Theresa Reynolds got full custody of Chessa in the divorce proceedings. Chessa was never asked her opinion and later in life she would wonder if her father ever argued for custody, but was too afraid to hear the answer.
Her father would pick her up at the door on his obligatory semi-monthly visits and take her to the movies or the park, bowling, fishing, or out to eat. Often she had wished her dad wouldn’t take her anywhere but just sit in the car and talk to her. They always had a good time, but she just never really felt like she came to know him that well. He was never the hugging, affectionate type.
Still, she had adored her father and like most children, blamed herself and her mother for his leaving. If only I had been a good girl, she had chided herself. If only Mom had treated him better, loved him more.
Chessa vowed that she would marry someone just like Stephen Reynolds one day and that she would love him enough so that he would never leave her.
The self-pity she wallowed in for years as a teenager had waned some when she eventually became wrapped up in the lives of those less fortunate whom she read about in the news while doing research for her sociology paper in her sophomore year. She had read about rape victims in the Congo, some not even teenagers yet, who were held hostage and often violently abused by enemy soldiers, sometimes whole armies of them. Some were so severely sexually abused that they ended up physically and emotionally scarred for life, unable to bear children, or were forced to become prostitutes or sex slaves.
While feeling sorry for these girls halfway around the world made her feel less sorry for herself, Chessa also struggled with her faith. She would weep for hours after reading the stories, lying on her dorm bunk bed unable to sleep at night, wondering why humans inflicted such pain on each other, trying to make the torment of those mental images go away.
Chessa had always believed in God, although her parents rarely took her to any formal religious services growing up, but she started to wonder how a God who was all-loving and all-powerful could allow suffering of such magnitude. The only thing that helped her cope was her decision to do something about it. She hoped to graduate from Columbia’s School of Social Work and become a counselor. Perhaps she would never get the opportunity to visit the Congo, but she realized she could at least help on a local level. She knew that women in the United States, right here in Manhattan, suffered abuses, perhaps of a lesser degree, but painful and degrading all the same. She felt in her gut that she was meant to help.
Between her studies, her job at the paper, and volunteering at the local women’s shelter, she had little time for anything else, including a boyfriend. Chessa had only had a few dates since she had attended Columbia, and she had made just a few close friends.
Her best friend was Amy Darlington, who had been assigned as her roommate freshman year.
Chessa remembered the day she met Amy as if it was yesterday.
The two girls had just stared at one another that first day in their dorm room on campus—the tall, skinny white girl with long, light-brown hair and green eyes, and the short, heavyset black girl with short, curly, raven-black hair and black-brown eyes. The first one smiled shyly and said hello. The second one just kept staring in disbelief.
Amy didn’t like most white people very much. Her parents’ agenda was to get ahead, get their fair share when she was growing up as a child, and white people seemed to be the ‘enemy.’ So Amy was wary of whites, even at an early age, and she figured Chessa Reynolds was no different than the rest.
Chessa hadn’t liked Amy at first either, but it wasn’t because she was prejudiced. Being raised in Greenwich Village by parents who were middle-class bohemian scholars, Chessa had grown up open-minded about a lot of things, and had been taught to be tolerant and nonjudgmental about other races, creeds, nationalities, and the like. But Chessa had detected a negative vibe and defensiveness almost immediately upon meeting her roommate. It was an imperceptible feeling that turned into the discovery that Amy felt she had something to prove as a young black female.
She had tried to be friendly, introducing herself with a big smile and an outstretched hand that fateful day.
But her hand was left dangling.
“This is just great,” Amy had said sarcastically, walking right past Chessa to head out of the room. “I’m going to have to make a change.”
Chessa was hurt but persistently optimistic. “What’s wrong?”
Amy stopped in the doorway, turned around and looked at Chessa with a scowl. “Well as you can see we’re totally different.”
“Is it because I’m white or because I’m beautiful?” Chessa folded her arms defiantly.
“Hah, you wish!” Amy crossed her arms too and they both glared at each other for a moment longer before bursting into laughter. “Well, no one else will probably take you in so I guess we can give this a try.” She held out her hand to Chessa, who shook it, and then gave her a hug.
The two had somehow learned to like each other over time despite their differences. Amy’s judgmental attitude would often infuriate Chessa, but when she did her dead-on comedic impressions of other students or teachers, or used her exaggerated “poor Negro” tone, or even sometimes when she got really angry, Chessa would laugh so hard that the two would forget what made them mad in the first place.
Eventually they came to love each other as friends.
Chessa helped Amy become more tolerant and patient. Amy helped Chessa become more outgoing and confident. They balanced each other out in a good way, and found out they had more in common than they’d originally thought, including a mission to help the oppressed. Amy also worked at The Spectator and wanted to become an investigative reporter when she graduated.
