Kate’s dark eyes went wide, “Which means I have to go all the way out into the pastures to get my counter instead of just the barn and there won’t be many steps on it!”
Everyone knew Chumpy was a lazy pony who didn’t walk her stall like some of the more restless thoroughbreds. Kate ran out the door Holly had gone through as quickly as her thick thighs would carry her, but turned right toward the barn instead of left toward the school.
“Come on, I don’t want to be late,” urged Elizabeth.
Vicky and Abriella followed after with their satchels.
Vicky asked, “Anything of note from your evening?”
“Yeah,” said Abriella with such emphasis that both Elizabeth and Vicky broke stride to look at her, “I woke up to a man in my barn.”
CHAPTER—2
Holly Healy walked her bike down the trail in the patch of woods to the north of the faculty parking lot. She was supposed to be at field hockey practice now that classes were over. Taking a physical education activity was a requirement, and there were really only two choices if one didn’t want to be a cross-country runner: field hockey or equestrian.
She hated field hockey. The running was hard and her teammates seldom passed to her. Which meant her skills weren’t developing with everyone else and they would pass to her even less. Jordan and the other girls were aggressive and bigger. Holly would often be tripped with a stick or get elbowed in the ribs. She was afraid of being hurt. She was afraid of being no use to her teammates. Mentally it made her go fetal, completely defensive inside and it wasn’t fun.
Socially, as Holly saw things, it put her in the bottom tier of Fox Ridge girls. The riders ate and hung out together, not mixing with the likes of her. She knew that because she was the only non-rider in her house. And it was a fact that anytime she was meeting someone for the first time, when they asked where she went to school and she told them, the next question was always whether she rode. The answer put her in her place, and she detested wilting under the gaze of their judgement.
Unfortunately, owning a horse was completely out of the question. She was the mistake baby. Her mother never called her that, but that was how everything just seemed to work out. Her real dad had left when she was just a baby, and her parents hadn’t been married. It might have been before she was born. She didn’t really know. But her Mom had married someone other than her real father when Holly was just a toddler, and two younger siblings quickly followed. It was the classic American family, with her tacked on to constantly remind everyone that real life was messier than an illusion of normalcy and perfection. So her stepdad had paid big money to send her away, and wasn’t likely to start doting on her. Holly hadn’t even bothered to ask for a horse.
However, not all the equestrian girls had their own horses. Fox Ridge kept a number of school horses as well. This was far cheaper than paying full board on your own mount. Not to mention other costs such as farrier, vet visits, special feed supplements and all that. There was an “activity fee” of course. She didn’t have permission to get a job, and the fee was more than any job she could hold would manage. But this might be surmountable through a loan.
That was what the card had said, anyway. The hunt fixture was a quiet place to ride her bike and be away from everyone who hated her on campus. There was a large gravel parking lot where the trucks and horse trailers unloaded for hunting. She would make countless laps, trying to burn destructive teenage energy, until she was in danger of missing dinner or some formal activity which would land her in Mrs. Grant’s office. In one of her rest pauses she’d looked down and saw the banker’s business card. The paper had some coating on it that had let it stand up to the elements quite well. It advertised, “All loan types to keep you and your horse in the field.”
So she had called last week. It had been an older man’s voice, friendly and knowledgeable. Holly had explained she was a student at Fox Ridge, hoping that would make her family seem to have some type of station equating to good collateral. Rewarded with an address and time, she now made her way on the shoulder of Full Cry Road and started peddling northward.
Holly felt isolated and had trouble making friends, but that didn’t mean she was stupid. She knew that if she couldn’t manage a job to pay the fee, then she couldn’t truly manage the loan either. But that would be a commitment her stepdad would be forced to cover. He could turn down a request if she had made it. But he couldn’t turn down making good on a lien resulting from actions of his “extra tax deduction” as he’d called her a few times.
