Appaloosa Summer (Island Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  He checks his watch. This conversation has already put him three minutes behind schedule. “Fine. Tonight, then.”

  A “bye” for me, and a peck on the cheek for my mom, and he’s out the door.

  “Good morning Mr. Traherne!” Oh, thank God for Slate.

  I abandon my never-filled bowl, and cooled-down kettle. Grab a banana from the fruit bowl. Mutter “Better go,” without meeting my mom’s eyes, and I’m out on the porch in the fresh spring air in no time.

  “You good?” Slate asks. “OK with going to school?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m ready. It’s time.”

  Chapter Four

  My dad doesn’t forget like I thought he would. Like my mom probably hoped he would.

  Instead he comes home with research: print-outs of studies that show kids who have part-time jobs in high school are more independent, successful, entrepreneurial.

  “Where on earth did you get these, Jack?”

  “You’re not the only one who can do research, Emily.” His voice is mild, but it has the same firmness I’ve heard him use when explaining to a prospective home-buyer that no, they can’t have a fully-treed private lot, and still be in walking distance to three coffee shops and a pub.

  My mom’s eyes flash. She literally rolls up her sleeves.

  “Jack, I would be very happy for Meg to get a job – a part-time job, that fits around her riding schedule. Craig says Meg is very talented. So talented that he offered her a chance to ride Apollo. He says, on the right horse, she could make it to the Royal this fall.”

  “Does Meg even want to ride Apollo? Is Meg interested in going to the Royal? Meg just lost her horse in a showing accident. Maybe Meg would like a break.” Since my dad doesn’t even look at me as he asks, I’m assuming he doesn’t want me to answer. Turns out I’m right. “Listen, Emily, Ian Millar is nearly seventy and he’s one of the best riders in the world; it’s not like Meg’s going to run out of time.”

  The score is one-all. Which means we need to keep going.

  “Meg gave up tennis, and soccer, and everything else, for riding. And we’ve invested so much time and money into her riding and showing. How can we just walk away now?”

  My dad nods, as though to thank her for proving his point. “Exactly! Meg’s riding has been so expensive. It would be nice to have Meg earn some money, for a change, instead of us forking out even more.”

  Two-two. Next round.

  My mom sweeps her arm in my direction, but doesn’t break her eye contact with my dad. “How can we let a sixteen-year-old live on an island, in the country, with no car, for ten weeks?”

  My dad makes a little tsking noise, like this one is just too easy. “It’s not like we’re dumping her on a deserted island all by herself. Betsy and Carl are shouting distance away. They’ll watch her.”

  It was close. I have to agree with my dad that it wasn’t my mom’s best argument, but she’s hanging on. Tied at three, and we keep going.

  “Can Meg even look after the cottage properly?” There’s a quiver in my mom’s voice as she launches into this one. “It’s an investment, Jack. We paid all that money to have the floors refinished. If she leaves even one window open during a rainstorm, you know how the wind will blow the water in …”

  With this argument my dad’s head starts shaking. He’s the real estate agent, but he’s not buying her property value argument. “Meg is perfectly capable of closing windows, and mowing the lawn, and doing the dishes. What’s the point of having a cottage if nobody’s allowed to use it?”

  All three of us know my mom’s beaten. If I had a trophy, I’d hand it to my dad. He’s not done, though. “I had to work hard for everything I got. I started delivering papers at nine, and I’ve worked ever since. It was good for me; it’ll be good for her.”

  My mom doesn’t shake his hand, but she might as well. She signals her defeat by silently piling the dinner dishes in front of her, shaking her head, and standing to carry them to the counter.

  “You’ll have a great summer, Meg.” My dad squeezes my shoulder, pushes back from the table, and heads upstairs to change for his evening tennis game.

  I gulp. My breath shallows and quickens. I’m going. Oh. My. God. I’m really going.

  I started this, not because I desperately wanted to go to the island; more because I was angry at my mom for not telling me about Betsy’s email. Be careful what you wish for.