Darren had returned to New York as promised just before the Christmas holidays and had called Chessa, asking her out to the swank and expensive Boathouse restaurant in Central Park. He was funny, intelligent, charming, and a gentleman the entire evening, and Chessa felt herself falling for the handsome senator. She loved the idea of dating an older, wiser man. Compared to Darren, all of the boys she had dated before now seemed immature. She still wondered a bit why he would be attracted to a schoolgirl so many years his junior. She knew it certainly wasn’t to con her. She had already written her article on his speech at the university with a lengthy sidebar about the senator himself. Both sang the praise of the alumnus who had made a name for himself, yet continued to give back to the university and society as well.
Chessa did her homework and found Darren was from the very wealthy Richards family whose patriarch had cofounded RA Technologies, a leading Fortune 500 company that was on the cutting edge of biotechnological and pharmaceutical manufacturing. Darren had only worked briefly with the firm handling some corporate legal matters to get his start in the business world before entering government affairs. Since he was the only son, and his older sister had chosen to become a nurse, he had at first disappointed his father by not entering the family business, but was eventually supported by his family both with money and connections.
Yet, despite his privileged upbringing, Darren exuded a “common guy” appeal to the people and really did display a desire to help the underdogs of the world and do his share to help save the planet. His military service in the Marines cemented that.
Chessa had described Darren Richards in glowing terms in her article. She had quoted him when he said he wanted to go “all the way to the top” if he had to, “to make sure the world would one day be a better place.”
If the date was out of gratitude, Chessa figured he could have sent her a thank-you note instead of taking her out to one of the city’s most prestigious restaurants.
She realized she was prettier than the average young woman, with eyes that ranged in color with her emotions, from sea-green to turquoise to dark jade, doll-like features and a tall, shapely figure that made some other girls jealous. She had been told a few times that she looked like Maria Shriver in her youth or like a young Brooke Shields. In fact, many of her frien
ds had encouraged her to go into modeling. Still, Darren Richards could have his pick of pretty women in New York or Washington, DC, she thought. After enough second-guessing, she decided to give up questioning why and enjoy herself.
He kissed her for the first time on her doorstep when he took her home after dinner at the Boathouse.
They filled the following Christmas week with romantic dates: they went to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, went ice-skating in Rockefeller Center, watched the sunset from the top of the Empire State Building, and took long walks holding hands through Central Park.
But Chessa had made a promise to herself that she would wait until she got married to make love. She didn’t want what happened to her to happen to her child.
Darren said he had respect for her wishes…although he did try to change her mind one night in his penthouse condo in Central Park West.
They wound up sharing a pizza and a bottle of wine after a sunset walk through the park on their fourth date. Like all of their dates, it had been romantic, magical, amazing, and especially hard that night for Chessa to say no.
She and Darren had been lying facing each other on the plush bear rug in front of the roaring fire, sipping wine and staring into each other’s eyes. Darren leaned over and kissed her, and she kissed him back hungrily.
The next thing she knew, his hands seemed to simultaneously be unbuttoning her shirt and her pants. “Darren, stop, remember….”
He silenced her with his mouth and she had to push against his chest with her hands, using what little strength and willpower she could muster through the wine-induced fog that had clouded her senses.
At that instant, Darren froze, then suddenly sat upright, clenching his hands into fists. “This isn’t working,” he said angrily, not looking at her.
Chessa started to cry. “I don’t understand. I thought you said you loved me.”
Darren took a deep breath, visibly controlling his temper. “I do. But I don’t understand why we have to wait.”
“I’ve told you….”
“I know what you’ve said.” He stood up, his tone a little softer but still tinged with resentment. “Maybe you should go. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. I’ll call you a cab.”
Chessa fought not to cry any more tears, stood, gave him a brief hug and when the taxi arrived minutes later, left without saying any more.
Of course Chessa put a slightly different spin on it when she told Amy about her date the next morning as the two sat on their beds in their dorm room eating apple slices and peanut butter. She left out the part about the argument at the end of the night.
“So you really love him?” Amy asked with more than a little incredulity in her voice. “Do your parents know about all of this? Do they even know how much older he is?”
“They know we’ve been seeing each other, not about—you know—how serious it is. Dad hasn’t met him, but I brought him by to meet Mom and she seemed to like him all right. They’re both a little concerned that he’s older and more worldly-wise, but they like his political views, the causes he’s working for, and the way he treats me. You’ll have to meet him, but now that he’s back in DC, I’m not sure when we’ll see each other again.” Chessa sighed. It would be another long semester.
“And how does he feel?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Miss Reynolds.’ That was the night we watched the sunset from the top of the Empire State Building. I must be the luckiest girl alive!”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Amy pretended to gag, which sent Chessa into a fit of laughter.
For the next two months, Darren called her almost every night, occasionally sent her notes and flowers, and promised as soon as he could to visit her in New York once Congress let out.
Then a week passed with no calls, mail, or flowers. And then another. Chessa called Darren a few times but was met with his voice mail. Like her calls, two of her letters went unanswered. Something was up.
She finally got through one day to Peggy Lee, his secretary, and asked if Darren was planning to return to New York for the upcoming recess. Peggy had always been nice to Chessa when she called but was strangely silent for a few moments.
