The Distance Home Page 3

  The chair closest to me is turned away from the table, just enough for an easy landing.

  When I turned sixteen? No, there’d been a box waiting for me on the table when I came home from school. Inside was a key on a shiny Tiffany keychain. A typed note read, “Happy sixteenth. May it take you to all the places you dream.” In the garage was a shiny new silver Jeep. Just like the one on my “wish board” in my room. He came home late that night, after I was already in bed. I pretended to be asleep. It was easier than pretending I was okay with his absence.

  That birthday, like so many before, had been celebrated with my wish-you-were-mine family. Rena had baked a carrot cake in the shape of a carrot. Jilli had given me a bracelet braided from Jack’s tail hairs.

  My fingers brush at my left wrist where I’d put the bracelet, where it had stayed for five months. They’d cut it off in the hospital and thrown it away with my bloody clothes.

  Most birthdays after that were celebrated with my friends. At the boarding school, then in my dorm at college, and with roommates during grad school. There was the year right after graduation that Dad had paid for a trip to France. He was to meet me in Toulouse and we were going to spend four days touring the Loire Valley.

  He’d canceled at the last minute.

  I slip the death certificate back into the envelope. It won’t tell me more than I already know, which is nothing.

  I reach for another envelope with my father’s home address on the label. The envelope bulges and jingles. House keys. A card for a realtor named T. J. Ross. A sheet of paper with the name and number of the cleaning person.

  The box contains several more envelopes, one full of labeled receipts, another with itineraries from various business trips, yet another with what looks like several years of medical reports. Five years’ worth of black agenda books and several sketch pads anchor the bottom of the box.

  I flip through the top agenda. Doctor’s appointments, concerts at the Kennedy Center, dinner engagements. Typical stuff.

  I open the top sketch pad and I’m transported into the lives of people I’ve never met. Sad people, lonely people, old people, young people. People deep in thought or in the throes of anguish. People enjoying a happy thought or laughing at a joke. I flip to the end, then start over at the beginning, mouth open, eyes wanting to close and shut out the assault. Each drawing is alive in details and emotion. Each drawing is signed by my father.

  “These can’t be yours. They’re amazing.”

  I leaf through the sketch pad again, slower this time.

  “Were these your clients or random people?”

  How did I not know he could draw like this?

  Why am I so surprised that there’s something about my father I didn’t know?

  Except it’s not really his secret talent that’s rattling my nerves. It’s the intimacy in that talent, the raw emotion that he saw and captured.

  More than that, it’s as though he opened himself to these people, allowed them to touch his heart. A heart he never opened to me.

  3

  After a sleepless night haunted by the faces my father had brought to life, I need a dose of familiar. Work. I need work.

  Like an addict desperate for a fix, I chew the rough skin at the edge of my thumbnail while the laptop comes to life.

  A full day without checking in was twenty-eight hours more than I can handle. I’ve never been good at boundaries between work time and personal time. Awake time is open season and even sleep hours often become equal opportunity. Despite all my rantings that I’d never be like him, there’s no denying how very much like him I’ve turned out. Would I be different if my mom hadn’t died when I was so young? If she hadn’t been sick those last years and been a stronger influence?

  I tap at a voice message on my cell phone and groan as Howard’s pouty voice puffs through the distance. “Em, I’ve been trying to reach you. The proofs for the corporate brochure are in and Bruce is boiling PO’ed. Claims we used the wrong photo of him. Says he gave specific instructions which one to use. And now he wants to read every word and look at every photo since You’re. Not. Here.”

  I grind my teeth at the taunting singsong. Because this is where I want to be? I chose to come here?

  My boss, Bruce Patchett, had tried to overrule my time off, claiming my father would still be dead a week from now but the corporate brochures needed to be printed in time for the big trade show in Las Vegas the following month. I was inclined to agree. But the HR director had insisted.

  So here I am.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and listen to the neurotically soothing melody of e-mails pouring in. At least this mess I know how to untangle.

