Appaloosa Summer (Island Trilogy Book 1)

by Tudor Robins

“Jared Strickland!” His mom reaches over and pulls his remaining pie away from him. “I think you’ve just insulted both of us at once!”

  “It’s OK Mrs. Strickland. I’m not insulted. If he was a quiet person, I’d still be telling my sad story, and we’d all be crying by now.”

  Jared holds both palms up. “See? Can I have my pie back now?”

  “Apologize to Meg.”

  “I’m sorry Meg.”

  She slides Jared’s plate back in front of him, then indicates a sliver of pie with her knife, and points to my plate, “So? Pie?”

  I blink, take a deep breath, and smile. “Yes, please. I can’t resist.”

  I take a bite. I’ve never had pie this good before. My text to Slate will go something like this:

  Tractor-driving cowboy’s mother bakes out-of-this-world cherry pie: less boring?

  **********

  Jared’s mom is arranging dishes in the dishwasher while I clear the table.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she says.

  “It’s a side-effect of working for Betsy. I can’t sit still in the kitchen.”

  The screen door opens on Jared, backlit, standing in the doorway. “I’m ready to go if you are, Meg.”

  “Sure, I’ll be right there.”

  I rinse my hands, and dry them on the towel Jared’s mother hands me. “Thank you so much for inviting me in. It was really nice.”

  This time she gives me a full-on hug. “I meant it when I said it was a treat to have you. Please make sure you come around again. I sometimes think Jared’s life is too serious. He needs to have more fun.”

  As I’m stepping out across the yard to where Jared waits by the truck, she calls after me. “If you come again, I’ll make more pie!”

  Jared drives me home, with Rex perched half on the pick-up seat, half on my lap. They walk to the front door with me, a set of work boots clump-clumping on the porch boards alongside the click-clack of Rex’s nails.

  “Thanks,” I say to Jared, and then have no idea what to say or do next. I’ve never stood on my doorstep with a guy before – other than Carl, who’s a grandpa, not a guy. So I bend down to hug Rex, bury my face in his furry neck. I stroke his ears, then stand up. “Thanks again.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I’m still thinking of how nice that sounds – my pleasure – as I watch his taillights retreat: disappearing, then popping back up, as the wind sways the tall grasses back and forth across the driveway.

  My pleasure. I creak upstairs to the bedroom – my pleasure – and fall asleep picturing Jared in his wear-softened jeans and once-white t-shirt, with his sun-browned face and windmessed hair.

  Chapter Ten

  Every day before I push through the screen door into the kitchen, with its morning smells of baking and coffee, I walk around the house to the chicken coop snugged in the shady side yard beside the much-larger garage.

  I unlatch the sturdy wooden door with the reinforcing boards exed across it, and make the half-step up onto the hollow-sounding plywood floor.

  Inside, the breeze blows through the rusty screens on the big side windows, and dust motes float in the rays of light pushing through the chinks in the old boards.

  The hens live in an oasis of serenity. They want for nothing, need nothing they aren’t given. Eat when they feel like it, drink when they want to, and lay big, perfect, chalky-shelled eggs in abundance.

  When I step out of the coop with four fresh eggs in my collecting basket and one cupped carefully in my hand, its residual heat sinking into my palm, a familiar-looking pick-up truck is disappearing down the driveway, a cloud of dust ribboning behind it as it turns onto the gravel road.

  Jared? “Jared!” My bike, not just with two firm round tires, but also shiny clean, is propped up against the split rail fence by Betsy’s vegetable garden.

  When I carry the eggs back into the kitchen, Betsy gives me a one-eyebrow-up-one-eyebrow-down look. “I heard you yell …”

  “My bike. I had a flat tire in the village last night. Jared drove me home – you know, Jared Strickland – he fixed my bike and he just dropped it off. It’s like new.”

  Betsy nods. “Well, you could do worse than to be rescued by Jared Strickland.”

  Do not blush, do not blush… “His mom was really nice, too. She invited me in for pie. It was delicious. I wish I could thank them.”

