by Claire Adams
“Did you,” I said. Darren had been one of the few people I knew for a fact had not tried to come see me. I figured he’d just written me off completely.
“Yeah. I might have considered trying to visit you, but I heard all about how well that went for Mom.” He frowned. “You were always the good one, you know? Her good little boy.” He left the rest of the thought unsaid, but I knew what he was thinking. You were always the good little boy, and then you went and did this horrible thing and when she tried to visit, you refused to see her—your dying mother.
“It’s not like you were around all that much either,” I said. “She would’ve loved to hear from you. That’s what she was always talking about—Darren, who had moved to California—like California was some magical foreign land.”
“In a way, it is. If you’re not into the same shit everyone else is in this town, then yeah, it is like a magical place because there’s people out there from all walks of life. And I was out there at the right place at the right time. Into the right stuff. I’m doing better than I ever thought I would be, financially, emotionally, physically—everything is a fucking dream. It’s incredible.”
“Happy to hear it’s all worked out for you.”
“You want to come out there? You want to start over? Get the hell out of this place? No one would blame you if you did.”
“I’m fine here.” I shook my head. “And even if I did, what the hell would I do in San Francisco? I don’t have a job. I’ve never lived in a city.”
“A change of pace might be good for you. And you could find a job. You can live with me until you get your own place. I’ve got a place in the Marina and then a loft in SoMa. Also a house in Bernal Heights, but the family there might be moving soon. Too big of a place for one person, but…” He gave me a questioning look. “I heard there was a lady in your life?”
“Yeah, there is, but I don’t think she’s gonna want to move to San Francisco. You own all those places out there?”
“I do. And another place up in Sonoma and another down in Santa Cruz. It didn’t all happen overnight, but, like I said, I was in the right place at the right time.”
“Computers, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “The tech industry out there is… it’s unbelievable. You’ve got to see it to believe it. So, why not come check it out? At least for a visit. I’ll get your tickets, you and your girl, and you guys can come see what it’s like.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“I know I don’t, but I want to.” He took a step closer to me, a serious expression on his face. “Listen—I know it’s been a long time since we talked. We’re practically strangers. But I don’t want it to have to be like that. It shouldn’t, if you ask me. I’d like to fix it. And it would really mean a lot to me if you would come out to San Francisco. Think of it like a well-deserved vacation.”
“I’ll talk to Wren,” I said.
I had been planning to go over to the restaurant for a little bit in the afternoon, before I had to go back to the ranch for the afternoon chores, to learn how to cook something. After the morning I’d had, I didn’t feel much like learning anything, but I did want to see Wren, so I cleaned up and headed over.
“How was your day?” she asked. “We were crazy busy here today. But it was good.”
“I’m glad one of us had a good day,” I said, giving her the abridged version of my morning.
“Oh, boy,” she said. “That sounds like a mess.”
“It was.”
“Well, come on. Sounds like you need some comfort food.” I followed her into the kitchen. It was a bit strange being back there, everything quiet, the dining room completely empty.
“So, there’s cooking, and then there’s baking,” she said. “I like them both, but some people prefer one or the other. I like to think of cooking as an art and baking as a science. You can mess around more with cooking, improvise, be creative. Baking is way more temperamental, and it’s a lot easier to screw things up.”
“I’ve screwed up enough things for one day,” I said.
Wren smiled. “Cooking it is. And really, don’t be too hard on yourself. Forgetting to turn the water off happens sometimes. I may have forgotten to do it a time or two myself. Never the stove, though. I’ve always remembered to turn the burners off. Anyway. Why don’t we make something simple, but good, especially on a hot day like this? It’s a variation of pasta salad, and the nice thing about this is you can alter it as you want, and use whatever you’ve got in the fridge.”
“Right now, that would be about half a quart of orange juice. Oh, and the other thing that happened this morning is my brother stopped by. And he wants us to go out to San Francisco.”
She stopped rummaging in the fridge and looked at me. “Wait, what? Did you just say go to San Francisco?”
“Yeah. That’s where he lives now.”
“And he wants us to go visit him?”
“That’s what he said.”
“I’d love to go to San Francisco!” she exclaimed, with more enthusiasm than I’d been expecting. “I didn’t even know you had a brother! Have him come into the restaurant before he goes.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell him. And I guess you didn’t really know that I had a brother because we haven’t been that close. No bad blood between us or anything, he just ended up moving, and he never wanted to come back here, which for him, I can understand.”
“Not a small-town guy?”
“No. And he’s gay, which some people gave him a hard time about in school, even though he wasn’t out of the closet yet. That’s a strange saying, isn’t it? ‘Out of the closet’?”
She shrugged. “Not when it’s something you feel like you have to hide.”
“That makes sense when you put it that way. Yeah, I guess I never really considered what things must’ve been like for him. It’s not like I wanted him to feel so out of place or anything. I’d just always felt so comfortable here; I assumed everyone else did, too. That was short-sighted of me.”
“I would love to go out there. I’d also like to meet him, so tell him to come by! Anyway, let’s get started on this.”
