The Distance Home Page 8

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  I moan and pull the pillow over my face, mumbling a wish-you’d-sprain-your-thumbs curse at Bruce.

  There’s a hint of morning tickling the hills outside my window. That would make it still espresso-dark in Chicago. And Bruce is probably on his third cup by now.

  Last year for April Fools’ Day, the human resources director changed the office coffee to decaf. It had turned out to be a mildly mellow morning and a wildly frantic afternoon when Bruce caught on.

  Ping.

  I push the pillow away and grab my phone.

  Are you sick? Did you get run over by a tractor? Why aren’t you answering?

  Because it’s six o’clock in the morning. Except, if I were at home, I would have already answered his questions. But I’m not at home. I’m stuck in godforsaken-land, here to close out my father’s affairs. And yet what have I been doing? Sitting for hours on a sheep farm and rekindling my childhood love of horses.

  The box of my father’s papers taunts me from the table on the other side of the room.

  “Fine.”

  But first, coffee.

  The weekday breakfast spread is less extravagant than the one I’d been tempted by yesterday. I snag a roll, pour a cup of coffee, and make my way to the deserted patio. From my bag I fish out a notebook and pen.

  The fields surrounding the inn are quiet this morning. A spray of mist appears to hover over the grass, making the trees in the distance shimmer. There’s a nip in the air, the promise of sweater weather, the perfect morning for a ride.

  “Focus, Emma.” I click the top of the pen, then study the tip as though I’ve never seen a ballpoint pen before.

  Where do I start?

  1. Rena re: Mom’s involvement in the program

  2. Thomas Adler re: timing on closing out the practice

  3. Schedule appointment with realtor

  4. Schedule appointment with bank manager

  5. Howard re: corporate-brochure edits

  6. Bruce re: press appointments in Vegas

  I take a long sip from the now less-than-steaming coffee and squint at the to-do list.

  “This won’t do.” I cross out numbers five and six with a tsk. I’m not supposed to be working. But I’ve never ignored Bruce’s messages before. Instinctively I glance at my watch. Almost eight his time. I need to answer. He must be having rabid kittens by now.

  “I asked you a question, Emma. Professionalism dictates that you answer in a timely fashion.”

  I was twelve. What did I know—or care—about professionalism? The only thing I knew was that my father wanted an answer about my report card. I’d waited to open the envelope until I was away from school. It was one of the rare days I chose not to go to the stable immediately. I’d gotten off the bus at the end of our drive and run down the path in the woods, stopping halfway to the stable. There, on a fallen tree that had played the part of a jump many times while I pretend cantered back and forth over that path, I slit the envelope open and collapsed in tears.

  B+ in science.

  The only other time I’d gotten a B+ was in PE after we first moved to Emmitsville. Like most kids, I’d done round-offs on the playground. But I’d never mastered straightening my legs or controlling the speed. Gymnastics had turned out to be a colossal failure for me. No matter how much I stretched or how hard I tried, I just couldn’t do the splits or jump on the balance beam or do a proper cartwheel. But I pushed my eight-year-old muscles into trying. And for that, she’d given me the B+. I’d thought it was fair. My father grounded me for two weeks.

  I didn’t do B+’s after that. One A–, the semester after my mother died. He’d pursed his lips, opened the bottom desk drawer, put the report card in the folder with my other report cards, closed the drawer, and bidden me good night.

  But a B+ in science was inexcusable in his eyes. This time, I couldn’t even hide behind someone’s death.

  “How did this happen, Emma?” His voice had that practiced paternal calm that sent a shiver of dread down a kid’s spine.

  I had no answer. I’d studied. I’d turned in all assignments. But the A’s had eluded my best efforts.

  “I asked you a question, Emma. Professionalism dictates that you answer in a timely fashion.”

  I’d thought to point out the frayed edge of the area rug in his office. I’d wanted to point out that science just wasn’t my strength. In the end, I’d apologized and accepted my punishment with a nod.

