I tell him what I know about Westerly’s daughter and the reason behind the huge brick wall. From the expression on his face, it’s obvious he’s hearing the story for the first time.
“Just to make sure, your last name isn’t Westerly, correct?” I ask.
“I’m not a rich ghost. You’re correct.”
“What is it, then?”
He locks his jaw. “I can’t tell you.”
I jump up and begin pacing off some of my adrenaline. “You know what, Connor? You’re starting to piss me off. We’re supposed to be friends, and I can accept some secrets between us. But I can’t be friends with someone who won’t tell me where they live or their last name.”
“If that’s an issue for you, then you’re right. We can’t be friends.” He pulls on the loose part of his jeans covering his thighs.
“Fine.” I wait another minute, hoping he’ll reconsider, but he just looks at his worn, dirty black boots, refusing to speak.
“This is your decision,” I say, spouting tough love the way my dad would whenever I messed up. “I don’t think I’m asking for too much here.”
“I understand.” His voice tightens.
“I won’t come back here anymore. If you need me, you know where I live.”
I march away from him, out of the woods, without looking back. But I so want to look back. Tough love sucks.
***
I run a quick Internet search on Connor, age seventeen, missing from Chicago. A site for missing kids pops up, but he’s not listed. I scour the web for an hour and find no one resembling the boy in the woods.
I need to ask Jack more questions, since he’s the only person who seems to be aware of Connor’s existence besides me. And, of course, now that I’m desperate to talk to him, Jack doesn’t return for the rest of the week.
***
When Jack’s truck pulls into the driveway Saturday morning, I’m in bed, recovering after another late night with Will, Becca, and Ty. The football clique and their circle of friends are out of control partiers. Every get-together involves rounds of shots culminating in dancing, shouting, something broken, and scrambling for rides home.
When Jack revs up his tractor, I throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. I drag myself into the kitchen and force a handful of saltines into my stomach. By the time I manage to stumble outside, Jack’s finishing his first lap around the yard.
After nearly plowing over me, he stalls the tractor. The motor quiets.
“Hey, Jack,” I croak, sounding like I swallowed a tuba.
“Morning, Mel. Rough night?”
“Yeah … just a late one.” Gasoline-scented fumes spew from the tractor’s exhaust, coating me with an oily gray haze. I sneeze three times. “Have you seen Connor lately?”
“Not this week. He only seems to get in touch when he needs money.”
“Did you ever ask him for his last name or where he lives?”
Jack toys with the steering wheel. “I run a cash business. Don’t care about that stuff as long as he does the work.”
Great. I’m striking out here. “Also, I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the Westerly estate. Do you have a first name for his daughter?”
“I knew her as Kimberly.”
“Really?” Awesome. Making progress. “And do you know anything about the accident?”
Jack’s eyes cloud over. He rubs his hand with his chin. “Whatever happened took place behind the big wall. The police never found any witnesses, but way I heard the story, she was trying to run away. She liked horses. Don’t you like horses too?”
“Uh, sure. Weird coincidence, I guess. If she really wanted to escape, why didn’t she just call someone to pick her up?”
“This was before the time of cell phones, email, and whatever other electronic gadgets you young people use today.”
“Hmmm. Makes sense. Thanks for your help, Jack.” I reach in my pocket and fish out a ten-dollar bill, all the cash I have right now. “If you see Connor, can you give him this? Maybe tell him it’s a bonus from Brian?”
Jack pockets the money and restarts the tractor. “I’ll keep an eye out for your friend.”
I jog back into the house, up the stairs, and wake my sleeping laptop. The Wi-Fi connects. I type “Kimberly Westerly” into the search engine.
Whoa.
So, a lot of Kimberlys live in the town of Westerly, Rhode Island. I scan the first ten or so hits. The last hit of the first page, a link to the Harmony Gazette with the word “equestrian,” catches my eye.
