Horse Shy (11 page)

Lisa had to agree that it was logical. “Okay, then, back to the library. We’ve been reading the
Gazette
until it comes out of our ears. Today, instead of that, let’s look into old books on horses. Max was some kind of star in his day—maybe he made it into the books about horses.”

“Well … okay. But I think there might be an awful lot of books on horses in the library.” Stevie sighed.

Willow Creek was in the heart of Virginia’s horse country. Horses had played an important part in the lives of its citizens for a long time. Stevie knew there was a good chance that the library could have lots of books about horses, breeding, records, and ownership. She sighed again. At least she wasn’t going to have to read any more about the controversial town sewers!

“And no more Mrs. Rappaport!” she said out loud. Lisa grinned at her. “Listen,” Stevie continued, “I had a great idea last night. Since Max almost certainly
owned some Thoroughbreds, maybe we could get some information about him from the Thoroughbred Owners and Breeders Association. They have a
million
years’ worth of records about horses and owners.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea,” Lisa told her. “I was beginning to think we’d used up all our sources. Well, congratulations! Since you had the idea,
you
get to write the letter to them while I look in the books.”

The girls stepped into the library. Their newfound friend, the librarian, was at the desk, eager to help them.

“Want to look at some more newspapers?” she asked. “You know, at the turn of the century, there was a second weekly being published in town. We have some of those, too. Want to read those?”

“I don’t think so,” Lisa told her. “We’re going to try something else first. Do you have a section on horses and breeding and ownership, that sort of thing?”

“Oh, sure we do,” the librarian said. “After all, this is horse country. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Lisa followed the woman into the stacks while Stevie settled into a hard wooden chair in the main reading area. She hated writing letters. She especially hated writing letters to people she didn’t know. And most of all, she hated writing letters when she didn’t know what it was she really wanted to ask—and she was afraid that when she
did
figure out what she wanted to ask, it might sound dumb.

“Dear Sir,” she wrote. She erased the comma and added “or Madam.” That sounded better. She crossed that out and wrote “Dear Madam or Sir.” She’d have to recopy it in ink anyway. She bit the end of her pencil, hoping that would help her think. In books and movies, people were always biting the ends of their pencils so they could think better. It didn’t make Stevie think better. It just got pieces of eraser in her mouth. She picked them out carefully. Then she stared into space. Sometimes
that
helped people in books and movies. All it did for Stevie, though, was distract her.

She watched an old man come into the library. He greeted the librarian and then sat down in a comfortable chair. The librarian brought him a newspaper. It looked like something they did every day. Stevie liked that. She wondered how long the man had been coming here to read the paper. He greeted some of the people in the library as if they were old friends. He almost made a ceremony of taking out his glasses and adjusting them. He seemed to enjoy all the little steps of his ritual. She wondered if he’d enjoy writing her letter for her. It certainly wasn’t going very well. All she had so far was:

It wasn’t going right at all. Stevie wished she’d never thought of the idea. Maybe when Lisa got back with her books,
she
could write the letter and Stevie could look up “Regnery” and “Pine Hollow” in the indexes. While she waited, she began to draw horses on the pad in front of her.

The old man finished the first section of the paper, which he had read from front to back, and picked up the second section. He seemed to be reading a little more slowly now—almost as if he didn’t want his afternoon ritual to end.

He was much more interesting than the dumb letter Stevie was supposed to write. As a matter of fact, a lot of people in the library were more interesting than that. There was a lady standing outside the door of the library with a slice of pizza in her hand. She couldn’t bring it inside, so she was finishing it outside. Finally, when the lady tried to jam the rest of the slice into her mouth, a big gob of cheese slid off the pizza, down her blouse, and plopped onto the sidewalk.

Stevie clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. She wished Lisa had seen the woman, too, so they could laugh about it together. The woman chewed the last bite and stepped into the library. Stevie thought she didn’t know about the stripe of tomato sauce on her blouse. It would be hard to wash. Then the woman looked up and saw Stevie staring at her. Nervously, Stevie looked away, pretending she was interested in something going on behind her.