  There’s no way I can stay home now. The only thing my mom would hate more than losing this argument, is finding out she lost it for nothing – that I don’t even want to go.

  What do I have to keep me here, anyway? Slate’s quitting riding, so if I show, it will be alone. And if I can’t get excited about showing Apollo, what horse would excite me?

  My mom wouldn’t let me bum around the house all day so I’d have to find a job. Doing what? Serving coffee? Selling something door-to-door?

  The cottage is beautiful, and Betsy and Carl are great, and I’ll miss Major the same amount here, or there, and I can bring his hunk of mane with me … so, yes! I’m going!

  The first flutter I’ve felt since Major died, ripples through my stomach. It might not be pure joy, or excitement – it might be tinged with nervousness – but it’s a real, actual, feeling, and it’s gripping me, and I’m glad to be having it.

  Chapter Five

  I’m sitting crossways in the backseat of our car, legs propped on my duffle bag – stuffed with running gear and swimsuit (my priorities), a single summer dress (at Slate’s insistence) and, at the last minute, riding helmet and half chaps (just in case) – jammed in the foot well. Chester’s sprawled across the seat next to me, panting in anticipation of a good romp through the island fields.

  Every now and then the bottom drops out of my stomach. Like when my mom asks “Do you have everything?” and I say yes, but my mind cartwheels over all the things I might have forgotten, and then it’s too late anyway because we’re already out of the driveway and heading down the street.

  I shove my hand into the pocket of my shorts and feel the only thing I can’t replace; the braid I made from Major’s hair; a braiding band holding it in place at each end. I put it there, so it would be close to me; so I’d remember to find a safe place for it in the cottage.

  Once on the island, our car whizzes effortlessly past a red-faced woman standing on her pedals, trying to push her bike along the highway’s long, persistent incline, and I think from now on that’s me.

  Then, when we get to the spot on the road into the cottage where the trees narrow in around the gravel, and there’s a little rise so you can’t see ahead, and it’s picturesque but also just ever-so-slightly mysterious, I think every night this will be between me and the highway.

  But mostly I do fine. I push these thoughts away. I ask myself what’s the alternative, and know there isn’t one, because whatever my heart wants, it isn’t to replace Major as though nothing ever happened, and it isn’t a summer in the sweltering city getting under my mother’s feet.

  So I sit back, and take in the sweeping island skies, the rolling island fields, and the wildlife from soaring hawks, to swooping swallows, to awkward and clueless wild turkeys.

  When we turn onto the long cottage driveway, the gravel rattles and pings under the car like it always does, and the long grasses and wildflowers whisper as they brush the doors and windows.

  As the low, wind and storm-weathered cottage comes into view, my mom says, “Oh good, it’s still standing!” and my dad says, “Looks like I’ll need to mow the grass.”

  My gaze flicks past the cottage and the lawn. I squint to find the sturdy little apple tree I planted a few years ago, just barely poking a few budding branches above the field flowers, and scour the fields for the familiar deer that always uses our land as her nursery.

  Everything’s normal, except in two days, when my parents get back in the car to go catch the ferry off the island, I’ll be staying here. Alone.

  Chester reminds me of prior
ities with a whine and a nudge of his wet nose. I let him out of the car – watching as, with two leaps he’s swallowed by the deep grasses – then start shuttling bags and bins and boxes out of the car and into the cottage.

  The sky sears blue, without a cloud in sight, which is lucky for me since this is my only chance to enjoy the cottage before I go “on-duty”. Carl and Betsy are taking the weekend as their last chance to visit their grandchildren before the busy summer tourist season starts, so my training begins first thing Monday morning.

  I stay outside as much as I can. I read on the swimming raft, row across the bay to tiny Duck Island, and explore the fields with Chester where, together, we find the deer’s newest fawn, white-dappled and craftily camouflaged in the filtered light falling through the branches of a huge weeping willow.

