by Tudor Robins
Should this be hard? It isn’t. It’s perfect.
It’s my birthday, so I’ll never forget the date. And it’s beautiful, and peaceful. And I’m ready.
I ease the bands off either end and, careful not to overbalance the boat, lean to drop the hairs, one by one, on the surface of the water.
It’s so clear they cast shadows.
A tiny fish comes, and nibbles at one, then swims away.
It makes me giggle. “Not very good, huh?”
For several minutes everything stays in place – the remains of Major’s braid, and the boat, with me in it – and then with a quick gust, the wind’s back. The flat top of the water ripples all around me, and the hairs disappear.
For one second an ache rises in my throat, and I have to blink, two or three times, very quickly.
But there’s freedom, too. I don’t have to look after that little bundle of hair anymore. My memories are more permanent than that. And this is a good place to remember him.
I’ve always loved this bay, but hated its name: Round Bay. Like they ran out of imagination, and just picked the easiest name ever.
From now on, to me, it’ll be Major Bay.
Forty-five minutes later, after a dunk in Major Bay, I’m climbing the steps to the cottage porch with my hair dripping down my back.
There’s a note stuck to the frame of the screen door – Betsy’s handwriting on a lined piece of notepaper:
Meg,
I’m sorry to ask on your day off, but something’s come up. We need to serve a meal tonight. When you get home can you come to help?
P.S. It’s a bit of a fancy meal.
In retrospect, maybe I should have told a few more people about my birthday.
It’s been a relaxing day, but standing here now, with the note disintegrating between my wet fingers, something’s missing. I don’t know what, exactly, but I do know I’m not that happy to be called into work on the day I turn seventeen.
Oh well.
I pull the note off the door, push inside, dump my bag on the floor and have a critical look in the mirror. My hair’s actually drying decently – it’s curling into that style they call “beach waves”, that all the celebrities always seem to be trying for.
It’s either clip back a couple of particularly wonky waves, or start from scratch with shampoo and conditioner. I dig around in my underwear drawer for some bobby pins I’m sure I saw there.
And so, clothes. The lace dress has been hung on a hook on one of the rafters ever since the day of the barbeque when I changed out of it so quickly. It’s going to stay there. Surely Betsy doesn’t want me to look that fancy.
I pull my bag out from under my bed and retrieve a long, black, jersey skirt I still haven’t unpacked. It’s comfortable and casual, but nicer than shorts and, with a white t-shirt, it will make me look a bit like a waitress.
I come downstairs, do my usual toilet-standing mirror check. Decide I look extremely put-together compared to my normal island look.
I check my phone before I leave. It’s weird not to have a message from my parents. My mom’s high state of organization means she (or her personal assistant) never forgets a birthday. The last message, though, is Slate’s from this morning.
I reply to it:
No birthday kisses. No kisses at all. Sorry.
Wow. That sounds kind of pathetic.
Oh well – maybe Betsy will have a really good dessert for the guests tonight, and I can snag a piece.
Happy Birthday to me.
**********
Sure enough, when I walk into the kitchen at the B&B, the table’s set with matching plates, and cloth napkins, and a bunch of flowers in the middle. Except why the kitchen table, instead of the dining room? I frown, straighten a chair, wonder where everybody is.
“Meg?” Betsy’s voice floats down the hall from the living / dining room. Maybe she wants me to help her move the table settings down there.
“Yes?”
“Can you come in here, please?”
“Sure.” I start walking. “Do you want me to bring anything? I could use the tray …”
I stop dead. Shut up. My mom’s standing in the doorway to the big room.
“Mom?”
She smiles. “Happy birthday, Meg.”
“What? Oh!” I clap my hand over my mouth. Jared and his mom are standing farther back in the room, with Carl and Betsy.
Jared looks – oh my God – I didn’t know Jared could look like that. He’s wearing shorts – shorts! Long, with big pockets on the sides. And a shirt with a collar. And his hair looks like it’s been washed and hasn’t dried with a ball cap on it. He looks like a surfer; sun-kissed and fit, if you ignore his white legs. Which I am. Wow.
