Normally, I’d laugh at Jeff’s reaction to Christian’s song choice, like that particular tune holds some sort of mystic Renaissance symbolism that makes it more important than the others he could have chosen. That said, the words to it have taken root inside me, tugging at all the heartstrings I possess.
Is Christian really feeling so strongly about me? And is he nervous that I won’t return those feelings?
That thought gives me a deliciously hopeful feeling, which is great after the day I’ve had. I doubt anything could bring my mood down now, even the thought of Kyle and Lacey stumbling into the face painting tent.
With a bounce in my step, I head back to work.
10
WEEK 1—THURSDAY
I step into the stables, trying to keep my footfall as silent as I can so I don’t spook the animals. I’m hoping to see Christian so I can thank him for the troubadours, but there’s no one but the camel and a few sheep in here, and they give me dull looks before going back to their straw. I’m torn between leaving or hanging around and waiting, and possibly looking desperate while I’m at it.
“Hey, Ro.”
I jump at Sage’s voice as she comes in, Big Red trailing behind her.
“Hey,” I say to Sage and try to act like I’m in the stables every day, nothing out of the ordinary. “How was the joust?”
She grins wide, making her look like she’s about twelve years old. “Great. I won. Got to knock old man Richard off his horse.”
I watch as Sage puts her horse in the stall and untacks his saddle. If she’s back, Christian should be here soon. Hopefully.
“Waiting on someone?” Sage asks me when she’s done. There’s a hint of mischief in her eyes, the same as I saw when she handed over her cards to me at the bonfire, and I know she’s trying to get me to admit why I’m here.
“Oh, well, not really. I just . . . like the animals,” I fib because I can’t let her win. I’m too stubborn for that.
“Do you ride?” I glance at her horse, and I must have looked fearful enough that Sage knows the answer. She laughs. “I can teach you if you want.”
“That’s okay,” I say, forceful and, I hope, final.
She blinks, then there’s a slow smile as she pushes me more. “It’s easy. And relaxing. You’d love it.”
I stare at her, hating that she’s calling my bluff, but trapped regardless. “I guess I could use some relaxation.”
“Thatta girl,” Sage says, and smacks her horse’s butt. I detest the triumphant look in her eyes when she adds, “I’ll take Big Red here, but how about we start with a pony for you?”
“That’s fine,” I can’t help but grumble, and soon Sage has a peanut butter–colored pony saddled up for me. Sage tells me how to get on the horse by swinging my leg over its back, which is undignified and unladylike in my skirt and flip-flops. My skirt scrunches around my thighs and my feet look strange in the stirrups with the flip-flops on, and I’m positive this is the most ridiculous I’ve looked since arriving at the faire.
Sage stands back, inspecting, lips twitching. “Okay, so mental note . . . wear jeans or pants next time, got it? And an actual shoe. Boots if you can. Don’t want your foot to slip through the stirrup, or worse, lose a shoe out on the trail.”
I sigh. “Sure.”
“This is Jiffy, the sweetest pony we have. He’s used to kids riding him so he pretty much follows the path, but we’ll get him on a gallop out in the field and let him cut loose for a while.” Sage climbs onto her horse like the pro she is, making me feel completely inadequate, and frumpy to boot. Tomboy or not, on a horse, Sage looks cute and sassy, her back straight and a confident air about her. I look like what I am: a girl who doesn’t want to be there, on a horse for the first time ever.
But then Jiffy lets out a soft whinny and turns his head back, making eye contact with one of his huge horsey eyes. He looks kind of sweet, truth be told, so I reach out and pet his long neck and as a reward for my effort, he whinnies again.
“Aww, you’ve made a friend,” Sage coos, and it’s as if at least for that moment, we’ve both forgotten this whole thing is a ruse.
I pat Jiffy’s neck and smile at Sage. “So how do I make him go?”
“Just a little kick in his ribs.” At my horrified face, Sage laughs. “A gentle one! You don’t have to kick hard. Think of it as a small poke to get his attention.”