  One month. No playdates after school. No riding until he was satisfied that I was taking my studies seriously. That I was being professional.

  “Fine, Dad.”

  I refocus on the to-do list.

  1. Howard re: corporate-brochure edits

  2. Bruce re: press appointments in Vegas

  Professionalism wins.

  But curiosity trumps professionalism. I return the mug to the sideboard in the dining room and head for the front door.

  The drive to Jumping Frog Farm is a blender of emotions. Guilt for not responding to Bruce, anxiety at confronting Rena, dread over a potential run-in with Jillian.

  Plus a smidgen of anticipation at being around the horses. All these years later, my insides are right back to happy jiggles at the mere thought of being close to a horse.

  “You’re in trouble.” I pull into the drive to the stable and inhale, then catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Big trouble.”

  There are several cars in the parking lot this morning and I hear Rena bellowing from the outdoor arena.

  My feet carry me in the opposite direction, into the safety of the barn. I stop at the door to let my eyes adjust. There’s the bristling scratch of a broom to my left. A man wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt in the stable’s hunter green, with STAFF across his back, sings to a song crackling from a radio. Reception had never been strong here, except for a country music station none of us wanted to listen to. I guess some things haven’t changed.

  The peacefulness of the barn is shattered by metal hitting wood. A horse stomps and there’s a clang-thump as a crosstie bangs into the wall.

  “Knock it off,” a male voice grumbles, and is answered by another stomp and clang-thump. “Dammit, horse. Rena will turn you into a wall ornament if you don’t stop denting her walls.”

  I take a few strides toward the commotion but stop when the wash stall comes into sight.

  A blonde is leaning against the corner of the stall, her back turned to me, a long braid running down the middle of her back. “Why do you insist on pulling his mane? You know he hates it. Use the clippers. It’s faster. And less dangerous for the walls.” She shrugs and shifts, the movement revealing her profile.

  Ben steps down from the step stool and retrieves a metal mane comb from the ground. “That’s what you do, Jill. It’s the lazy way out and I hate the way it looks.”

  My heartbeat and breath catch, like kids caught in a freeze dance. I want to move, turn, disappear, but the music hasn’t started and I’m frozen in place.

  “Hey. Emma’s back.” Ben flashes a grin at me and waves me over.

  “Who?” The blonde pivots.

  Sixteen years. Gone in the blink of an eye.

  She still wears her hair the same. Still stands with the same defiant dare-you attitude.

  “Jilli.” The word barely registers in my ears. But it must have been loud enough because I see—or think I see—her wince.

  “Emma.”

  Ben looks from me to Jillian, back to me, his grin sagging in the heavy air between us. “Huh.” It sounds more like a hiccup and Jilli and I both turn to look at him. “Not the hello I would have expected from two old friends.”

  “That was a long time ago.” She bounces the braid over her shoulder.

  “It was.” I agree.

  At least we’re agreeing on something. That’s a start, right?

  Ben studies us a heartbeat longer, then turns back to Wally with another “huh” hiccup.

  “What do you think,
Emma, pull the mane or trim with clippers?”

  It’s a test. One I don’t have a prayer to get even a B+ on.

  “I always liked the look of a pulled mane.”

  Jillian releases a derisive snort. She pushes off from the wall, startling Wally, who steps sideways and plants his right front hoof on Ben’s foot.

  “Move, you moose.” Ben shoves at the horse’s shoulder, then glares at Jillian. “What is your problem?”

  She glares back. “You.”

  Before Ben can form a comeback, Jillian turns on me. “Why are you here?”

  I feel a flush of heat spreading up my chest to coat my neck and face with what must be an ugly shade of incredulity. “Tying up my father’s estate.”

  “No. I meant here.” She nods her head, indicating the stable.

  My shoulders start to rise in a shrug I haven’t approved. No. I am not that eight-year-old girl afraid of her own shadow. I will not be meek. “I’m here to talk to Rena.”

