that pain to stay, she would be lost. She’d have to pull over and cry, and she wasn’t sure if or when she would stop. There were many nights she didn’t, at home in her bed, and the notion seemed fitting. Her mother had sacrificed so much for her, Bennie owed her a few sleepless nights. It was all she could give her now.
Over a half hour later, she’d arrived at a large white sign that stood where her father’s mailbox used to be. HUNT COUNTRY ESTATES, it read in Olde English letters, and a curved brass horn flanked the words. Bennie got out of the Saab, dismayed. She looked behind her, then ahead. Fake Victorian gaslights illuminated the place. She had the right street. This was the place. She’d circled and circled and ended up here. But where was her father’s house?
She blinked, trying to remember the place two years ago. There had been a gravel road right on this spot, with a fork on the left that led to her father’s cottage and garden, and an almost paved road on the right, tree-lined, that had led to the main house. The main house of the estate had stood on the hill-a huge white mansion with colonial shutters and separate wings, like an embrace. A maid who had answered the door had helped Bennie, the last time.
But Bennie stood now on a smooth single road with too high curbs and iron grates for public water. The new road was lined with bright streetlights and curled to a guardhouse and a grand entrance with its tall iron gates fixed open. Through the gates lay about two billion brick, stone, and stucco-fronted houses, with sculpted terraces and lighted water fountains. The houses looked brand-new, and the slim trees planted on the perimeter were hardly leafy, with lights illuminating the slimmest of trunks, still paper-wrapped for protection. The land had to have been developed right after she’d seen her father. How could so much have changed so fast? They had taken away the hunt country and built the Hunt Country Estates.
Bennie strode to the guardhouse, of white clapboard with a cedar shake roof. On its front a small sign read Master of the Hunt in the same Olde English letters, and inside the guardhouse sat a young man watching baseball on a portable TV. He was dressed in a fake riding helmet and red hunt jacket. Even foxhunters loved the Phillies.
“Tallyho!” the young man called out when he spotted Bennie at the window, and gave a white-gloved wave.
“Tallyho?”
“They make me say that. Doesn’t it blow?” He twisted a toothpick in his teeth, and an eyebrow pierce peeked subversively from under his velveteen brim. “This is the dumbest job I ever had.”
“I used to waitress in a green dirndl. I had to say ‘Welcome to Little Tyrol.’” Bennie shuddered at the memory. Even being a bankrupt lawyer was better.
The young man smiled. “You lost or something? I-95 is up there three blocks, then take a right.”
“I’m not lost, but didn’t there used to be a big estate here? A huge white main house, a white cottage, and at least fifty acres of land. In fact, this whole area used to be horse farms.”
“I dunno. I just work here.”
“Damn! When did you start?”
“Six months ago. It’s still not sold, all the way. They’re asking a million bucks for these cribs.” The young guard’s attention was diverted by an onyx Porsche Carrera rumbling through the gates, and he gave his little wave and called out, “Tallyho!” Then he turned back to Bennie.
“So you don’t know the name of the people who owned the farm, do you? Or where they moved to?”
“A farm that used to be here? No way, sorry. I didn’t even know a farm used to be here.”
Bennie thought a minute. A neighbor might know where the family had moved, but there were no neighbors in sight. And the post office might have a forwarding address, but they’d be closed now. She got another idea. “Who’s the developer of these homes?”
“Simmons Brothers.” The toothpick twisted. “They’re outta Jersey.”
“Where in Jersey, do you know?”
“Someplace fancy.”
Bennie avoided the Jersey joke. Bruce Springsteen was from Jersey, so she loved the entire state. “Princeton?”
“Princeton! That’s it.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Just then a yellow Hummer squeezed through into the gate. “Tallyho!” Bennie and the guard called out in unison, and they both waved.
She scooted back to the Saab, grabbed her cell phone, and called Princeton information. They found the number and connected her to Simmons Brothers Developers. The developer would know from whom they’d bought the tract of land, and if they wouldn’t tell her, she’d have to go to the office of the recorder of deeds. The owner would be public record. She waited nervously for the call to connect, then got a recording: “You have reached the headquarters of Simmons Brothers Developers. Our office hours are eight to five…”
Bennie pressed End and tossed the phone aside. She’d have to wait until tomorrow.
She threw the Saab into gear and took off, cruising to make sure there were no neighbors left. Night had fallen, but Bennie could see how much the terrain had changed. Streetlights lined the newly paved roads, and large homes rose from formerly verdant horse pastures. Chandeliers shone through curved Palladian windows in the darkness, and the air didn’t smell of manure anymore, which wasn’t necessarily an improvement. The shiny brown horses had been replaced by shiny brown Jaguars. She took a left and right, then stopped at a light. She signaled for a right turn and was about to head toward the highway when she saw a handmade sign stuck into the new curb by the side of the road.
MACK’S TACK SHOP CLOSEOUT-EVERYTHING MUST GO, it read, with a hand-drawn picture of a horse. Bennie considered it as the Saab’s breathy engine idled. A tack shop was where they sold stuff for horses, wasn’t it? The family that had owned the farm where her father had lived had owned horses. Maybe someone at the tack shop would know the family, and maybe even where they’d moved. Also Bennie’s father had been their caretaker. Maybe he’d gone in there for hay or whatever food horses eat. It was possible. Bennie switched her blinkers to signal left, and when the traffic light turned green, followed the hand-drawn arrow on the sign.
Giddyap!
12
Bennie got to the tack shop fifteen minutes before nine o’clock, the closing time on the door. It was a small and chummy store; three small rooms joined together, with a plain green rug, and no-frills fluorescent lights on the ceiling illuminating a dwindling supply of horse supplies. At least, Bennie assumed it was horse supplies, since she was from Philly. A golden retriever was the closest she’d come to wildlife.
“Be with you in a minute!” called out a young girl in a green polo shirt that read MACK’S TACK. Her dark ponytail swinging, she hit the keys on the cash register with a rhythmic beat,
“Sure,” Bennie said, and looked around to kill time. To her left, on a wall of Peg-Board hooks hung a few ropes of leather straps looped around horse bridles, and to her right, the Peg-Board held a group of silvery metal things she guessed must be the bits, some qualifying as cruel and unusual punishment. Orange crates of shiny stirrups lined the floor, and a funny odor emanated from an open basket of weird brown cookies.
The cashier behind the counter glanced up. She had intelligent blue eyes behind her glasses and her nametag read Michelle. “Thanks for being so patient.”
“No problem. You’re the first person perceptive enough to call me patient.” Bennie crossed to the counter, a rectangular wooden affair beside a magazine rack filled with titles like
