Page 65 of That Weekend in Paris
We stick them inside the pockets of our jeans, and at the sound of the crinkle, both horses perk up their ears. “Is it all right if they have one?” I ask.
“Of course,” André says.
We both unwrap one and give it to each horse. “The chestnut here is Abby, and given the size ratio, I would say she’s probably a better fit for you, Dillon. Klein, you can have the big boy here.”
Another young helper appears, smiles a greeting at us, and then sets about putting the bridles on the horses. Once he’s done, he leads them out of the grooming stalls and down the aisle toward a mounting block at the far entrance.
“I will get my horse and meet you out there in just a moment,” André says.
Klein and I follow the young assistant to the mounting block. He indicates that I should get on Abby first, so I do, my heart thumping a little in anticipation since it’s been so long since I’ve been on a horse. But Abby stands patiently, ignoring my awkwardness, and once I’m in the saddle, she steps forward a few steps, obviously knowing the routine as the assistant leads the other horse to the mounting block.
Klein looks more than a little doubtful at this point, but following his intention to be a good sport, he steps up and follows the assistant’s instructions. “So,” the young man says. “You will put your left foot in the stirrup and swing your weight up and over the horse as gently as possible and then put your foot in the other stirrup. Any questions?”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so,” Klein says, glancing up at me. I smile reassuringly and watch as he executes a perfect swing into the saddle, easing his weight onto the horse’s back.
“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” I ask, smiling.
He looks up and shakes his head. “I assure you, no. I have not.”
The assistant then shows him how to hold the reins, and we wait a moment before André appears around the corner of the barn, riding a beautiful white horse. “This is Zeus,” he says. “Are we all ready to go?”
“I think so,” Klein says, and I nod in agreement, patting my horse’s neck.
“You can follow me then. To ask your horse to go forward, just give a little squeeze with your calves and keep your fingers loose on the reins. If you want to stop, just give a gentle squeeze on the reins. You really don’t need to pull back on them.”
Klein thanks the assistant for his help, and then we’re off, following single file down the lane leading away from the barn. The scenery is absolutely breathtaking, like something out of a movie, really. Klein is behind me, and I look back now and then to see him relaxed to the point that he is starting to enjoy the scenery as well.
We ride for fifteen or twenty minutes through a valley of sorts, beautiful old green trees on either side of us. We reach a knoll at one point, and then to our left, I spot the vineyard. Rows and rows of grapevines loaded with fruit stretching out before us. I glance back to see Klein taking it in as well and say, “The smell is amazing.”
“Yes,” André says, glancing back. “The estate makes its wine from this very vineyard. The grapevines here are at least a century old.”
“Has the château been in the same family from its beginning?”
“Actually, yes,” André says. “It has. My parents are the most recent owners of the estate.”
“Oh,” I say. “How wonderful. You are very lucky.”
“Yes, I think so,” he says. “I have traveled to many other places during my life so far, and I always want to come back here.”
“That’s the thing about home, isn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, it is,” he says.
A few flies have started to appear, landing on the horses’ necks and hindquarters. They swish their tails and shake their heads to make them go away. “How is it that you found us?” André asks, glancing back at Klein.
“Dillon found you through a Google search, actually,” he says.
“And I’m so glad that we were able to come,” I say.
“What is it that you two do when you’re not in France?” André asks.
“Music,” Klein says.
“Ah. What kind of music?”
“Country,” Klein says.
“Do you write, sing?”
