Learning to Fall Read online

  “So what’s on the schedule?” I changed the topic.

  “Schedule?” Derek looked up at me, as if he’d forgotten what else he had planned for the day.

  “You know, the schedule.” I gestured toward the whiteboard hanging up outside my office. “What’s left?”

  “Um. Helena’s horses and ponies need to get schooled, then Mai’s.”

  “Can you get Ness ready for me?” I asked.

  “I was going to ride her.”

  “I’ve got it. I’m fine. I’ll call Helena in the meantime.”

  Derek didn’t move. What I wouldn’t do to see that dimple in his left cheek.

  “I’ll talk to Helena, and we’ll go from there,” I said, my voice stern. “Let’s just focus on the job at hand. Okay?” I stood up, wanting him to follow suit. Derek looked at me as if waiting for more assurances, more explanation, more something. I headed to the office, pulling my hair up into a bun. As I walked past Seraphim’s and Dolce’s empty stalls, then the two ponies’ stalls, I had to swallow back a lump in my throat, a regret forming inside that I’d never had the opportunity to ride Sera while she was here.

  Once in the office, I rubbed the back of my neck, hoping to relieve some tension. It didn’t work. I might as well have been rubbing steel.

  I picked up the phone, staring at it for a minute before dialing Helena’s number.

  “Helena. It’s Brynn.”

  “Is it Effy?”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine. Ness is fine too.” I paused, finding the right words. “I’m back in town.”

  “On a Wednesday?”

  “I just spoke to Corinne.” The line was silent. “Helena?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I want to get to the point. You obviously know Corinne left.”

  “She told me she would. I didn’t know when.”

  Helena’s acknowledgement stung. Had everyone known but me?

  “I’m hoping we can talk,” I said.

  “No need to. I’m not going anywhere, Brynn. I’m very happy with the training we get. I’ve been around the block a bit, and, I love Corinne, you know I do, but she does need more attention. She needs to experience things for herself. She’s new to the horse world, to show jumping.” She paused and cleared her voice. I clenched the phone more tightly. “I know you’re awesome. I’m sure you can take us to where we want to go.” Her voice cracked.

  My eyes filled with tears, but I breathed in and willed them away. “I appreciate you saying that. It means the world to me. I promise I’ll make it work.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I’m here if you want to come over.” I swiveled the chair and looked out the window to my right. The clouds hung low and gray.

  “It’s all good, Brynn. I’ll see you Friday.”

  “Most definitely.” I hung up. Instead of feeling relief, I was more stressed. What if Helena was bluffing? No client wants to tell their trainer they’re leaving. That was the industry: avoiding, lying, cheating. And I knew Helena was a wimp about confrontation. She might be too chicken to tell me the truth. Corinne was born to lead, and where she went, people followed.

  I had to come up with some way to keep the remaining six clients and their eight horses—without them, there was no income, and with no income, the foreclosure would be upon us. Soon there wouldn’t even be enough money to buy hay for the remaining horses.

  How could I have been so naïve? How could I have thought that it would all work out until school ended? I needed to come up with an alternative solution.

  That evening I stared into the empty fridge. What had Mom been living off of? I grabbed my keys and drove toward the small produce store in town. At the crossroad, the white stucco of the old mission church reflected in the moonlight. I pulled into the parking lot and glanced toward Dad’s grave. I turned off the engine and sat in silence. I hadn’t been here since the funeral.

  A car pulled in next to mine. The priest that had performed the ceremony climbed out. He leaned over and peered into my car, waving. I half waved before starting the car and reversing as fast as I could out of the parking lot, my face burning hot. It was just as well. I wasn’t ready to see Dad’s grave yet.

  Not until I knew how I’d keep my promise.

  I woke covered in sweat. The red digits on my clock screamed 3:15 a.m. Subira snuggled next to me on the bed, and I petted her soft ear as I weighed my options. There weren’t many. The training business had to make more money. Check. I was the only trainer. Check. We’d just lost our biggest client. A double check.