Thus she made an excuse of not feeling well to miss field hockey practice and rode her bike to the appointment. Her phone said it was about three miles each way. Holly had opted for the longer northern route. Taking Full Cry Road south to State Route 715, which was Main Street in town, would take her in front of the school. Mrs. Grant’s office on the second floor had windows both over the playing field and the front circle and Holly didn’t want to risk being seen.
Going north, she soon passed Stirrup Cup Road on her right. That was the road leading to the gravel parking lot where the Westburg Hunt gathered, sometimes every week through the fall and winter. She usually got there though by the hack trails from the school barn. The hunt’s clubhouse and kennels were down that road too, and the school had several thousand acres of undeveloped land for hunting that someone had once told her the hunt payed the property taxes on. But she was following the bypass about town instead.
Unlike south of town, where Full Cry Road connected the outskirts of the east side of Westburg to the outskirts of the west side in a big semicircle, here on the north side, the road only went halfway. Once directly north of town, Full Cry Road turned awkwardly due south at what everyone called “the hairpin” until ending in the heart of things on Main Street. She stopped her bike here at the flashing red light, and scanned for the address numbers from the safety of the sidewalk.
The man had said it was across the street from the bank, which she saw clearly to the left of the T-intersection. It was an imposing red brick structure, with a concrete lintel spanning a pair of columns over the door engraved with the word “Bank”. Only the ATM machine made it look different than it had decades earlier. She turned left, walking her bike through the crosswalk on Full Cry Road and continued on the north side of Main Street.
Holly frowned at the robin blue door with the small brass numbers. The building looked like it had been a commercial structure at one time, with the same red bricks and white concrete accents as the bank and other prominent buildings about Westburg. Now it had the look of apartments, with an alley around the east side that seem to go to an open gravel space behind for tenant parking. Through the panes of the door she could see a small entryway with a door immediately to the left and stairs going upward. Upon the door to the left was an “A” and she now understood the letter after the street number she’d been given.
She looked at the bank across the street again, prominent and stately. By comparison, this seemed shady. But it was in prestigious downtown, in the middle of the afternoon. It didn’t seem outright dangerous and she’d put a lot at stake to get this far. Holly leaned her bike against the front of the building and turned the knob. It opened, and she went inside to knock at the door at the landing. The building seemed quiet, and even up the dimly lit stairs was a sense of stillness. She strained and focused so much up the black rubber treads, she actually startled when the door opened.
“Miss Healy,” said the thin man with graying hair, “I presume.”
“Yes, Sir. I’m Holly,” she smiled.
“Holly, I am Mr. Grunfeld.”
He stood aside in his charcoal suit holding the door, waiting patiently with a soft smile for her to enter. The floor was hardwood, glowing from the thick polish oil and the warm afternoon sunlight that sneaked around the heavy rose curtains. It looked to be an office, with a formal wooden desk and ornate carved chair. Off to one side was a more informal meeting area with a floral loveseat and pair of matching
armchairs about a round coffee table. A couple of doors on one wall were closed. The wall sported a chair rail of wooden paneling and floral wallpaper above. She stepped inside and he closed the door.
“This way, please,” he said extending an arm toward the loveseat.
Holly sat at one end, stiff and erect with knees together, and he opted for the nearby chair instead of joining her there.
“May I get you anything? Coffee or tea?” he said leaning back and resting heavily on one arm rest.
“No thank you, Mr. Grunfeld,” she said as she wiped her palms on the legs of her shorts.
“Please, tell me more about your situation. How much are you looking to borrow?”
Holly described the activity fee, it’s $2000 cost for the fall semester, and wove into it her woeful tale of a sick father who would be back to work again soon. Johann Grunfeld sat listening politely with his soft smile and eyes impassive behind the steel framed glasses.
“So we have some time before the activity fee is due?” he asked.
Holly blinked, “yes, about six weeks.”
Johann pushed himself upright from the armrest.
“I can’t loan money to someone who is underage,” he quickly held out a finger as her shoulders slumped forward, “but I have an idea.”
