Taking the Reins. Carolyn McSparren
into the dishwasher in the house. Anybody need something or just want to talk to me or the colonel, push the button on the intercom and leave a message. I suggest you get to bed early. Tomorrow morning I’ll be rousting you all out at six o’clock.”
“No way!” Mickey groaned.
“You need help getting to bed?” Charlie asked.
“I’m not helpless.”
“If you do, push the button beside your bed.”
“Or holler,” Sean said.
Mickey rolled his eyes. “I can stand. I just can’t walk far yet.”
“Yeah, and when you fall, you flop around like a turtle on its back,” Hank said.
“Flopping around on your back in the dirt ought to be a real familiar sensation for you,” Mickey said. “At least I can stay on my feet for more than eight seconds.”
Hank flushed and opened his mouth to retort. Charlie was about to lambaste him when Mary Anne snapped, “Stop it! What is the matter with you, Hank?” She turned to Mickey. “You’re no better. Knock it off.”
“It’s a miracle, Hank,” Charlie said. “You’re missing half a foot and still manage to stuff a whole one into your mouth. Mary Anne’s right. Both of you, knock it off.”
Jake might have a point in not wanting to join the group for dinner.
“Sean, so you will take Jake a plate?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Sure better than at the halfway house.”
“Or the hospital,” Mary Anne said. “I love gazpacho.”
“The tomatoes and corn on the cob are from the farmer’s market in Collierville,” Charlie said. “The corn’s Silver Queen.” Her stomach rumbled. That sandwich at lunch had been years ago.
“Have one,” Sean said. “There’s plenty.”
“Thanks, but the colonel expects me for dinner.” She could see the lights of the big kitchen in the main house across the patio. Vittorio would be furious if she came in late. Charlie had come close to snatching an ear from the students’ platter, but managed to quiet the rumblings of her stomach. That sandwich at lunch seemed a long ago memory. The heat of the day was finally beginning to diminish as much as it ever did between Memorial Day and the end of September. It wouldn’t get cool enough to manage without air-conditioning even in the middle of the night, of course, but it was still cooler than daytime.
The heat flat wore everybody out and increased appetites at dinnertime. The colonel demanded the family sit down together and was adamant that the students do the same thing. Even after her mother died, he kept up the custom, although he and Charlie sometimes didn’t speak to each other from entrée through dessert. Of course, when he wasn’t around, which was often, Charlie could con whoever was looking after her into letting her grab a sandwich and leave.
For Sarah, used to running in and out between sport practices or hanging out with BFFs, the formality of evening dinner was a new experience. She endured it because she was eating Vittorio’s cooking and not Charlie’s. And at the moment she had nothing better to do than fool with the computer in the evenings.
Charlie’s mind hovered at the other dining table tonight and she only half listened to Sarah and her father bicker. As soon as she could, she escaped to check on her students.
She worried about Mickey. He might give Hank as good as he got, but Hank didn’t tease—he went for the jugular. Seeing Mickey must be a constant reminder of how close he had come to losing his ability to walk as well as ride.
In any case, it wasn’t acceptable.
Her father had explained to her her that Mickey wasn’t actually paralyzed, although the nerve damage to his back and hips was extensive. He had rods and pins in his legs where the bones had been fragmented, as well. Still, if Mickey kept at his strength training, he might eventually be able to dispense with the wheelchair and use braces and a cane full-time. Maybe giving Hank the task of getting Mickey on his feet would provide him with a vested interest in Mickey’s success.
According to the colonel, once he took his leg braces off, Mickey could pull himself up, stand and swing around to get into bed. He could handle bathroom chores and dress himself. But could he actually walk unaided for any distance with his braces? Charlie knew what his enrolment forms said, but then, Mary Anne had sworn she’d ridden horses, so who knew?
Charlie found the students’ dishes neatly stacked on the rolling cart in the common room, the kitchen clean and the table scoured. She rolled the cart back to the kitchen, where Vittorio and Sarah were loading the dishes from the colonel’s table into the dishwasher.
Vittorio, who seldom spoke even when he was happy, merely rolled his eyes at her, sighed deeply and began to unload the trolley.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “We’ll work something out so you don’t have to stay late to clean up this mess.”
“Good,” he said. “Go.” Sarah started to strip off her apron. Vittorio pointed a stubby index finger at her. “Not you. You eat, you clean.”
“Mom...”
“Hey, it’s his kitchen. Thanks, Vittorio. Leave the sweet rolls out. I’ll heat them up tomorrow morning for the students.”
“Huh.” He turned away with an empty platter in his hands. “These people—they eat. Even that skinny girl with the scars.” Eating his food was the biggest compliment anyone could give Vittorio.
“Wait until I start teaching them. Then they’ll eat us out of house and home.”
She walked back to the stable, knocked on Mickey’s door and found him tucked up in bed with a graphic novel. “You manage okay?” she asked, then immediately regretted her words. “I mean...”
“I managed,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t break my neck.”
“What’s with you and Hank?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. She had started to turn away, when he said, “The colonel says he’s jealous. I may be messed up, but at least I’m physically whole.”
“So he undercuts you and tries to make you fail?” Charlie said.
“Hey, Charlie, it’s his problem. Don’t sweat it, okay? I can take care of myself.”
After she said good-night to Mickey, she stopped by Mary Anne’s door, heard her moving around, but didn’t disturb her.
She figured Sean would check on Jake. She really didn’t want to tackle Hank at the moment. But she would soon. He needed an attitude adjustment bad.
She walked back to the house. Man, she was tired. She really hadn’t worked that hard physically today. Starting tomorrow, when she had to teach her students, she’d be totally exhausted by lunch.
So why did she feel as if she’d been dragged backward through a knothole?
Because emotional labor was harder than physical labor. Because she already cared about these people as people, not just students. Especially Jake. Now where had that come from?
She was too keyed up to sleep, no matter how badly she wanted to. She needed some quiet time without anybody asking her for decisions or direction. She wanted to think about her students.
One of them, at any rate.
She walked out onto the dark patio behind the den and sank onto the glider. She stretched her legs in front of her and rested her head on the back. If she weren’t careful, she’d fall asleep out here and wake up unable to straighten her spine.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was right—nights like this couldn’t be called anything except tender. A cool zephyr toyed with the hair at the nape of her neck and played across the skin of her throat and arms