  Option one: begging Corinne to come back. Almost as soon as I thought of the idea, I dismissed it. Given the conversation we’d had earlier today that was unlikely. Corinne had made up her mind.

  Option two: more clients. But signing even one client with one horse wasn’t easy, so how was I supposed to replace four horses in training? I thought back to all the shows Dad had gone to, all the evening calls he made to follow up with and please clients. He was always working to get and keep clients. I had never realized how hard that was. I had always assumed they just came to us.

  Would the remaining clients trust my abilities as a trainer? Was that why Corinne had left? I reanalyzed our conversation. No. She said it wasn’t my training.

  Option three: bringing Chris on. He was a great rider and between the two of us, maybe we could do it. He’d called me back earlier, and had even offered to bring over Thai food for dinner, but I had been too exhausted to see him. Now I wondered if he would still be excited once he learned there wasn’t enough money to finance the building of an extra barn.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to come.

  I sat up. Daybreak. Filtered light streamed in, like an iridescent film, onto the walls, the pictures, the trophies, the dresser, the lamp. Everything appeared sharp, defined, delineated.

  I knew how I would save the business. It all made sense. I bounded out of bed, startling Subira. In my bathroom I splashed cold water on my face, then grabbed the first T-shirt and sweater from my dresser drawer. Hopping, I tugged on my jeans as I rushed down the hall toward the kitchen. I checked outside: Mom’s old car was in the driveway.

  The first light of dawn shone through the kitchen windows. Today held the sweet promise of change.

  What’s that delicious smell?” Mom came into the kitchen, dressed in her white uniform, her running shoes squeaking on the floor.

  I peered into the frying pan. “Oh. I don’t know.” I paused, folding the egg yolks carefully in with the whites. “I thought I’d whip up some of Dad’s eggs—Montana style. Maybe a few berry pancakes on the side.” I raised an eyebrow, hoping she would catch on to my playful mood.

  She took in the chaos of the kitchen: the haphazardly strewn dishes, the dripping egg shells, green peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, flour, and berries. “Are you cooking for thirty?”

  It was an old joke between us. Whenever Dad had cooked, it was as if he expected a throng of teenagers and barn staff, ravenous, after early morning chores, ready for a hearty breakfast. This was a result of his childhood in Montana, his Irish Catholic upbringing, where horse ranches were full of eager bellies. He’d helped his mother cook as a young boy. With family and staff, it was a full-time job to feed the hungry Seymour clan.

  Ever since I could stand on a chair next to the stove, I’d helped him in the kitchen. Dad’s eyes had crinkled as he’d told stories while he whipped the egg whites for omelets and I mixed the pancake batter. He’d tell me it was our secret recipe, and that I couldn’t reveal it to anyone under penalty of loss of riding privileges.

  In the early days he’d speak of filling the house with children, but years passed, and I remained an only child. I never understood why they hadn’t had more, and for years had felt guilty I wasn’t enough for him. One morning, as I cracked eggs, Dad gave me a sidelong glance, then said, “You’re all the daughter I ever wanted.” That’s all I had needed to hear.

  We spent more time cooking than
thinking about how much we were cooking. Then Mom would tease us, asking if we were putting on a town banquet. We’d take the leftovers down to the barn, to the kids eager to grab the pancakes, gobbling them up like donuts.

  I held a piece of steaming pancake on a fork out to Mom. “Here. Have a taste.”

  She hesitated, then leaned in and took the bite. Chewing, she closed her eyes. “Mmmm. Better than ever.” She’d gone back in time too.

  We sat at the kitchen breakfast nook. Outside, the mist still clung to the center of the hills, like a soft towel swathing them after a steamy sauna. The pastures, golden during the dry months of summer, were now tinged with green.

  We ate. We spoke about the rain. Mom didn’t ask me what I was doing home on a Thursday. I didn’t dare bring up Corinne.

  Mom stood to get more coffee, drank it, then washed her mug in the sink. “I better get going to work. The new supervisor’s a real piece of work. She yells if I’m even a few minutes late.” Mom rubbed her back, and I was reminded how hard she worked, lifting heavy adults out of bed, changing their diapers, helping them into wheelchairs.

