Page 3 of The Making of Mila and Blake
But little does Dad know, Savannah has a framed photograph of the two of them together above her bed. It makes me shudder, which is why I no longer step foot in her bedroom.
Savannah’s cheeks flush, but she is saved from her embarrassment when Aunt Sheri steps onto the porch, shifting all of our attention.
“Mila, honey!” she exclaims, and I race up the steps to greet her. Sheri is not only my aunt; she is mycoolaunt. Our relationship has truly blossomed over the past few years, and I just love coming back to visit her. I can count on her for anything, like an older sister who always has my back.
I bury my face into her curly hair, and she squeezes me tighter than usual. She doesn’t have to say it out loud– she is wondering if I’m okay. It’s the first time she has seen me since Mom and Dad officially split. There is only so much support one can offer over FaceTime.
Dad clears his throat and scoots our luggage to the foot of the steps. “How’s it going, Sheri? Where’s Dad?”
There’s no hugging between Dad and Sheri, but that’s nothing new. Sheri offers him a genuine smile and answers, “Good! As you can see, things are really in motion around here, so please excuse the chaos. Dad’s on his way downstairs.”
Right on cue, Popeye shuffles to the door and presses a hand against the doorframe for support. His white, silky hair is thinner and sparser than I remember, and the wrinkles around his eyes have deepened. His smile, though, is as wholesome and pure as always, and my heart swells when he looks at me with a twinkle in his one good eye.
“Mila!”
“Popeye!” I close the gap between us and plant a kiss on his cheek, my hand finding his. How come grandparents always look so much older when you haven’t seen them in a while? It’s not fair, how quickly Popeye seems to age. I squeeze his hands and grin because they arehishands, my grandfather’s, and they tell the story of his time in the armed forces overseas in Vietnam and the decades spent working on the Harding Estate.
“I brought you something.”
I run down the porch steps and head back to the car, grabbing my backpack from the footwell of the passenger seat, then make my way back to Popeye. I shove a hand into my bag and grab the huge pack of Jolly Ranchers.
“You know they taste better when they come from the airport,” I say.
Popeye lets out a hearty laugh and reaches out to take the bag from me, but he can’t get a firm hold. His fingers close over the packaging twice, but it slips through his grasp both times.
“Thank you, my sweet Mila,” he says, and Sheri steps in to take the candy on his behalf. My brows furrow in concern– the pack weighs less than a pound– but Popeye moves the conversation on. “How are you, Everett?”
Dad, like every time Popeye addresses him directly, awkwardly shifts his footing. “I’m good, Dad. What are you guys building over there?” He signals to the steel beams standing tall across the field, the foundation for something new. It’s also a safe subject to discuss, because Dad and Popeye get along well, as long as they don’t talk about anything personal.
“An indoor arena for the winter!” Sheri answers, then spreads her arms wide as she gestures across the sprawling land of the Harding Estate, like she wishes the rest of us could picture her vision for the ranch’s future. “The arena will be state-of-the-art, and we’ll be building new stable blocks to the left of it. We’ll be upgrading the paddocks too. No cutting corners around here– we are improvingeverything,and by next spring, we will be fully functioning!”
“It’s going to be amazing,” Savannah says dreamily. “I mean, it already is, but it’s going to be even better.”
“Hey, why don’t you show me the construction plans? It all sounds great,” Dad asks Popeye, and I know he’s making an effort. That’s why he has accompanied me on a few of my visits over the past two years, to make amends, to be a better son and brother.
“Oh, Everett, you needto see what we’re planning to do to the house,” Sheri says. She scoops up the bag of Jolly Ranchers from the old porch chair and ushers Popeye inside, beckoning Dad to follow. He does, pulling our luggage behind him.
I step off the porch and join Savannah and Tori, but my mind spins with all the possibilities of the Harding Estate Riding School. Sheri took the plunge and went ahead with the idea last summer, testing the waters to see if there was demand for anotherequestrian center in Tennessee, and she quickly discovered thereisan advantage to Dad’s A-list status– people really, really, really want to take lessons here. The public are now allowed beyond the stone walls, and sheer curiosity may bring them here in the first place, but they stay for Sheri and her impeccable teaching skills.
“Hey, Mila, I need to get going,” Tori says, drawing my gaze away from the construction zone, “but promise me you guys will come by for food later? Saturday shiftsblowand I need y’all to save me.”
“Are you kidding me? And miss trying out the buffalo shrimp you never shut up about?” I tease (seriously, if I hear Tori rave about the damn buffalo shrimp one more time. . .) and bump my arm against hers. “No way! We’ll be there for sure. Save us a table.”
“Two-top at seven,” Tori says with a salute. “See you then!”
Tori heads off to the beat-up Civic she bought from the salvage yard for two hundred bucks last year, and Savannah and I watch it splutter and grumble its way to the gate and out of sight, a plume of exhaust smoke following in its wake. Shedidcrash the brand-new car her parents bought her for her birthday, after all. That’s why she serves tables at Jefferson’s downtown, because she is still recouping the costs of her run-in with a streetlight on Main Street.
Savannah angles toward me. “So. . . are you coming to say hi to Fredo or what?”
“Yes!”
Maybe it’s because my parents have never let me get the puppy I always begged for that Fredo has such a special place in my heart. I never thought I’d think of a horse as a pet; all I know is that he feels like he’smine.And I haven’t seen my boy since December.
Savannah takes my hand in hers and we sprint across the ranch to the existing stables, all old-fashioned and traditional, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face as the breeze catches my hair and the Tennessee humidity turns my skin clammy. I love it here. I love it, I love it,I love it.So much so, I even have my own riding boots that I keep here in my room. Long gone are the days of getting my flip flops stuck in the stirrups.
“Fredo, look who’s here!” Savannah cheers as she waltzes through the open stable doors.
The collective whinny of horses greets me and I race down the aisle, past all the stalls, until I reach Fredo’s. His white and black coat shines under the fluorescent lights, and he tilts his long face to look at me with those big glossy eyes of his.