Sage demonstrates and Big Red starts out of the stables, leaving me with no choice but to kick Jiffy (gently!) in the ribs. The pony lazily begins to walk, following Big Red as if he knows that horse is the leader and his job is only to follow.
As we pass through the doors and the sunshine hits my face, I have to admit, this might be fun. That happy thought slams on its brakes in my head, though, when I see Christian riding up the hill toward us. I look down at myself, skirts hiked up and rainbow toes bright and obnoxious. Great.
Oh well. He saw more of me this morning, and I think this might be the less embarrassing of the two scenarios.
Sage calls out to him and I give a feeble little wave in his direction. He rides up to us, and Jiffy backs away a little, as if he’s intimidated by Blaze.
“Going riding?” he asks, looking at me and not Sage.
“She wants to learn,” Sage answers anyway, and Christian keeps his gaze on me.
“Oh, really?”
I can only hope my blush doesn’t call my bluff. “Yeah. So Sage said she’d teach me.”
“Well, don’t let Jiffy run off on you. He’s a wild one,” Christian says, smirking, and with a swift kick to Blaze’s ribs, he’s gone.
“Dang, he’s got a nice backside,” Sage whispers, leaning forward on her horse to get a better view as Christian rides off. She settles back in her saddle and winks at me, daring me one last time to come clean with my reason for being in the stables. When I don’t, she shrugs. “Let’s get going. The trail’s long.”
As soon as Jiffy and I reach the path, I’m glad I bluffed and Sage took me along. Even just a few steps in, the path is quieter than the rest of the faire, more peaceful, even. The trees are thicker here, the density blocking out the sounds of the Renaissance instruments, the children yelling, and the crowds clapping at Patsy and Quagmire’s show. It’s cooler too, somehow, and the many layers of my dress don’t seem as constricting.
The path is narrow, considering that it’s meant for horses, and between the quiet and the steady sway of Jiffy, I find all my stress left over from the day fading away. The towel incident, seeing Kyle and Lacey, being zinged by Jeff—I just breathe and let my mind wander, enjoying the flickering sun as it darts between the leaves, the steady thump of hooves on the dry ground, and the sweet, clean air.
Sage doesn’t talk much. She tells me to pull out on Jiffy’s reins if I want him to turn, and to pull back on them if I want him to stop, but for the most part Jiffy just follows Big Red, and Sage seems to be as lost in the nature around us as I am.
When we loop around and come back into the faire grounds, I’m sad it’s over, and I tell Sage so.
“Best way to relax around here,” Sage says to me, wise and proud. “I’m glad you liked it. If you want to go some other time . . . ?”
“Sure!” I find myself agreeing, and we spend the next few minutes untacking our horses in the same congenial silence we shared on the ride. Sage slips out the doors before I can thank her, which is just as well. It probably would have embarrassed both of us, and I’ve got to head straight to Suze’s parents’ place for dinner. The ride took longer than I thought and there’s no time for a shower.
I look down at myself. There’s horse hair on my skirt and my toes are caked with dirt, plus I’m pretty sure the smell of the horse is clinging to both my dress and my skin. I may not mind the smell of the stables in the stable, but outside of it . . . let’s just say that eau de Jiffy is not pleasant.
So much for a good impression with Suze’s family.
Suze told me her parents live on the very edge of the faire
property, in a little corner they have all to themselves because they’ve been involved with the faire for so long. “Lifers,” I’d heard both Suze and Will call them. Which meant Suze was a lifer too and the faire was her natural habitat.
I follow the written instructions Suze scrawled on a napkin at the tavern, which says simply, “Go to the edge of the village and follow the wall through the forest until you reach the corner.” It seems simple enough, but after I step off the main road and start into the forest, time seems to slow to a crawl. If I wasn’t following the fence line, I’d have figured I was walking in circles. All the trees and the rocks look the same; heck, I even pass two identical wooden bridges, small and almost useless, save for getting you over the tiniest trickle of a creek.
When I finally see the Mulligan family home in the distance, I have to wonder if I’ve somehow been following the wrong wall.
