The church was full. Most of our small Devon Creek community were there, along with our eight clients. Corinne and her two daughters, but not her husband. Helena, my favorite, with her daughter, Payton, resting her head on Helena’s shoulder, and her husband, who kept sneaking his phone out of his pocket, likely checking the 49ers game. Petite Mai, second-generation Japanese American, a recent divorcée, and her daughter Lani, who reminded me of me when I was her age, her nose always in a book. Our token male rider, Stuart, a medical doctor who decided to take up riding at the age of fifty but had time to ride only once a week, though he owned two horses. And the three little peas, as Dad had called them, Pam, Patty, and Peggy. I could count on them every Tuesday to come brush their horses. Always together, driven to our farm by their retirement-home driver.
“Luke was a husband, a father, and a dear friend,” Uncle Ian’s voice echoed through the church. I gripped the seat of the pew. “He was like a billie to me. A brother. Able and kind . . .” Uncle Ian cleared his throat, then continued, his words floating away with the dust motes.
I peered at the pew next to us, my gaze stopping at the man sitting in the front row next to Aunt Julia, holding her hand. His brown hair fell below his ears, and his slightly crooked nose and unshaved jaw gave him a roughened look, as if he were trying to downplay the chiseled cheekbones and fine jaw structure. His eyes, light green and yellow, like peridot and amber, glinted beneath a thick brow that extended straight across then arched, as if he were pondering something.
His eyes met mine, and although I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. I inhaled, tilting my head down. A sense of connectedness, understanding, washed over me.
Uncle Ian’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Luke will live in all of our minds. Ay, that he will.”
The priest said, “Amen.” The people responded, then silence filled the church. Everyone bowed their heads. Uncle Ian made his way down. I searched Mom’s face for a sign of emotion, but she gave me no encouragement, no emotional support. I wanted her to reach out to me. To touch me. To say it was going to be all right. I reached over and held her hand, but it was limp. Lifeless.
The mass continued. I couldn’t focus on anything, my mind wandering to a million places. A stream of light filtered through the stained glass windows, lighting up a statue of Mary. Her head tilted toward a figure of a boy Jesus. Mary watched her son die, with dignity and strength—I had to muster strength too. But how could I? I balled my fists, shut my eyes.
The church was old and I hadn’t been here in years. As a child I couldn’t wait for church to end. I had wanted nothing more than to run outside to play with my ponies.
In a way, nothing had changed.
After the burial, I went down to the barn to see Jett. It was a short hello. I fed him a couple of carrots; he nudged my pocket for more. I stood, stroking his neck while he ate his hay. I looked in on each of the thirteen horses, the way Dad had done every day he was home—morning, afternoon, and a late-night check. It’s always about the horses, he’d said. When I reached Seraphim’s stall, I paused. Her stall was dark and I had to peer in to make out her shadow. She stood with her back toward me, her tail hanging low, and if she’d been a dog she might have tucked it between her legs. Her front leg had sustained serious injuries and Uncle Ian predicted that she’d be on stall rest for at least two months.
Uncle Ian came twice a day to change her bandages, and the last time I’d seen him at the barn, he even hinted for me to help. Said it would be nothing more than changing the bandages, monitoring the wound. But it wasn’t about the injuries, and I wished he understood that it had nothing to do with blood—I just couldn’t bring myself to be with her. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the earth seemed to sway. Seraphim turned, eyeing me, beckoning me to go to her, her eyes soft, as if asking for forgiveness. But I turned and walked out of the barn and up the hill to the house.
Dozens of people milled about as I entered the foyer. I ducked into the kitchen where Derek was busy with Bill setting out the dishes people had brought, and handing out drinks. I poured a glass of wine and waded through the crowd, avoiding eye contact. Aunt Julia and Uncle Ian came over as soon as they saw me.
“How are you, my dear?” Aunt Julia asked. “You look like you’ve lost weight.” She held me at arm’s length, tsk-tsking at me as she ran her hands down my back.