The newspaper article dates back to the last Olympic year, when a local girl competed in the English riding competition. Mention is made of another Olympic hopeful from Harmony, equestrian Kimberly Christine Westerly, whose was involved in a tragic riding accident before she was eligible to compete. Ms. Westerly’s horse stumbled, and she was thrown off, sustaining injuries to her back and neck. Her horse broke both forelegs and had to be put down.
My hands shake as I click back to the first page and reread the article. Was she trying to escape from a cruel father or just practicing a jump, like I’ve done thousands of times?
I run down the steps and out the front door, not even stopping to verify the story with Jack. I sprint the half mile to the stables, shouting out a quick hi to Truffle when I pass his stall. The other horses peek out of their own stalls, craning their huge necks to watch me go by.
In the office, Lainy greets me with a friendly smile. “Hi, Melinda. Everything all right with Truffle?”
“Yes, fine. Lainy, can you tell me if Kimberly Westerly ever trained here?”
The woman frowns. “I don’t know a rider named Kimberly. Oh, wait, do you mean the pictures of K.C.?”
“K.C. Westerly,” I say, slowly sounding out the new name.
“That’s her. Look in the trophy room.”
She leads me to a side room with windows overlooking the pasture, where two young girls are riding small ponies in slow circles.
“K.C.’s awards are displayed on the far wall,” Lainy says, pointing to a glass case in the corner. A large, framed picture of Kimberly hangs next to the trophy case. I blink twice and stare at her horse. He could be my horse’s twin.
“He looks like Truffle.”
“Halifax might have been Truffle’s grandfather. We should check our records.”
I glance at the shelves filled with trophies won at show-jumping competitions throughout the United States and Europe.
“She was a great rider, wasn’t she?” I ask, mostly to myself.
“From what I’ve heard, she was top-ranked before her accident. Do you need information for a school project?”
“No. Just researching local history.” A great rider doesn’t miss a jump for no reason. “So, you didn’t know her?”
Lainy shakes her head. “My family didn’t move here until the eighties. When the Westerly family moved, they sold their horses to the previous owner of the stables.”
I run my finger along the glass case, counting the trophies, studying the photos. One grainy picture catches my eye. I notice the dark-haired groom with a slanted nose standing behind Kimberly. It’s a young version of Jack, our landscaper. My mouth falls open.
“She is something of a local legend, isn’t she?” Lainy continues, oblivious to my discovery. “I think we might have kept one of her English saddles in the tack room. Would you like to see it?”
“No, I’ve actually got to run. Thanks for showing me all of this.” I tap the glass once more, committing the picture to memory.
As we walk out of the trophy room, Lainy shakes her head sadly. “K.C. was a rare talent. No one else has come anywhere close to her medal count at the junior level.”
“People still talk about the Westerlys and their brick wall.”
Lainy nods. “I’m sure she attracted a lot of attention with her riding skill. And her potential to be a world class equestrian was exciting. She certainly got a lot of newspaper coverage at the time. It’s not something yo
u see every day in a quiet town like Harmony.”
“Lately, Harmony’s been anything but quiet,” I retort before thinking about it.
Lainy glances up at me with a small smile. “Well, if you do ever find yourself growing bored, feel free to start jumping again. We miss you around the circuit.”
“Thanks, but I’m happy with my non-competitive status.”
With a wave, she disappears around the side of the building. As soon as she’s out of sight, I break into an all-out run. Jack has a lot more questions to answer before I’m finished with him.
***
At the edge of the woods, I whistle until my lungs are ready to burst. After a minute of silence, I whistle again, even louder.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Connor complains, striding out of the woods. “Who taught you how to whistle like that?”
“Ha. You’re not the only one with strong lungs. Have you seen Jack?”
“Earlier. He was on the way to your house. I told him I wasn’t welcome on your property anymore.”
“Are you ready to tell me what you’re hiding from?”
“This again? I’m outta here.” Connor turns to flee.