The Mulligan’s home is a wagon. I was picturing an RV, maybe even a trailer like Jeff’s, but this is an honest to goodness wagon, the kind you might have seen a hundred years ago that traveled in the circuses. It’s huge, like the caboose of a train and just as sturdy, and it’s painted a luxurious deep red, with fancy gold, fading lettering on the side that reads, MULLIGAN’S FANTASTICAL CREATURES. All of that is made even more lovely by soft white Christmas lights that tangle in gently glowing icicles from the top and sides. I guess since this is a residence and it’s way off the beaten path of tourists, Jeff doesn’t mind the generator that hums quietly in the back.
Suze steps out onto the stair that hangs down from the front door. “You found us!”
“Suze, this place is awesome! It looks like a gypsy caravan or a circus wagon.”
Suze swings out, looking at the wagon herself. “Yeah, they did a circus once, but Dad was really upset over the way they treated their animals, so they went back to the Ren Faire circuit really quickly.”
I blink at her. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“I love it.”
“I’m glad,” Suze says, clearly amused that I’m so enthralled. “So do you want to go in or just stand outside staring?”
I roll my eyes at her impatience and hoist myself into the wagon. The first thing I do, after being introduced to Suze’s dad, Peter, is apologize to everyone for smelling like a horse.
“Eh, nothing to it,” Peter says, waving me off. “Nine days out of ten, I come home covered in bird poop. We’re no strangers to animal smells around here.”
The inside of the wagon is small but tidy, with just enough room for Peter to stand without bumping his head. A table with chairs sits in the corner, right next to the smallest stove I’ve ever seen. There’s a bed with velvety embroidered pillows piled on it, and in between there’s a row of shelves with drawers at the bottom. Books about animal training and costume-making are displayed, but I also notice a lot of classics: Dickens, Brontë, Hugo, the complete works of Shakespeare, some children’s favorites like Peter Pan and The Little Prince in French. Propping up some of these books and other knickknacks, like a large brass compass, are Lindy’s dolls and a few hand-carved trolls, much like the one I saw on the post that led me to the faire.
I’m about to inquire if Peter whittled them when Lindy takes the top off a pot that’s boiling on the stove and releases steam that smells so good my mouth waters. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, dear.”
“Never. I’d die without cheeseburgers,” I say, and Suze laughs.
“Just don’t feed her any turkey legs, Mom. I thought she was going to hurl when that group of guys ordered a dozen of them today and sat there chewing with their mouths open.”
I wince just thinking about it. “That was so nasty.”
Lindy laughs. “Don’t worry. No turkey legs. Strict rule in the Mulligan cabin: no faire food. I made my famous chili.”
“My famous chili,” Peter corrects, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She turns and kisses him on the mouth before stirring the contents of the pot. “The whole thing was my idea.”
“Nonsense. You added more jalapeños, that’s it,” Lindy says. When Peter reaches over to swipe a bean from her wooden spoon, she bats his hand away playfully and he pouts, prompting her to give him another kiss.
They’re sweet, and for two adults, they’re obviously still as in love as they were when they were teenagers. It’s so unlike my household and my parents. It’s not as if my parents don’t love each other, but they’re never affectionate, at least not in front of me.
I watch as Lindy dips her spoon back into the chili, emerges with a decent-size bite, and blows on it to cool it down before feeding it to her husband. I look over at Suze, smiling, but she just rolls her eyes. It’s clear she’s not irritated, though. The expression on her face is too warm and happy. I’m a little jealous that this is how she grew up, with affectionate parents and a cool wagon and a life half lived in fairy tale. I’m also a little jealous of how in love Lindy and Peter are. I never quite felt that way with Kyle, but I thought I was close. Maybe it would have happened if he hadn’t cheated.
Someday, I tell myself. Maybe sooner than you think.
