“Well, yeah. He was a mechanic.
Worked on helicopters, mostly here in the States, but I guess he went to Iraq for the Gulf War.
He doesn’t talk about it much.
Only when he gets really drunk.”
Wow. I never would’ve guessed.
He doesn’t seem like the type who can take orders very well.
“Probably why he’s not still
in the army. He hated it, actually.
Said it’s for losers and fools.”
We Reach the Triple G
Turn into the driveway, where
we’re stopped by the mammoth
wrought-iron gates. Gabe pushes the buzzer on the intercom,
and when he informs whoever’s
on the other end that we’re here, a remote opens the barricade
to let us in, then shuts it behind us. Is that to keep people out or in?
“Probably both. And to keep
their animals more secure.
Horses are great escape artists.”
The driveway is recently paved
and lined with tall deciduous trees, wearing not a single leaf. On either side, white fences enclose large paddocks where elegant horses and grass-fattened cattle graze. Maybe a quarter mile in, the road splits.
To the right is the training barn, which is huge. To the left looms the main house, plus two smaller cottages for guests or hired help, at least that’s what I’m guessing.
“This place is ridiculous. Can’t wait to see what the house is like inside.
It looks big enough for thirty people.
Pretty sure there are only three, plus maybe a maid or twenty.”
Despite all the miles Dad and
I logged, I’ve never seen anything like this up close. I wrap up
my musing out loud. “Bet it’s lonely.”
Nah. They probably have huge parties and stuff. Mr. Grantham is connected. Gabe parks in the circle, as instructed, and before we
reach the front door, it opens.
“Don’t tell me. Security cameras.”
Peg Grantham greets us on
the front step. Come in, come in.
Hillary’s excited to see you.
She leads the way into a formal living room, where the centerpiece is a huge fireplace, burning some fragrant wood. Make yourselves at home. I’ll go help Hillary down the stairs. She’s still a little shaky.
How Do You Feel at Home
In a single room the approximate size of an entire apartment,
minus the walls, of course.
Not surprisingly, the decor
looks straight out of the pages of a chic glossy magazine.
The navy-blue sofas (three!)
don’t sag, and their upholstery is perfect. Ditto the contrasting cream-colored overstuffed chairs.
The tables gleam under thick
coats of polish. The caramel
carpet is spotless, the cathedral windows show no streaks
or water marks. I’m afraid
to touch anything for fear
of leaving fingerprints behind.
I’m contemplating how to sit
without leaving butt indentations on the cushions when Hillary
limps into the room, aided by
her aunt. She looks like hell—
gaunt, pallid, and uncertain
of her balance. But I keep that to myself and smile. “Hey, Hillary.
How are you feeling?” Lame.
Marginally better than I look.
Peg guides her into a chair, says she’ll return in a few. I sit on the adjacent sofa, call Gabe over.
“I don’t think you two have met officially yet. Hillary, this is Gabe.
I’m not sure how much you remember, but he’s the one who found you.”
She stares at him for several
long seconds. I remember your eyes.
Finally, she twists her attention in my direction. And I remember you telling me Niagara was okay.
Things are blurry before and after.
Well, I’m glad we found you when we did. Gabe has been studying her intently, eliciting a small barb of jealousy, an emotion relatively novel to me. I do my best to ignore it. “The team sure misses you. Syrah tries hard, but she can’t match your speed. We’ve got a tourney in two weeks. Wish you could play.”
Me too. And ride. I’m turning into a regular slug. But I can’t take a chance on an accident, and my equilibrium will be off for a while.
We Talk for Twenty Minutes
All the time Peg
Grantham will allow.
Gabe and I learn:
Only three people do, in fact, live there, in the eight-thousand-square-foot house—her dad, Aunt Peg, and Hillary.
Her dad, who’s a high-powered lawyer, spends long stretches of time in Sacramento, where he practices. He’s also running for the California State Attorney General’s office. Which is why Peg is living with them.
As long as she can keep up with her schoolwork despite her injury, Hillary will graduate in June and go on to Stanford, her parents’ alma mater, and where the two met.
Her mother and older brother are dead.
They Were Killed
On September 11, 2001,
when the twin towers of
the World Trade Center
were leveled by terrorists.
I barely remember Mama, says Hillary, and if not for photos, I wouldn’t be able to picture Brent at all.
I was only three when it happened. We were visiting Aunt Peg in upstate New York, and I came down with some virus, or I might have been there, too.