by Lisa Wysocky
As it was a relatively warm November day, we decided to have iced tea on her shady back porch. Melody made sweet tea the real southern way, by boiling the sugar along with a pinch of baking soda and then steeping black pekoe tea before allowing the mixture to cool.
We settled in two large, white wicker rockers and, as usual, her peaceful view of the woods relaxed me. I had no back porch, and the back of my house faced my barn and parking area. My front porch did look over the pasture, but the road in front was busy, and during commute times the noise could be distracting. I had no complaints, however.
Melody had brought a notebook out with her and was busy writing in it. “I’m making a list of things I want the movers to hold for you and Jon,” she said noticing my interest in what she was doing.
Was I that obvious?
“Um . . . thanks!”
“It’s no trouble.” She hitched her tiny bottom over in her chair so she could better address me. “Cat, your friendship means so much,” she said. “Really. I am so glad we found each other and I hope we will be friends forever.”
I’ve never done well with mushy stuff, even platonic mush.
“Me, too,” I said, a fraction of a second too late. I saw something in Melody’s eyes that looked suspiciously like disappointment. “You . . . you balance me out.” I stammered. “I get too focused on the horses and my responsibilities, but you are a breath of fresh air in my life.”
Was that a tear I felt sliding down my face? Couldn’t be. Fortunately, I was saved from further embarrassment by the doorbell. Whew. I couldn’t remember when I had been so relieved by an interruption.
Melody disappeared through the wooden porch door and walked through the house to the front while I composed myself. She returned a moment later with a tall, dark-haired girl she introduced as Kayla.
“Kayla works in Bill’s salon,” said Melody. “Keith and I have a radio interview at ten tomorrow morning on WSIX-FM, and I chipped my polish yesterday during the video shoot. People always expect me to look great, even on the radio.”
Kayla nodded at me and began to set out a variety of nail clippers, brushes, emery boards, and polishes.
“Do you want a manicure, Cat?” Melody asked. “I’m sure Kayla has time to do us both.”
I watched Kayla’s body stiffen and I became quite sure she didn’t have the time. And, when I looked at my nails I knew that while I could use some help in that department, they were pretty much a lost cause.
“Thanks, but no,” I said, hoping for tact. “I’d just ruin them in the barn.”
“But Kayla has all these cute decals,” Melody said. “Look, here are some with fireworks, and these dark ones with the stars are cool, too.”
If I had hesitated before, I was certain now. “Ah, no. But thanks.”
I watched for twenty minutes or so with sincere interest, then Melody got a text and Kayla packed up. With a quick wave the manicurist was gone. I hadn’t realized I had been clenching my fingers until they relaxed as soon as Kayla walked out the door.
“A text from Buffy,” she said, waving her phone at me so I could see. I might have had a chance if she had held the phone still. “HitFactor wants to come on Friday to film me unpacking for a ‘where are they now’ special.”
HitFactor had been Melody’s ticket to fame. The show was an American Idol knock-off, and three years ago, Melody had won the most watched season. Since then, her shooting star had only gathered speed.
“You look like you don’t want to do that,” I said.
“It’s not that I don’t want to, but I hadn’t planned to do any actual unpacking,” she said. A delicate wrinkle appeared in her brow. “The movers were going to do that.”
“Can you ask Buffy to offer them something else?” I suggested. “As your publicist, she could do that, couldn’t she? Maybe Thanksgiving with Melody Cross? You can always have a pretend Thanksgiving a few weeks early so they can meet whatever production deadline they have.”
“Perfect!” she said, her brow clearing as her fingers tapped her phone. “That’s just one more reason you are so important to me,” she said after the text had been sent. “You offer compromise and are the voice of reason in my crazy world.”
I smiled, but thought my advice had been basic. At least it was basic in my world of horse training. If your horse has a different goal than you do, offer the horse something similar, then eventually move back to your original plan. Guess the strategy worked for people, too.