Holly looked up as his smile seemed to become broader.
“Holly, I have a client who owns a candy factory. They are putting a marketing campaign together for a new giant sucker, and are looking for a model. They are looking to borrow money for that marketing campaign, so I have some say in the model they choose. I think your young face and pretty blond hair may be what they are looking for.”
She leaned forward and her hands came to her knees, “That would be really great!”
He waived a hand rapidly back and forth.
“Nothing is for sure, Holly. But I could take a few pictures of you. Just to show them how you photograph. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It will take us less than half an hour, and I can pay you a $100 sitting fee.”
Holly fingered her hair hanging over her right shoulder. She’d dressed nicer knowing she’d be applying for the loan, but began to instantly think of things she’d have done different if she knew she was going have her picture taken.
“I talked to them a week ago, so if you are up for this we should act quickly.”
Holly exhaled, and then nodded.
Johann stood and walked over to his desk. He returned with a camera from one of the drawers. It had a large flash on top, and his hand gripped the sides of the lens to focus.
“They will want to see a range of facial expressions so their creative staff will know what they have to work with. Start with a smile,” he suggested and began snapping. “Good, now give me a shocked look. Perfect. How about a ‘Oh my God, that is the biggest sucker I have ever seen!’ look. Yeah, try to look sly, like you are up to something. Got it.”
Holly began to loosen up and be a little silly. She made crazy eyes. She wrinkled her nose. Her tongue stuck out. All the time he snapped away, the flash dazzling like she was a celebrity.
“Just a second,” he said and returned to the desk. While the camera hung from the worn strap about his neck, he pulled from the drawer a large sucker. It was on a thick wooden dowel, the twisted candy in a rainbow of colors. But it was shaped like a rod rather than a giant circle, probably a full foot long and thick as a nightstick with a rounded end. He removed the plastic wrapper and handed her the treat.
Holly’s eyes spotted from the camera flashes as she licked it with her tongue.
“Good. Tease it with your tongue. Pretend that sucker wants to be licked and you want it anticipating,” he instructed.
Holly stopped and stared at him blankly, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Lick all down it’s sides. Show the candy buyers how big it is. Good,” he said, the clicking going in staccato rhythm. “Now open wide, and show all the colors on your tongue. Yummy. Very Yummy. Now show everyone how good it is. How much of it can you put in your mouth at a time because you want such a big bite? That was pretty good. Go for deeper. Okay. Gag yourself. Deep breath, and again. All the way! Come on! Perfect.”
She bent forward and coughed violently.
“That’s great. That’s all I need. I will get this to my client and see what they can do,” he said as he strode over to his desk and sat his camera down. He came back to the loveseat and handed her $100 in twenties and a business card with only a phone number.
She took the money and card, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Her eyes were still slightly teary from her gag reflex.
“Call me tomorrow at 4 pm. My new number is on the card. I’ll let you know what they thought and what we can do. And you should know that they don’t want their competitors knowing what they are thinking about doing. Gives them too much time to react. So best to stay quiet. Besides, you don’t want a prettier girl trying to get in on the modeling gig when they still haven’t made up their mind.”
He smiled with his cold flat eyes again as he patiently held the door. The back of her throat still hurt but she managed to rally enough to walk out the door. She pocketed the money and the business card deep into her pocket, but flung the remains of the sucker into the gravel alleyway as soon as the apartment door closed behind her. The hard candy shattered as it landed.
Her hands and face felt sticky, but she had no way of cleaning herself up. At least her bike was still there so she mounted up. Holly peddled hard to get back to campus quickly. It would take some time to wash before filing to dinner with the rest of the girls, and she knew she needed to look subdued and pale instead of warm and flush with afternoon exercise to get by Mrs. Grant.