And suddenly, she was. Because there was Veronica diAngelo sitting at a table on the other side of a bookcase. Through the open shelves, Stevie could see that she was concentrating very hard on the book in front of her. Veronica, ever the perfect little lady, was sitting backwards in her chair, with her legs straddling the seat.

“Oh, boy, have they got books about horses here!” Lisa exclaimed, dropping a stack of books on their table.

“Shhhh!” Stevie hissed, pointing through the shelves. As soon as Lisa saw Veronica, she sat down to watch, too.

“What’s she doing?” Lisa asked. “It can’t be homework. Her housekeeper and her gardener and her chauffeur probably does it for her!”

“I’m surprised to see her here at all,” Stevie said. “I would have thought that if she needed a library, her daddy would buy her one!”

They giggled at their jokes, but they were more than a little curious. Veronica’s left arm was in a cast and in a sling. She was using it to hold a book open on the table. In her right hand was a twelve-inch ruler. There was something very familiar about the way she was straddling the chair.

“It’s like she’s riding!” Lisa said. Veronica was sitting as if she were on a horse, and she held the ruler as if it were a riding crop. Just then, with her eyes glued to the book, Veronica leaned forward in her chair,
lifted her seat out of the chair, and brought the two back legs off the floor.

“She’s jumping!” Stevie said. “Look—perfect jump position!” Veronica sat forward in the chair, leaning toward the table so she could see the book. Her seat was raised slightly from the chair and she put her weight on the balls of her feet. Her back was flat, her knees bent but supple. Suddenly, her body folded forward and her head came up.

“She’s watching where she’s going and keeping herself perfectly centered. Up and over—” Stevie narrated.

Slowly and smoothly, Veronica rocked herself into an upright position, bringing the rear legs of the chair back to the floor. She settled back onto the chair and relaxed.

“Well!” Stevie said. “That’s better than she ever did it on a horse.”

“But why here?” Lisa asked. “She’s had all the lessons she could want. She had the finest horse in the stable. Why is she studying riding in the library?”

“I think you and I have just seen a side of Veronica that’s never been seen before—and may never be seen again,” Stevie said. “What I think is that Veronica’s had a zillion lessons and a fabulous horse, but she never listened and she never learned. She thought she was too good to make a mistake, but she was wrong. She knows that now. Cobalt’s life was a horrible price, but at least she learned something from it.”

“You could be right,” Lisa agreed. “But if I know Veronica, she’d never admit that to anybody. If we let
her know we saw her, she’ll tell us we were wrong. But we’re not. Look, there she goes again.”

While Stevie and Lisa watched, Veronica went through the jumping motions several more times, improving with each try. Finally, she seemed satisfied with her efforts and stood up from the table. Furtively, she closed the book and took it back to the shelves in the riding section where Lisa had found her stack of books. Then, as Veronica left the library, Stevie and Lisa buried themselves in books so she wouldn’t recognize them. The door closed behind Veronica.

“Now, that’s what I call amazing,” Stevie said. But Lisa didn’t hear her. She was already combing through the books she’d gotten.

“Nothing,” she said, slamming another book on the reject pile. “How’s your letter coming?” she asked.

“Same,” Stevie said noncommittally, though actually she was pleased with her progress—on the picture of the horse she was drawing. Her letter was at zero.

Fifteen minutes later, Lisa shook her head. “There’s nothing at all here. Unless we get a response to your letter, I think we’re going to have to give up.”

“I don’t think we’ll get any answer to this,” Stevie confessed, shoving the sketch into her pocket. She helped Lisa carry the books back to the desk for re-shelving.

“You don’t look very happy,” the librarian said. “Perhaps if you could tell me exactly what you’re looking for, I could suggest another source?”

“I don’t think so,” Stevie said. But Lisa gave her a look that reminded her who the A-student was.

“Maybe,” Lisa said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” the librarian said eagerly.

“Well, we’re doing a report about the men who made Willow Creek what it is today. Our subject is Maxmillian Regnery, the founder of Pine Hollow Stables. All we know is that he started the stable early this century and it doesn’t look like we’ll learn anything else, either. Any suggestions?”

