I got the we’re not angry, but disappointed talk nearly every day, and my mom would grumble, “I thought we raised you better than this” at least six times a week. But things changed once Everly was born and my parents were over the moon to be grandparents.
And then they changed again when Mom quit her job so I could finish school. Money was tight, we had another member of the family, and Everly was not an easy baby. The tension stayed until I moved out into a tiny apartment not long after I graduated high school. Mom ended up missing us and, since she only went back to work part-time, she insisted I come back home so she could watch Ev on her days off.
It hasn’t been smooth sailing from there, but things are good between us now.
“Oh, I need to go pick up dinner,” I say, reading the text that just came through. I didn’t end up making it to the grocery store so I put in an order from Silver Café, getting extras so Ev will have leftovers to take for lunch if need be.
I leave just in time to avoid seeing Dad and Elijah take Aunt Kim’s mattress out of her room. We should have taken it out the same day we lost her. Fluids come out when you die, after all. I’d closed up her room, unable to look in any longer. But I only have another day or so of help from my family, though Louisa might come back once Ruby goes overseas.
I’m always surprised with how busy Silver Café is; though, with it being one of the few places to eat around here, it makes sense. I go up to the hostess and show her my order number on my phone and she says it’ll be just a few minutes until it’s out.
Stepping back, I look around the café, wondering how long it will take until I stop feeling like an outsider.
“Are you Kim Walker’s niece?” someone asks, and I turn to see a pretty blonde woman standing a few feet from me. Her hair hangs in perfect waves around her face, her makeup is on-point, and she’s wearing a Louis Vuitton belt around dark jeans. I’d kill myself if I had on her four-inch heels, and I’d kill to have that designer bag hanging from her wrist.
“I am,” I reply.
“Hi. I’m Poppy Randolph. I knew your aunt. She was such a treasure.” Poppy smiles but her over-Botoxed eyebrows don’t move. She’s so pretty and perfect I want to find something—anything—to pick apart. But it won’t stop me from feeling inferior, dressed casually in leggings and an oversized AC/DC t-shirt. “We are just beside ourselves to lose a fellow equestrian.”
“Oh, you have horses too?”
Poppy smiles again. “I do. I just imported a Friesian from Germany.”
“Ohh, I’ve always loved them. They’re so pretty.”
She nods. “I know. I’ll get him into third-level by the end of show season, I just know it.” She means third level dressage, I’m sure, which takes a talented horse and lots of training. “I take it you don’t show, do you? I mean, it’s not like that was your aunt’s priority.”
I keep the smile on my face, knowing exactly the type of woman I’m dealing with. She’s trying to make me feel insecure, to suss out if I’m competition or not. Even if I was, it shouldn’t matter.
“It’s been a few years since I’ve shown. I used to take my thoroughbred in hunter/jumper competitions, but I preferred the hunters over the jumpers if I’m being honest,” I say without missing a beat. “I’ve always admired dressage, though. I couldn’t get my horse to piaffe to save his life.”
Poppy laughs, still eyeing me like she’s not sure how much she wants to chew me up and spit me out.
“It’s quite difficult and something a lot of my students struggle with.”
My eyes might have just lit up. Because this woman is a horse trainer. Whether she’s a good one has yet to be determined. “You give lessons? Do you have lesson horses?”
“I do. Do you want lessons?” she asks slowly, and the power dynamic shifts now that I’m not trying to outdo her like she feared.
“Oh, I would love lessons, but I’d sign my daughter up first. She’s fourteen,” I add, knowing a lot of trainers prefer older kids. “She has been taking hunter/jumper lessons for a few years but has always loved dressage too.”
Poppy looks at me for a few seconds, with a mix of surprise and relief on her face. Then she gets a business card out of her purse and hands it to me. “I’m limited on evening hours at the moment. I have to cut back while I prepare my own horses for shows.”
“We probably won’t have time until school is out anyway,” I tell her. “Do you know of anyone you’d recommend to train some of the green horses my aunt rehabbed? I like to think I’m a halfway decent rider, but I can’t start a horse.”