CHAPTER—3
Abriella watched her best friend, Vicky, canter Ginger down the long side of the indoor arena from the parent’s loft. The parent’s loft was a kind of mezzanine for visitors to observe and not be in the way, as well as socialize with each other without disrupting the riding below. The arena was huge, big enough for a couple of dozen horses to be riding if everyone stuck to the “right of way rules” of passing left to left. In other words, when two riders approached head on they should pass each other such that both rider’s left knees would be next to each other. Multiple arena entrances, big enough to drive through, led either to rows of stalls or outside. The footing consisted of laminated sawdust, which kept the dust down, mixed with shredded car tires so it had some bounce. The lower walls of boards sloped inward so the horse couldn’t be close enough to the wall for a rider to slam their knee into a girder. Kate and Elizabeth sat upon their horses in the middle of the ring, awaiting their turn at the “gymnastic exercise” under their instructor’s eye.
Helmut Muench leaned on his cane, his piercing eyes watching the horse’s every footfall of every stride. He was a crass old German, an ex-cavalry officer, who didn’t hesitate to bellow extreme opinions over everything; even if it had absolutely nothing to do with riding. And they all loved him as much as their horses, despite the jagged scars on his face.
“Pick and hold your line, and keep the rhythm. Balance and rhythm!” he shouted.
There were three jumps in a row along the wall of the arena, spaced at two strides and four strides respectively between them, for the standard twelve-foot stride of a horse. The last jump was what was called an oxer, which meant the jump had some depth in addition to just height. The obstacles weren’t tall, perhaps two feet in height. The objective was more akin to football players running their feet through a group of tires on the ground without tripping than a track and field star doing the high jump.
“Keep your eyes up and a steady rhythm,” he reminded again.
Ginger, a chestnut thoroughbred who liked to move forward, began to elongate his body and stride after the first jump. He fit the two strides in like he was supposed to, but was “very deep” meaning he was closer than he should have been to the second jump as he leapt off the ground.
The perfect jump spacing, which Helmut had paced off when setting the exercise, forced Ginger upward in a springing motion. And if Vicky had sat up more in her position on his back, Ginger would have continued forward in four balanced simple strides to cleanly take the oxer jump.
But Vicky didn’t sit up. She was late recovering from Ginger’s second jump. The forward motion of Ginger’s strides made her lean forward, going with the horse’s motion. Which encouraged Ginger to unwind with his strides so that they covered more ground, without the benefit of having his legs up underneath himself. The third stride thus put him in an awkward spot for the final jump with his body all spread out. It was kind of like starting the 100-meter dash in a pushup position instead of a knee bent on a starting block.
“Sit-up!” shouted Helmut again.
Vicky finally sat back, just as Ginger took a chip step. Spread out and unable to push off powerfully, and far from the jump, too far to power over it, Ginger made a sort of half step or “chip” to gather himself. The sudden short motion caused Vicky’s upper body to collapse forward as her horse was leaping into the air. But she had sat back just in time to counter act a lot of the inertia and therefor wasn’t thrown from the horse.
“You are lucky not to be picking sawdust out of your britches, little Blondy!” Helmet yelled at her as she cantered around the curving end of the arena.
“Marder! Tell your rider to get down the line of jumps before I die of old age. We’re burning daylight here. Chumpy, you follow with Kate. Let’s go. Let’s go. Straight, balance, and rhythm.”
Elizabeth turned her big black Fresian horse toward the front of the jump line as Vicky and Ginger came riding up.
Abriella could see Helmut talking to Vicky as his eyes never left Elizabeth, but without him screaming she couldn’t hear the comments up in the parent’s loft. The acoustics in the arena weren’t very good and a pigeon cooing on a rafter was very distracting. She’d ask Vicky about it later. Abriella couldn’t afford many of her own lessons, but got a lot out of watching others and Helmut never minded. He even asked her frequently if she had any questions. But Indy was at home, and if Abriella didn’t go now she was not likely to ride herself. She went to the back of the loft and made her way down the spiraling staircase that deposited her outside facing the field hockey lawn.
By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2 Page 2