I lunge for his arm and miss, diving into a line of prickly bushes. “Ow. Where did you go?”
His voice seems to bounce off three trees at once. “I need to hide out for a few more months. When I turn eighteen, I’m free.”
“Free of what?” I ask the empty air. By the time I pick myself up and brush the leaves off my T-shirt and jeans, Connor is nowhere to be found. Completely frustrating.
I race back to my house, strip off my clothes, and jump in a hot shower, washing off any traces of the poison ivy I imagine crawling over my skin after my fall. Hot steam expands my lungs, allowing my breath to ease in and out, but my heart pounds, beating faster than the pace of Truffle’s gallop. I dry my hair and secure it in a braid, my fingers twisting through my long hair.
Jack knew Kimberly Westerly. The way he was looking at her in the picture … I’m sure he knew her well. Were they in love?
I dump my laundry in the hamper before heading downstairs to pour myself a drink. My hand trembles, and I dump half the pitcher of water all over the floor. Craptastic. I need to get a grip.
An hour later, Jack’s truck rumbles down the driveway. When I crack the door open, the stench of mulch filters into the mudroom. I snap the door shut, refusing to be suckered into helping with that particular garden project again. I’ll give Jack time to work before making an appearance in the backyard.
“You disappeared,” is all Jack says when he sees me coming.
I stand in front of him, hands on my hips. “You knew K.C. Westerly.”
His thick brows ease upward. “You mean Kimberly?”
“Yes, Kimberly Westerly. Did you work with her?”
“Yes.”
My eyes narrow to slits. “How well did you know her?”
Jack sighs, grabs a shovel and walks away from me, toward the mulch. I take a deep breath and hold it to avoid inhaling the vile stench before following him.
“We were … friends,” he finally says.
I pause at the end of the driveway, remaining in hearing distance while Jack loads up the wheelbarrow. “Good friends?” Seriously. Between Connor and Jack, I need to better define friendship. Because their versions do not make sense to me. Ever.
“Yes, good friends,” he admits.
“Were you the reason her dad built that wall?” The idea suddenly clicks in my mind. Could this be the reason Jack avoids talking about the Westerly Estate?
He continues feeding mulch into the wheelbarrow, his arms pumping up and down in smooth, fast movements. “I’m the reason for everything.”
“What do you mean you’re the reason for everything?”
“When I was younger, I worked in the stables for George Westerly, grooming the horses. I loved Kimmy from the first time I laid eyes on her. She was seventeen. I was six years older. I tried to keep my distance. One day, we were alone in the stables, and she asked me to help her with Halifax. I started working with her, helping her train. Eventually…we couldn’t pretend anymore. We were together for six months before her father found out. George fired me on the spot, right in front of her.”
“And she didn’t take the separation well?” I guess.
“No. She threatened to run away. Refused to compete in the fall shows. Kept trying to sneak out. Finally, George took her out of school and brought in a tutor. Built the wall to close her off to all distractions. Including me.”
“Sounds a bit extreme,” I say.
“He knew there were other, easier ways to keep us apart. But he was an intense, wealthy man who didn’t know how to handle his teenage daughter. His wife was ill. I was a poor straggler, sleeping in the barn. The wall was his way of telling me I was nothing in comparison to him.”
“Did it work? Did you stay away from her?”
Jack nods, a look of pain crossing his face as he recalls the distant memory.
“I knew it was for the best. I had nothing. She was training for the Olympics. But after the wall was up, something snapped in her. She was desperate to break away. Said she wanted to be with me more than she wanted to devote her life to being a world-class equestrian.” The shovel drops from Jack’s hand, clanging on the ground. “Kimmy was overconfident. She’d never met failure and her father had always given her everything she asked for. One night, the gate was left open. She snuck out, went to the stables for Halifax, and tried to escape. She would have made it in daylight. But it was dark, and her horse stumbled. She was thrown off. She survived, but her career was over.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t know what to say—”
He waves me off. “It was a long time ago. George Westerly sold the estate and moved to Europe. Kimmy never rode again. She finished school, married a German man, had a bunch of kids. Grandkids. She wrote me letters once in a while. Last year, her son sent me a note telling me she died.” Jack hefts the wheelbarrow and starts rolling it away. I trail behind.