  “I could help with that.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I was going to make lemon loaf today anyway; why don’t we just double the recipe and you can take one up to the Stricklands?” She reaches for the egg basket. “We’ve definitely got enough eggs.”

  Betsy lies her recipe book flat on the counter – more for my benefit than hers – she must know all these recipes by heart. I follow the ingredients list; rummaging flour, sugar and salt from the cupboards. She hands me a lemon. “Here, do you want to zest this while I get started on the mixing?”

  I scrape the dimpled yellow lemon rind against the grater, and the sharp smell hits my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose. “I love lemon.”

  “So does Jared. A long time ago, for one of the church suppers, I made a couple of lemon meringue pies. I was helping serve them up, and we ran out of the first one. When I went to look for the second one, it was nowhere in sight. I was going crazy wondering where that second pie had gone when Jared’s dad brought him up to me. He couldn’t have been more than five at the time, and he had lemon on his chin, and meringue on his nose.”

  “Cute.”

  “Very.”

  I look up and catch Betsy’s eyes. Don’t blush. Move on. “His dad wasn’t there last night.”

  She sighs. Shakes her head. “No. Rob died.”

  I gasp. “He what?” Plenty of my friends’ parents have divorced. None have died. A pang of guilt runs through me for not returning the phone message my mom left yesterday. I’ll definitely call today.

  Betsy’s nodding. “It was last fall – just after Thanksgiving. Rob was clearing a stump in one of the back fields. He always worked so hard – he had another job as well as working on the farm – and I guess he was tired; maybe in a hurry. He didn’t attach the chain the way he should have, and his tractor flipped over.”

  “His tractor?” By far my most frequent topic of conversation with Jared so far. Where’s your tractor? “He must hate me.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, I had no idea. I’ve probably said some stupid things.”

  Betsy props her wooden spoon against the mixing bowl, where it drips into the batter. She reaches for my bowl of lemon zest. “Meg, please don’t worry. Nobody could expect you to know.” She dumps the zest into the bowl. “It’s been hard on Jared – there’s no doubt he’s had some issues – so I’m sure he’s just relieved to have somebody new to talk to, somebody who doesn’t know all his business.”

  Knowing what Jared’s been through makes me feel stupid, sheltered, spoiled. Oh God, I sat there and told him – and his mom – about Major dying. How ridiculous must I have sounded, to be mourning a horse.

  I stick a stray curl of lemon zest on the end of my tongue, just to feel the bitter taste.

  “You OK?” Betsy asks.

  “Uh-huh, fine. Just … you know.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  When the timer goes off, I run in from the clothesline to find Betsy’s beaten me to it, and is lifting the lemon loaf out of the oven. It’s springy and yellow, with a jagged split down the middle just waiting for the drizzle of Betsy’s magic lemon syrup.

  In sharp contrast to the heavenly baking is the state of the rest of the kitchen. I put my hands on my hips and take in the toaster surrounded by crumbs, the grill shining with bacon fat, the mini-compost bin overflowing with peels, and cores, and seeds, and the stacks and stacks of congealing breakfast dishes.

  Betsy catches my eye. “I know. Looks like a bomb went off, doesn’t it?”

  “And the guests are all checking out, aren’t they?” Meaning
no light cleaning; all the beds to be stripped and re-made, bathrooms to be scrubbed top to bottom and laundry, laundry, laundry.

  “Yes, they are. But we can do it. In fact, I’m so sure we can do it that I’ll make you a deal. I’ll start here, you start upstairs, and when we’re done, that’s it; you’re finished for the day.”

  “But won’t you need help prepping for tomorrow, or weeding the garden?”

  Betsy shakes her head. “You have two priorities today: put those rooms right and deliver this lemon loaf while it’s still fresh.”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe, I …”

  Betsy puts her hands on her hips, pulls herself up tall so she’s eye-to-eye with me. “Meg Traherne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this about you?”

  I think of being rescued from the village. Cherry pie. My shiny bike waiting for me outside. “No.”

  “So, go!”

  I go.