“It’s just the dress.” I forced a smile.
“I’ll stop by with a casserole tomorrow. Ian, we need to come over tomorrow.”
“We’ll be fine. There’s bound to be plenty of leftovers.”
“We looked for you earlier but couldn’t find you. I wanted to introduce you to Jason Lander—a good family friend and someone close to your dad. He was sitting next to me at the funeral.”
The mystery man. “I was down at the barn . . .” I wiped at the condensation that had collected on my glass of wine, trying to remember if Dad had ever mentioned him, but couldn’t. Jason Lander’s name sounded familiar though.
“Aye, your dad and him go years back. He was a bit of a project back then. Might you have met him when you were a wee lass? Spruce Meadows, was it? Julia, do you remember?”
Aunt Julia nodded her head. “Yes, I think that was it.”
“He’s a good lad. A great rider too. One of the best. Won the World Cup. Twice. The youngest ever to do so. Such a shame he’s not showing anymore. Gone to India or some such thing.”
I ran a finger over the rough skin of my cuticles. Of course! The Jason Lander. I hadn’t heard much about him lately, and I still couldn’t recall meeting him. “What is he doing now?”
“Some yoga thing. A waste of good talent, if you ask me. Don’t know why he’d give it up.”
“Well, it doesn’t surprise me, with his history and all,” Aunt Julia said, but Uncle Ian shook his head slightly and she said no more.
We all got quiet then, and I glanced down at my feet, trying to think of an excuse to escape, telling them I needed to grab some food. That satisfied Aunt Julia.
I lost myself in the crowd, keeping my gaze down, trying to keep any conversations at bay. I realized that even though we had many friends, none were family. Mom was an only child; her parents still lived in Manhattan. I’d never met them. I’d never met any of my family beyond my parents. My grandparents on both sides had been against the marriage, the families as different as Icelandic ponies and Arabians. Mom’s had never quite disowned her, just acted like it, trying to gain her back through manipulation and money.
Mom’s dowry was spent on this land, the building of our home, and Redwood Grove Stables. Stella and Mike Kowalski, her parents, made it a point to never visit us, even though my grandfather flew regularly to San Francisco from New York on business. After one or two visits with me as a baby to the East Coast, Mom had refused to give into their “scare tactics,” as she’d called them, and remained in California. “Let them live their bitter lives alone,” I’d heard Mom say to Dad one night. “I’m tired of the bullying. About us, religion, horses, politics, everything. I married you, a horse trainer, not the Wall Street tycoon they wanted, but that’s tough for them. Brynn is the only blood they’ve got and they’ll accept my life here, with you, or they’ll never see her again.”
I was old enough now to understand what the repercussions were—Mom working three jobs to help support Dad’s struggling horse business, never following her passion of penning a novel, living a life she wasn’t accustomed to.
A picture of Dad as a child in Montana caught my eye. I had thought his brother might finally appear. I had only heard about him through Mom, who’d told me snippets of information while pointing out strangers in faded family photos, the photos in the brown shoebox hidden in the least attended part of the attic. From what I gathered, they never left their ranch outside of Great Falls, and Dad had been too busy running ours to visit them.
Out on the back deck, small lanterns danced in the breeze along the balustrade, waiting for the night. Melancholic Diana Kr
all songs drifted through the central sound system. I longed for everyone to go home so that I could get out of this dress and into my yoga pants. Subira found me and pressed against my leg, nervous of the crowd. I leaned my elbows on the redwood deck railing, taking in the valley and hills that stretched toward the Pacific Ocean.
“We’ll take care of things, won’t we?” I whispered to Subira, digging my fingers into her warm fur.
“Brynn, there you are.”
The suddenness of the words startled me. I turned to see Vivian Young, a local trainer, towering over me in high heels. I smiled a hello.
“I’m sorry about your father.” Vivian leaned in to embrace me. Spicy perfume filled my senses. “He was a good man,” she said, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “Taught me a lot when I was a kid.”
