’em. Which is just as well, since growin’ ’em is what I like to do.”
His grip on the trowel tightened, and he rocked forward. A moment later a clump of tulip bulbs appeared, and Ben Smithers carefully brushed the dirt away from it before slipping it into a labeled bag. A moment later, a young marigold had replaced the tulip.
Beth watched for a few minutes, then silently continued on her way down to the stable.
Beth let herself into the stable and heard Patches whinny softly. Fishing in her pocket, she found a stump of carrot, then scratched the horse affectionately between the ears as the animal munched the treat. There was a movement at the back of the barn, and Beth quickly withdrew her hand from the horse, afraid that Tracy Sturgess was about to appear, but when she looked up, all she saw was Peter Russell, the stableboy, grinning at her.
“Hi, twerp. Come down to help me muck out the stalls?”
“Can I?” Beth asked eagerly.
Peter looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“I just—” Beth hesitated, then plunged on. “Peter, am I any different since I moved up here?”
“Jeez,” Peter replied. “How would I know? Why don’t you ask Peggy? She’s your best friend, isn’t she?” He handed a shovel to Beth, and pointed to a large pile in one of the empty stalls. Making a face, Beth let herself into the stall, and gingerly slid the shovel under the pile of manure.
“But Peggy never comes up here,” Beth replied. Peggy Russell was Peter’s younger sister and Beth and Peggy had been best friends since second grade. Balancing the shovel carefully, Beth moved outside and added the manure to the pile that grew steadily behind the stable each week until a truck came on Monday afternoons to take it all away. When she went back into the stall, she found Peter staring at her with the contempt he usually reserved for his kid sister.
“You know, you can be almost as dumb as Peggy sometimes. The reason she doesn’t come up here is because I work here. Mom says if she came up here it would look like she was tagging along on my job, and then Mr. Sturgess might fire me.”
Beth stared at Peter. “He wouldn’t do that!”
“Tell that to my mom.”
“I will! Peggy’s my friend. Uncle Phillip wouldn’t fire you just because your sister came to see me!”
“Uncle Phillip?” Peter echoed, his voice suddenly tinged with scorn. “Since when is he your uncle?”
Beth felt herself redden, and turned away. “It … it’s what I’m supposed to call him,” she mumbled.
“Why don’t you just call him Dad?” Peter asked.
Beth spun around to face him again, the sting of his words bringing tears to her eyes. “He’s not my father! And why are you being so mean? I thought you were my friend!”
Peter stared at his sister’s friend, wondering what she was so angry about. Didn’t she have everything now? She lived in a mansion, and had servants, and a tennis court, and horses. She was living a life all the other kids in Westover only dreamed about.
“We’re not friends,” he said finally. “You’re the kid who lives in the mansion now, remember? Since when have any of the kids like you ever been friends of the rest of us? Now, if you want to help, help. If you don’t, just go away. Okay? I’ve got work to do.”
Beth dropped the shovel and ran from the stall, certain her tears were going to overcome her. She started toward the door, but before she could get out of the stable, the big black-and-white horse in the first stall whinnied again, and stretched its neck out to snuffle at her.
Beth paused, and automatically reached up to pet the horse. Suddenly she knew what she should do. If Peter was going to treat her like she was Tracy Sturgess, she would act like Tracy.
“Peter,” she called; then, when there was no answer, she called again, louder. “Peter!”
The stableboy stuck his head out of one of the far stalls. “What do you want now?”
“Saddle Patches,” Beth told him. “I want to go for a ride.”
Peter stared at her. “Are you nuts? You don’t know how to ride.”
“Do it!” Beth demanded, hoping she didn’t sound as frightened as she suddenly felt. “Let Patches out in the paddock, and put the saddle on!”
Peter only grinned at her, and shook his head.
“Then I’ll do it myself!” Beth cried. Opening the gate, she let herself into the stall. The horse backed away, then reared up, snorting.
Beth darted across the stall and threw open the door on the other side, and the horse immediately bolted through into the paddock beyond. A moment later, Beth followed.
Outside, she paused, then reached up and took the lead rope off the nail it was coiled over. As she started toward the horse, she tried to remember what it was that Tracy did when she was going to saddle a mount.
Patches eyed her as she approached, pawing at the ground and whinnying softly. When she was only a few feet away, the horse reared up, pawed at the air, then cantered off to the other end of the paddock.
From the stable, Beth heard Peter laughing. She spun around, glaring at him.
“Don’t just stand there! Help me!”
“You let Patches out — it’s your problem!”
Beth looked from Peter back to the horse, and suddenly felt herself begin to panic. The animal, so friendly in the stall, suddenly looked much bigger, and somehow threatening. But she had to get the horse onto the lead. She had to!
She started forward once more, moving slowly and carefully, feeling her heart pound. Patches, apparently no longer interested in her, had reached down and torn a clump of grass up. But when Beth moved in close, the horse suddenly shied away, snorted a warning, then once more trotted away.
Suddenly Beth felt the lead rope being torn from her hand, and heard Tracy’s voice.
“What are you doing, stupid? Give me that!” Then, while Beth stood watching, Tracy trotted over to the horse, grasped its halter just as it began to rear, and snapped the lead in place. She jerked sharply on the lead, and Patches came back to earth, neighing softly.
“You idiot,” Tracy shouted to Beth as she led the horse back to its stall. “What were you doing?”
“I … I just wanted to go for a ride. And Peter wouldn’t saddle him for me, so I tried to do it myself.”
“Well, you can’t,” Tracy snapped. “You don’t know anything about horses.”
“I do, too—”
“You just called Patches ‘him,’ didn’t you? Well, it just so happens Patches is a mare. If you can’t even tell that, you should stay out of the stable. And besides, Patches is
“Aw, come on, Tracy,” Peter Russell began, but Tracy whirled around, glaring at him.
“You stay out of this, or I’ll make Father fire you. And don’t ever let her back in the stable again.”
Peter’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. When Tracy had led the horse back into the stable and closed the door, Beth ran over to the boy.
“Peter, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t you hear her?” Peter demanded, his anger at Tracy now refocused on Beth. “Just stay away, all right?” Then he turned, and also disappeared into the stable.
Beth hesitated, then felt the tears she’d been fighting overflow. Scrambling through the paddock fence, she ran along the path back toward the rose garden, then veered off to the right, going around the end of the house, crossing the front lawn. On the far side two immense stone lions flanked the foot of the trail that led up to the mausoleum. Beth passed between them unseeingly, almost blinded by the stinging tears.
Phillip Sturgess and Alan Rogers stood on Prospect Street, gazing across at the sullen brick facade of the long-abandoned mill. Its windows, long since bereft of glass, were boarded over, and the oncered bricks bore a thick accumulation of grime that had turned them nearly black. At the top, some of the crenellations that had once been the building’s sole claim to architectural interest had crumbled away, giving the abandoned factory a ruined look.
The two men stood silent for a long time. Alan finally sighed, and shook his head.
“I don’t know. On paper, it all looks great, but when you look at what we really have to work with — well, I just don’t know. It might be easier to tear it down and start over.”
Phillip nodded. “It would be cheaper, too. But we’d lose something if we did that. There’s history in that
