Piper, Once & Again

by Caroline E. Zani

  Piper didn’t know where she fell on this continuum. She was too busy to really ponder such things anymore. She loved writing, and music often inspired her to do so. Life had moved her forward, as it does, time not waiting for anyone. She was enjoying herself much more in her mid-thirties than she had at any other time she could remember. Since that beautiful cloudless June day she married Paul on the shoreline in Gloucester at thirty-four, life had been a constantly changing and evolving process. No longer did she have time to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, wonder where life would take her, sit and cry, and write her poetry. She had a good friend in Paul, and he trusted her with his thoughts and dreams. Their arguments rarely passed quarrel stage, and when they did, it was about something that was worthy of the energy. She really hadn’t believed she would ever meet anyone who made her heart skip a beat the way it had with Darrick. Life has a way of surprising you, she figured, and sometimes the surprises weren’t all that bad.

  They packed up their respective apartments and, along with Viceroy, settled in a town called Feeding Hills; although she had been born and raised in Massachusetts, she had not been aware that this little farm town exists in the Commonwealth. It was closer to New York so that Paul could visit with his family more easily, but it was still inside a two-hour drive to Piper’s parents. The land they purchased was inexpensive, considering the area where she had been living most of her adult life. Purchasing forty-three acres was a dream come true for them both, and knowing there wasn’t a neighborhood of new homes and cul-de-sacs within quite a few miles made it all the sweeter. Most of the acreage was abandoned pastureland, which unfortunately had become worth much more as real estate. On the outskirts of the pasture was a thick tree line of old growth hardwoods. It was in these woods that Piper discovered on their walk-through with the realtor the most wonderful selling feature available on the market: a meadow! It was just shy of three acres, but it was what she had always dreamed of having. It was lined with a stone wall, and the gate was still there, though barely. It was a simple gate made of thin branches, tied long ago with rawhide, which had long since rotted, leaving the branches askew.

  She turned to Paul and grabbed the lapels of his navy wool pea coat. “Honey, this is the place I have always dreamed of, this meadow … I want this one!”

  The agent winked at Paul, laughed at Piper, looking much the way she did when she was a little girl begging her dad for a pony. Paul wished he could capture the look in her eyes—the excitement there. He rolled his eyes, feigning boredom. Piper playfully slapped his arm and pouted until he threw his arms open and said, “I love it, too! Tell the man we’ll take it. We’ll take two if he’s got another!”

  And so it was that Piper and Paul found the place they would call home, paying a little over two hundred ten thousand dollars for a piece of land that would have cost millions just one hundred fifty miles east.

  They purchased house plans online and had a local builder construct it for them. They chose a small, three-bedroom colonial, gray with black shutters and a cranberry door, quintessentially New England. They were very conservative with the upgrades but did splurge on an enormous fieldstone fireplace in front of which they spent most of their evenings: talking, reading, dreaming aloud. The barn, however, was not such a simple endeavor. It had to be researched, designed, and built by a contractor who specialized not only in reproduction homes but also in equestrian women with exacting demands.

  “It has to look old, like it’s been here for centuries,” she told him. She wanted a simple stone and wooden barn like the ones that dotted the countryside in Southern France where they had spent their honeymoon. She felt so content there, like she belonged—a rarity for her. She wanted four stalls and a feed room that could double as a tack room if need be. However, she preferred to keep her tack in the house where she could smell the leather, which was aromatherapy in its finest form. She wanted rain barrels to collect water for the barnyard and didn’t want electricity run to the barn, much to the chagrin of Paul who thought this had nothing to do with budget.

  They certainly could more than afford some of life’s finer things now, having done well since they started their own equine insurance agency a couple of years prior. Paul realized that Piper’s desires ran deeper than most people’s, and he loved her with such ferocity that he would certainly go along with her desires to have a very primitive stable; but he insisted on electricity. He knew he would regret not arguing that point the first time he had to carry hot water from the house to melt the ice in the water trough. The barn plans took time and patience which had never been Piper’s strong suit. It took over a year to build because, as it began to take shape, there were other elements added such as the stone wall in front with an archway that framed the barn itself and, of course, the second story hayloft and cupola which Piper thought would make a wonderful place for Paul to tinker with his collection of model trains.

  Paul had some ideas, too, that were not exactly welcome; but he had learned over the years how to appeal to Piper and calmly stand his ground. When she had time to mull them over, she liked most of his ideas, although she was not quick to admit it. She could be stubborn, but she loved her husband and knew that she had some giving to do to keep the balance. The idea that needed no hashing over, no dialogue at all, was the one that had the contractor laughing, thinking that it was a joke; but realizing his mistake, he apologized. Eventually though, he, too, thought it was quite unique. Paul wanted a wine cellar added onto the back of the barn, accessible through a thick Gothic style white-oak door with hand-forged wrought-iron hinges and handle. That door, said the contractor, would be heavier than any horse they might hope to keep out of that room!