“I’m sorry. I’m completely confused.” I shake my head and Betsy saves me.
She steps forward and hugs me. “Everybody wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Meg. Come in. Sit down. We have gifts.” She points to a stack of presents by one of the chairs. “And dinner, after.”
“You remembered. And you all came. And, Mom, what are you doing here?”
“It’s always easy to arrange a meeting in Toronto, Meg. I set one up for tomorrow so I could be here tonight. Your dad sends his love. He’s emceeing the big real estate board dinner tonight, otherwise he would have come too.”
“This is from both of us.” She hands me an envelope so fat I know there’s more than just a card in it. I open the flap and shake out a tack shop gift certificate. “Thank you.” But there’s more. The envelope’s still heavy, and rigid. I jiggle it again, and a plaque slides out, engraved “Salem”.
I hold the plaque in one hand, cover my mouth with the other. “Oh. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s for her halter.”
I blink hard. “Yes. It’s perfect.”
“You like it?”
The thickness in my throat makes me afraid to speak. So I nod.
Jared speaks up. “I know somebody who can put that on for you.”
I breathe. Thank you Jared. My voice is calm when I say, “That would be great.”
My mom nods. “Yes, thank you. I’ll cover the cost, of course.”
Betsy and Carl hand me a gift bag containing what must be one of every island souvenir item ever made. A t-shirt with the ferry printed on the front. A baseball cap. A coffee mug. Two different bumper stickers. Jam, and maple syrup, and soap made on the island. I laugh. “This is perfect!”
Jared’s gift is also an envelope. I try not to let my hands shake as I open it. I can’t believe I have to open my first gift ever from Jared in front of my mom, and his mom.
It’s OK, though. It’s not embarrassing. It’s another gift card – this time to a restaurant in Kingston. One I pointed at when Jared and I were driving to the dentist – told him they serve my favourite pasta. I thought he was in too much pain to listen to my babbling, but I guess I was wrong.
I look up at him. “Really?”
He nods. “Yup. You and me. Whenever you like.”
“I like soon.”
“Good. I do too.”
“My gift is in the kitchen,” says Jared’s mom, where she reveals a golden-brown lattice-topped pie with cherries bubbling up between the strips of pastry.
It spins me back to a time that was just yesterday, and was forever ago.
I turn to Jared, seated to my right. “I crashed your birthday pie when we first met, and I still haven’t gotten you a gift.”
“That’s because you’re a terrible person.” He winks, and my heart flips.
I brush my fingers across his, quick and under the table; so nobody else can see. “I feel exactly the same way about you.”
I’m stuffed with about four ears of corn, and salad, and fresh bread, and steak from a Strickland cow, and two pieces of cherry pie, when my mom and I walk back to the cottage.
“It’s already getting dark earlier.” She’s right; the sun is at its most spectacular right now – low and fiercely pink just over th
e horizon – which also means it’s just about to slip out of view.
I shudder.
“You OK?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Someone walk over your grave?”
I don’t want to be reminded how fast the summer’s passing by. “Something like that.”
The porch boards creak under our steps. My mom stops, leans against the railing, takes a deep breath in, and out. “What a nice night.”
“Fantastic. Thank you. I was so surprised.”
“Yes, Betsy did a great job of that.”
“She did. She’s great. The meal was a surprise. But I was also surprised you were here.”
“Well, it was important to me.”
“And your gift … I know you didn’t think me having Salem was a good idea.”
She shifts and sighs. “You know, Meg, by seeing you here, and the things Betsy’s told me, and meeting Jared and his mom – the people you choose to have around you – I realize you’re a nice person, and a smart person, and you make good decisions, and I should trust you.”
“Wow,” I say, and this weird thing happens while I say the word. It’s a bit like what happened earlier, when I released Major’s mane. Something locked inside me opens up, and a piece of tension floats away and I stand a fraction of an inch taller. “Thanks.”
