“As you say. But now that you see Noemi didn’t harm you, you can ask your mother to bring her back.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
She grimaces. As if that argument ever worked with Caroline Payne.
“And because if you don’t, I shall need to tell your mother of my suspicions regarding Miss Saltworth.”
“You are pushing the limits of your blackmail.”
“I could’ve kept my thoughts to myself and let Salt take her time brining you.”
She purses her lips, which I hope means she concedes the point.
“I suggest you get Noemi back sooner rather than later. Miss Saltworth also enjoys Noemi’s cooking. In fact, I bet Noemi could tell Miss Saltworth a lot about you.”
She growls. But then I hear a bump. Her head rolls back against the headboard, hair scattered like threshed wheat. The sharpness has left her eyes. “Stay,” she murmurs in speech that has begun to thicken.
I scoot beside her and press a cool towel to her face. She blinks sluggishly at me. “Jo, you used to be on my side. Remember the plums?”
When we were children, a traveling salesman with a cart of instruments came upon Caroline and me playing in a wooded area where we had run away for the afternoon. He gave Caroline a clarinet, but when she put it to her lips, he grabbed her from behind, a wet grin upon his face. She shrieked and hit him with the clarinet, while I grabbed a trumpet and clocked him on the knee.
Then we fled back to the house, hand in hand. Caroline would not loosen her grip until Noemi’s mother pulled us apart and stuck plums in our palms.
“I remember,” I say, but she has already begun to snore.
* * *
—
ASIDE FROM THE apprehensive stutter of my heart, the cogs of the Payne Estate are running smoothly. Nature’s groundskeepers—the chickens—scratch and fertilize the grass, while the hired groundskeepers trim branches and repair fences. Squirrels run patrol over their trees.
A group of men that includes Jed Crycks and Merritt watch Johnny Fortune ride the defiant Arabian across an expanse of pasture. The jockey shows Ameer his whip. “This is what you’ll get next time you go lazy in the lead,” he yells, his voice high and whiny. Ameer snaps at the whip.
In front of the stables, Mrs. Payne leans over the corral fence, where Sweet Potato and a few other horses are kicking around a ball blown from a sheep’s bladder. There’s a crane-like gracefulness to her slender figure, a breathless hovering as if she might fly away if I approach too quickly. On the other side of the corral, Old Gin oils a saddle with even strokes of his skinny arms.
Mrs. Payne doesn’t acknowledge my presence. It’s as if her eyes have turned inward, and instead of watching the horses, she’s watching another scene evolve in her mind.
When I am two paces away, her gaze finally drifts to mine. In the streaky light filtering through her straw bonnet, she is as hard to read as vapor, unlike Caroline, who hangs her wet feelings around her. “That Sweet Potato sure has legs on her. Old Gin has done an excellent job.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She lifts her petal-like cheeks to a cloud, adjusting the rim of her hat to shield her eyes from the glare. “She reminds me of another filly I used to have, Savannah Joy, named for the city in which she was born.” She speaks slowly, as if reading the words from a faded page. “She was a beauty, just like her mama. From the sweet curve of her cheek to the nap of her hair, you could see the hand of God in her shaping. Good-natured, too. A good nature can make or break a horse, not just in a race, but in life.” The trace of a smile tugs at her face.
“What happened to Savannah Joy?”
“They made me give her up.” Her fingers twist her gold ring. “I wept every night for a year.”
Why would Mrs. Payne’s parents make their only daughter give up a filly with whom she was so smitten, especially when they were in the business of horse breeding? It makes no sense. But then, trying to understand Mrs. Payne is like trying to unfold a wet newspaper, impossible to do without tearing the pages.
We warm in the afternoon sun, watching the horses, and I wonder if the reason Mrs. Payne called me out here was to tell me about her lost filly and nothing more. But then she sweeps a hand in front of her as if clearing away fog and says, “How are your rides with Caroline going?”
“Fine, ma’am.”
“You’re not letting her out of your sight, are you?”
Merritt pops into my head, the only one who could expose my lie. Has he already said something?
The longer I stand here saying nothing, the more suspicious I become. “No, ma’am, she’s stuck with me,” I hear myself say. “Your daughter rides as well as the comb on a rooster’s head. I expect she gets that from you.”
I’m not sure why I lie. I owe Mrs. Payne much more than that crank. Probably because I am not a snitch.
Mrs. Payne dimples prettily. “Yes, perhaps. Well, I’m glad to see you getting along.”
Ameer tumbles closer into view, his jockey uttering curses. With a sigh, Mrs. Payne picks her way to them.
Old Gin approaches, smelling of saddle soap and ruddy with the day’s efforts. “Notice something different?”
“You’re skinnier.” He has knocked a new hole in his belt, bunching his canvas trousers at his waist.
He brushes that aside with a wave of his chapped hand. “No more coughing. Even blew up that ball.” Sweet Potato tries to step on the sheep’s bladder, but it slips out from her hoof. “Seems we don’t need that refund.”
You could take the smile from my face and hook it for the moon. “We should celebrate. Tomorrow, we could take Sweet Potato to the creek. Find where the quails are nesting? Or if you want to rest, we could play chess—”
“I will need to stay here again this weekend. I am sorry.”
“Well then, I shall keep the burrows secure—” I say, but Jed Crycks has already summoned Old Gin away.
Twenty-Two
Solitude is a frequent visitor here, often dragging along her companion loneliness. Tonight, the latter plants herself right in my lap.
How many other lonely souls have taken refuge in this basement, enduring horrors that put my own troubles to shame? I trace a finger along the word galaxy on the wall, a word that means all the stars in the heavens. May those who passed here have found their way. Like the stars, may they have claimed their own bit of sky.
My letters of admiration form an uneven pile on the floor. I gather them up and reread them, hoping to ground myself in the inky pleas of others. What is it about a stranger that makes it easy for one to unburden oneself? Perhaps a stranger is less likely to gossip to people you know or judge you based on their knowledge of you. Or perhaps it is simply comforting to feel that a stranger cares to listen.