  I send a few e-mails and answer others. A surprising number of responses pop back almost immediately. It may be Saturday morning, but I’m in good workaholics’ company.

  Three hours later, I stand and stretch. The smell of breakfast from downstairs has evaporated. The coffee shop by Adler Law wafts through my memory. Or a Starbucks. At least there I can pretend I’m on a quick break from work. Caffeine and comfort.

  I wonder if my nameless barista at the Starbucks a block from my office has noticed my absence. Every morning he waves a hello when I step through the doors. By the time I reach the front of the line, he’s handing me a paper cup, “2 shot hazel” written in black Sharpie on the side.

  I’ll find a Starbucks on my way to my father’s condo.

  In the car, I key in the address. Four turns later I growl a “shut up” at the invisible lady giving me directions and turn off the navigation system. I know my way. It may not have been home to me, but I know exactly where it is.

  The faster I clean it out, the sooner I can get it sold. And the faster it sells, the sooner I can return to my life.

  I hit the blinker for a left turn and ease to the Stop sign. When it’s my turn, I turn right instead and tap the gas. The rental picks up speed and coasts over the undulating roads, around curves that open into rolling acres of horse country. These roads have barely changed in the sixteen years since I was last here, and yet nothing is the same. I lift my right foot as I reach a four-way stop at the corner of Meadowbrook and Larks Lane. To the right is the property that was once our home. He sold it after he sent me away to boarding school.

  The acres that led to the massive house on the hill are now dotted with cookie-cutter houses, each one huge, generic, naked. The trees that separated our house from the road are gone, the rolling hills flattened.

  There are no kids playing in front of the houses, no dogs chasing squirrels across the yards, no cats sunning on front porches. Garage doors are closed tight and curtains in the lower-level windows are drawn, like women clutching their sweaters closed. A shudder ripples through my body and I can’t escape the thought that this property is jinxed.

  In all the years we lived here, there was never a dog running loose in the yard. Never a cat terrorizing squirrels. Curtains were never opened. And I never played in the vast expanse of lawn. Instead, I wore a path through the woods and into the back paddock of the neighboring property—Jumping Frog Farm. I wonder if any of the kids who live in these houses use that path? If any of them escape to the other side of the creek and find comfort in the sound of hoofbeats?

  * * *

  There are two cars in the parking lot of Jumping Frog Farm this morning: my rental and a black BMW. For the second time in three days, I’ve arrived here without intent. Or at least conscious intent.

  I’m greeted by the nonsilence of a morning at the barn. A lazy nicker, the scrape of a shovel, the stomp of a hoof. I slip into a happier time.

  As long as there was a horse nearby and Jillian by my side, I was happy. Jilli was my first real friend. We had so much in common and yet we were totally different. She became the big sister I fantasized about. For the first time in my life, I was part of a family. Well, a family that actually acted like a family. More than mine at least.

  I walk to the large doors of the barn and chase
away the disappointment when Jack doesn’t pop his head out in greeting.

  From inside I hear classical music. And the soft three-beat thump of a horse cantering in the indoor arena. My toes flex and curl inside my sneakers in time to the tempo drummed out by the horse’s hooves. My body moves, pulled by the equine magnet. Sixteen years away from horses and the desire still pounds through my veins like white-water rapids.

  I stop at the edge of the indoor arena. The big gray horse and dark-haired man from yesterday canter by. I lose myself in the rhythm of the gait, the power of the horse, the perfect line between the rider’s elbow and the horse’s mouth, the slight swing of his leg as he asks the horse to bend into the turn. They take the diagonal across the ring and the horse executes perfect one tempis, skipping like a carefree child as he changes canter leads with each step.

  “Beautiful, isn’t he?” Simon’s gravelly voice disrupts my trance.

  “He is.”

  Simon bumps my shoulder with his. “I meant the horse.”

  I feel a flash of heat zip up my neck. “So did I.”

  The horse breaks into a walk with a satisfied snort. His rider leans to pat the muscular shoulder and, catching sight of us, waves.

