Indian Foot Lake Love Story

by Johns, Samantha

  “We were only committed for a year, and it's been nine months. Still, this is getting into the summer months, which is the more likely time for buyers to be interested. I don't know if I can renege without a penalty. I couldn't afford that, and the payments are tough to make, too. I just don't know what to do now that you have come into the picture.”

  “We'll find a way,” she said sincerely. “We'll work something out to benefit all of us,” she assured him. He smiled and nodded agreeably.

  Sylvia next approached one of the more curious topics that lingered in the back of her mind.

  “I keep wondering what happened to the rest of the ponies,” she began. “Why do you only have Nippy left?”

  “Well, it's simple,” Mr. Devine said bluntly. “We sold them because we couldn't afford to keep paying for their feed, not when the pony ride business bottomed out. Hardly anybody can afford the gas to haul ponies to events then barely make enough proceeds to break even. I just couldn't sell Nippy because he touched my heart, like I explained yesterday. And, he doesn't eat that much. He fills up on grass.”

  “It was harder to do than the old man is letting on,” added Greg. “He agonized for months over the decision. He would go buy feed, then say he'd place an ad when the feed was gone. But, it would somehow or other be too late to submit the ad, or the newspaper office was closed, or it was a holiday weekend, or there was always some reason he'd have to go buy more feed. Then the process would start all over again. I didn't think he'd ever sell them.

  “When he finally got an ad into the paper, it didn't seem anybody wanted them. They slowly sold, one at a time, to people who wanted a pet for their kids. Dad was asking way too much for the ponies. The market had dropped with the economy. People were selling ponies like crazy for very cheap prices—even for their hides. Dad would have given them away rather than see them destroyed. He even considered taking them to the woods and shooting them himself because it would have been kinder than the way the industry would have treated them. As much as you love Nippy—well almost that much—Dad loved all the ponies. It was hard.”

  “I'm so glad you kept Nippy,” said Sylvia with tears in her eyes. “I always wanted my dad to buy him for me. But, it's never too late. How about I buy him from you now?”

  “This woman is persistent about trying to give us money, son,” Mr. Devine laughed. “Maybe we should just take some of it. Are you rich or something, Sylvie?”

  “I'm rich with friendship,” she said, “and I'm not trying to be charitable here. I am expecting a profitable investment as far as the lake is concerned. I think it's only fair that I pay for a cabin I will be living in, and I truly want to own that pony. It's something I've dreamed of since I was a child. I want to go down to the barn, show a bill of sale to Nippy, and let him know he's mine.”

  “And, I wouldn't be surprised if Nippy understood every word,” Greg added.

  “He might want to know if it was notarized,” laughed Mr. Devine. “I tell you what,” he continued after a moment of serious thought, I'll take $30 for him.”

  “It's a deal,” she said after a moment's consideration. “And, of course, I will need to pay for his board.”

  “No,” he began to protest. “You're still trying to trick us into giving us money.”

  “Well, do you think I can keep him in St. Louis? My apartment building has a “no pets” rule. I guess I could find somewhere else to board him, but he wouldn't be as happy.”

  “You win, Sylvie,” he said. “How's a hundred dollars a month sound?”

  “I think the going rate is more like two hundred including feed. He will need fresh water and hay everyday. I'll groom him when I come on weekends. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Mr. Devine finally agreed.

  As they ceremoniously shook hands, a knock at the door surprised them. It was Sheriff Caywood and Detective Harrison. They tipped their broad hats as they entered the house, and sat in the two chairs across from the sofa after invited to do so.

  “Your suspicions were correct, Greg,” Sheriff Caywood began. “None of the other cabins have been touched, only the old Marshall cabin. We took some fingerprints, but we'll need to get yours and Miss Marshall's to isolate the perpetrator. Then, we'll enter them into the system and see if we can find this guy. However, since you don't recall anything missing, all we've got on him is vandalism. It would be better if we could just question him about the incident. Sometimes we can get the suspect to say something incriminating. We were thinking there might be some information about him in Kraft's old records. When you bought the place, did you receive any files, receipts, or other papers?”

  Sylvia and Greg looked at each other with dropped jaws. They should have thought about that.

  “That's what I deal with every day in my work,” Sylvia exclaimed. “I work with old records—deciphering them, preserving them, and filing them. Why didn't I even consider that? Now I have to leave soon, and I would have loved to look through Mr. Kraft's stuff. Even before this turn of events, I should have thought of that to gather information about buying the property.”

  “You are buying the lake property?” asked Sheriff Caywood. He began writing in his notebook.

  “That is the original reason I came here,” she said. “I am considering that, or perhaps entering into a business venture with Greg, investing in it with him. I should have thought of looking at financial records, at least.”

  “I'll see if I can find his ledger and look for information about leasing the cabins, but next weekend, Sylvie, we can go through all the papers together,” said Greg, rising and walking toward the basement steps.