She had taken out a number of different vegetables: red and green peppers, cucumber, zucchini, red onion, and a few leftover ears of cooked corn.
“We’ll get a pot of water boiling while we chop this stuff up,” she said. “Now, you can use any kind of pasta, but I like to use Israeli cous cous, which is bigger than regular cous cous.”
“Sounds good, I think,” I said. “I have no idea what either of those things are.”
“Well, you’re about to find out. And it’s delicious.”
She showed me where the pots were, and I filled one with water, and then she said to add a dash of salt and a glug of olive oil. I turned the burner on high, the little blue flame caught and ignited, and there you had it—I had set my first pot of water to boiling.
“This is really the first time you’ve cooked for yourself?” Wren asked, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief.
“Pretty much. If you don’t count opening cans with a can opener. I’ve done that plenty.”
She laughed. “You’re doing a good job so far. Now, on to the chopping.”
We stood side-by-side at the counter, identical cutting boards in front of us. There was something soothing about getting into a rhythm, cutting the food into uniform pieces. I thought about my mother, then, and how much she had enjoyed cooking, and I wondered if it was for the same reason.
When the vegetables were chopped, the water was boiling, and I dumped the Israeli cous cous in. Wren gave me a slotted metal spoon to stir it with, and when it was done, I drained it in the sink and ran cold water over the colander.
Then it was into a big ceramic bowl with everything, along with some more salt and black pepper, chopped parsley, lemon juice, and the house-made vinaigrette.
“Give it a good stir,” Wren said, once everything was combined. She got two bowls, and I dished it
up, and then we took it out into the empty dining room and sat at one of the booths.
“There you go,” she said, taking a bite. “It’s delicious! Good job.”
I took a tentative bite. I knew it couldn’t be that bad because she’d been right there, but I was a little hesitant because cooking just wasn’t my thing. But it was good. The cous cous was chewy and soft, the vegetables crisp, everything coated in the mildly spicy, tangy dressing. It was the perfect sort of hot weather dish.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s not bad.”
“See? If I can ride a horse, you most certainly can cook something edible. And this is more than edible—it’s great!”
I went back and had seconds, and when Wren asked if I wanted to cook something else some other time, I was quick to say yes.
Back at the ranch, though, I knew I needed to be extra-diligent. For the next several mornings, I triple-checked to make sure that the hose was turned off after I was done filling the troughs. Today, I was supposed to lead a group ride, though part of me was wondering if Garrett was just going to tell me to forget about it. The ride was just one family of six; the youngest of the kids was about nine. It’d be good to get out and go for a ride, and usually on rides like that, the people wanted to hear about the landscape, what types of trees those were, or what kind of bird that was.
I helped Jesse groom and tack up six horses. I went around and checked the cinches, made sure they were tight, and led the horses out to the wooden hitching post, securing their reins in a quick-release knot.
Garrett had said that one of the girls was nervous about riding and afraid of horses, but wanted to go with her family on the ride—just down to Hatchwood Creek and back— so I’d gotten Sweetpea ready for her. I went back to the barn to get Bebop, and when I was leading him out, I saw the family standing by the post, talking with Ryan.
“Well, you folks enjoy the ride,” he was saying. “Here’s Ollie, he’s going to be the one taking you out. We can head out for some fly fishing around three o’clock this afternoon,” he said to the father.
After Ryan walked off, I introduced myself and then introduced them to the horses. The older two kids both said they’d been riding the day before and were eager to get back to it. I could tell right away who it was that was scared of horses though—Lisa, who was standing next to her mother, eyeing the animals with trepidation.
“We’re going to have you ride Sweetpea,” I said to her. “She’s this one right here. Sweetpea’s been on this ranch longer than most of the other horses here, so she knows all the ins and outs of the place. She’s a real good girl.” I patted Sweetpea’s neck. “Do you want to give her a pat?”
Lisa looked up at her mother and then at Sweetpea and gave an almost imperceptible nod. She inched forward until she was close enough to reach a hand out and brush her fingertips along Sweetpea’s shiny coat. The mare stood there, right rear leg resting on the tip of her hoof, her eyes half-closed, dozing.
“She liked that,” I said. “You’ve got a gentle touch, and that’s all Sweetpea needs. She’ll take good care of you, okay? And the saddle, it’s got the horn right here that you can hold onto.”
“You’re going to be just fine, Lisa,” her mother said.
“Remember what we talked about over breakfast,” her father chimed in. “Just take a deep breath and be brave. Don’t let fear hold you back.”
Her brother and sisters were watching impatiently, but I had a feeling the parents had warned them to wait until Lisa had gotten situated before they got on their own horses. I thought it might’ve been better if she didn’t have an audience, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“All right, do you want to give it a try?” I said.
Again, the barely-there nod.
“Great. So, you’re going to put your left foot in the stirrup and then swing your other leg over and into the saddle. I’ll stand right here, but Sweetpea’s a good girl, and she won’t run off with you, I promise.”