I looked at my watch. It was getting late and I had to get home. I gathered my bag and made leaving motions.
“You want to go to church with me tonight?” Melody asked.
“No, but I appreciate the offer.” I stopped to look at her. “Soon, Melody. I promise that one day soon I will go to church with you.”
She smiled, and then said, “Just think! At two o’clock tomorrow I will be signing the papers to my own home.”
“Let me know if I can help you with anything. I just have to meet Darcy and Robert at the riding center at three on Friday. She’s taking a tour and might volunteer there.”
“Oh, Darcy will be a great addition. And, no worries about the move. The movers are coming to pack me up tomorrow afternoon, and my label is fronting me a night at Lowe’s Vanderbilt Plaza as a housewarming gift. All I have to do is show up at my new house Friday morning to direct furniture placement.”
I remembered loading and unloading my washer and dryer, along with the rest of my furniture, all by myself because I was too broke to hire anyone to help. But I didn’t begrudge Melody any of her success or her luxuries because I knew that if I ever moved again, this time I’d have lots of friends to help.
I walked through Melody’s little house one last time, then hugged my friend. And yes, I really did hope we’d be friends forever.
5
THE NEXT MORNING I SENT Darcy off to school then got on the phone to talk to Glenn and Jamie, co-hosts of the online radio program Horses in the Morning. I’d been a guest on the show quite a few times before, talking about horses and horse training, but today they wanted to talk about the video shoot, and what it was like to teach Keith Carson and Melody Cross to ride.
The show was always fun and informative, even if it was a bit early for my brain to be in full gear.
“Do you have the best job in the world, or what?” Glenn asked.
“I guess I do,” I said. And honestly, if I’d told my ten-year-old self this is what I’d be doing when I was thirty, I would have been pretty excited.
“So what inside scoop can you give us about Keith and Melody?” Jamie asked. “Is Keith, like, bald under that cowboy hat or is Melody a really bad driver?”
“No, and no,” I laughed. “But I can tell you that Melody makes great homemade cookies, and that Keith looks really good when he washes his boat in his swim trunks.”
“Cat,” Glenn told the listeners, “lives next door to Keith Carson. We’re still waiting for her to invite us over.”
“I want to watch the boat washing,” said Jamie.
“Next spring,” I lied. “I’ll let you know when the boat comes out of storage.”
The interview continued in that vein for another ten minutes or so. We even talked some about horses. Toward the end, Jenn, the show’s producer, reminded us of the time, and I said my goodbyes. Then I joined Jon in the barn. Sally was peacefully munching her hay and turned a bored eye in my direction when I checked on her.
Jon had Petey cross tied in the aisle and I helped him undo the many straps and pull the gelding’s blanket off. We each grabbed a brush and took one side of the horse. Petey had little visible dirt, but brushing is healthy for a horse’s skin so we went at it as if he was covered with mud.
“Interview go okay?” he asked.
“Absolutely. They always make it easy,” I said, teasing a few small tangles out of Petey’s short mane. Then I changed the subject. “So, did you like any of the furniture? Melody really wants us to have it.”
Petey raised his neck to indicate that he sensed tension. He also moved one ear toward each of us. A horse can move his ears independently of each other and there is an old cowboy saying that the position of the ear is the window to the horse’s thoughts.
“Us––or me, or you,” I said after purposely relaxing my body to let Petey know all was well. “The furniture has meaning to her from her early days in Nashville and she wanted it to go to someone who would appreciate that.”
I felt Jon soften on Petey’s left side. “I liked everything. Except the lamps,” he said. “Not sure I need those.” He was quiet as he brushed, then said, “What about what the furniture I have now? That was your grandmother’s. Doesn’t that have meaning, too?”