  “Ben, come meet Toad.”

  Horse and rider halt in front of us. “Toad?” Bushy dark eyebrows pull up and his face opens like a kid about to crack a secret.

  “Emma Metz, this is Ben Barrett. Ben is our lead trainer. And this,” Simon holds out a hand to the big gray, “is Wally.”

  Ben studies me while his horse frisks me. “You look familiar. Have I seen you at one of the shows?”

  I shake my head, keeping my eyes on Wally and fingering his forelock. The horse senses a scratch opportunity and leans into my hand.

  Ben tugs on the reins. “Damn, buddy, don’t throw yourself at the ladies so quickly.”

  Simon barks a laugh and slaps the gelding on the neck. “He has good taste.”

  Wally turns his attention to Simon, nuzzling pockets that still seem to hatch horse treats. Ben, on the other hand, zeros in on me.

  “Wait, I do know you. Well, seen you. You’re the girl riding Jack in all those photos, aren’t you?”

  I turn to Simon. I’d assumed all reminders of me would have been burned.

  “Yup, that’s Toad and Jack, winning every bloody show they entered. Best student I ever had.” Simon wraps an arm around my shoulder.

  “That was a lifetime ago.” I tap the ground with the toe of my right sneaker, like a horse anxious to break away.

  Ben swings his right leg over Wally’s back and lands gracefully in the soft footing of the arena. He pats the horse’s neck, then turns to run the stirrups up and loosen the girth. He looks over his shoulder at us, the shock of dark hair partially obscuring his face. “Are you still riding, Emma?”

  “No.” The word drops from my mouth before I can stop it; then, seeing his expression, I add, “I haven’t been on a horse in years.”

  Simon gives me a gentle slap on the back. “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”

  There are a lot of things your body—and your mind—doesn’t forget. Like seeing the perfect distance to a jump and becoming one with the horse as he sails over it. Like the first kiss. Like the stab of betrayal.

  Wally nudges my midsection and I stumble back a step. Ben jiggles the reins and the horse stands at attention. “I think he’s had enough chitchat. Time for a shower, isn’t it, big guy?” The horse shakes his head, the momentum rippling through his sculpted neck. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Emma.”

  Simon and I watch the pair walk down the barn aisle. The reins are looped in Ben’s left hand while his right hand rests on the crest of his horse’s neck. A stab of emotion catches in my throat. Trust between horse and human. A trust built on mutual respect and kindness. There are no hidden agendas with horses.

  If only humans were that straightforward.

  “Fun’s over. Let’s go into the office and talk.”

  “I didn’t come to take up your time.”

  “You’re not. We have a couple of years to catch up on. So quit stalling.” Simon strides off, then stops when it’s clear I’m stuck in place. “Twice in three days, Emma. I’m not buying the possessed-car excuse this time. Don’t you think it’s time we aired out the past?”

  I take in one last look at the handsome gray horse and his not-so-bad-on-the-eyes rider, then close the distance to Simon.

  He pushes open the door to the office and steps aside for me to enter. One step up and I’ve walked into the past. The same tweed couch under the large window looking into the indoor arena. The same wood coffee table with a stack of equestrian magazines on top, although I suspect those at least have kept up with the times. The same green rug covering the beige tile floor. And the same wood desk taking up half the space.

  On the desk sits a sleek new computer, Rena hidden behind it. I see her hand lift, one finger up, before it dive-bombs a key on the unsuspecting keyboard.

  “Damn machine won’t do anything I tell it to,” she grumbles without looking at who has entered. “Why did I ever let you guys talk me into putting all our records on this evil thing?”

  “Stop bitching, will ya?” Simon walks to the couch and releases his body into its embrace.

  “There’s nothing about this that saves me time. Not. One. Damn. Thing. I ran this business long enough without a computer. Why did we have to break the process?” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.

  Simon rolls his eyes. “Why are you messing with that thing anyway? You know Jilli hates when you do that. She has barn schedules under control. Stop mucking about in there.”