Lisa nodded. I could see she was scared, but she’d put on a brave face. “Okay,” she said. She reached out and grasped the stirrup, sliding her foot partway through. She hopped, once, twice, and then started to spring up. But then it happened before I could do anything about it—the saddle slipped, so it was sideways on Sweetpea’s left side, not on her back, and Lisa fell on her back. Sweetpea started, but didn’t take off, like almost any other horse would have. Lisa lay there on the ground for one stunned second, and then she started to cry.
“What in god’s name just happened?” her father asked, rushing over. “Lisa, honey, are you all right?”
The saddle slipped.
“Are you okay?” I asked Lisa, kneeling down on the ground next to her. Her eyes had filled with tears, and her face was splotchy red, but she was slowly sitting up, backing away from me like she thought I was the one who’d done it to her. In a way, I had, because the only way the saddle would have slipped like that was if the cinch hadn’t been tightened properly. And I’d been the one who tacked Sweetpea up. But I had never, in all the years I’d been riding, forgotten to tighten the cinch, and I was pretty sure I double-checked after I’d tied all the horses to post.
But it had happened.
“Are you okay?” I asked again.
She nodded but wouldn’t look at me.
“I want to go back to the cabin,” she said in a soft voice. “I don’t want to go on the ride.”
“Okay, sure,” her father said. “Brianna, come bring your sister back to the cabin.”
“Maybe we’ll try another time,” the mother said, looking at me. “I just don’t think it would be a good idea for us to go out and leave Lisa here.”
“That’s completely understandable,” I said. “And again, I’m so sorry. I…I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m glad no one was hurt.”
The mother smiled at me, but the father looked less willing to accept my apology. Lisa wouldn’t even look at me.
As they walked away, I heard the older brother say something about going swimming instead, that maybe that would be a safer bet.
“What happened?” Jesse asked as I led the horses back into the barn to untack them. “They decide not to go?”
“Something like that. The girl went to get on, and the saddle slipped. Not just a little, but completely off of Sweetpea’s back, like it wasn’t even the least bit tight to begin with. And I am about ninety-nine percent certain that I tightened it, and checked it when I checked all the other horses.” I felt the cinch on Cinnamon, the horse I had just led in. “Yeah, hers is fine, and I bet all the others are too, because I know I checked them.”
Jesse gave me a sympathetic look. “Hey, it happens. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I forgot to do that once, but it was right before a competition. Reining, I think it was. I must’ve used a mounting block to get on, because it didn’t slip then, but when I got the horse to circle, the saddle near slipped right off. Talk about embarrassing. Good thing no one was hurt.”
He was right about that, but I saw him give me a second look. It was quick, but I caught it nonetheless. Jesse was a nice kid, so of course he wasn’t going to say anything, though I knew what he was thinking: I’d done it again. I’d forgotten about something important. Luckily, no one had gotten hurt. If that happened, because of something I forgot, I would never be able to forgive myself.
That afternoon, after I’d finished working with Ditto, Garrett asked me to come up to the house. Instead of going inside, though, we sat on the rocking chairs on the front porch, looking out toward the barn.
“Heard there was a little trouble earlier,” he said. “The Mackenzies didn’t end up going out on their ride.”
“They didn’t. Lisa, the little girl, changed her mind. The saddle slipped when she was mounting, and she fell.”
I cringed, thinking about it again. There was no reason that should have happened.
“Sounds like the cinch wasn’t tightened at all.”
“I know. And I was the one who
tacked Sweetpea up.”
Garrett made a sound in his throat. “That’s not good. Lucky it happened while she was getting on and not already up in the saddle.”
There was nothing I could say that would change any of it, and it felt trivial to apologize. I said I was sorry, though, because I truly was.
“If you need to take a day off or something, I understand that,” Garrett said. “You fell back into the work so easily that I sometimes forget that you weren’t working the past seven years. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“You’re not,” I said quickly. I wanted to be working; I didn’t want to take a day off. “The work—it’s good for me. I need to be doing it. It’s really the only thing I know how to do.”
“And you’re good at it. But forgetting certain things isn’t good, and someone could end up hurt or worse. I don’t want to see that happen.”
“Neither do I. And it won’t happen again. I will double and triple check every saddle I put on, and make sure every hose is off. Trust me, Garrett, no one is as embarrassed as I am over all this.”
“I know it ain’t nothing you’re doing on purpose. I know it’s not like that.” He shook his head. “I always told Marie to just put me out to pasture once I started forgetting to do things like that. ‘Course, you’re too young to be thinking about dementia and that sort of thing.”
“Geez, I hope not.”
“If you ever start to feel like it’s too much, you can tell me. You can take a break. Scale back a little. Don’t feel like you have to be able to do everything, just like you used to. There’s nothing wrong with admitting something like that.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t quite agree with him. Or I didn’t like what he was saying, as though he were saying I was a different person now, maybe couldn’t handle what I once was able to before all this stuff had happened and I’d gone to prison. I felt like the same person; being back on the ranch had made me realize this was true. Yet, here was Garrett, thinking that these things were happening because I’d taken on too much too soon.