  After she left, I said out loud, “I promise you, Mom, I’ll make things up to you.”

  Subira’s head lifted when she heard the scraping of my chair along the tiled kitchen floor, signaling that it was time to head to the barn, her fur reflecting the gold and copper of the morning sun. Old habits were tough to break. I filled a Tupperware container with some pancakes for Derek.

  “Come on, Subira.” I tapped my leg, encouraging her. I walked toward the barn with a lighter step than I’d had in months. Subira rambled along, sniffing everything in sight, checking out the field, then the stalls inside the barn, confirming everyone—and everything—was in their proper place. At twelve years old, it took twice as long to make the rounds, but she was still as thorough.

  Derek stood in front of a row of buckets of grain, adding supplements. “Morning! I brought some breakfast down for you.” I smiled, handing him the still-warm container. “I’m heading out to run some errands. I’ll be back by early afternoon.”

  “I’ve got things covered,” he said with his mouth full, eyeing the feed buckets he’d prepared.

  I wondered if I should tell him my plan. But this was something that I had to do on my own. He’d know soon enough.

  I drove toward the coast, winding my way among the green hills and valleys of the North Bay. Enormous gray rocks stuck out of fields of grass, as if prehistoric giants had played with blocks and had forgotten to pick them up. The air was pure, the sky a cobalt blue, but even with the terrific weather, I didn’t think about rolling down my windows to enjoy the October day. My thoughts were filled with what I was going to say to Uncle Ian.

  Ian Finlay was the reason I had wanted to become a vet in the first place. If my parents had been proud of my acceptance into the veterinary program at Davis, Uncle Ian had been doubly so. Uncle Ian had given me his battered copy of All Creatures Great and Small when I’d been accepted. He often told stories about how, as a young lad in Scotland, he’d actually known James Alfred Wight, before he turned to writing and called himself James Herriot. Who knew whether those stories held any truth, since Uncle Ian tended to embellish, but maybe that’s where he picked up some of his trade secrets—even if he would have only been six years old or so.

  Besides being an equine vet, Uncle Ian and Julia bred horses. He had long ago understood that to gain speed and agility over the ever increasingly difficult jump-offs, the European warmbloods would have to have more thoroughbred in them, and the popular jumping horses of the time in America, the thoroughbred, would need more warmblood in them. He had started one of the first warmblood jumper breeding programs on this side of the Atlantic. When questioned about his warmbloods, or told they were too heavy to be good jumping horses, he persevered, backcrossing thoroughbreds and warmbloods to get the ideal jumper.

  He kept the best jumpers for breeding, and sold the rest to trusted friends or clients. He never sent off any of his prized young fillies or colts to the kind of overambitious trainers who’d cared more about their careers than the horses. “They’ll just ride them into the ground by age ten,” he’d say. “Give them a short career, then shoot them up with painkillers, those knobs. Maybe use them as broken-down school horses, or the few lucky ones might go into lay up. Why? When these horses can have a bonnie good career until they’re eighteen?”

  Granite pillars flanked the elegant iron gate at the entrance to the Finlay ranch. I gathered my strength as I got out of my car and walked toward their front porch. I had to do this. I had no other choice. I hoped Uncle Ian would understand.

  Julia Finlay’s face glowed when she opened the door for me. “Brynn! How wonderful to see you!” She came out onto the veranda and gave me the warmest hug.

  “Aunt Julia. You look lovely, as always.” Her blonde hair was styled in a fashionable, soft bob. Although worn with age, her skin remained smooth. She had on a purple silk shirt, and cream-colored pants, which suited her petite frame. Whether she was down at the barn helping with foaling, or out in her garden, she did it with grace.

  “You’re like the sun coming in and lighting up my day,” she said, as she brushed a piece of my hair behind my ear. Funny, that’s how I always viewed her. Her soft hand smelled of roses and earth, and I wanted to bury my face in it, to have her tell me everything would be all right.

  I smiled, but didn’t know what to say. My throat closed up.

