The Distance Home Page 6

  I take the book and head to the patio. It’s late enough that the sun has dipped behind the house, leaving the flagstones comfortably warm and the air with a slight chill. I crack the book open and read the first paragraph.

  After reading it for the fourth time, I let the book drop to my chest and wrap my arms around it.

  The fields behind the Mountain Inn stretch beyond imagination, dipping and then rising and then dipping again, naked grass flowing into clumps of woods and hugging muddy ponds. Fences separate neighboring properties, and if you look closely along the fence line, you can find the occasional jump, used by foxhunters as they canter from one property to another.

  I’d been on one hunt during my short stint in Pony Club. The galloping and jumping had been fun until my pony decided the big red horse ahead of us was cramping his style. Turns out there’s a strict rule in foxhunting that you’re not to pass the hunt master. That was the end of my foxhunting career. And Pony Club.

  A deer bounds across the nearest field. Three more follow, their delicate legs skimming the earth as they disappear into the twilight. I turn to look where they emerged, but the parade is over. My eyes trail back to the woods at the opposite end of the field, my upper body pitches forward, and the muscles of my legs tighten as the imaginary me gallops across the field and finds the perfect distance to the wood coop jump. The memory of hoofbeats pounding the ground echoes in my head. My heart.

  8

  October 1991

  Emma tugs at the seat belt. It feels like it’s going to choke her. Why is her father driving so slowly? She could have walked faster. She’d wanted to walk. She’d wanted to go alone. But no, he’d insisted on driving her.

  She pulls at the strap again and moves her right arm over it so that it won’t cut into her neck.

  “Emma, the seat belt won’t be much help in the event of an accident if you’re not buckled in properly.”

  “We won’t get in an accident. We’re just going around the corner. We could have walked faster.” She mumbles the last few words, keeping her head down as she repositions the seat belt across her chest.

  “Emma.”

  She raises her head and meets her father’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yes, sir.”

  They finally pull into the Jumping Frog Farm driveway and Emma unclasps the seat belt, then twists in the seat so she has a full view out the side window. She feels her father’s eyes on her but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Look, look, that’s Pogo. That’s the funny pony I told you about.” She taps the window as though that will help her father see the pony in the field. Her father doesn’t turn to look, and Emma flattens her palm on the window in silent greeting to Pogo.

  She’s first out, barely waiting for the car to come to a complete stop. Her father reminds her to slow down as she skip-walks just ahead of him. This will be her first official riding lesson. She’s so excited she feels like she’s going to burst. Bang, like a popped balloon.

  “Hey, hey, young lady, slow down or you’ll be exhausted before you ever get on the pony.” Simon greets them from the door to the stable. He reaches out to shake hands with Emma’s father. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Metz. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Emma’s cheeks blaze under the scrutiny of her father. She bites her lip and clenches her left hand into a tight fist to keep from chewing on her finger. She’s pretty sure a lecture is coming about what personal information she should be sharing with strangers and she doesn’t want to give him a reason to yell at her about chewing on her nails as well. It’s not as though she’s said anything about him or her mom. Whatever Simon has heard, it’s not been from her. She peeks up at Simon, curious suddenly if what he said is one of those things adults say to be friendly or if he really has heard a lot about her father, her family, and from who. Whom, Emma, whom.

  Simon winks at her. It’s an adult thing. She releases the bottled-up breath.

  “Yes, well, nice to meet you. Emma hasn’t stopped badgering us about riding since we moved in. I appreciate you fitting her in.”

  “She’s a pleasure to have around.” Simon places a large, calloused hand on her shoulder and she immediately feels safe, grounded. She smiles up at him. He turns back to her father. “You’re welcome to stay and watch.”

  Emma’s father shifts his weight to the heels of his dress shoes, shiny and unscratched, so different from the scuffed boots Simon is wearing. She has the urge to grab his hand and beg him to stay. But the tightness of his body, hands pushed into pant pockets, stops her. He won’t stay. He never stays.