  Jillian takes in my almost-new Converses, pressed capris, and clearly-not-made-for-horse-slobber silk shirt. “That’s why they invented phones.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Your point?”

  “I’m not here to take your time so why does this concern you?” I catch a glimpse of Ben ducking his head to cover a spreading smirk.

  Jillian inhales deeply and bites the corner of her lip. “She’s busy with classes. As the manager of the barn, her schedule does concern me.”

  “I won’t be staying long.”

  The heat deepens when I hear the apologetic tone of my voice. And then scorches with the realization that after all these years I do still care.

  11

  March 1992

  The birds woke her up. She’d promised her mom to stay in bed later since it was Sunday but the birds obviously had other plans for the day.

  The whole week had been warm and sunny. Perfect spring weather. Flowers were popping up everywhere and the trees were showing signs of life. Emma loved spring. Especially out here.

  During her lesson on Friday, Simon said that if the weather held, he’d take her and Jillian on a trail ride Sunday.

  Emma had spent Saturday staring at the sky and bargaining with the forces of nature. If you make it a perfect day, I’ll take the trash out without being asked for a full week. If you make Sunday warm and sunny, I’ll come home immediately after the ride and do my book report without being reminded.

  Maybe she had some pull after all, because the sun was finally out. She’s never been on the trail. In the five months since she started riding, all of her lessons have been in the indoor arena. Friday was her first time in the outdoor arena.

  She couldn’t imagine riding being any more perfect, but with the breeze tickling her face and the sunbeams warming her arms, riding was just that much more amazing.

  Even Jillian was less crabby. She wouldn’t go so far as to say they were becoming friends but at least they weren’t enemies anymore.

  There was a girl, Kimmie, in art class who was friendly enough although she usually hung out with other girls during recess and lunch. Jo, who was in her media group, rode at Jumping Frog Farm. She played with Emma during recess. They’d make up courses around the playground or pretend they were in a flat class walking, trotting, cantering in circles, and changing direction. On indoor recess days, they’d devour the horse books in the class library.

  Jo had even invited Emma for a sleepover once. Emma’s mom hadn’t been feeling well enough to take her and her father hadn’t gotten home until too late. There haven’t been invitations since. And since then, she spends recess alone, reading.

  She’s been careful around Jillian. She tries to be friendly but aloof—that’s what Rena calls how Tootsie the barn cat behaves. You know he’ll purr if you rub his chin and scratch his back, but he walks past with his tail up high, looking in the opposite direction, and makes you come to him. He’ll never let on that he really does want you to pet him. She always pets him and so do most people at the barn. If it works for him, maybe it’ll work for her.

  It does a bit. Jillian has watched a couple of her classes. And last week she stayed by the tack stall while Emma was getting Rusty ready. They didn’t talk but Jilli handed her the curry comb at the exact moment Emma thought it was time to switch brushes. That was positive, right?

  She won’t let herself hope too much. She hasn’t been very lucky with friends.

  Emma looks at the stack of envelopes on her desk, tied together with a blue ribbon. Kathy’s letters have been getting shorter and shorter while Emma’s have been getting longer and longer.

  “Emma, are you up, sweetie?” There’s a gentle knock on her bedroom door. The door creaks open and Emma’s mom looks in. “Come, I’ve made breakfast.”

  They match strides walking down the hall and down the stairs. Right foot, left foot, right, left. Emma skips when her shorter strides shift their parallel pattern and now they’re back to rights and lefts together.

  Her mom laughs and Emma beams. She’s glad they moved here. Her mom is healthier and Emma loves this happier mom. Yesterday they planted herbs in a pot. Her mom said it was finally warm enough outside. Emma loved the smell of the basil and dirt.

  Plus, if they hadn’t moved, Emma wouldn’t be riding. She can’t even think what life would be like without the horses. They’ve become part of her already.

  Emma canters across the kitchen and sits in her usual chair. Her mom puts a plate of french toast in front her. Emma cuts the bread into long, thin strips and spaces them on her plate like ground poles. Her index and middle fingers trot across the plate and over the toast poles in perfect strides.