  “I remember you, Miss Marshall,” Detective Harrison began. “I worked at the hardware store in town where you used to come in with your dad. You wouldn't remember me. I was mostly in the back, except for when I was needed to help load stuff onto the truck. That was your truck, Mr. Devine, I believe.”

  “Probably was,” he said thoughtfully. “Mr. Marshall drove a nice car, so when he wanted to buy lumber, cement, and stuff like that, I would drive him into town. Then we would discuss whatever project he was working on. Sometimes I gave him pointers, sometimes he asked me to come over and help at the cabin. Then he would offer me money, which I refused for a long time and usually ended up giving in. That's just like you, Sylvie,” he laughed.

  “Well, you should really learn to stop refusing money offered to you,” she argued. “I never refuse money, that's why I have some.”

  “You would refuse money, Sylvie,” he added calmly, “if you didn't think it was right.”

  “Of course, I would,” she admitted. “But, the money I've been trying to give you is right.”

  He nodded, remembering that he had already lost that battle just a little earlier. As the two shared a knowing smile, Greg came back with two old dusty cardboard boxes. While he looked through an extremely unorganized mess, Detective Harrison continued getting fingerprints from the three of them. Mr. Devine insisted that he hadn't been to the cabin in seventeen years, but was willing to help any way he could. They told him that the print could lay there, if undisturbed, for hundreds of years. Things surely looked very disturbed in that cabin, but it would be logical to assume that Mr. Devine could have left a print somewhere since he visited the place fairly often.

  “Well, we have work to do,” announced Sheriff Caywood. “You go through those papers and let me know if you find that name. I really want to talk to that guy. Not only is he a suspect, but several people in town had come to me with complaints years ago. All I could see to charge him with at the time was being rude. He stuck in my mind, and I've never resolved several issues related to him.”

  He handed both Sylvia and the Devines cards with contact information. Sylvia gave him her business card from the library on which she had written her home number and cell number. They both tipped their hats again on their way out, and Sylvia thought that this was the world where she wanted to live. Here is where she had always been so happy. She resol
ved that when she got back to St. Louis she would look into the financial implications of such a move. She'd have to see about the details of her lease, which was due to expire soon, the possibility of a decent job in this area—and how to pack all those horses as well as where to put them in a little clubhouse. Greg could build shelves, she knew that, but then she'd have to reveal an obsession that might cause him to think she was crazy.

  Sylvia walked casually to peek in on the baby, to see her one more time before she left. She was not sleeping, but lying there babbling nonsense words to her toes—those sweet baby toes that Sylvia could not resist grabbing and kissing. Little Debbie laughed when she did that then opened her thirteen-month old arms to be picked up. Sylvia held her in her arms, planting a kiss on her forehead. She needed a mother, Sylvia thought to herself. These men were wonderful fathers, but she would need a mother to fix her hair, buy her clothes, and teach her to sew. Could I do those things? Sylvia wasn't so good at any of that, but she could learn—so could Greg and his dad as well. It wasn't that she thought the baby needed her; she was having these feelings because she wanted a baby.

  When the doctors first confirmed that her ovarian cysts and the hormonal imbalance that caused them were practically a sentence against childbearing, she was devastated. It wasn't impossible; there were medical interventions to be tried if she did so early enough. Success was more likely if they gave her the injections while she was still in her twenties. That time was months away from coming to fruition. Sylvia drew the line at in-vitro fertilization because of her religious beliefs concerning the unused fetuses. She had no objection to hormones which would induce ovulation. But, she did not have a mate. Accepting donated sperm was also against Catholic teachings. It tempted her, however, because she believed in her heart that someday she would be a mother.

  She had been a tomboy, surely. Sylvia climbed trees, rode Nippy at neck-breaking speeds, which fortunately, did not result in any broken necks. She could track small animals in the woods, with Greg's guidance, out-fish both Mr. Devine and her father, and she did not care for frills at all. She hated taking the time to sit still while her mother braided her hair after unsuccessfully trying to convince her to wear curls. Curls would involve wearing plastic contraptions on her head for hours, sitting under a hair dryer, and then enduring scolding from her mother when she totally destroyed any styling efforts her mother had employed. And yet, she played with dolls—privately.

  It was a secret she kept to herself that she wanted to have a baby so badly. She surely did not want her buddy Greg to think of her as a sissy. If she admitted it to her parents, perhaps her mother would have tried harder to get her to wear dresses. Mrs. Marshall might have guessed if she had wondered why Sylvia asked for dolls at Christmastime. She had assumed the girl collected them as some sort of future investment. Her mother had instructed her through the years about the value of collectibles, especially antiques. She thought her daughter was learning important financial lessons. But, secretly in her room at night, or other times when she was alone, Sylvia would hold her baby dolls lovingly and look at herself in the mirror picturing herself as a mother. It was the only time Sylvia ever looked in a mirror.