“All the way through juniors and barn management too,” I added. He’d taught her everything she knew. She’d ridden at our ranch since she was a child, and later worked for my dad as an assistant trainer for several years before starting her own training business.
“Yeah,” she added as if an afterthought. She reached down and ran a finger along the swooped neckline of her black and gold dress. Always a knockout, I thought. Even at a wake.
A clamor of laughter rose behind me, as people’s voices surged, one above the other.
“You must find that hurtful.” Vivian studied me over the rim of her glass of red wine.
I shrugged, reaching down to pet Subira’s head. “I would rather this than everyone crying. At least they’re being honest, right?”
“I bet this is the last place you want to be. I bet you’d rather spend the night in the barn.”
I looked up at her in surprise. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, her green eyes glinted against the metallic shine of her dress. Did she know me? I’d always tried to stay in the background, keep to myself. She’d been in her late twenties when she’d left my dad to start her own business. That had been five years ago. I had looked up to her, and wanted to be like her when I was younger. She was a great rider, and had the looks, the confidence, the resonant laugh, and the force of will to get what she wanted. Well, except my dad. He never seemed to fall under her spell. In fact he’d always shaken his head when he’d seen her at horse shows after she’d left him, saying that he thought she was choosing the wrong path—but I’d thought he was overly judgmental, figuring he’d been mad that she’d left to strike out on her own.
“I’m glad they’re all having a good time,” I said, gazing out at the valley below. The hills had turned golden brown from the summer sun, the California oak trees dotting the fields of grass which disappeared at the edge of the lush forest and stream below. A crescent moon hung above in the darkening sky, Jupiter sparkling bright just below it.
“That’s no excuse,” she said, an indignant look crossing her face. “Disrespectful.”
The song changed to something by Chopin. Mom’s favorite composer. Mom used to reminisce about her days of going to the New York City Philharmonic Orchestra with her parents, where they had season tickets. As time wore on, she mentioned it less and less frequently. Almost as if that part of her life hadn’t happened. The only time I heard her Chopin CD play was when she was writing—though that had been years ago.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the service earlier. I had a lot on my plate at the barn this morning.” Vivian leaned her elbows on the railing next to me. “I’m here because I was thinking about you, and how hard it all must be. I heard you saw it happen.”
Prickles ran down my spine and I closed my eyes.
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Well, anyway.” Vivian patted my arm. “I wanted to offer my help. Anything I can do, I’d be more than happy to. Just say the word.”
“Thank you,” I said, my head suddenly starting to ache.
“And if you need help with clients, teaching or riding horses . . .” Her voice drifted as she reached down to pet Subira’s head. Subira pressed more tightly against my leg. “I know you’re heading back to school soon. Last year of vet school, right? Your mom must be so proud. I know she’s always wanted you to do that.”
A coldness swept through me. Clients? Business? Lessons? I hadn’t even thought about any of it.
“Well, anything at all.” She placed her arm around my shoulder, and squeezed. “It’s the least I can do after all your dad did for me.” Her smile revealed crow’s feet and lines around her lips. She was getting older. Somehow I never pictured her old.
“Thanks, Vivian,” I said, the throbbing in my temples increasing. “At least you know the ropes around here . . . ,” I added absentmindedly, my thoughts racing in every direction. School, clients, barn.
“It’s not an easy business, what with the unpredictability of the economy, the clients . . . but anyway. It’s not important.” She pinched her nose, closing her eyes momentarily.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, of course. It’s just tough, you know? The clients are never easy. And fickle as shit. Sometimes I worry about things not working out for me.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.” She’d done the tough thing—set up her own business. And done it well too.
Vivian said her goodbyes, asking me to call, and I was left with the sudden realization that somehow another hurdle had been raised—bigger than I’d ever jumped before.
