches. I couldn’t believe how talented some of them were, but Letty was the best.
She had good enough manners, thanks to her nannies and tutors, most likely, and quickly learned not to be arrogant about her skills. Some of the others went to her for her opinions when I was busy, which set her to glowing. K2 became her sidekick, except when his nose dripped.
“You’ve got to stop telling people their drawings are great when you know they suck.”
She didn’t understand his problem. She wouldn’t tell K2 he was fat, would she? Why insult someone else’s efforts? Especially when she wanted them to like her? But she stopped lying and made helpful suggestions.
The children learned to confer and cooperate, which was probably more important than what I’d intended to teach. Almost every letter of the alphabet warranted a debate.
A could be for Appaloosa or Airs above the ground—they were all eager to see if Paloma Blanca could do the classic Lipizzan leap. No one was saying. One little girl wanted an angel on the A page, because her father said that’s what sponsors were called and his insurance company was paying a bundle. We decided on America, because members of the armed forces were forming a color guard to carry the flag in for the national anthem. Then we had to decide how to portray America, and who was going to draw it.