  Greg walked by the doorway and stopped when he saw Sylvia holding Debbie and cuddling her.

  “I didn't know you liked babies,” he said.

  “I love babies,” she answered. “A few things have changed about me since I was a kid, you know. She's so beautiful, Greg, a perfect baby in every way. You and your dad are such excellent parents to her. She's a lucky little girl. Well, she will be if you can manage to stop calling her Little Debbie,” Sylvia laughed.

  “Sometimes I think it's a shame she doesn't have a woman in her life,” Greg said sadly. “But, we'll do the best we can. I try to see her as much as possible, driving home between my two jobs just because I'm afraid she'll forget what I look like if I don't see her several times a day. Dad is great with her, but he's old. I worry something what might happen when I'm not here—like him falling or having a heart attack or something.”

  “Things can happen, even in the best of circumstances,” she reminded him. “Try not to worry. I'm sure the angels are watching over her. I know they did me, when I was growing up. Or, surely I would have broken a bone or two before I reached puberty.”

  Sylvia handed the baby to Greg and excused herself to go say goodbye to Nippy and explain to him that she would be back. Greg took Debbie to the kitchen to feed her a meal, and he noticed the open and folded-back notebook on the table. She had written all her contact information: phone number, cell number, work number, address, working hours, etc. Sylvie was really back in his life, he thought. It was so hard to believe.

  “Dad,” he called, “could you feed Debbie for me? I need to go see Sylvie about something before she leaves. He was determined to give her a kiss before she left, something he'd wanted to do for seventeen years—longer if you counted the time he proposed when she was eight years old. He thought back then that he was in love with her. Now he knew it.

  She was hugging Nippy, her arms wrapped around his withers, when he approached them from behind. Sylvia turned at the sound of his footsteps brushing through the grass. She had tears in her eyes.

  “He's one lucky little horse,” Greg said, referring to Sylvia's embrace. She took his comment to be about the fact that she had found him again.

  Greg stood behind her, reaching around her to pat Nippy on the rump. Their closeness became obvious to both of them. She didn't move, but stood there letting his body touch her softly. He gently leaned forward placing a kiss on the nape of her neck exposed beneath her long pony tail. She was surprised, but it felt very right and good to her. She turned her head toward him, and he kissed her again, on the cheek. They were both breathing hard, saying nothing. Greg leaned harder into her, turning her around, then he found her lips and covered them with his own. She seemed to melt into him. Nippy made his whinny sound loudly. They laughed, not knowing if he was jealous or if he was expressing his approval.

  “Why couldn't you have done that some time before now, when I am about to leave?” she said to Greg.

  “I wanted to,” he said with suppressed emotion. “I wanted to for a long, long time.”

  “So now, all I'm going to be doing is thinking about you all week, when I've got so much to do. Thanks a lot, Greg,” she teased. “But, really,” she said suddenly, stiffening away from him, “we should talk about this before we just get over our heads in something we might regret.”

  “I don't understand,” he said. “I can't imagine regrets, except letting you get away from me years ago. You must mean regrets on your part.”

  “It's complicated, Greg,” she said. “You don't really know me.”

  “I do,” he said simply. “I know everything I need to know, and when I know you better, I'll only want you more.”

  “I have a past of which you may not approve. I have problems and issues of which you should be aware before things go too far. We have a friendship, maybe a business partnership that could be ruined if we become intimate and then it goes bad. We should wait. Let's talk when I come back, and I promise I'll tell you everything you need to know about me.”

  He felt confused, but he had no choice but to wait. When he walked to the field, intent on kissing her, he was prepared for either acceptance or rejection, but he did not expect this. He took her hand and kissed it, a gesture which forced a smile from her lips. He would remember her face at that moment all week long, and he would remember the feel of her body, the softness of her lips—there was nothing else to consider as far as he was concerned. There was nothing she could tell him about her past that could alter his feelings. He knew that.

  When they arrived at the back porch, Mr. Devine was sitting in the rocker with Debbie in his lap. They glanced at each other as they walked up the steps wondering how much he had seen. It was like when they were kids and had built a fort in the barn using the bales of hay. They came back to the house knowing
they were in trouble. But, it was something they could fix, and they did go back to the barn and put the bales back into neat stacks. She was right, Greg thought. Their relationship could have a lot of repercussions in several areas. It couldn't be casual with them.

  He walked her to her car, and kissed her again through the car window when she turned her head to back out of the driveway. She could not help but kiss him back, but when their lips parted, she gave him a scolding look. Then she smiled and put her restored old Volkswagen Beetle into reverse. It would be a long one-hour drive back to Saint Louis. She didn't want to leave, but she was also anxious to take care of business at home so that she might be able to move to Indian Foot Lake permanently.

  When Sylvia arrived at her apartment, she saw a folded envelope on the floor which had been shoved under the door. It was a plain business letter size envelope with no markings. She opened it curiously, as this had never happened to her before.