Fade to Grey

Fade To Grey

By: Ilena F. Holder

ISBN No: 978-1-877546-42-6

All rights reserved

Copyright © Oct 2010, Ilena F. Holder

Cover Art Copyright © Oct 2010, Brightling Spur

Bluewood Publishing Ltd

Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand

www.bluewoodpublishing.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Bluewood Publishing Ltd.

To Marlene, for having faith that I would make her proud.

Donna drove down the back country road to Fallow Field Farms. After being surrounded by the hustle and bustle in Chicago five days a week, the darkness and solitude felt comforting to her. The long Victorian dress she wore tangled around her ankles. The visit to the costume shop hadn’t taken long at all. The woman had said it would only take a minute to take the Victorian dress in. She had been right. It fit perfectly; Donna just wished she hadn’t pricked her finger with the needle like she had. She still felt woozy from the sight of blood—she hated blood! It had taken all her strength to keep from passing out.

Farm holdings slid past, shrouded in darkness beyond the window, but familiarity painted them clearly in her mind’s eye. They sprawled out in her mind like a patchwork quilt. The purple contact lenses affected her night vision a bit and she wished she could remove them. They worked fine indoors, but after driving out into the countryside, she had to squint. She was used to the bright street lights of Chicago and the suburbs. She’d just wait until she got back to the farm to remove them, when she could wash her hands thoroughly.

She passed the Holtzclaw’s house and saw a lot of cars outside. The weekend guests were arriving. She didn't want to drop by since she had plenty to do back at the farm. Gran’s husband, Emory Ellis, died when Donna turned six years old, so she never really got to know him well. After his death, Gran had soldiered on, running the farm and stable and never remarrying. She kept stable hands and a housekeeper and that was good enough for her. With the employees she had, Donna and her parents did not overly worry about her. It was understood that Donna’s father would inherit everything since he had been the only child. Unfortunately, her parents lived in Chicago and had no interest or understanding of running a riding stable and working farm. They were citified people who were perfectly happy running their shoe store in the middle of a bustling metropolis. In February, they’d sold the store and were taking early retirements to take a round-the-world cruise. With Gran’s sudden stroke and death, they were faced with selling the farm or making other arrangements to keep it in the family and run it. Everything happened too soon.

Though the big house was up the lane, she pulled into the gravel drive at the riding stable first. There would be plenty of time to clean up the house after the party. Her parents had already left to catch their London flight out of O’Hare in the morning. But she longed to see the old tack room first, with its unique smells and trophy case full of ribbons and awards from various horse shows.

As she turned the big Cadillac down the path, her headlights shone directly into the pear orchard five hundred feet in front of her. With the cold fall weather in full swing, the leaves had long since dropped off and the naked branches look cold and spindly. A few wan pears hung gallantly to the limbs, missed by the summer pickers. She drove slowly as the darkness closed around her.

Suddenly, a barn cat darted in front of her and she hit the brakes. The weight of the large car caused the gravel to fly out in front of her tires with an alarming sound. The brakes were more sensitive than Donna was used to and she felt foolish.

“A teenager can drive better than me. Okay, I’m here, let’s just park it where I slid to a stop.”

She opened the door and the outside air whooshed in, carrying the smells of fall-wet leaves from the last rain and rotting pears. The door chimes sounded, pleasantly reminding her that the lights were still on and her keys were still in the ignition. Reaching for the headlight button, she accidentally hit the volume on the CD player and her jazz selections blared.

“I guess all the neighbors plus the barn cats for a few miles just got a wake up on that!” She silenced the music by ejecting the CD.

She slipped the keys into her jacket coat and headed toward the door. The car lights would turn themselves off, but she didn’t want to risk getting locked out. As an afterthought, she took a flashlight she had in her purse as well.

Though it was locked and she had a key in her purse, she reached for the secret hiding spot where Harry, the teenage Holtzclaw boy, kept it. He knew she was dropping by the stable over the weekend and had left it in a small hinged metal box, unobtrusive and low, towards the bottom of the wall. There was not a lot worth stealing in the old barn since the horses were gone, but the tack was still perfectly usable.

Her family had paid the electric co-op to keep the power on at the stable and the house until they decided what to do. That way the outside yard lights were on, and the plumbing was still running until the weather got colder. They anticipated cleaning up everything before freezing winter weather set in. They had the Holtzclaw’s teenage son check the property daily. He checked the doors and flushed toilets occasionally and turned the taps on and off. It gave him a job and gave them peace of mind.

She unlocked the door and reached inside to flip the light switch as the car’s headlights extinguished themselves. The glow from the yellow bulb flowed over her. She gazed around the small room, letting old memories wash over her.

She thought after the funeral that no pain could ever be so sharp, but she had been wrong. Memories lurked everywhere. Some emotions you could bury deep, but grief was not one of them.

The large, deep sink on the side wall was adorned with cracked and drying bars of amber colored saddle soap. Donna ran her finger over the top of one bar, thinking how odd it was that the same glycerin in the bars of soap was the same ingredient added to cosmetics to soften women’s skin. She studied the overhead shelf, looking at various odds and ends that every tack room had. Leather hole punches, assorted knives, rags, and cans of metal polish were thrown helter-skelter on the shelves. Donna would have liked to tidy them up, but she knew it was a wasted effort.