We tuck in around the table and the chili is served (just the right amount of kick, I think, and I make a point to tell Peter so), and for nearly two hours the conversation doesn’t stop. Lindy tells me about the first time she saw Peter at the Austin, Texas, Renaissance Faire, nearly twenty years ago, how he was only an apprentice back then and she bandaged his finger when one of his hawks got surly. I learn about how Peter worked his way up from apprentice to overseeing his own menagerie, and they tell me how Suze was almost born in this very wagon, but a friend let them borrow their car to get to the hospital and it was a stick shift that Peter couldn’t drive, so she was born in the car instead. Suze talks about an interesting girl she met at the tavern today who works for rock bands doing pyrotechnics, and, after dessert and a glass of cold mead, I share the story of how I walked scantily clad from the showers to the tents this morning, making Peter laugh so hard that he nearly chokes on his bite of strawberry shortcake.
At the end of the evening, Peter and Lindy both hug me and make me promise to come by for supper again soon. I thank them, once again astounded at their generosity, before Suze and I waddle home.
We flop down on our beds, exhausted and with bellies full of good food. I want nothing more than to fall blissfully asleep, but before I do, something soft lands on me, almost covering my entire body. Pulling it off me, I hold out the object for inspection.
“It’s a bathrobe, genius,” Suze chides as I stare blankly at it. “Please borrow it until we can get you into town to buy your own. As much as Grant and Christian probably enjoyed it, I’d rather not see you stumbling through camp buck naked, thank you very much.”
I give her a sardonic look but thank her anyway, laying the bathrobe out between our two air mattresses. Then I roll over on my side and watch her as she braids her hair. She always puts it into one long braid before sleeping, just to keep it tame until she braids it again for work in the morning.
“So, regardless of the towel incident and Kyle, the day wasn’t a total loss. I think Christian sent me the troubadours.”
Suze sits up dramatically, flailing in her surprise. “What? And you’ve been holding this juicy little chunk of information from me all day long? Spill it.”
I do, telling her about the song Christian chose, what the troubadours did, and Jeff’s overreaction. I even mention Cassie’s complete indifference.
“Oh, well, Cassie . . . ,” Suze starts, but doesn’t finish.
“Cassie what?” I say, reaching over to poke Suze in the knee. “What about her?”
“She had a thing with Christian is all,” Suze says, and I can tell she’s trying to make her tone light. “That’s it. Fairemance. They were a thing, and then the season ended and it fizzled out.”
I prod her for more. “Are you sure? There’s nothing between them now?”
“Please. If th
ere was, she’d be parading him around the village square. She’d probably rent the billboard off the highway to proclaim it. Trust me, she definitely made sure everyone knew about them last summer.” Suze’s lips scrunch together all duck-like, and she makes a “pfft” sound dismissively. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Good,” I say, crawling under my blanket. “Because Lacey said she and Kyle are going to the Revel.”
“Then it will be just tragic for him when he sees you on the arm of a hot knight.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I snuggle as deep into the air mattress as its inflation level will allow. “Good night, Suze, you saucy wench.”
“Good night, fair Rowena. Sleep well.”
11
WEEK 1—FRIDAY
The next morning at breakfast I arrive bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and clean. The shower this morning was glorious—warm and long, and when I went back to the tent I was dressed in Suze’s bathrobe, completely covered up.
I help myself to Ramón’s bacon and a waffle, and park myself at Will’s table, since Suze is spending some time with Grant and Christian isn’t there. Will pushes a bottle of maple syrup toward me and I thank him before pouring a healthy dose on my waffle. Except for Ramón, the group is engaged in conversation, rapid and energetic, despite the earliness of the hour.
Quagmire and Patsy are the loudest of all and I have to wonder how long their argument has been escalating. The debate seems to be about horror movies and the quantity of blood needed to make them scary, but I don’t get to hear much more because suddenly Will butts in.
“I don’t know,” Will says while forking sausage into his mouth. He doesn’t bother chewing and swallowing before saying very seriously to Quagmire, “Patsy’s right. I think that really, nothing beats a good Hitchcock.”
“See?” Patsy says, as if Will’s support is the deciding factor. “Hitchcock relied on mystery and tension. Not chainsaws and screaming teenage girls.”
My Faire Lady Page 12