To be honest, I hadn’t given that fact a thought and I took time to consider. “My grandmother,” I said, now wiping my fingers through the long, silky strands of Petey’s tail, “traded up whenever she had the opportunity. Yes, there were some things she was attached to, like the little white table you have. My grandfather built it for her. The headboard on my bed, her parents gave as a wedding present. But the little couch, the coffee table, and end tables? No.
“If she had known you, Jon, she would have said, ‘My land boy! Give that stuff to a body that needs it and git yerself somethin’ nice.’”
We both laughed and I realized that I had taken on my grandmother’s tone and body posture.
“Okay,” he said. “Tell Melody that we would be honored.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Melody while Jon pulled a surcingle, sidepull, and driving reins out of the tack room. We were working secretly with Petey, preparing him to pull a cart, as a surprise to Darcy. But, about the only time she wasn’t here was when she was in school, so we used that time to work with him.
Driving should be an essential part of every young horse’s education, but it often is overlooked. Early in the process, the horse is taught to drive without a cart, and that’s the stage we were finishing with Petey. Driving from the ground also teaches horses to steer, stop, turn, back up, and even respond to voice commands and leg yields. Petey, of course, champion show horse that he was, knew how to do all that under saddle, but it was a little different giving him the cues on the ground.
Ground driving also was a good way for a human to establish leadership with a horse, as a lead or dominant mare will drive, or herd, a submissive horse forward from behind. In that way, ground driving meshes well with a horse’s natural instinct to obey his herd leader.
Petey was an elegant mover, and would do well in next year’s national level driving classes. Reddi, the other Appaloosa mare owned by Agnes, Sally Blue’s owner, was too flighty, and Sally would have been willing, but she was too stocky. It would have been hard for her physically to achieve the beautiful, light floating trots needed from the top horses.
Over the past week Petey had become solid in his ground cues, and we were in the early stages of introducing the travois. This was a drag made of two eight-foot long four-by-four posts with room for the horse between them, with a cross bar of four feet in length at the end that dragged on the ground. Many Plains Indian tribes used a similar set up with a hide stretched between the poles behind the horse to carry crops and household goods. Today I drove Petey around our covered arena, while Jon took on the role of a horse pulling the travois.
Jon walked alongside Petey, and in front of and behind him, grasping the open end of the travois in his hands. The cross bar end dragged on the ground behind him. Horses who are driven often wear blinkers, but at this stage, I wanted Petey to see everything. He became a little wide eyed when the travois came close, so I stopped him and let Jon pull the thing toward and away, over and over until Petey relaxed. When the gelding lowered his head and began to lick his lips in acceptance, I decided that was enough for today.
As I led Petey back to the barn, he reached over and grabbed a portion of the lead rope and held it in his mouth. This might be considered disrespectful from another horse, but Petey just liked to lead himself. Just as I got Petey back in the cross ties my cell phone rang. For safety purposes, I have a “no cell” rule when working with the horses, but Jon was already undoing Petey’s surcingle and reins, so I crossed the aisle and went to the tack room to get my phone. My heart gave an involuntary leap when I saw the call was from Keith Carson.
“Have you heard from Melody this morning?” Keith asked as soon as I answered.
“No, why?”
“She missed an interview we had on WSIX radio. It was an important interview. A really important interview and I was just wondering why she’d stand me up and embarrass me like this. Why she’d jeopardize our single. Why she wants to sabotage both her career and mine.”
I’d never heard Keith so angry.
“Sorry to go off on you, Cat,” he said, after taking an audible breath. “Carole told me you were at Melody’s yesterday. Did she say anything while you were there? Give any reason why she might not show up this morning?”
I told him that, as far as I knew, Melody was looking forward to the interview, and that she even had her nails done so she could “look good on radio.”
“Do you want me to call her?” I asked.
“No. Davis and Buffy have been calling her all morning. But will you let me know if you hear from her? Some young artists do stupid things unconsciously to derail their careers. It’s a classic fear of success, but I didn’t take Melody for someone who would do that.”