  **********

  It sounds good: getting off work early on a beautiful afternoon to deliver fresh lemon loaf. A bike ride in the country. How nice. How relaxing. How bloody hard can this be?

  I’m used to running this route, and you can drive it in a zip, but the loose gravel in the road grips at my knobby bike tires, and there’s a persistent uphill rise I never notice when I’m on foot.

  Plus it’s hot.

  Smoking hot. Jared’s house is just about dead centre of this part of the island – a couple of kilometres from the shore on either the north or the south side – and the air is thick and heavy here, away from the river breezes.

  My lungs scream, my thighs burn, and I’m sweaty all over by the time I reach Jared’s driveway. I stop for a minute, beside the metal mailbox announcing “Strickland”, to let my heart rate slow.

  It takes a minute to adjust to the silence of no gravel crunching under my tires, and the fading of the noise of blood and breath crashing through my body.

  Slowly, other sounds creep in. The perky whistles of the bobolinks. The cicada buzz I never hear by the water, but which drones insistently here. And Rex. Not barking – he never barks at me anymore – just greets me with a gentle whine as he noses his dark wet snout into my palm.

  I smooth his ears, and hold my hand out so he can bump the hard brow of his face against it, work a hidden itch against my fingernails.

  His ears perk, and he pulls away from me. He trots toward the barn, then stops, looking back, as though to say, Well, are you coming or what?

  I start, then pause. “Hey, Rex, wait a sec,” I fumble my pannier open to pull out the lemon loaf, snugged carefully in wax paper secured with twine, because Betsy doesn’t believe in plastic wrap.

  Rex waits, but not for long. Lifts his head back toward the barn and sets off again, leaving me jogging in his wake, watching from a ways back as he noses through the barn doors.

  My heart’s thumping hard again. Jared could be right in there. And if he is, what am I going to say to him? How do I start up a casual conversation when I know this huge thing about him?

  I nudge the big double doors open just enough to let me through; I need a few inches more than the slinky dog. Stepping from the beating heat of the sun to the living warmth of the barn is like coming home. Nearly, anyway.

  There are a few key differences from the stables I’m used to – the space is less divided, with a row of open tie stalls at the front – but there are still a couple of familiar box stalls, and all barns, no matter where they are, and how clean they are, smell like dust, and like the animals that live in them.

  This one’s no exception. All barns are cozy. To me they are anyway. To me all barns feel safe, and all barns are beautiful. I don’t just love horses; I love all the things that come with them, the components of horsey-living.

  Being here reminds me of why I never minded spending a Friday night pulling Major’s mane, instead of being at a sweaty, too-loud school dance. Besides, I always thought Major was better-looking, and had better manners, than any guy I’d ever met.

  Of course, that was before I met Jared …

  I close my eyes, and breathe in the smells of dust, and dirt, and straw, and hay, and peace seeps into me.

  “Hey,” Jared’s voice is warm – barn-warm – soothing, like honey, with his already familiar laugh behind it.

  “Hey back. I dig your barn.”

  “Well, that’s something. I guess I always hope girls will dig me for my brawn.” He curls up his lean arm, showing a bicep which I’m sure is strong, but isn’t exactly brawny.

  “Or my good looks.” He plucks a length of hay from his tangled hair. “Or, preferably for my wheels. You’ve seen those and, if I’m not mistaken, I think you liked them.”

  My laugh is intensified by relief. I’ve never known Jared to be anything but easy to talk to – why was I so worried? “You’ve got me all figured out. I do like your wheels. But I prefer your barn. Hands down it’s my favourite.”

  “And the brawn? And the good looks?”

  “Don’t go there. Take what you can get.”

  “Speaking of which, what’s that?” He gestures to the lemon loaf I’m holding in front of me like some sort of offering to the barn gods. Instead I hand it to him.

  “It’s lemon loaf. Betsy’s special. Baked this morning with fresh eggs. It’s to say thank you to you and your mom for fixing the bike, and the cherry pie, and the ride home.”

  “Whatever.” He drops his gaze. He can’t take a compliment. I like that. “I want some lemon loaf. Should we eat it in the hayloft?”