“Max? Is that what you’re after?” said a gruff male voice from behind them.

Stevie and Lisa turned. It was the white-haired man who had been reading his newspaper.

“Maxmillian Regnery the First,” Lisa said.

“Old Max, Senior,” the man said.

“Right, him,” Stevie said. “Did you know him?” The man nodded. “Really?” she persisted.

“Said so, didn’t I?” he retorted.

“Well, who was he? Where did he come from? What was he like? How did he get the money to buy the stable? Was he a real wild guy?” Stevie found herself so excited to be nearing a “source,” as Lisa called it, that the questions were just bubbling out of her.

“Was he at the earthquake?” Lisa asked.

“No, it was San Juan Hill, I’m sure!” Stevie cut in.

“You girls talking about Old Max who took over that stable, right?”

“Right!” they said, breathlessly.

“Dullest man I ever knew,” the old man said.

“You’re kidding!” Lisa exclaimed. “He was part of the Russian Revolution, wasn’t he? That’s not dull.”

“Nope, and it’s not true, either,” the man said.

Finally, they were going to get answers, and Stevie had the feeling that they were going to be surprised at what they were.

“You know, Mr., uh—”

“Thompson,” the man supplied.

“Mr. Thompson, we were just going over to the coffee shop for a soda. Would you like to come with us? We could buy you a soda and you could tell us about Max the First.”

“Ice-cream soda?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Sure,” Stevie said, knowing that would deplete her allowance. But if she could learn about Max the First, it would be worth every penny—even if it meant she wasn’t going to like what she heard.

“You’re on,” he said, and they left.

Stevie, Lisa, and Mr. Thompson settled into a back booth in the coffee shop. Stevie was careful about picking their spot. She didn’t want anybody else from Pine Hollow to see them. This was a Saddle Club secret.

In a few minutes, they all had their orders and Mr. Thompson began to tell the story. Lisa and Stevie sat still, absolutely astonished. The tale was so different from what they’d expected that it
had
to be the truth.

Maxmillian Regnery I, the elderly man told them, was a rather dull, totally normal human being. He was the son of Irish immigrants who had come to America in the 1850’s. Max’s father was a blacksmith. Max had
tried smithing, but wasn’t any good at it. He’d gone to school, but hadn’t done well. He’d tried working at the dry goods store, but that hadn’t worked either since he wasn’t very good with figures. Eventually, he’d gone to work at a stable, tending horses. He had been good at that.

The stable’s owner, none other than Mr. Rappaport (Stevie liked that part), thought Max showed some potential, so he’d given him a raise of ten cents a week. Old Max had put away every penny he could—including all ten cents of his raise a week—and had bought Pine Hollow after Rappaport died. Max the First had lived his entire life in Willow Creek, and, as far as the girls could tell, had never left it—not even for the San Francisco Earthquake
or
the Russian Revolution!

“What was he really like—you know, as a person?” Stevie asked.

“I told you. He was dull. Really dull. You couldn’t make conversation with the man. People who learned to ride from him—and he
was
a good rider, I remember that—used to joke about him. He was so rigid, wouldn’t let anybody fiddle in his classes. You couldn’t talk to the other students. He used to make a big thing, too, about talking to the horses. ‘They don’t speak English!’ he’d yell. I was one of his students, you know. My mother, bless her, invited the man and his wife for dinner one night to discuss my riding lessons. She wanted me to learn to jump right away, but he
refused. ‘One year,’ he said sternly. He wouldn’t budge. He also wouldn’t let me get out of the chores at the stable. He made all the students work like stablehands! They left right after dinner. My father swore he’d never speak to my mother again if she had Old Max back in the house. ‘This is
my
house,’ he said. ‘And I won’t be bored to death in it!’ She never did invite them back. I stopped riding soon after that, too.”

So that was Max the First. No hero of the earthquake, San Juan Hill, or the Russian Revolution. Just an ordinary man who was extraordinarily dull. In fact, the only interesting thing about him was that his grandson, Max the Third, taught riding exactly the same way he had, seventy-five years earlier! But Max the Third wasn’t dull—far from it. His students adored him.