Lisa (27 page)

Luckily I brought my backpack with this diary and the letter, which I just finished earlier today. I hadn’t put the letter in an envelope yet, and I thought it summed up the first few days of our trip pretty well. Still, there were a few things I didn’t quite know how
to explain to my friends in the letter. It’s true that I’ve been having a lot of trouble with the language here in France. I’m not used to being in a place where it’s hard to say what I want or need. I tried to talk to my parents about it a couple of times, but it’s as if they don’t want to admit it’s a problem. They seem too afraid that, maybe, they aren’t having as good a time as they think they’ve paid for. I guess that’s why Dad ate every bite of that tongue sandwich without grimacing once.

It makes me miss my friends more than ever. If they were here, they would understand. Still, I didn’t want to tell them how much I miss them, or sound like I was complaining about my trip. For one thing, I really am having fun—most of the time, anyway. And I don’t want them to worry about me. If they’re worried, they won’t be able to have as much fun where they are.

I wonder what they’re doing right now? I’ve lost track of the time difference between Paris and Willow Creek (let alone between Paris and Wyoming), but in any case, they should be at High Meadow by now. If it’s daytime, they’re probably riding the range and showing those younger kids the time of their life. If it’s evening, they’ll be cooking dinner over a campfire. And Stevie is probably telling one of her famously spooky ghost stories. Maybe she and Carole and Kate will even tell the kids the legend of the white stallion, like John told it to us the last time we were out West.

Sigh. Thinking about this is making me sad that I’m not there. And that’s just stupid. It’s a gorgeous
evening here in Paris, the air is warm, the people walking by are all very interesting, and my stomach is growling. Well, okay, scratch that last part—I’m trying not to complain here. But I’m going to put this diary away now and do some serious people watching while I wait for my dinner.

Dear Diary
,

What happened to me today is so incredible—I feel almost like a celebrity or something! Actually, that gives me an idea. I don’t want to forget everything I learned in Ms. Shields’s class this year, so I’m going to write about what happened as if I were a reporter writing a celebrity column in the newspaper.

Windsor.
When young American tourist Miss Lisa Atwood landed in merry old England with her family, she never would have guessed what was in store for her there!

Miss Atwood and her parents took a train from London to Windsor for a day’s sightseeing, hoping to tour the castle. However, they discovered to their disappointment that all tours were off because the Queen was in residence. Trying to make the best of the situation, they wandered about the quaint little town, looking at the shops and the outside of the castle.

Eventually they went to see the nearest park, a lovely grassy area with gently sloping hills and neat flower beds. The Atwoods sat on a bench in the park and
began discussing their options for lunch.

When suddenly, what to Miss Atwood’s wondering ears did arise but the familiar clip-clip of hoofbeats. Miss Atwood, an avid rider in her native Virginia, was naturally eager to determine the source of this sound, and she looked around as the hoofbeats came closer with great rapidity.

Soon she spotted a sleek bay Thoroughbred on a hilltop nearby. The horse was fully tacked up. His rider, however, was nowhere in sight.

Miss Atwood knew just what to do. She had to find the rider and make sure he or she was okay. A rider could get badly hurt being thrown from a horse, and the park was big enough that it might be quite a while before anyone found the injured rider.

The young American approached the horse, who stood patiently while Miss Atwood took his reins and followed obediently when she began to lead him. After checking to be sure the horse was calm enough, she mounted and rode back to tell her parents where she was going.

Mrs. Atwood expressed her extreme doubts about the wisdom of her daughter’s action. Miss Atwood, however, knew what she had to do. She did her best to reassure her mother, then rode off, following the horse’s trail as best she could.

After riding back down the trail a little while, Miss Atwood spotted the thrown rider. It was a girl, about Miss Atwood’s own age, dressed in elegant riding attire. The girl was standing at the edge of the bridle path, rubbing her
elbow and looking annoyed.

Miss Atwood pulled up beside the girl. “I think I found something that belongs to you,” she told her.

The girl looked very relieved. “Thank you so much!” she exclaimed in a crisp British accent. “I was just wondering where this fellow went.” After Miss Atwood had politely introduced herself, the British girl did the same. “Lady Theresa,” she said, shaking Miss Atwood’s hand vigorously.