  “Look, Mom.” She finger-trots around the circle of poles again. She eats two and spreads the others out. “Now it’s a canter exercise.”

  Her mom smiles and slides a glass of orange juice toward her. “Are you going to help at the stable again today?”

  “Yes,” Emma says and swallows two big gulps of juice. “Is that okay?” She wipes her mouth, eyes big, heart skipping with dread that she won’t be allowed to go.

  “Sure, but not all day. You have a book report due tomorrow, right?”

  Emma nods and chews on another pole of french toast. She needs to finish breakfast and get out before her father comes downstairs and questions her about the book report. She knows he won’t allow her to go until it’s completed and she’s nowhere near being done.

  “I’m almost done.” It’s a small lie. She’s almost done reading. She hasn’t actually started writing the report, but at least she’s almost done with reading. She picked Black Beauty, again. She could write the report without rereading the book, she knows it by heart, but she loves the story too much not to read it cover to cover.

  “Simon said he’ll take us on a trail ride today because it’s been so nice and we’ve worked hard. I promise I’ll be home immediately after. Please, please?” She hears her father coming down the stairs. She jumps from the table and puts her plate in the sink. “Please, Mommy? Jillian will be going.”

  She knows her mom wants her to make friends.

  “Are you and Jillian become friendlier?”

  “Um-hm.” She finishes the last swallow of orange juice and stacks the glass on top of the plate in the sink.

  “I hope so. You could use a good friend your age, Emma. Just be your lovely self.”

  She really doesn’t want to explain to her mom that she’s playing cat with Jillian. She knows Mom will say it’s always better to be yourself. But so far, being friendly and being herself haven’t worked with Jillian.

  “I better go, Mom. I’ll be back around lunchtime. I love you.” She gives her mom a hug from behind and kisses her cheek, then darts for the door.

  “I love you, too,” follows her out. She turns to make sure the door is closed and catches a glimpse of her mom, still sitting at the table, looking at the empty spot where Emma had been sitting. She doesn’t recognize the look on her mom’s face
and she doesn’t want to stop to figure it out. Not now at least.

  She wants to get to the barn. She wants to ride on the trail. And, she realizes as she canters down the path into the woods, she wants to ride with Jillian.

  12

  “Scuze me.” A voice from behind startles me. The man in the green stable shirt and baggy jeans is looking up, the broom poised to push a pile of discarded hay and horse hair past the spot I’m blocking.

  Jillian stares through me. “Tony, when you’re done with the aisle, RJ needs to be tacked up. He rolled in the field so make sure to give him a thorough currying first. I’ll be in the jump ring setting up. Bring him out when he’s ready.” She gives me the disgusted yet somewhat curious look I’d seen so many times from her during our childhood, then marches off.

  Wally stretches his neck, trying to reach me. My feet respond and the horse head-butts my torso. I slide my hands up his ears while he pushes deeper into my chest. The pressure, the presence, the power of this horse slows my heart pounding in my ears.

  This is what I’ve been missing.

  My hands travel along the angles of his jaw until they find the velvet warmth of his muzzle. I release the bottled-up air in my lungs and let the stress slither away. Or at least as much as it can.

  Ben shakes his head, a smile spreading across his tanned face.

  We both turn at a fake cough and watch Jillian stride out the back door. Gravel crunches under her boots as she makes her way down the path to the jump arena.

  “Okaaay.” Ben’s gaze stays on the door a few gravel crunches after Jilli’s departure.

  “Well. Not exactly how I expected that to go.” Wally nudges my stomach and I finger-comb his forelock.

  “Yeah, she’s bitchier than usual today.” Ben climbs back on the step stool and resumes combing out his horse’s mane.

  “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I am. Every picture of the two of you shows you with your arms around each other, smiling like you just won Olympic gold.” I can feel him watching me.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Ben bobs his head, then stops. “Simon told me that you and Jack used to traumatize the kids in your division. He said you were the most talented student he ever had.”