A couple of weeks later, Vivian’s offer of help still hung in the air. With taking care of Mom, the house and the horses, I had pushed the decision to the back of my mind. I walked around in a daze as I helped Derek out at the barn, planning the lesson and riding schedules, organizing the hay deliveries and the farrier, and opening the bills that had started to pile up. Dad’s request weighed heavily on my mind too. To take care of Mom, the barn, the horses—to take Jett higher.
Then Seth Armstrong, our accountant, left an urgent message with me asking Mom to call him right away. She hadn’t been returning his calls and we needed to come in to discuss the estate.
When I told Mom about it, she said that I shouldn’t worry, but I could come if I wanted to. I was determined to go.
Devon Creek was a unique mixture of Gold Rush and eighteenth-century Spanish architecture. Seth’s office, on Main Street, was a two-storied, vanilla-white stucco building, accented by cappuccino-brown beams and a brown shingle roof. Mom and I sat in the quaint office waiting room, on wooden chairs, similar in discomfort to the church pews we’d sat on not too long ago.
The secretary’s high-pitched voice grated on my nerves. I watched the slow rotations of the fan above, listening to the whoosh as the blades cut through the hot air. No air conditioning. Most Bay Area offices didn’t have any, given the moderate climate.
Seth appeared a few minutes later, filling the small waiting area with his presence. “Amelia. Brynn. Please come in.” He gestured to the office behind him. We followed him in. An arched window, that stretched almost as high as the ceiling, overlooked Main Street. It smelled of coffee and wood, stale and musty.
“Amelia, please accept my deepest condolences.” He extended his hand, grasping hers in both of his. “Luke was not only a client, but a well-respected member of the community.”
Mom nodded, and mumbled a thank-you under her breath.
“Now. The reason I asked you here—your accounts.” We sat as he shuffled some papers on his desk, then folded his hands together, as if in prayer. “Luke took out a second mortgage on the property two years ago.”
“Oh?” Mom’s voice wavered.
The vibration of a passing car’s stereo reverberated through me.
“Amelia.” He leaned toward us across his mahogany desk. It gleamed, and besides the folder of papers with a purple Seymour sticker on the tab, not a single paper or pen lay out of place. A hint of salsa wafted toward me from across the desk. “He took out a second mortgage after he’d already taken out a large line of credit just twelve months before.”
She wound her fingers together, pressing
them harder in her lap. “I see.”
I reached up and pried my shirt away from my back. I peered up at the fan, which wasn’t giving much relief in the heat.
“Your funds are overdrawn, and at this point, you might lose the land unless you earn at least as much as you have been. Actually, you need to earn at least thirty-five thousand more per year just to stay afloat. You see, he hasn’t made the last three months’ payments—”
“What?” I moved to the edge of my chair, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t we have almost completely paid off the property by now? Dad’s been in the business for thirty years. Why the second mortgage?”
Seth looked at me, then my mom, almost as if unsure whether he should be answering me. “This isn’t the first time he’s done this, Brynn. He’s taken out mortgages multiple times throughout the years—at least five times since he first bought the land. Your mortgage is now underwater.” Seth’s eyes, even smaller behind his thick glasses, bored into me. I could see the large pores on his nose. I cleared my throat, realizing he was telling us we were worse than broke. We’d always gotten by with old tack, the old trailer, never taking a vacation, Mom working any job she could find, but now we were absolutely and positively broke.
“How much do we owe?” I asked pointedly.
Mom twitched a little bit in her chair.
Seth removed his wire-rimmed glasses. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. “More than the ranch is worth.”
I stood up, my fists clenching and unclenching.
“Why wasn’t my mother aware of this?”
Seth shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“I don’t know how to answer that, Brynn.”
We both looked at Mom. The telephone in the waiting room rang. The secretary laughed. The fan above us whooshed.
“Of course I was aware of this, dear,” Mom said under her breath. I had to lean in to hear her. “Let’s just get going, darling. We’ll figure it out.” She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, her cheeks pale, her hand trembling.
Learning to Fall Page 4