Miss Atwood was rather at a loss. Despite her mother’s many lessons on proper manners, she had no idea how she was supposed to act toward a lady—especially one who was clearly no older than she was. She decided on a direct approach. “Lady Theresa? That’s what people call you?”

Lady Theresa’s answering smile was warm and kind. “Not at all,” she replied. “My friends call me Tessa.”

After that, the girls were fast friends. Lady Theresa climbed aboard the horse behind Miss Atwood, and the two of them rode toward the royal stables, which, to Miss Atwood’s shock, was where the horse they were riding belonged. That was when Lady Theresa explained that, because her mother was a distant cousin to Her Majesty, she was occasionally invited to ride the royal horses.

Miss Atwood, rather awed by all this royal business, suddenly remembered that her parents must be wondering where she was. When she explained as much to Lady Theresa, the two of them agreed that they should ride back and tell them what was happening. They did so, and then returned to the royal stables, which were
just as wonderful as any stable, anywhere.

Miss Atwood had a simply marvelous time touring the stables with her new friend Tessa, who introduced her to everyone they met as “the American who rounded up my horse and saved my life.”

Finally it was time for Miss Atwood to return to her parents, who were waiting for her at a local restaurant that Lady Theresa had specially recommended. The girls gave each other hugs, and then the visit, the magical time, was over.

Except for one more thing. Miss Atwood was sitting in the restaurant with her parents, who clearly didn’t quite believe their daughter had really befriended a member of the royal family and toured the Queen’s stables. They thought she was playing make-believe.

Then the door to the restaurant flew open. In walked a tall man in a spotless uniform. “Is there a Miss Lisa Atwood here?” he asked the room at large.

Mr. and Mrs. Atwood looked alarmed. Miss Atwood raised her hand. “I’m here,” she said tentatively.

“Oh, good,” the man said, approaching their table. “Her Majesty wanted to give you her personal thanks for rescuing her cousin Lady Theresa today. Her Majesty hopes you will accept this as a small token of her appreciation.”

The man held out a box. Miss Atwood accepted it and opened it while everyone in the restaurant looked on. Inside was a small crystal horse, nearly a perfect replica of one of the Thoroughbreds from Her Majesty’s stables.

It was the perfect ending to an exciting day for the American visitors.

Dear Diary
,

Okay, that newspaper-reporter stuff was fun for a while. But it was a little hard to work in two important things I really wanted to say. The first thing is how wonderful it was to be in the saddle again after not riding for so many days—especially on that gorgeous, well-trained Thoroughbred. The second, which is even more important, is that Tessa really was incredibly nice. She’s the kind of person I felt was an instant friend—even though we only spent part of one day together, I know we’ll keep in touch. Sometimes things just happen like that. I only wish that Stevie and Carole could have met her, too. I know they’d like her just as much as I did. And she would absolutely love them, too. She’d probably think that Stevie’s sense of humor was simply “smashing,” and she would be terribly impressed with Carole’s horse sense as well as her sweet personality.

Oh well. Maybe someday they’ll get to meet her. You never know …

Dear Carole, Kate, and Stevie, and Eli and Jeannie, too
,

I’m getting to like traveling in Europe. In fact, it seems that the more I get to like it, the less my parents like it. That’s pretty strange. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I were with you guys. I do. I really do! Especially since you guys
already know what you’re doing. I’m learning something new every day.

I’m writing to you from Italy now. Today we drove through the area known as Tuscany. It’s just beautiful here. Very hilly (though nothing compared to the Rockies, but you know what I mean). There are little towns tucked in the hillsides with old, old houses that have orange tile roofs. It’s something.

We stopped in a small town to get some lunch and fill up our tank with gas. It’s a good thing we don’t do that much—gas is over six dollars a gallon, if I’ve done my math correctly. Mom and Dad kept looking at the menu and couldn’t make any sense of it. Naturally, I had my phrase book handy. They told me what they wanted and I ordered it for them. They seemed pretty grateful. The waiter was really impressed. Honestly, so was I. I’m actually getting good at it—thumbing through the phrase book, I mean, not speaking Italian!