  When I get too close to the cottage — when I let down my guard to tell my parents about the fawn — my mom swoops in. “Come with me, Meg. I have a few things to show you.”

  I sigh, and my dad raises his eyebrows, but jerks his chin after her retreating figure. “You’d better go. Just humour her.”

  I trail her through the cottage.

  “You need to remember not to overload the washing machine, and only do laundry during off-peak times. The chart’s here, on the machine.”

  I nod. “OK.”

  “Rinse down the shower every time you use it, and you won’t have so much build up to worry about when you clean it.”

  Why would I use the shower when the river’s out there? “Sure.”

  “And these windows …” She turns to catch me rolling my eyes at the ceiling. “I mean it, Meg! It may be a joke to you, but it wasn’t cheap to have these floors finished. If water gets in, and sits, it can ruin the windowsill, the wall, the floor.”

  “I know, Mom. I understand.”

  “I’m not so sure, Meg. I don’t think either you, or your father, understand. I work hard to look after this place. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

  The shush of the sliding screen door interrupts her. “She gets it, Emily. She’s a smart girl. We all appreciate how nicely you keep the house and the cottage.” My dad puts his arm around my mom, and gives her a squeeze. “Now, let’s go get some ice cream.”

  The sun blazing in the window wakes me early on Sunday morning, but when I pad down the stairs, the table’s already set, the coffee maker, kettle, and toaster are on, and my mom’s standing at the stove.

  “Nice of you to finally get up.”

  I squint at the clock. “It’s seven-fifteen.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My dad calls through the screen door. “I need to show Meg something on the lawn mower.”

  “Fine!” My mom waves her spatula at me. “I’ll just stay here and cook by myself. You’d better go.”

  I’m still tired. A yawn grips me as I join my dad on the deck, and follow him down the stairs and onto the lawn. “God, Dad, what do you guys want from me? I should have just stayed in bed …”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “I don’t want to show you anything on the lawn mower.”

  “Then what?”

  “I want to have a smooth morning. A good transition. I want your mother to leave here happy, and I want you to stay behind happy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you want that too?”

  “I … yes … sure.”

  “Then just go along with her. Whatever she asks, say yes. It’s for a couple of hours. Then you’re free.”

  I rub my eyes. Look at my dad. Nod. “OK. Fine.”

  “She’s only being snarky because she’s going to miss you.”

  “She’s going to miss the cottage. She’s afraid it will never be perfect again.”

  My dad smiles. “She’s going to miss you and the cottage. It’s doubly hard for her.”

  “Whatever you say.” My bare feet are soaked with dew. They leave dark footprints on the stairs as I head back up.

  “And, Meg?”

  I turn back to my dad. “Yes?”

  “She’s making poached eggs. What do you think of poached eggs?”

  I swallow against the gag that instantly forms in my throat. Smile wide, with teeth. “I. Love. Them.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  I eat a poached egg peacefully, if not enthusiastically, and don’t argue when my mom says she’s going to give the cottage a good cleaning before she goes, and shoos my dad and I outside.

  I’m halfway up the driveway, checking to see if the foxes have any kits this year, when Carl and Betsy drive by up on the road; home from their trip. I wave, they beep and a shiver goes up my spine. Soon; I’ll be working soon.

  Not long after, my parents’ visit is done too. It’s like watching a video playing backwards. Chester appears from a part in the grasses, and takes two leaps into the back seat. My mom rolls down her window. “Take care of yourself.” I can’t help but think she really means ‘Take care of my cottage.’

  The car rumbles away down the driveway in a cloud of dust and bouncing gravel, and it’s quiet, quiet, quiet until the birdsong starts up again, and the bullfrogs begin banjoing, and the world along the banks of the river swings back into motion.

  Everything moving, except me. Standing. Completely and totally by myself. Alone.

  Then “Halloo!” yells Carl from his position halfway down the path mowed between the hayfield that separates our cottage from the B&B.