She shrugs. “You earned it.” Then the corners of her mouth turn up, and she narrows her eyes. “Jared’s cute.”
I hold my eyes wide. Don’t blink. Don’t blush. “He’s really nice. And smart.” And “cute” doesn’t touch how Jared looked tonight.
“Uh-huh. And cute. Even if you won’t say it. What did he say to you when he was leaving?”
I shrug. “Nothing.” And this time I don’t have to fight to keep my face neutral, because it’s true. He didn’t say anything.
It wasn’t anything he said. It was that, right before he stepped into the car with his mom, he reached out and touched my hair, right behind my ear.
Before I could react, or say anything, he winked and held up a strand of dried seaweed.
That was it. That was all. He got into the car and they drove away, honking and waving, and I stood watching with tingles running up and down my body, and my knees threatening to give.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’ve barely stepped through Betsy’s door in the morning when the phone rings. Betsy holds it out. “It’s for you.”
I ease my morning collection of eggs into a shallow bowl on the counter and take the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey Meg!”
“Hey Lace. I’m surprised to hear from you so early. Is everything OK? Do you have to cancel our lesson?”
“What?!? No! I was just calling to make sure you’re OK.”
“I am Lace, but if I don’t get to work, I won’t be done in time to meet you at five, so …”
“Oh, yes. So. You’d better go. Bye!”
I’ve taken my first bite of my sandwich when Betsy finds me again. “Phone again.” Her smile tells me who it is.
“Lacey Strickland, how may I help you?”
“Oh, hey Meg. Still good?”
“Fine Lace, thanks. What’s up?”
“Oh, I was just wondering. What should I wear?”
“Riding clothes, Lacey.”
“The thing is, I’m saving up for English boots, but I still only have my Western ones, and I was wondering if they’re going to be OK, or if I should try to borrow some other boots from somebody…”
“Lacey?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me. And you. And maybe your dad, and Jared. You can wear what you like as long as it’s safe and comfortable.”
“I just don’t want to do the wrong thing.”
“You won’t Lace. Now I’ve gotta eat.”
I’m in the yard, swinging my leg over my bike, when Betsy appears in the doorway holding the phone.
“Lacey again?”
She nods.
“Tell her to hang up the phone, and get to Jared’s or I’ll be there before her.”
Betsy smiles. “Will do. Have fun.”
“I’ll try. If Lacey lets me.”
I’m halfway to Jared’s when my phone vibrates. Lacey. Ignore it.
Except Lacey doesn’t have my cell number. After all today’s calls, I don’t think I’ll be giving it to her, either.
Sure enough I’ve just passed the hydro pole which, for whatever reason, always seems to be a sweet spot for cell service. I stop, pull my phone out of my pocket and see a new-to-me text from Slate.
She sent it yesterday, in response to my “no kissing” answer and it reads:
Why not? What are you waiting for? You have lips, right?
I laugh. Touch my lips. Yeah, I have them.
My thumb hovers over the screen, and I contemplate typing: And, your point is? but read the time. I’m supposed to meet Lacey in three minutes. There’s no way she’ll be late. I’d better go.
Lacey insists on grooming and tacking Salem up. “I’m going to ride her, so it’s my job.”
“She’s so excited about this ride.” Rod and I watch as she settles the saddle on Salem’s back.
“Is this OK, Meg?”
“Perfect. See how you’ve left her shoulder free to move? That’s great.”
I turn to Rod. “I know she is. She called me at work three times today. I just hope she isn’t going to be disappointed. Jumping is only going to be a small part of what we do today.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Lacey can focus when she needs to.”
I hope Rod’s right because I insist on a long, slow warm-up.
“This might seem boring, Lace, but Salem’s still green. With her, if you start off right, she’ll be great. If you rush her, things don’t go so well.”
Lacey shrugs. “I’m supposed to learn not to rush either, so that’s fine.”