That’s not what I really wanted to tell you about, though. The really fantastic thing happened later.

After lunch Dad went and found a telephone. He wanted to call the hotel to make sure our reservation was okay. Mom went with him and took the phrase book. While they were away from the table, I got into a conversation with a woman at the table next to us. I was wearing my Saddle Club pin and she noticed it. She spoke a little English; I spoke a little Italian. We made out okay.

What I realized as we started talking was that she was actually wearing riding clothes! It took two or three times around the vocabulary list for me to realize that she was asking
me if my parents and I were attending the horse show in the next town. Can you believe it? There was actually a horse show going on and I didn’t know it until she told me.

Well, of course, I just had to go. Mom had been talking about some ancient ruin, but what’s an ancient ruin compared to a horse show? I didn’t think I’d have too much trouble convincing Dad, because he’d had it up to here with ancient ruins. I was all ready to do my convincing talk when the looks on their faces told me there was trouble.

It turned out that the hotel at which we had a reservation was totally booked because of the horse show. My parents had gone all through the phrase book, looking for a way to threaten to sue. The best they could do was to get a promise that, if we showed up, they’d see what they could do to find us a place to stay.

Since it was my idea to go to the horse show anyway, I thought that was fine. We paid our bill and drove on over to the hotel. My parents were very upset. I guess I can’t blame them, but I was pretty sure something would work out. It’s always seemed to me that when there are horses around, everything else works out. Know what I mean?

So, while they went to try to sweet talk the hotel into finding a place for us to stay, I walked on over to the horse show. It was practically across the street.

I bought a ticket, got a program that I hardly understood, and just walked around. Everything was outdoors. There were about four rings with events going on all at the same time. I watched a dressage exhibition in the main ring and
watched a preliminary jumping event in a smaller ring. It was really fun. I missed you guys, though, because there wasn’t anybody for me to talk to. Even if my parents had been there (and they were still at the hotel then), they wouldn’t have understood what they were watching. Mom judges horses by their looks and their pedigrees, rather than by their performance, and Dad tends to want to know how much money they’re going to win and who is betting on them—that is, if he’s not preoccupied with where he’s going to eat his next meal.

Anyway—this is the really interesting, nearly unbelievable, but absolutely true part. I wandered over to the area where the junior competitors were having their events. They were doing hunter jumping and they were pretty good. There was one boy who was far and away better than any of the rest of them. I was really impressed. He went through the first round with flying colors, and then when he brought his horse out for the conformation judging, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Enrico. It was actually
Enrico.
Remember him? One of the four Italian boys we met when they visited Pine Hollow last year?

I didn’t want to upset him during the judging, but as soon as he brought his horse over to the side of the ring, I started yelling and waving. I only made a slight idiot of myself before he saw me. He told me to wait right there—until the ribbons were handed out. Of course, he got a blue. Then he came over and gave me this most gigantic hug. He asked me what I was doing there and how you guys are and what was going on
and everything. I couldn’t answer all his questions at once, but the minute I told him about the hotel, he got this wonderful look on his face.

“But you and your parents—you will stay with us!”

“You have room for all of us?” I asked. He told me that of course he did. Little did I know.

Right then my parents showed up. They were as mad as could be and Dad was on the verge of saying all sorts of things about Italian innkeepers. I introduced them to Enrico and told them we had a place to stay.

I won’t bore you with all the details now—I’ll have months and months to do that when I get home—but I will tell you that as I write this, I’m sitting at an antique Italian secretary (that’s a fancy word for a small desk) in Enrico’s family
mansion.
This isn’t just a house. Oh, it also turns out that the horse show isn’t being held in any funky old public park. It is being held on Enrico’s family estate. I mean
estate.
It goes on for acres and acres and it’s been in his family for generations. My parents and I are in our very own wing or something. I’m not sure exactly because the place is just too big for me to be completely oriented. I do know that when we want breakfast, we’re supposed to ring for a servant who will either bring it to us or show us the way to the dining room. I’m telling you, you’ve never seen anything like this.