  As it was all being put together, Piper and Paul decided that they should begin the landscaping to complete the look they were reaching for. They planted Pink Rambler roses that would eventually cover the side of the barn with the help of a trellis. Around the roses, they placed several hardy lavender plants. For the archway, two trumpet vines were started which, before long, had wound their way all around the stone. They worked tirelessly every evening throughout the summer months into the fall, wanting to do all the work they could themselves. They purchased a chainsaw and began clearing a path through the wood line to the meadow’s gate. Taking down only brush and saplings, they created a gently winding trail through the giant oaks and black walnuts. Piper took several pictures to send to her in-laws as proof that their son was actually capable of performing manual labor.

  Paul’s parents had raised him to be a good student and eventually it had paid off well at Syracuse and then in the insurance field. His father had been a laborer his entire life as his father before him had been. And he felt that if his son could develop his mind, he wouldn’t have to wear out his knees and back by age fifty and still have fifteen years of work ahead of him. His mother loved the idea that her son was trying something new and loving each and every day with his new wife. She uploaded the pictures and sent them to her sister and Paul’s brothers in California.

  Paul’s mother hadn’t liked his first wife one bit and was relieved when she met Piper for the first time. As soon as she stepped into her future mother-in-law’s kitchen, Piper’s eyes widened, as she took a deep breath, smelling the apple pie that was baking in her honor. Like a child whose pure emotion bubbles over, as yet unhampered by social norms, she threw her arms around the cook. Paul’s mother had not expected such openness; before the visit with Piper, she had been recalling the demeanor of Paul’s cold ex-wife. Stunned for only a split second, she quickly reached up and hugged the girl who towered over her, and felt a warmth and happiness she imagined long ago that she might someday share with her own daughter. Behind them, Paul stood holding a large bouquet of “purple spikes,” as he called them, for his mother. From that day forward, Paul knew this was the woman he was meant to be with for the rest of his life.

  Paul had never tried his hand at gardening before he met his wife, but he was simply amazed a
t how many plants she had on the deck of her tiny apartment in Marblehead. He had no idea you could grow an entire garden in 5 gallon buckets, pots, and in bags of potting soil. She had a whole vegetable garden, save for corn, which she had tried once but it blocked too much sun from all the other plants. She had tomatoes in pots, cucumbers, and beans climbing the trellis which leaned against the building. Basil, oregano, sage, and lavender each resided in their own bag of soil, holes punched in the bottoms to let the water drain. In terra cotta planters lining the railing of the deck, she had the most beautiful array of petunias, baby’s breath, impatiens, vinca vine, and Portulacas that cascaded down over the edge of the deck. Many days when she was watering and deadheading, weeding and dreaming, she would pluck a shiny basil leaf. Crushing it and smelling the scent brought her back to her grandmother’s kitchen where there was nothing but love and garlic. “Two things you can’t have too much of,” her grandmother used to say.

  Paul was more than eager to learn the basics and even took notes, which Piper found annoying yet endearing. She started him with some small sunflowers and nasturtium which she knew anyone could grow. She thought it was funny that, when he would arrive for a date, the first thing he did after kissing her hello was to go out onto the deck and check on his flowers. And now that they had so much acreage, Paul was getting excited about what they might be able to do with it.

  When it came time to look for her first horse in over a decade, she knew immediately what to look for. Nothing would do but a Friesian. She had dreamed of owning one of these Dutch warmbloods for a long time and had come across several for sale on different assignments throughout the years. But these animals did not come cheap. Her clients who owned them bought directly from breeders in Holland. She thought she may have to purchase a foal and wait several years before being able to train and ride it; even still, the babies sometimes come with $30,000 price tags. But it wasn’t at all about the money.

  For Piper, these horses had something other horses didn’t. She couldn’t explain it, but figured that most Friesian owners couldn’t. That didn’t make them crazy or inarticulate, hardly. At last year’s Equine Affaire, as they were standing in the breed pavilion, a Friesian was led past them heading out to the arena for a clinic on natural horsemanship. Piper tried only once to explain to Paul what she felt when she was around these animals.

  “Honey, it’s so hard to put into words, but it’s like watching a Thoroughbred race. It’s exciting—it’s what they’re bred to do. Oldenburgs, Hanoverians, Trakehners—they dominate the dressage arena and cross-country events, right? But Friesians … they touch my soul. They have such a fierce elegance, bold dignity, and a loyalty unmatched by any other breed of horse.”

  She was trying to explain this part, but he was laughing at her, though not in a cruel way. It’s just that she had a way of cracking him up when she got passionate about something. She had a vein in her forehead that stuck out a little when she was angry or excited, and her husband knew from experience that when he saw the vein, he was about to be yelled at or lose his wife to the couch for a night or two; or more likely she was going to say something so profound and so beautiful that it would bring him to tears.

  Paul suggested that they look around. “Maybe we should just think about it for a while. We said we wanted a few horses. Do you really think we can afford more than one at thirty grand a pop?”

  “No, I guess not,” she said.