  “She’s in good hands, I’m sure, and I have work to catch up on.” He pivots forty-five degrees so he’s angled away from Simon and toward her. “Be respectful, do as you’re instructed. And don’t overstay.”

  The urge to ask him to stay has been stamped into the gravel. She wants him to go, now. She studies the stones around her feet. Simon’s fingers close gently around her left shoulder. She waits for the sound of the car door closing before she releases her breath.

  “Are you ready?” Another gentle squeeze, this one with a twist of the wrist that turns her away from the parking lot.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No ‘sir,’ please. That was my father. He was a stuffy old fart. Hate to think I’m anything like that.” Simon chuckles.

  She skips to match his strides. “Oh, no, not at all.”

  He laughs. “Jillian may disagree with you on that.”

  Emma wants to disagree but she thinks that would be disrespectful even though she’s not actually disagreeing. She likes the sound of “stuffed fart.” It suits her father way more than it suits Simon. There are times, Emma, when saying nothing is your best decision.

  “First thing’s first, we need to get a proper pair of boots on you.”

  She follows him into a tack room. She hasn’t been in this one before. Tack trunks line the wall under hanging bridles. Emma remembers watching one of the ladies wipe down her bridle after a ride, then twist the throat latch, as she’d explained it to a wide-eyed Emma, into a figure eight that secured the reins and bridle into a neat package. Emma’s fingers trace the movements the woman had made. She hopes she can remember how to do that when it’s her turn. The wall next to the bridles contains two rows of saddle racks. Each saddle has a shiny silver nameplate on the back strip. She can’t remember what it’s called. She gives herself a mental reminder to get a book and study the parts of the tack. And the horse.

  Along the third wall is a brown leather couch and more trunks. There are hooks on the wall with jackets, dark green with the barn logo on the back. She catches embroidery on the left chest of the jacket closest to her. She wonders whom it belongs to. How neat would it be to have one like that? Above the couch are a handful of framed photographs of people in fancy riding clothes and gleaming horses jumping big jumps. Maybe one day there will be a picture of her up there as well.

  She closes her eyes and takes in a deep inhale of leather and horse. She’s pretty sure this is the most perfect place she’s ever been in.

  “Sit,” Simon commands. “Try these on.”

  He hands her a pair or short brown boots with a zipper along the top. They’re a perfect fit. She grins at him, not trusting her voice.

  “Brilliant. Take them. They don’t fit Jillian anymore and there’s no reason for them to sit here unused, collecting mouse poop. Now, let’s get you on a pony, what do you say?”

  She grins wider and nods. Her insides are full of happy and she wants to keep that bottled inside as long as possible.

  Simon shows her how to enter a stall, how to put a halter on, and how to get an uncooperative pony into a tack stall. She giggles when Rusty shakes his head and stamps his left front hoof in protest.

  She takes her time brushing Rusty, reciting the instructions Simon gave her. Brush with the direction of the hair, stay angled so you can see his head (don’t give him the opportunity to bite your bum), body close to his so he can’t kick you.
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  Simon helps her lift the saddle onto the pony’s back and talks her through tightening the girth. He stays between her and Rusty’s head, for which she’s grateful because even though she’s not making the girth tight, the pony is making mean faces and snapping his teeth.

  “I don’t think he likes me.” She steps away from the pony until her back is against the wall. She’s having second thoughts about this riding bit.

  “He just wants you to think he’s mean. He is a bit of a pisser though with his girth. You’ll get used to him and learn when to call his bluff.”

  Simon hands her a black hard hat and helps her adjust the straps so they fit properly around her ears and under her chin. She wonders if she looks as professional as Jillian or if it’s clear to everyone what a beginner she really is. She leads the pony to the indoor arena, mimicking how she’s seen Jillian do it. She catches a glimpse of herself in the glass door to the lounge. She looks like a total beginner. She’s glad her father didn’t stay to watch.

  It may not be her first time on a pony, but it is her first official lesson and it’s the first time she’s expected to control the pony herself. Her nerves threaten a toilet emergency. She takes in a long, slow breath.