  “Absolutely. Can’t think of a better place.”

  **********

  And once we get up there, I really can’t. We sit on twin hay bales pulled up against the open loft doors, and swing our legs outside while we munch on Betsy’s tart-and-sweet lemon loaf.

  “Oh wow, I’ve got to stop eating this.”

  “Betsy’ll give us the recipe.” Jared snags another slice. “We can bake some more.”

  “Where do you put it?”

  “Hollow leg.” He taps his jeans. Hard work and lots of washing have faded them into appealing softness. I want to touch them. I reach out my hand, then catch myself. That’s somebody else’s body. The combination of the warmth of the air, and the sweet smell of the hay, and the sugar in the baking have kicked my senses into overload.

  Rex whines from the bottom of the ladder, reminding us that we’ve abandoned him, and he’d like some lemon loaf too, thank-you-very-much. I reach for the loaf. “Should I throw a piece down for him?”

  “Don’t you dare!” Jared grabs my arm. His hand is warm, and his grip strong, without hurting. A tingle runs through me and my cheeks rush hot. I’m relieved when he keeps talking. “I love lemon too much to waste it on a dog.”

  I giggle. “I know. Betsy told me just how much you like lemon…” I freeze. My giddiness drains away. I wish I could back up nine words – unsay them. Or I wish I could figure out what to say next to gloss over the unfinished story about Jared, and his dad, and the lemon meringue pie. Why am I so stupid?

  “Oh yeah? She told you that story?” He’s not laughing, but he doesn’t look angry, or upset, either.

  “Um, yeah. The one about the church supper? I thought it was cute.”

  “Well, Betsy’s lemon meringue pie is definitely worth stealing.”

  Phew. My shoulders fall back. I didn’t realize I was hunching them. Minefield navigated.

  “What else did Betsy tell you?” His voice is light, but it doesn’t hold the laughter that’s already so familiar to me.

  Turns out, I’m actually standing on a mine and I’m not sure how to get off. What would Betsy do?

  I take a deep breath. Figure the truth is as good a strategy as any. “She told me your dad died.” I pause, breathe again. “I’m really sorry. That’s all I can say. I don’t know what I would have done if it was me. I’m sorry for your loss.” It comes out stilted, awkward, but I truly mean it. I hope he can tell.

  He’s not saying
anything.

  I blink at the blue sky, and the shreds of white cloud in it, and Jared’s cattle, heads down, grazing in the field, and feel the familiar prickle of hay bales on the back of my thighs, and wait.

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?

  “For … just for what you said. It was nice. It’s OK. I mean, it’s not OK – it’s still hard sometimes – but it’s better than it was.”

  I reach out, half-aiming for his hand and then chickening out at the last minute. I rest my pinky finger about an inch away from his, and lean my shoulders in his direction. “We don’t have to – obviously – but if you ever want to talk …”

  He nods. “Let’s start with your horse. I’d like to know about him.”

  “Oh, God, that. I’m so sorry. I feel so stupid that I was talking about losing a horse when you and your mom ...”

  His stare makes me shut up. When I’m quiet, he asks, “So, are you going to tell me?”

  “Really?”

  “I asked.”

  I clear my throat. “OK, well, I got him as a rescue off the racetrack. He was scared of everything at first, but to other people he just seemed crazy. He’d bite me, kick the farrier, chase anything that came into his paddock. It took two years, but this spring we were really ready. We were going to show all season. And then, at the first show, his heart just stopped – an artery ruptured. We crashed through a jump, and that was it.” I tuck the ends of the hay in, make a neat wisp with it – just like the ones I used to groom Major with. “It sucked.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “It’s nothing compared to what you’ve been through.”

  “Grief isn’t a competitive sport.”

  “Thanks.”

  He swings off the hay bale and to his feet, brushing fluffy yellow crumbs from the creases in his jeans. “So, should we find you a horse to ride this summer?”

  He holds out his hand, and I turn my head on the side and squint at him before accepting his grip and letting him pull me to my feet. “Yeah, sure, of course.” It’s easy to say yes to something that’s never going to happen.