“What happened?” Lisa asked.
Callie smiled and shook her head. “It’s no big deal,” she said. “Alex got a little overexcited about something Phil said—something about the Redskins and the Eagles, I think—and spilled his drink all over the place. Mostly on me.”
Stevie rolled her eyes. “Typical,” she said. “He’s always been a clumsy oaf.”
“I’d better go help clean up.” Lisa grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser near the door. “See you guys out there.” She disappeared through the door, leaving Stevie and Callie alone.
Stevie gave Callie a sidelong glance as she leaned over the sink to rinse her sleeve. This was the perfect opportunity to talk to her about Sheila’s visit.
“So,” she said, keeping her voice casual. She didn’t want to give away the fact that Scott had told her about Callie’s relationship with Sheila. “You must be pretty excited about seeing Sheila again, huh?”
Callie kept her gaze trained on her sleeve. “Sure,” she said blandly. “It should be lots of fun. I can’t wait.”
“Really?” Stevie still kept her voice as neutral as she could. “That’s cool. If it was me, I’d probably be kind of nervous.” She gestured at Callie’s crutches, which were leaning against the sink. “Especially if I wasn’t feeling quite like my normal self, you know?”
Callie shot her a quick glance in the mirror. “I guess,” she said noncommittally.
Stevie plowed on. “I mean, friends are supposed to love you no matter what. But sometimes it’s hard to remember that, you know? Especially if you haven’t seen someone for a while.”
For a second Callie seemed disinclined to respond. But finally she glanced up again. “That’s true,” she admitted softly. “But you can’t let nerves stop you, right?”
Stevie could tell that, as usual, Callie wasn’t eager to open up about her private thoughts and fears. But she also suspected that Callie was just nervous enough about the impending visit to really listen to what Stevie was saying instead of cutting her off with one of her none-of-your-business glares or a sharp word.
“You can talk to me about this, you know,” she said impulsively. “That’s what friends are for.”
Callie frowned, looking startled. “Um, thanks,” she said uncertainly. “But it’s no big deal, really. Sheila and I—well, we’ve been friends for years. But not in the way you and Carole and Lisa are. I mean, if it was you with these”—she waved a hand at her crutches—“they’d be, you know, supportive. I’m not so sure how Sheila will react.” She shrugged. “So if I’m a little nervous, that’s the reason.”
That was the opening Stevie had been waiting for. “But just because things have been a certain way in the past, it doesn’t mean they always have to be that way,” she said eagerly. “Maybe if you give her a chance to understand by really opening up and trusting her, everything will change. You could have a whole different kind of friendship. A better one.”
Callie sighed as she dried her arm with a paper towel. “Thanks for the pep talk, Stevie,” she said, her voice weary. “I know you mean well and everything. But you probably shouldn’t waste your time and energy on this one. Sheila and I have known each other for a long time. A really long time. I know things between us aren’t exactly normal.” She tossed the used paper towel into the bin under the sink. “But that’s how they’ve always been, and at this point they’re probably never going to change.”
She moved toward the door without another word. Stevie shrugged and followed. It was clear that Callie had had enough of this topic for the time being.
But that didn’t mean Stevie was giving up.
THREE
Callie stared into the mirror that covered one entire wall of Cosmopolitan Cuts, keeping a close eye on the stylist who was clipping cautiously at the ends of her long blond hair. Callie had only been there a few times and still didn’t quite trust the employees to follow her instructions about her hair. She sighed, suddenly homesick, as a vision flashed through her mind of her salon back home, where her regular stylist had known exactly how she liked her hair done, from the length of the cut to the scent of the shampoo she preferred. On top of that, Callie was feeling uncomfortable about being in the salon at all. It was, after all, Sunday afternoon, and normally Cosmo Cuts would be closed. However, Mrs. Forester had phoned the salon’s owner, explaining that she needed her hair styled for a big luncheon she had to attend the next day at which the First Lady would be one of the guests, and he had agreed to open just for her and Callie. Sometimes it made Callie uncomfortable to get this kind of special treatment, but her mother took it all in stride. And her mother was careful not to take advantage of her position and to always thank people who went out of their way to help her. Still, Callie wondered if she could ever get used to the attention.
She pushed those thoughts aside and, with a concerted effort, looked away from her reflection in the mirror long enough to check on her mother’s progress.
Mrs. Forester was sitting in the next chair, her face and arms relaxed, looking as completely at home as if she had been born and raised in this salon and never known anyplace else. Callie never ceased to wonder at that ability. Her father and brother had it, too. They rarely, if ever, felt uncertain and out of place, as Callie herself did all too often. Somehow, though, this talent was most impressive in her mother. Maybe it was because Mrs. Forester and Callie bore such a strong resemblance to each other. Aside from thirty-odd years, a few pounds, and different hairstyles, the two could have been twins. But more than that, Callie always found it amazing that her mother could simultaneously take control of a room and slip into the background, giving center stage to her husband or whoever else was present—in this case the salon owner, Charles, who was working on her neat blond bob. Mrs. Forester had a way of making people feel appreciated and important, from ordinary people on the street to egotistical people like Charles. Callie knew that was a valuable talent for a politician’s wife, but she still didn’t understand how her mother did it.