“Wait, Jack. If Connor’s living in the manor house, he might have some connection to the family.”
Jack gazes at the forest for a long time. “I don’t think so. Westerly doesn’t own the place anymore.” The handles of the wheelbarrow slide from his grip and it drops to the ground with a thud. “It was my fault she got hurt. After she left … I thought she might come back, but she never did. She lost her Olympic dreams and her horse, because of me. Time passes, life goes on, but nothing will ever change that part of the story.”
Jack raises his hands to hide his face. The weight of his grief thickens the air around us.
Chapter Seventeen
After hours of research on the history of the Westerly Estate, I draft an outline, detailing my proposed story for Out of Tune. But I can’t bring myself to actually write the article. Between Jack, Kimberly, her horse, and Connor, the long-ago tragedy feels too personal. I haven’t found the right angle yet. I need something more. Some sort of balance, a positive to outweigh the negatives.
Sleep comes, along with a barrage of nightmares. I’m lost in the woods. A hulking figure moves between the trees. Not a horse, but it’s large, with ferocious teeth and massive jaws. Oh, God. Where’s Connor? I can’t find him.
I jolt awake, startled by the three-ring-circus of early birds chirping outside my window. I roll out of bed and throw on old sweats. How could I push away someone who so obviously needs help, even if he’s too proud to ask for it? Why did I leave him alone in the woods? I pack a bag with the never-used first-aid kit I made years ago in Girl Scouts and trail mix from the pantry.
Rain fell overnight, leaving behind a dense, low fog swimming around my ankles as I hike down the trail, dotted with wet autumn leaves.
“Connor?” At the stream, I whisper his name. Something rustles in the bushes to my right. I freeze, waiting for his response. A squirrel skitters up the side of a tall oak, scratching its claws on the bark.
“Are you here? It’s Melinda.” A low moan slips out from under the wild holly. I pivot in the direction of the sound and catch a glimpse of his gray sweatshirt. Dropping to my knees, I shove the sharp pointy leaves aside and find him sprawled in the dirt.
I grab hold of the damp sweatshirt and roll him over to face me. A huge purple lump juts out from his forehead above his right eye. I gasp at the sight and run my fingertips over his cold cheek.
“Connor, wake up,” I say, louder now. His eyes open and close. I slide my hand behind his neck to lift his head. He flails his arms, fighting me off.
“You need to get up.” I pick a small twig from his hair. When his eyes flutter open this time, he seems to recognize me.
“Mel? There’s two of you.”
“Just one. I think you hit your head. Can you walk?”
He raises his hand and tries to knock me away.
I resist the urge to kick him. “You can’t stay in the woods. Walk back to my house and I’ll drive you home. Tell me where you live.” In his current state of delirium, will the truth finally slip out?
“Here,” he says.
I sigh, loudly. “Here, as in Harmony? Where in Harmony?”
“The woods,” he says, quietly. “I live in the woods.”
Or the Westerly Estate. He still won’t admit the truth. “Let’s back up a minute. First of all, why don’t you tell me what happened to your head?”
“I was dizzy. I skipped a few meals. There was an animal. A fox or a coyote, maybe? It growled at me.”
“Did it attack you?”
“Don’t think so.” He runs his hands over his shirt. “I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I jumped out of its path and started to run. Tripped on a tree root sticking up out of the ground and fell. Hit my head on something hard … a rock, or maybe just the ground.” He grabs my sleeve. “I hate the woods.”
I choke down a grapefruit-sized lump in my throat. “Then why are you here?”
My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz Book 2) Page 13