  “Something is troubling you,” she said, scrutinizing me. I looked at my paddock boots, not wanting her to see all the pain and worry I’d been carrying. She seemed to understand the silence. “Ian’s in the back pasture, checking on the young ones.” She gestured with a nod.

  “Thanks, Aunty. I’ll go look for him.”

  “Come back up to the house before you go for some lemonade and freshly baked banana bread.”

  “I will,” I promised, as I headed down the veranda steps.

  I rounded the corner of the house toward the pastures. Uncle Ian had a young filly haltered, trying to squint at her face. Her dark bushy tail rotated like a windmill as she attempted to squirm away.

  “Need some help?” I asked as I climbed in between the boards of the fence to get to him.

  “I want to peek at this wee one’s eye. It’s a bit swollen. Can you hold her while I look?”

  I grabbed the lead rope and situated myself at the filly’s side. She stood at about twelve and a half hands, a late foal.

  “It’s all right, little one. You’re going to be just fine,” I murmured into her ear. I ran my hand down from the top of the filly’s head along the mane, making my way through the velvety fur, gripping her around her neck. She wiggled, then jumped, stepping on my toe. I flinched, but my boots bore most of the pressure, so all I felt was a dull ache. I held the halter tighter while Uncle Ian kept her head steady. He managed to open the swollen eyelid and shone the light in.

  “How does it look?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you take a gander? It’s good practice for you.” He handed the instrument to me. I examined the large iris, searching for debris, pus, or cloudiness.

  “I don’t detect signs of moon-blindness,” I said. “Looks like a case of conjunctivitis.” I handed the ophthalmoscope back.

  Uncle Ian squinted and studied her eye again. “I agree. What do you think it’s from? What do you suggest we do next?”

  “Well . . . it could be an allergic reaction to something, or something got into her eye: dirt, grass, a piece of shavings. I think we should flush it, apply an antibiotic ointment, and give her some Banamine to help with the swelling.”

  Uncle Ian nodded, smiling wide, his bushy eyebrows stretching across his forehead. While Uncle Ian worked on the filly, I ran through my prepared arguments so I would be ready when he questioned my decision.

  “Now the Banamine . . .” I lifted her nose, and held the hard bones of her lower jaw steady while he squirted the paste in her mouth.
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  “Good girl,” I said, then patted the teeny white snip on her nose. She looked like she had rubbed up against a freshly painted fence.

  “Okay. Good to go. I’ll check on her again tonight, reapply the ointment, and she should start feeling better tomorrow.” He held on to her neck, while I took off the filly’s halter. She ran off as soon as our hands let go, galloping and bucking over to her mother who grazed nearby.

  “She’s a bonnie one. She’ll be like her mama. Maybe better.” The mother had been a successful Grand Prix jumper for a few years out on the East Coast. Then she got navicular disease. The owners had wanted to sell her, but Ian caught wind and stepped in, bringing her here to be a broodmare.

  “Not a bad retirement,” I said, observing the mare.

  We stood watching the filly prance around, her bay coat like a teddy bear’s.

  “Let’s walk to my truck,” Uncle Ian said, giving me a sidelong look.

  “So,” he said, as he put his glasses into his pocket, closing the top of the storage unit at the back of his vet truck. “What’s of such dire importance that you had to see me today? Something wrong at school, Lassie?”

  He led me to a bench at the side of the barn overlooking the pastures and hills, patting the seat for me to join him.

  “This isn’t easy for me, Uncle Ian.” I hesitated. I clasped and unclasped my hands. “You know that I think of you as a second father, and now”—I swallowed hard—“with Dad gone . . .”

  “Now, now. What’s the matter, Lassie?”

  I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts. “As you know, it’s fallen on me to run the barn and train the horses and clients.”

  “You have a lot on your plate now.” He reached out and patted my knee.

  I took a deep breath. “Corinne packed up and left with all four horses yesterday.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Where did she go?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’ll find out soon enough. But if I had my guess, I’d say it was to Vivian Young’s.”

  “What? The lass who used to work for your dad?”

  “She’s had her own business for a while now, down in San Anselmo. She has a ton of clients.”