Sensing her daughter’s gaze, Mrs. Forester turned to smile at Callie. “Oh, Pierre!” she exclaimed, widening her smile to include Callie’s stylist. “You’re doing a wonderful job on Callie’s hair.”
“Your daughter is so beautiful, she needs little help,” the stylist replied in his thick French accent, bowing slightly toward Mrs. Forester.
Callie just sighed. She was used to having people fawn over her because of who her father was, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Ignoring Pierre, she glanced at her mother. “Is Dad going to drive me to the airport tomorrow to pick up Sheila?”
“I spoke to him.” Mrs. Forester smoothed the apron that protected her stylish silk pantsuit from hair clippings. “He really hoped he’d be able to do it—you know how fond he is of Sheila—but he’s afraid his new committee is going to need him tomorrow afternoon.” She smiled up at Charles, who was hovering above her with a bottle of mousse. “A congressman’s work is never done, you know,” she told him confidingly, with a disarming smile. She returned her attention to Callie. “I spoke with your brother. He’ll be happy to drive you.”
Callie frowned. She knew that Scott had never liked Sheila much. He was good at hiding his feelings, but she could usually read him even when others—including their parents—couldn’t. Still, she guessed there was no other option. Mrs. Forester would be at the luncheon until late afternoon, and Callie couldn’t drive herself because of her leg.
“All right,” she said with a barely perceptible sigh.
Mrs. Forester was smiling at herself in the long mirror. “It’s so nice that Sheila can stop by on her college tour,” she commented contentedly. She glanced at Charles. “My daughter’s best friend from our old hometown is coming for a visit.”
“Isn’t that nice!” Charles cooed, shifting the mousse bottle to his other hand and continuing his work.
“I’m sure she and Scott will be glad to see each other, too.” Mrs. Forester tossed Callie a playful wink.
“Don’t you remember when you were all in elementary school, how the two of them used to pretend they were getting married?” She glanced up at Charles. “Sheila had the prettiest little white dress she would wear, and she would put on some lovely music …”
Callie winced as her mother went on. She remembered those “weddings” all too well. For a period of several months, Sheila had insisted on playing that particular game at least once a week. And since Scott was the only “groom” available, and since he and Callie were siblings, naturally Sheila always got to play the bride. Callie was stuck being the minister every time.
Of course, I got my revenge for all that when I took the blue at our first Pony Club rally, she reminded herself. Especially since all she got was a “good effort” ribbon. Callie smiled with grim satisfaction as she remembered the look on Sheila’s face when Callie had walked forward to accept her ribbon and trophy. That had really put Sheila in her place for a while. She pretended it was no big deal, just like I always pretended not to care about being the minister, but—
Suddenly Callie caught herself. What was she doing? Her oldest, dearest friend was arriving the next day, and all she could think about was their petty childhood rivalries.
Of course, those rivalries were always a pretty big part of our relationship, she thought ruefully. And now …
She glanced at the shiny metal crutches leaning against a nearby counter. Just for a moment, she found herself desperately wishing that things could be different. If only she hadn’t been in the car that day. If only the accident had never happened …
She shook her head, causing Pierre to jerk his scissors back and shoot her a dirty look in the mirror. But she ignored him, too distracted by her thoughts to worry about her hair. She knew better than to waste much time on wishing things were different. What had happened had happened, and now she had to deal with the consequences.
Maybe there’s still a way to make up for all that, though, she told herself. Even Sheila has got to see that this is temporary. She glanced at her crutches again. Especially if I convince her that the rest of my life here in Washington is positively fabulous. She smiled at the thought. I mean, even Sheila would probably be impressed with all the famous politicians I’ve met since we moved here, like that handsome young senator who came to visit me when I was in the hospital. She pursed her lips. And then there’s Fenton Hall. It’s really a pretty impressive school, much more prestigious than our boring old public school back home.
Callie frowned again, suddenly disgusted with herself. What was she doing? Sheila was coming all the way across the country to see her, and before she even arrived Callie had an attitude about it. What was wrong with her, anyway? Maybe Stevie had a point. Maybe it would be better if she grew up and broke out of those ridiculous old patterns. After all, Sheila was her best friend, wasn’t she? They had known each other all their lives, for better or worse. If Callie couldn’t be honest with Sheila, whom could she trust?
That wasn’t a comfortable thought. Callie trusted Sheila as much as she trusted anybody, but she still didn’t relish the thought of risking her pride by appearing less than perfect, less than completely in control, in front of her.
Still, what do I have to lose? she told herself. Sheila lives way across the country now. The worst that can happen is I’ll humiliate myself and she’ll get her jollies telling everyone back home what a loser I’ve become.
That wasn’t a pleasant thought at all, but Callie forced herself to face it down. She had no reason to think that Sheila wouldn’t welcome a new beginning. The only thing she had to fear was her own inability to make it happen.
All I can do is try, she thought with sudden determination. I’ll try to be a real friend to Sheila for a change. I just hope I can figure out how to do that.
