Carolyn McSparren - If Wishes Were Horses

He took her to bed two hours later, and six weeks later they were married. She was two years older than he, but that made no difference. They had six years of happiness. He bought her a forty-six-foot sailing sloop. Her career as an architect took off. He regained his pleasure in the money game. They seemed to live in a golden glow where everything they attempted turned out perfectly.

It had ended in four hours on a rainy Friday afternoon. She’d gone into premature labor, had an emergency C-section and burst a blood vessel in her brain that killed her twenty minutes later and left him with a two-pound baby daughter that he never intended to see.

He’d felt only rage. Rage at himself for giving in to her and getting her pregnant, rage at the child who had killed her, at Sandi for leaving him with this tiny little thing on his hands, at the doctors, the hospital, heaven itself.

He sailed their sloop out into the Sound so that he could open the sea cocks, sink the boat and join his wife.

He’d never doubted that it was Sandi who stopped him as he reached for the first plug. He turned the boat around, sailed back to the dock and drove at once to the hospital. He stood outside the neonatal intensive care unit looking at his blue-black stick figure of a daughter as she fought for her life. She was the ugliest small animal he’d ever seen.

As he stood staring in at his child, Sandi gave him her final gift. She filled his heart with love for this child for whom she had died. He sat down with his back against the wall and howled so loudly that two interns tried to sedate him.

He’d had his one great love. He couldn’t expect another. In the years since, he’d only sought to find a friend, a colleague, an ally to share his life and help raise Pat. Most marriages had considerably less going for them than friendship and collaboration.

Liz Matthews wasn’t his ally or colleague, and she didn’t act as though she’d ever consider him a friend. Yet she stirred his blood. He felt a tremor of disloyalty to Sandi, then he seemed to hear Sandi’s laughter. She never let him get away with nonsense like that.

Suddenly he had to get out of the apartment, drive. somewhere, anywhere. He told Mrs. Hannaford he’d be back in an hour or so and escaped from the apartment as though he were being chased by the devil himself.

“TRAVELLER’S MY PONY,” Pat screamed and started up the ladder to the hayloft.

“Get down from there,” Liz said. “I don’t feel up to climbing today.”

“I won’t.”

Liz sighed and began to follow, groaning at every step.

Halfway up the ladder, Pat stopped and glared over her shoulder at Liz. “You really hurt?”

“I am stiff and sore, thank you.”

Pat said nothing for a moment, then she started down. “Get out of the way.”

Liz stepped off the ladder and stood waiting in the aisle with her hands on her hips. “Come into the lounge so we can discuss this properly.”

Pat slouched ahead of her, dropped onto the leather couch, crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“Did we or did we not have an agreement about tantrums?”

“You gave that stuck-up Janey my Traveller. How could you?” Pat wailed.

Liz blew out her breath and sank gingerly into one of the chairs. “Janey is an experienced rider. I’m too big to work Iggy, and Vic doesn’t ride. Every step Janey takes on that pony teaches him.”

“But I want to ride him now.”

“Forget it.”

Pat set her jaw and glowered. Liz did not react.

After a moment Pat sighed and said, “Okay. But only if I can stay late for an extra lesson every day this week.”

“God, you drive a hard bargain. Anything for a peaceful life.” Liz pulled herself to her feet. “So go get Wishbone tacked up and get yourself into that arena.” She walked out.

Pat uttered a deeply put-upon sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as Vic stuck her head in the door.

“You’re in my class today,” Vic said. “I warn you, I don’t put up with bad manners. One fit and you’re out.”

“Everybody’s always trying to throw me out.”

“No, we’re trying to keep you in. You just make it darned difficult for us.” She put her arm across Pat’s shoulders. “Listen, you’ve got the makings of a good rider.”

Pat shook off the arm. “How come you don’t ride? You’re scared, right?”

Vic caught her breath. “Boy, you go for the jugular, don’t you? Okay,” Vic continued. “I used to think I stopped riding because I was scared for myself. That’s not it. I’m terrified that somebody else will do something stupid and will get hurt because I’m not good enough to get out of the way. I can’t take that chance again.”

“That’s silly.”

“You asked. I told you. Now get Wishbone ready. We’re ten minutes late.”

PAT’S LESSON WENT smoothly enough. She did everything Vic asked of her including trying to post at the trot. Toward the end she seemed to click into the rhythm. She did have the makings of a rider.

Janey, meanwhile, handled Traveller beautifully. At the rate she was taking him, he’d be jumping small fences in a week.

At four o’clock Liz found herself hanging around inside the barn waiting for Mike Whitten to pick up Pat. When the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later she felt her heart lurch. It sank as a plump lady climbed out of the driver’s side.

“Hey, I’m Melba Hannaford come for Pat.” She presented a note from Mike.

“Oh? Where’s Mr. Whitten?”

“Had to go out of town for a couple of days.”

Pat saw Mrs. Hannaford, and after a moment’s hesitation, took her on the same tour of the barn she’d dragged her father on.

She wasn’t so lucky at dragging out her visit, however. “No. I’ve got to stop by the store and get dinner in the oven,” Mrs. Hannaford said. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

Pat stormed off to the car, climbed in and slammed the door. Through the windshield, Liz, Vic and Mrs. Hannaford could see her staring bullets at them.

“I hope he’ll be back in time for the barbecue and sleepover Friday night,” Vic said.

“Sleepover?”

“The parents are all coming for dinner, then the kids will stay over in sleeping bags on the lounge floor.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think Mr. Whitten would allow that. Pat has never slept over at anybody’s house.”

“Time she started, then,” Vic said.

Mrs. Hannaford smiled. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him. Oh, can he bring a date?”

“Sure,” Liz said. Her voice sounded like a croak. “Now, I’ve got to go work out my jumper before my next lesson shows up. Nice to have met you.”

Of course Mike Whitten would bring a date. He must have dozens of women—beautiful, fashionable, clean women. Why did it bother her so badly? She turned to find Vic at her elbow and asked, “What’s this about a barbecue? We can’t afford it.”

“We can’t afford not to. Albert and I have everything arranged.”

“I should have guessed.”

“This is a family barn, Liz. Time we started treating it that way again. Show Whitten what a marvelous atmosphere it is for kids.”

“He’ll never let her eat barbecue in the open. He probably prefers pheasant under glass—suitably disinfected, of course.” Liz stomped off with Trusty’s halter in her hand.

Vic raised her eyebrows at Albert, who was straightening the wash rack and surreptitiously watching Liz. He nodded and grinned. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”

CHAPTER SIX

FRIDAY THE CAMPERS brought sleeping bags and paraphernalia for the sleepover. All except Pat. Mrs. Hannaford explained to Vic. “Mr. Whitten gets in from San Francisco at noon. I’ve talked to him on the telephone about the sleepover and the party, but he hasn’t made his decision yet.” She patted Vic’s arm. “I think I can persuade him to let Pat stay. I’m off to buy Pat a new sleeping bag. He can bring it with him tonight.”