  He saw the hurt in her eyes. She was not an extravagant spender and never had been. In fact, one of the things Paul loved about her was how she could stretch a dollar into next week if she had to, and even if she didn’t. Then he dropped the bomb on her while giving her a look he knew made her weak in the knees.

  “Piper, I thought we were going to talk about starting a family soon. What happened to that idea?”

  Now she looked down at her work boots, covered in dust and wood shavings. She said, “You’re right. I’m a dreamer, I guess. I don’t know what’s going on sometimes …” her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, sweets, I guess I got a little carried away.”

  He took her hand and kissed her forehead. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I hate when I have to be the grown up. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  She poked him hard in the ribs and said, “That’s okay, pal. You can make it up to me later.”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down.

  She said, “Yeah, right, and then you woke up, buddy. I meant you could buy me some fried dough and a beer.”

  Paul laughed his laugh, the one that came from deep down and meant that he was really taken by surprise. “Oh, how classy, my dear.”

  This time she raised her eyebrows and looked him up and down, and said, “Well, I’m sure it’ll be better than what you had in mind.”

  He laughed again and said, “Touché, my love, touché.” He took her hand in his, and as they strolled through the aisles, picking on each other, they made everyone in earshot laugh as they passed the stalls that held every breed of horse imaginable from the miniature donkeys to the eighteen-plus hand Shires.

  When they returned home that night, Viceroy was unsettled, fidgety, and would not stop his pacing. Paul took him outside, but he wanted to come right back in. He barked and spun in a couple of circles, then finally quieted down but wanted to be with Paul wherever he went.

  Piper shrugged it off and said, “Huh, there’s your son right there. Are you happy?”

  Paul scooped up the dog and held him like an infant. “Yes, I am, and I’m quite proud, too. He looks just like your mother, don’t you think?”

  This time it was Piper who couldn’t stop the laugh if she had tried. Paul dramatically turned his back on her and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to put my son to bed.” He walked up the stairs singing Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

  Piper just shook her head and said a silent prayer, thanking God for sending her a man who knew just how to deal with her and her crazy dreams. She loved Paul, and she really was so grateful to have him. She knew she was in a good place in life and reminded herself to appreciate the things she had and not let the things she didn’t have ruin her mood. Why then, am I not completely content?

  Just then she had her first scent-ache in almost two years. It was different this time, not lavender and burnt raisins, but something she couldn’t place at first. She closed her eyes to focus on just the scent. Salt air. It gave her goosebumps, and she shivered. She missed living by the sea and made a mental note to get back to the coast and visit Sharon and some of her other former colleagues in the city. Then maybe she could swing by her parents’ house for a visit. But for right now, she decided to put some water in the kettle for tea.

  She went into the laundry room off the kitchen and took out of the dryer a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, fished out a pair of Paul’s wool socks, and closed the dryer. As she stood back up, the scent-ache came back. Salt air and a glimpse of something. But what? she wondered. She closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate. Nothing. She thought it was strange that she was never able to describe this strange occurrence to anyone she met and also that it had been so long since the last one. The kettle was whistling and she hurried to the stove. She laughed to herself that she wouldn’t want to “wake the baby.” She made herself a cup of rote Röte Grütze with a teaspoon of sugar instead of tea, thinking she could do without the caffeine.

  She thought about heading up to her office to check her e-mail, but decided against it because she had promised herself that if she was going to do the majority of her work from home, she didn’t want to get into the habit of working on weekends and holidays. And if she opened her e-mail, the next thing she would be doing would be work related. She had learned long ago that work was work, and it would still be there tomorrow; you were never finished. She wanted to keep her schedule the way it had been when she worked for someone else. So instead of heading upstairs, she sat down on the sofa and turned on the televis
ion. She smirked and remembered her father saying that no matter how many cable channels you get, sometimes there is just nothing on. That seemed to be the case tonight as she scrolled through the offerings and stopped at MTV. Sometimes, she thought, they still actually play music on that channel.

  She pulled the burgundy throw from the back of the cool leather sofa and wrapped it around her. The video playing was black and white, and she thought the guy singing was pretty good-looking in that way only rock stars are. She didn’t know the song or the band, but it was a sad song and she really liked it. There was a soothing quality to his voice, and even though he was covered with tattoos, something she would never consider for herself, she turned up the volume and put down the remote. She was mesmerized by the lyrics, his voice, and the video itself. She leaned forward a little to be sure she’d be able to see whose song it was when the words came on the screen. “H.I.M” was written there, but she had never heard of them. She made a mental note to look them up online the next morning and wished she could hear the song again, it was so beautiful.

  Turning off the TV, she got up and grabbed a note pad from the kitchen and a pen. She sat down and looked at the blank page, and, as she had so many times before, she just wrote what was there. When she was a little girl, her mom would buy her little games and activities to keep her busy when they took long car rides. Her favorite was the pad of paper with the “magic pen” that would reveal “invisible” messages on your paper. This way of writing reminded her of that pad of paper in that her pen just sort of revealed words she didn’t know she had in her.