“He’s seeing someone else, isn’t he?”
Peggy’s continued silence was enough of an answer.
Chessa thanked the secretary and hung up, in tears. He could have at least had the decency to let me know, she fumed.
CHAPTER 2
Leif
The strawberry roan horse lay on her side, her massive chest heaving up and down in pain. She had splintered one of the bones in her ankle while cantering along in her paddock. No one had noticed the large divot that caught the thoroughbred’s right front hoof, sending her down, in moments ending her previously glorious destiny as Little River’s next hopeful for this year’s Kentucky Derby, which was less than four months away.
“Darn shame.” The vet sent in to administer the lethal injection that would permanently take the filly’s pain away stood over her, sadly shaking his head.
“Yeah, but nothin’ more we can do ’cept put her out of her misery.” Hal Baker, a big cowboy who had grown up helping in the stables at the Little River horse farm and eventually become a successful trainer, knelt beside the horse, stroking her head.
“Wait.” A man’s shadow fell over the horse next to those of the other two men.
Leif Mitchell suddenly appeared, stopping the vet from reaching further into his big black bag for the needle.
Hal looked up at his boss but couldn’t see his expression. The noon sun glared white behind Leif’s cowboy hat.
“I think we might want to save her.” The vet and Hal looked at Leif in astonishment. Rarely was a horse, especially a filly, spared with a broken leg, no matter how great a racehorse it had been or might promise to be. If it had been a colt, it could possibly be put out to stud. But a filly…
Leif knelt gently next to the horse’s thick neck; she was lathered in sweat from the pain. She whinnied in recognition. Leif had cared for her since she was born.
He felt along her flanks until she neighed and almost bit his hand when it came to rest on her belly. “Easy, girl.” Leif spoke soothingly, pulling his hand out of the way just in time. Then he turned to the men. “I think she’s pregnant.”
“That’s impossible,” the disgruntled vet said.
“Tell that to her.”
It had been a long, cold day, and it was far from over. Despite the chill in the air, Leif wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve as the late January sun started slipping close to the horizon.
His father wanted an appraisal of the situation with Little Sally, which would now be scratched from the upcoming Derby race. The owner of Little River would also need to arrange a press conference. The media would have a field day with this—a pregnant horse should never have been entered into a race, and a racehorse in training would normally never be allowed to get pregnant.
Although he preferred to lay low and just tend to the horses, Leif and his three brothers were all expected to rally behind the family horse farm when it came to matters of great importance. Plus, he cared deeply about animals, particularly horses, and especially Little Sally. So despite his inclination against it, Leif decided to get involved.
To make matters worse, he had just heard that his family was having company that night for dinner, some political head honcho who wanted to meet him and his three brothers to talk about the possibility of “helping out” the Republican Party on the local level by running for office. As a business owner, his father had been a staunch Republican and fairly big party supporter.
“Well, it won’t be me,” Leif said softly to Little Sally. After being administered some heavy duty painkillers, the filly was resting comfortably in her stall. Leif stepped into the stall and sat down next to her. The smells of the barn—a unique mix of fresh cut hay, saddle soap and leather from the hanging tack—immediately calmed h
im, and, taking a deep breath, Leif reached for his guitar, which he had left in the corner of the stall the night before.
He absentmindedly strummed the old redwood instrument he had received when he turned sixteen. Like Sally, it was also an old friend.
Leif had an hour before he was due in his father’s office and then expected at dinner, which would give him enough time to rest for just a few minutes before showering and dressing in appropriate dinner clothes. Might as well sit a spell, he ruminated, laughing to himself that he couldn’t help but rhyme sometimes. His passion, besides horses, was music. Leif had been told he had a knack for songwriting. Just poetry put to music, really.
A warm breeze blew into the stall, seemingly out of nowhere. The stable door was open and Leif could see the sun, big and orange, almost touching the pasture beyond, where it would soon dissolve into the land. The winter sky was bright with the sunset, a canopy of feathery cirrus clouds reflecting hues of coral and russet.
Leif was inspired and sang as he strummed, making up the words as he went along.
“You never know what the day will bring,
Which way the winds will blow,
When the sun goes down and the darkness falls,
And the embers start to glow.
You’re left with having done your best
And the rest is up to God.
You can’t change it now,
It’s what’s meant to be,
So rest your head, little girl
And dream for me
Of what tomorrow holds;
Don’t worry about days gone by,
Just stay with me now
In the miracle of this Kentucky sky.”
Henry Mitchell was a no-nonsense man who, together with his wife Elizabeth, had raised four sons in their small log cabin on an acre of land in Shepherdstown, Kentucky while working as a farmhand at a huge Lexington thoroughbred ranch over an hour’s drive away. Many nights he came home too dirty and too tired to eat or do much more than wipe off the day’s grime and crawl into bed, only to start all over again at dawn. But somehow he and Elizabeth managed to keep the boys fed, clothed, educated, and indoctrinated in the Catholic faith by going to church every Sunday.
The Peace Maker Page 2