Underneath the sink were buckets half-full of various shapes of cleaning and soaping sponges. Synthetic pink and natural tan sea sponges intermixed, an odd mix of clashing colors. The large wooden cleaning tree sat in the middle of the room, with one of her German saddles sitting on it, a saddle cover laid over the top. She had forgotten that earlier in the month she had asked Harry to clean it up, as she might want to take it back to Chicago with her. Now that she saw it, the thought seemed ridiculous. When would she have time to find stables close to downtown, much less ride again, with her holding a full time job in the city? She couldn’t possibly give a horse the time he needed for care and exercise no matter how hard she tried to fit it into her schedule.

“Oh well, what would it hurt? I can take it back and set it up in the living room for a conversation piece,” she said.

Going through a doorway, she moved into the woodshop area have a look around. The old carousel horse head was still on the wall, a few more cobwebs draped on it since Gran's funeral. Gran had bought it when the old Silver Beach amusement park shut down in the sixties and the owner was selling off the rides by bits and pieces to antique shops and other carnivals. The head had frightened Donna when she was little, as the horse was baring his teeth in a fierce grimace. Later on she came to appreciate it as a fine piece of Americana. Perhaps she could strike a deal with Mrs. Case in the antique shop to sell it at commission. It would never fit in with the decor in her loft apartment. She chided herself for the thought. She would never sell off this stuff. But what would she do with it? Stash it in a storage facility forever? She would figure that out later. She walked around the tack room, touching the saddles and bridles. Harry did a good job; she would tell him Saturday when she got to his folks’ house. She bumped her boot on a pile of horse blankets and saddle pads he had removed for cleaning.

Moon glow filtered through the tack room windows. She knew she would soon have to leave and go to the house for the night. She took Great-great Gran's silver leaf brooch out of her pocket and pinned it on so she wouldn't lose it. Opening the clasp, she pricked her finger and a drop of blood rose to the tip. She stared at it, finding it hard to believe it was the second time she had done this in the same day.

When she was younger she had always fainted at the sight of blood. Now, if she knew she was going to have blood drawn, she would practice visualization techniques the nurses had taught her, getting her mind off on other things. Even listening to headphones was a distraction. But she could feel herself turning cold and feeling faint.

Before she knew it she slowly slipped out of the saddle. She tried to grab at the pommel and right herself, but the English saddle offered nothing large enough to grab. Luckily, she tumbled onto the pile of horse blankets, cushioning her fall. Lifting her head, she attempted to stand, but everything swam in front of her eyes and she crumpled again.

* * * *

Royce washed up his few supper dishes in the basin and set a kettle on the fire to boil some tea before bed. With the calendar page on October now, the days grew to a close faster. He preferred to get his chores done early so he could enjoy doing some scrimshaw carving or macramé in front of his fireplace. The horses and barn cats had been fed. He walked around the barn and horse pastures one last time before going into his cottage and closing the shutters and door for the night. He shoved the rag rug up under the crack to keep out the night chill. Royce was a methodical man who relished his nightly routine. Truthfully, there was not a lot to do with the Michigan winter soon coming on.

He was lucky to have a job with a free cottage and always kept back some odd mending and cleaning tasks for the cold weather months. He liked to keep busy and thought it best if the owners saw him puttering around the workshop when the daily chores with the horses were done. After two daily feeds and mucking out the stalls, a man had to find something to keep occupied. The owners liked to ride the horses and take the buggies out well into the cold months, at least until the weather became unbearable with frost and accompanying mud. There would be a spell of a few months where it was too uncomfortable for anyone to be outside unless necessary. He would hitch up the large wagon and two chestnut draft horses and take the maids to town once a week for supplies. The cook at the big house had put back the yearly store of smoked and salted hams and canned and dried vegetables and pickled foods for winter. He would receive his weekly share of these every Sunday night without fail. But with the moderate sized household they had, there were always things the maids ran short of, like spices, sugar, flour, sewing goods, sweets, newspapers, reading materials, and general what-nots. He always enjoyed these trips into town and the maids did also. It was a chance to get off the property and exchange gossip in town with other farm folks.

Of course, true winter weather with snow and ice meant they could bring out the sleighs. Royce had given the sleigh a good coat of black paint in July and soon he would clean and wax the runners. Next week, he would check and repair the harness and polish up the bits and buckles. He would also clean and inspect the whips and crops to see if any needed rewrapping or repairing.

He was getting ready to take off his boots when a sudden clattering outside the cottage startled him. A bright white blaze, as a comet flashing through the sky, shone through the cracks of his shutters. One of the barn cats let out a screech and ran up on his step with a fright. He heard her claws scratch and skitter on the wooden boards. Then a blast of strange music, complete with loud horns, came through the air.

What on earth could be happening? It appeared that some sort of unscheduled musical insanity had begun outside.

Royce undid the leather latch on the door and cracked it open carefully. The frightened cat saw the opening and immediately bolted through his legs.
That was strange
, he thought,
since
that cat was always the most standoffish of the bunch.

Royce looked out into the darkness. He saw and heard nothing amiss. The horses in the barn were snorting and stamping a bit so he thought it best to go check on them. Perhaps something had fallen from the sky or an owl or bat was loose inside the barn. He sighed and got his lantern.