Neither did I. All she’d ever wanted was to be a country star and she’d worked much harder than most for her success. Fear of success? Not Melody Cross.
As soon as I hung up, Buffy called, and that conversation was similar to the one I’d just had with Keith, with one exception.
“Some reporters might have made the connection between you and Melody at the wrap party. If anyone calls to ask about her,” she said, “I’d appreciate you keeping quiet about her missing the interview. Especially if anyone from a national outlet calls: one of the networks, that sort of thing. We want to know what the situation is before we take a position.”
Buffy would know all about that, as she used to be media. In fact, that’s how Buffy and I met. She had been a local reporter who’d called me after Sally and I won our first world championship. Melody once told me that some of the best publicists had worked both sides of the media game.
“You’re probably in the middle of something so I hate to ask,” Buffy continued, “but I have a new client meeting that I cannot change and I was wondering if you could go over to Melody’s house? Davis is in a lunch meeting or he would go, but someone should check to be sure she isn’t sick or something. Maybe she fell and got hurt?”
Buffy said these last words as if she hoped that was the case.
“According to my paperwork, you are the person Melody asked me to call in case of an emergency and I know you have a key . . .”
“Of course,” I told her. “Of course I’ll go, and I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”
I hung up and filled Jon in. Instantly, our easy camaraderie of the morning was replaced with tension. “I know she’s a friend,” he said, looking at me, “a good friend, but don’t get too wrapped up in her career.”
I looked back at him, and rather than anger and fear that I was going to leave the bulk of the workload once again to him, I only saw concern.
“I’m just going to check on her. It’s probably nothing. A sudden case of the flu. Or maybe she overslept and is embarrassed.”
Just then Sally chose to produce so many bubbles in her water bucket that much of the water overflowed into her stall.
Inside my farmhouse I shook out my mouse brown curls, ran a brush over the worst of it, and re-fastened the mess into a ponytail. Then I dabbed on some lip gloss. It was much cooler today than it had been yesterday, so I grabbed my good winter jacket, the one without hay stuck in the lining and horse slobber all over the sleeves
, and shrugged into it.
Agnes called my landline just as I was ready to go, and then Annie Zinner texted me with information about the horse she and Tony were going to drop off here on Sunday. Next, Darcy’s school counselor called to okay the requested early dismissal on Friday so we could check out the riding center. She was quite chatty and by the time I had dealt with all of the calls and texts, forty-five minutes had passed.
When I finally opened my back door to leave, I found Keith standing there, his right arm elevated and his hand balled into a fist. He either was ready to punch me or knock on my door. I hoped for the knock.
“Now Melody has missed a lunch with our label head,” he said, shoving both hands into the pocket of a handsome, black leather jacket. “Davis had to fake excuses, lie for Melody, and he was not happy.”
Keith had an animal-like electricity to his anger.
“I’m headed to Melody’s house now,” I said. “Buffy asked me to go.”
Keith nodded then shook his head from side to side. “I can’t believe she did this.”
“I’m sure she has good reason. I’ll call you when I have news.”
He nodded again, then squeezed through the hedge that separated our properties.
I went back into the kitchen for my cell, which I had left on the counter, and when I opened the back door to leave for the second time another man was there, also ready to either knock on the door or punch me, and with this man, it really could have been a punch.
Hill Henley had been the owner of what was left of the Henley Plantation and let’s just say his gene pool could have used a little chlorine. His ancestral family home, Fairbanks, was a tall, pale, L-shaped structure located about a hundred yards east of my property line. It was the most prominent plantation home in the area during the Civil War. Hill, however, had let the antebellum mansion fall into ruin, and after he sold it he moved a flimsy single-wide onto the only twenty acres that he had left. There, he trained Tennessee Walking Horses, caroused, got drunk, and was an ineffectual single parent to his eleven-year-old son, Bubba, his wife having run off some years ago. Bubba was a local mischief-maker, but had, in a way, saved my life back in February, so I was partial to him.