  “Betsy made too much for dinner!” he calls. “Would you like to help us eat it?”

  I thrust both my thumbs high in the air above my head where he can see them.

  “Great!” He holds his own thumb up. “Come up whenever you’re ready!”

  **********

  As soon as Betsy sees me, she grabs me in a hug, murmurs over my shoulder, “We were so sorry to hear about your accident.” Then steps back; holds me at arm’s length to ask, “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  I thought I was done with tears, but there’s a warning sting in my eyes. I blink, hard, and bite my lip. “I’m fine.”

  “But you must miss him. Remember that time we came to your show and he stole that little girl’s cotton candy and had pink foam coming out of his mouth?”

  The noise I make is half-laugh, half-sob. The memory is sharp and sweet. “I do. But I’m here now, and that’s good.”

  “Of course. If you ever want to talk, we can, but for now, I think we should eat.”

  Betsy is an out-of-this-world cook, and we eat at Carl and Betsy’s round kitchen table – made from the same rough barn board that’s all through our cottage – and watch the sun set over gold-tinged fields that run down to the St. Lawrence shipping channel.

  With my accident out of the way, we’re free to talk about lighter topics. Carl and Betsy make me laugh with the story of their grandchildren filling up the furnace outlet pipe with decorative river rock. With the contractor scheduled to come on Monday to replace the pipe for eight hundred dollars, Carl got out a Shop Vac and sucked all the rocks out but one.

  They tell me how every night they went to sleep in the guest room alone, and woke up with three kids, two cats, and a dog in their bed.

  Carl interrupts when Betsy starts another story and says, “Maybe Meg would like to know about working in the B&B?” And Betsy looks at him, and me, and says, “Meg is smart, and we’ll be patient, and everything will be fine.”

  When I snort, and say, “I don’t think you can teach me anything my mom hasn’t already grilled me about, anyway,” Betsy lets out a short laugh and reaches over to pat my hand. “I’m sure you’re quite right, Meg.”

  Afterward, I help Betsy with the dishes (good practice for my B&B work), then Carl escorts me down the path to the cottage. I’m glad of his industrial-strength flashlight, as the new moon has a hard time penetrating the dense darkness of the island night. No streetlights or headlights; no light pollution here.

  We follow the beam to th
e bottom of the steep wooden steps leading to the cottage veranda and that, I think, is when the penny drops for both of us. When we stop walking, and our feet stop crunch-crunching on the gravel, and we’re surrounded by the quiet of the country night, is when it suddenly dawns on us that I’m staying in this windblown cottage, perched on the edge of the bay, surrounded by acres and acres of fields, by myself.

  Not the end of the world, but a little isolating, and feeling even more so now as Carl and I stand in the small circle of light pushing back the dark.

  The easy, chatty conversation we’ve been having about the weather, and Carl’s new sailboat, stops abruptly and “So …” says Carl and “Well …” I answer, then add quickly “I’d better go in.”

  “Are you …” Carl starts, but switches gears to ask, “Do you have everything you need?” and I say “Yes,” and “Thank you again for dinner,” and “See you tomorrow morning!” and hurry into the cottage holding a smile on my face, shooting the deadbolt behind me.

  I want to follow him and yell, “Stay! Please stay!” or “Let me go back with you!” but this is Night One of weeks and months of nights to come. I just need to get used to it. Used to the profound blackness all around. Used to the ceaseless moaning of the wind around the eaves, and the occasional gust against the window panes. Used to all the sounds the little wooden cottage makes that are different from the ones made by our big old brick house in Ottawa.

  I brush my teeth in record time, skip washing my face, and jump into the bed, pulling the covers up and over my ears.

  I’ve left the curtains open a crack, so I can just glimpse Carl and Betsy’s house all lit up across the fields. It’s right there. Not too far. Just a quick sprint. I scrunch my eyes shut, close my hand around Major’s braid, tucked under my pillow, force my breathing into an even rhythm, and am asleep before the B&B lights go out.