She glanced at her mother, who was chatting graciously with Pierre about his hometown in the south of France. It would be nice to talk to someone about Sheila. But somehow Callie didn’t think her mother would understand. Maybe she could ask Stevie for some pointers. She certainly seemed to be interested in helping.
That’s what I’ll do, she decided, nervously squeezing the armrests of the stylist’s chair but already feeling better. I’ll call her as soon as I get home.
At that moment Carole was in Starlight’s stall at Pine Hollow, giving him a quick grooming.
“Hold still,” she told the big bay sternly as he shifted his weight and took a step forward. He was a little frisky, and for a moment Carole felt guilty. She had ridden him for about half an hour in the small back paddock, but it hadn’t really been enough exercise after his light workout with Ben the day before.
Still, it’s not really my fault, she told herself. Red needed the big paddock for that colt he’s breaking, and Max had a class in the main ring.…
She put it out of her mind. Starlight would survive, and she had other things to think about right then. She was trying to figure out what to do with Samson. She’d been planning some simple conditioning hill work in the rolling north meadow, but the previous day the gelding had been a little difficult to handle, and she was afraid he was getting bored with all the flat exercises and grid work she’d been doing with him lately. Like people, horses liked some variety in their routine, and Carole knew that with a spirited, intelligent horse like Samson, it was especially important to keep him interested in his work. She had been spending almost half their time on jumping—it was hard to resist, since Samson was in such superior physical condition that he probably could have jumped every day with little problem—but now she realized that the horse must need a real break from his serious training.
Sort of like a minivacation, she thought as she grabbed a soft brush out of her grooming kit and set to work on Starlight’s face. He needs a change of scenery. Something that will be fun and interesting for him, to refresh him and get him back in the mood for work.
Starlight snorted and jerked his head slightly as she moved the brush a little too close to his eye. “Oops. Sorry, boy,” she said automatically, patting him and switching to the other side of his face. But she wasn’t really seeing Starlight standing there in front of her. She was picturing Samson, trying to figure out the best course of action for that day’s session.
I haven’t done that much cross-country or trail work with him, she thought. That’s probably a mistake. He needs to have varied enough experience to prepare him for any strange-looking jump a course designer can come up with in the show ring.
Carole nodded thoughtfully as she slowly brushed Starlight’s cheek. In show jumping, course designers used a variety of methods to test the horses that would be attempting their course. Besides varying the distances between obstacles and adding other challenges such as combinations or water elements, the designer could also create unusual-looking, odd-shaped jumps to test the horse’s concentration and obedience to its rider. Samson would have to be ready for all that when he returned to the show ring, and viewing plenty of unusual, unexpected, even frightening items in the real world—fallen logs, natural streams, man-made gates and walls—was one way Carole could help prepare him.
Carole stood on tiptoes so that she could see over Starlight’s head and down the aisle to the main door. It looked just as sunny and pleasant outside as it had been an hour before when she’d been out with Starlight. That’s what we’ll do today, she decided, feeling pleased. A nice leisurely trail ride will be a break in routine for both of us. And if we take the mountain trail, I can even get in some of that hill work I was planning.
She smiled at that thought. The mountain trail, which snaked through the woods and climbed a series of steep hills to a high, rocky spot with a fantastic view of the surrounding woodland, was one of her favorites out of the many trails near Pine Hollow. Exploring it with Samson would be an absolutely wonderful way to spend a gorgeous sunny afternoon. In fact, she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do.
“Okay, Starlight,” she said, giving her horse’s face one last quick swipe with the bru
sh. “I think we’re just about done here.”
She tossed the brush back into the grooming bucket and glanced around the stall. She had mucked out a few minutes before and there was a fresh flake of hay in his hayrack, so all she had to do was refresh the water bucket hanging in the corner and she would be free to go tack up Samson for their ride.
She slung the grooming kit over one arm and grabbed the water bucket with her other hand, grunting slightly under its weight.
“Guess you weren’t too thirsty today, huh, boy?” she commented to Starlight. She knew his light workout probably had something to do with that, but again, she pushed that out of her mind.
She ducked under the webbing at the front of the stall and set the grooming bucket down, then hoisted the water bucket and started down the aisle toward the faucet at the end of the U-shaped stable area, doing her best not to slosh water on her clothes.
“I don’t know why Max doesn’t just put in automatic waterers,” she muttered. “Practically every other stable around here has them, and it would sure make things easier for all of us—not to mention keeping us a lot drier.” It was tempting to dump the water out right where she was instead of carrying it all the way over to the drain beneath the faucet, but she knew Max frowned on that. She peered down at the water in the bucket. It didn’t look as though Starlight had taken more than a sip or two since she had filled it earlier that day. For a change, there weren’t even many stray specks of hay or straw floating on the top. Usually Starlight was a slob when it came to drinking, polluting his bucket with bits of whatever he had been eating or sniffing at most recently.
As Carole staggered around the corner and came in sight of the faucet area, she also came in sight of Ben Marlow. He was standing in front of the faucet watching a burly older man in a tool belt tap at the pipe leading up from the cement floor.
“What’s going on?” Carole asked, lowering her bucket carefully.
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