  Simon helps her mount and adjusts her stirrups. He tightens the girth and slaps at Rusty’s muzzle when the pony snaps at his rear end. Emma grips the reins and squeezes her knees into the saddle.

  “Relax.” Simon jiggles her right knee. “You can’t grip with your knees. Let your legs get long and soft. They have to curve around his sides. Do you feel that? That’s where they go.”

  She tells her body to memorize the position Simon has molded her legs into.

  “Now, nudge him into a walk and make sure he stays along the rail. He’s a crafty cracker and will try to cut his corners. Don’t let him. Use your inside leg to push him out and your outside rein to keep him on track. Got it?”

  She nods. She can do this. She’s doing it. Rusty is walking quietly along the wall of the arena. She’s really, really riding.

  They get to the small end of the ring but instead of staying on the track like he’s supposed to, Rusty executes a sharp turn and cuts across to the other long wall, picking up his pace to an uncomfortable walk-trot the closer they get to the gate.

  She pulls both hands back until they bump into her stomach, but instead of slowing down, he drops his head, yanking her out of the saddle. She barely catches herself on his neck before he shoots his stubby neck back up. She grabs a handful of mane, dropping the reins in the process.

  They reach the gate with Emma clinging sideways, determined not to fall. Rusty stops and she wriggles herself back into the saddle.

  Okay, she wasn’t really riding. And she’s not sure she can ride. It looks so much easier. She wants to slide off, she wants to disappear. She doesn’t want Simon to be disappointed with her.

  “You stayed on him. Good job, Toad. Not many first-time riders would have been able to do that. He’s got a mean bounce when he wants. Now, bring him to the middle and let’s chat for a couple of minutes.”

  Simon talks to her about hand position and how her hands talk to Rusty’s mouth. How her legs tell him where to go and how to get there. How the movement of her body softens his gaits or makes him get tense and bouncy.

  For the next few laps she mumbles Simon’s instructions to herself, barely hearing what he’s actually saying. They do small circles, big circles, diagonal lines that are only slightly zigzaggy, and figure eights that are exactly how she writes them—smaller on top and not completely round. Suddenly she realizes her body is working with Rusty.

  Her mind has stilled and it’s no longer Simon’s voice in her head. She really is riding.

  This may be the first time and they may have only been walking, but Emma knows that she’ll never forget the moment she lost her heart to horses.

  9

  I kick the blanket to the foot of the bed and flop onto my back. There’s a sliver of light peeking between the curtains and a noisy discussion going on among the bird population of Emmitsville, which have all apparently congregated on my balcony. The alarm hasn’t gone off on my iPhone yet, so it must still be early. The ceiling fan thwacks the air above and I yank the blanket back up to my chin.

  Sleep has slipped away, though. Even under the safety of the comforter, the doubts find me. It’s Sunday. Normally I’d go to the gym, then pop into the office or work at my dining-room table for a few hours. But there’s nothing normal about the last few days. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be.

  I turn my head until the table comes into focus. My laptop sits, waiting, next to the box with my father’s papers.

  The alarm chimes and I slide my finger along the screen to silence it.

  “You’re not planning on being lazy all day, are you, Emma?”

  No, Dad, I’m not. When was the last time I stayed in bed on a Sunday?

  “Maybe I will stay in bed.” I fluff the pillow and let my head drop back.

  Or not. The smell of coffee pulls me out of bed.

  I could take the day off.

  And do what?

  I don’t take off days. I don’t take sick days. Days away from work are days when the brain clicks over the things I don’t have. The things you never allowed yourself to have.

  Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I follow the aroma of a sharp, dark roast and fresh bread downstairs. A woman in her mid-fifties, wearing khakis, a blue Polo shirt, and light blue Keds, is fussing with baskets on a long buffet table in the dining room. Her bobbed blond hair swishes around her shoulders as her body sways to soft music. She turns and envelopes me in a smile that heats the room.