A laugh makes me turn to see Rod and Jared leaning on the fence. Rod winks at me. “This’ll be good for her.”
I make Lacey and Salem walk, then trot, then walk some more. I test Lacey’s eye and accuracy using trot poles and pylons. “Circle inside the two pylons … now outside … now do a circle with this one at the centre.”
I’m impressed. On Salem, Lacey is a different rider. She’s smoother, more at ease; she belongs. On Cisco, with his round barrel, Lacey’s legs flap around like the most rank of short-stirrup riders, but on Salem her legs have a place to go. They lie snug and rock solid just behind the girth.
“You look great on her! Are you ready to jump?”
“Yes! Oh yes, yes, yes!” She takes a deep breath. “But I want to do it right. Talk me through it.”
“No problem.” I point to the jump we have set as an X on the long side of the ring. “You’re going to do this one.”
She nods. “Trot in or canter?”
“I’d canter in, if you feel confident with that. A lot of people think trotting in’s easier but I find a canter approach smoother.”
“OK. Fine with me.”
“So, it’s no big deal; she can do it in her sleep. You just want a nice pace – a steady rhythm – and you want to look up and beyond the jump. You’re not jumping; she is. You’re allowing her to jump.”
“Got it.”
“And you’ve seen how big she jumps. So I want you to find your balance about four strides out, make sure it’s rock solid, and grab a hunk of mane just in case. It’s better than reefing her in the mouth. Got it?”
I step back, out of the way. “Just do a twenty-metre circle at “C” and once you’ve got your pace, head for the jump!”
Lacey and the little mare approach the jump with matching levels of enthusiasm. They’re in a beautiful forward flow and, sure enough, Salem rocks back on her hocks and jumps big. It’s great to see her from the ground instead of feeling her from on high.
Lacey’s eyes stay locked on something far away on the horizon, and her hands hover over Salem’s mane, but she’s so balanced she doesn’t n
eed to make the grab.
“Great job! Ride a canter circle then bring her back to trot and walk.”
As she leads Salem out of the ring, Lacey turns to me. “That was so great! When can I have my next lesson, Meg? Can I come tomorrow?”
Jared raps her helmet with his knuckles. “I don’t know about that, Lace. Meg and I might be going out for dinner tomorrow night.” He turns to me. “Does that work for you?”
“I, uh …” Lacey’s listening and Rod’s right there too. But Jared doesn’t seem to care. What are you waiting for? “Tomorrow night is good. Perfect.”
I turn to Lacey. “We’ll pick another night, Lacey. Now, if she’s hot, you can sponge her and let her graze.”
She leads Salem away, and Jared, Rod and I follow more slowly.
“Is your mare for sale?” Rod asks.
“Maybe,” I say at the exact same time Jared shakes his head and says, “No way.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“She’s yours. You don’t have to sell her. I’ll look after her forever for you.”
Something inside me melts. It’s the combination of the words “look after” and “forever” and “you” all strung so closely together coming out of Jared’s mouth. It’s easy to pretend he’s talking about me, and not the horse.
You have lips, right? I press my palms against my cheeks to try to keep them cool.
“You two talk about it. If you decide to sell her let me know. Lacey seems to be taking this riding seriously, and I reckon she’ll kill that little pony of hers with all her jumping and fancy moves.”
I think Cisco’s more likely to kill Lacey, but I agree he’s not the right horse for the kind of riding she wants to do. Instead I ask, “How would you feel about Lacey taking Salem in a show?”
Rod shrugs. “Sure, if she wants to, it would be fine with me. I guess it would be a good chance to see if she really likes it.”
I jump up. “I’m going to tell her!”
Rod laughs. “You’re as excitable as she is.”
“It is exciting!” I call over my shoulder as I run over to where Lacey’s grazing Salem.
Lacey holds the lead shank out of Salem’s way as the mare wanders toward a particularly juicy patch of grass. “What’s exciting?”