  “Well she’s not here, is she? Brian is coming in soon and I don’t know who to keep in.”

  Simon rolls his eyes deeper into his head, then rolls them back. He releases a deep exhale. I stifle a giggle.

  “You’re back.” It’s suddenly quiet in the office.

  “Don’t be contrary, Rena.”

  Rena and I both turn to look at Simon. He stomps a foot, then bends to pick at his boot, ignoring her virtual daggers.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I feel like the intimidated child. Worse, I sound like an intimidated child.

  “Sit down.” Rena tilts her head toward the sofa, then eases back in her chair, but not before giving the keyboard one last poke.

  “Did you meet with the lawyers?” Simon asks after I’ve settled into the other corner of the couch.

  “Yes. Lots of paperwork to go through. He’s dealing with most of the practice issues, so hopefully I can get through the personal items quickly.”

  “How long are you staying?” Rena’s voice still holds the bark of suspicion.

  “I took a week off. My assistant is holding down deadlines.”

  “Assistant? Fancy. Shouldn’t take that long to sort through your father’s condo, should it? You could pay the lawyer to dispose of the personal items if you don’t want them.”

  Dispose of the personal items. My shoulders twitch as a shudder takes possession of that thought.

  “You’re being crass. Leave her alone,” Simon growls at her.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Rena looks at me but not at me, and it’s so much worse than if her eyes were tunneling straight into my guilt. It was always her secret weapon. Age obviously hasn’t softened that.

  My mind trips back to Dad’s last visit. A psychiatric conference where he was presenting and receiving an award. We’d met for dinner the night he arrived. I wasn’t invited to the awards dinner. He never included me in any work function. Not even as a successful adult.

  “Did you talk to him before the accident?”

  “A few days before. I don’t know, maybe a week before. Why?”

  Rena’s jaw moves as though she’s chewing on the words. “Why are you back here, Emma? Once, fine. You said hello. You satisfied your curiosity. What are you hoping to find here now?”

  I feel Simon deflate in
to the couch as my body goes rigid.

  The door to the office opens, letting in a gush of musty air. With his long legs, Ben covers the distance in three easy strides, pulls out one of the guest chairs in front of Rena’s desk, and flops down.

  “Tony is on a rampage out there. I’m hiding in here with you guys.”

  Rena locks onto Ben and I say a silent thanks that he’s taken the focus off me.

  “What’s got him worked up this time?”

  Ben stretches, the movement releasing a deep laugh. “Your granddaughter. What else?”

  “What now?” She slams a fist down on the table, making a mug sitting precariously along the edge wobble. Ben reaches out and steadies it before it tumbles to an untimely death.

  Ben smirks and shoots an under-the-eyebrow look at Simon, who shakes his head in exasperation.

  “She instructed him to prepare an extra stall. Found another horse she absolutely can’t live without.”

  “And the problem is?” The tone behind Simon’s question is one I’d heard many times growing up in Jillian’s shadow. He indulged most of Jilli’s whims. Rena was the enforcer. And it had been the kindling for many arguments between them.

  Jillian twisted the situation to her advantage. Always. I didn’t see it until later. By then it was too late for me—I was under her spell.

  “There wouldn’t be a problem if the new horse could go in one of the open stalls. She insists he be put in Oreo’s stall, and everyone else gets moved down. That’s a lot of shuffling. And a lot of shuffling that will keep Tony from finishing what he’s supposed to be doing.”

  “He’s supposed to be cleaning the stalls and taking care of the horses.”

  “Right.” Ben drawls out the word.

  I notice the corner of Rena’s eye twitch. I wonder what Ben’s relationship is to Jillian.

  “When is she due back?” Hopefully long after I’m gone. Gone where? Back to the Mountain Inn or back to Chicago?

  “Later tonight, I think.” Curiosity arches one of Ben’s eyebrows.

  “I should go. I’ve taken enough of your time.” I scooch to the edge of the cushion, the old bones of the couch complaining.