  “Good morning.” She stops in mid-arrange. “You’re just in time. These are fresh out of the oven.” She jiggles the basket, releasing an intoxicating scent.

  “They smell wonderful. But I’m not much of a breakfast person. Just coffee will be fine.” I walk to the buffet, where a coffeepot sits on a warmer. But it’s the espresso machine next to it that has my attention.

  “Nonsense. Everyone needs a good breakfast. Sit, sit. I’ll prepare a latte for you and you really must try one of these.” She plucks a perfectly round and still steaming roll from the basket, places it on a plate, and slides it in front of me along with a ramekin of whipped butter. “That’s herb butter. Made fresh on the dairy up the road. And these are from an orchard just past the dairy. All local.” She places a plate filled with sliced peaches, a small mound of yogurt, and a drizzle of honey next to the other plate.

  The espresso machine hisses and grinds, spitting away any arguments of turning these goodies down.

  “We haven’t officially met. I’m Lucy Corcoran. I own this place. Gina mentioned you’ve been keeping yourself busy since you checked in. Do you already have fun plans for today? You’re friends with Tommy Adler, right? Are you going out with him and his husband today? They’re such fun, aren’t they? If not and you need suggestions I can point you in any number of directions. It’s going to be a perfect day. Warm but not as hot as the last few days. Perfect fall day to go exploring.”

  She turns and smiles and I suddenly realize I’m the one who’s breathless. How can anyone talk so much and so fast?

  I stall, sipping the latte, which is one of the best I’ve had. I make a mental note to ask what brand of coffee she uses.

  “No plans with Thomas, um, Tommy. I have work to catch up on. Maybe I’ll explore a bit if there’s time after.” I twist the mug, hoping to dislodge the foam clinging to the side.

  “Work will wait. We won’t have that many more glorious days like this. Give me that mug, and eat.”

  A happy sigh accompanies the hiss and burp of the espresso machine. Lucy places a fresh mug in front of me and taps the plates closer, then disappears out a side door. Maybe she’s right about a good breakfast. I cut open the bread and breathe in. Why don’t I ever get fresh bread back home? Because you never make the time.

  When Lucy returns, I’m on my last b
ite of peaches, the bread long finished and the mug all but licked clean. She pulls out a chair next to me and places a piece of paper between us. It’s a hand-drawn map of the region with a few places highlighted, including the dairy and orchard, a farm that raises sheep and dyes their own wool, and an up-and-coming winery. All within an hour or two’s drive from the inn. There’s a yellow trail complete with arrows pointing me from stop to stop and a scenic drive back.

  With a satisfied nod and a gentle pat to my upper arm, Lucy takes my plate and bids me a fun, relaxing day. And not to worry about dinner, she’ll save something for me.

  A fun, relaxing day. This should be interesting.

  My first stop, according to Lucy’s itinerary, is The Spinning Ewe. Although why I’m going is beyond me. I’ve never held a crochet hook or knitting needle in my life. Never had the desire to. Yes, I know it’s trendy to knit, I’ve seen friends gather for Stitch and Bitch or Wine and Hook parties. I always had a ready excuse—mainly, work.

  What do you have to lose?

  The rental purrs to life and I anchor the map on the passenger seat with my purse. Fifteen miles down the road, I realize exactly why Thomas booked me at the Mountain Inn.

  We came every year on my birthday. I hated it at first. What kid wants to visit the cemetery on her birthday? But as I got older and could ride my bike here, I started to actually enjoy the visits with my mom.

  I navigate the narrow lanes of the cemetery, trying to picture myself riding these roads. What I remembered as the first right turns out to be a new road that leads in the opposite direction. After several wrong turns and six-point attempts at turning the car around, I find my mom’s grave.

  I pull over and wait for a row of cars to snake past, a black hearse leading the procession. When the last car has disappeared from sight, I step out of the rental and walk to the grave.

  “Hi, Mom.” I sink until I’m eye-to-name with the marble stone, and wait, although god knows for what.