Losing Francesca (19 page)

He runs his hand over his hair and then opens his door and gets in. "Thanks."

"Yeah. And see ya at dinner tonight, right?" I laugh at that. Who would've thought, Sean Sullivan and I being friendly.

I turn to walk away but he calls out. "Hey?"

I look over my shoulder at him.

"You should go over there around ten thirty if you're not busy today. Help her and Frank out with the new horse. I bet she's missing you already."

He grins at that last remark and so do I. "I just might do that, Sean. Thanks for the heads up." I hold up my mug of coffee to him as he slams his door, starts the truck, and then backs out of the driveway. I watch his dust trail as it dissipates into the humid air. I've got an engine job being dropped off today and I don't have to have that done until after the Fourth of July, so I can definitely make some time for my Fee.

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Francesca

The new horse will not be housed in the big barn where Aimee and I shovel stalls, but in one of the smaller ones so she can be quarantined until the vet gives her the green light to be let out with the others. Frank's attention to detail in the management of his stable impresses me. He's careful. I like careful.

A careful person also has patience. I like patience as well.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Brody says that Sean's filly has been hanging out at their place for a while now. Like mowing the lawn for them and showing up for treats at breakfast."

Frank throws another bale of straw into the stall where I'm standing with a pitchfork. He leans down and slits the twine holding it together with a knife and all the flakes spill out. I reach down with my fork and start throwing it around.

"We'll have to go down there with a trailer then," he says. "I figured she'd come home already. She was born here, after all, she knows where home is. But I don't want her to hurt herself out in those woods. If she broke a leg I'd never forgive myself for not trying harder to get her back."

"Maybe we can set up a round pen in their yard and put some food in there, then close the gate once she's inside? That way we can corral her and not have to chase her."

Frank stops and smiles at me. "Good idea, Francesca."

I stop spreading straw for a moment and look at him. "You can call me Fiona, ya know. Everyone else does."

He stops to wipe his brow. It's already very warm even though it's just past ten. "But you're not her, so why would I do that?"

I frown a little. He's right. It's wrong what I'm doing. Pretending to be her. "My name is not Francesca anyway," I admit. I feel weird about telling him this secret, I'm not sure why exactly, because I already told Brody. But somehow, telling a real adult about it seems like treason or something. Like I'm betraying the precautions that my dad has had in place for me since I was born.

"What is it then? Your real name?"

"I can't tell you that, really I can't. It's not safe for me to tell you that."

He nods, but his mouth is drawn down in a small frown.

"But my dad calls me Fee. And Fiona is like an American version of my real name, so it's not far off. But I understand, it probably hurts to have me here, doesn't it? Reminding you of your daughter and your wife?"

"It hurts, but not because of them or that memory. It hurts because you're exactly how I imagined her to be. And, of course, you look like the rendering the artist did for the TSA database. The resemblance is striking, don't you think?"

I swallow. "Yeah, it's weird. Brody showed me a picture of Fiona in his yearbook. They were holding hands." I laugh at the sweetness of it. "And I have to admit, Frank, I thought that girl was me for a moment."

He stares at me for several seconds.
"Could
it be you?"

I shrug.

"Do you
want
it to be you?"

I feel the tears well up in my eyes and he steps into the stall and hugs me. "Don't answer that. I'm sorry, I was out of line."

I hug him back and let the tears out, then push back and wipe my eyes. "It's difficult. It's so very difficult to think about this. I love my dad, Frank. He's… unconventional, OK. Yes. Not a regular dad. But I do love him. And admitting all these things, admitting to all these conflicting feelings about you, and your family, and Brody, and me… it feels wrong."

He nods and turns to walk out. "I understand."

"It feels wrong," I say before he can leave, "because I
want
to be her, Frank. I do. I want to be Fiona."

He turns back to me with a strained look on his face. "I want you to be her as well, Fee."

I smile at the name.

"But it's not a requirement, OK? If you're not her, you're not her. There's nothing to be done about that. You're still welcome here, you still have a room here, you don't have to choose. I'd never make you do that. And I never did get a chance to apologize for the way I acted the other day. I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be the grown-up and I should know better."

I take a deep breath and let it out. "And I owe Sean ten dollars for screaming the F-word at you, so I'm sorry about that."

We both laugh. "Sean is one to talk about swearing," Frank says with a smile. "He must owe me thousands of dollars for his missteps."

And that little bit of honesty is all it takes to smooth things out with us. It's amazing really, how much easier it is to be happy and honest than it is to be angry and lying. I finish spreading the straw and when we're done, it's two feet thick. We've got a few flakes of hay already situated in the net hanging off the stall door, and her outside run has a brand new tarp that we put up so she can laze outside in the shade over the summer.

"This must be some special horse, Frank. I mean, she's getting the princess treatment. Did you buy her sight unseen? Or did you go out there and check her out first?"

He starts sweeping the floors of the barn as I take a drink of a soda and twirl the pitchfork handle absently between my fingers. "I went out and looked at her."

It's a truncated answer if ever there was one, he even leaves it a bit unfinished with the pitch of his voice. "And? You sound like there's more to it than that."

"When the FBI called and said they had you in custody I flew out to LA. And, well, it didn't go as I expected, so after that first week I took a trip up north to see a friend of mine. He trains riders for the US Equestrian Team and he had this mare who just came off a fabulous season over in Europe, but his daughter was going away to college and wanted to stop showing. So he gave her to me to give to you."

I get this sudden feeling in my chest as the last few words come out. An impossible, unstoppable ache, filled with sadness and regret and longing. "For me?" I whisper. "But you didn't even know me. I was… I was a total bitch to everyone while in custody."

He laughs. "Oh boy, you really were. The FBI guys, not Barker, but those younger ones…"

"Davis and Flanagan?" We both laugh as we picture them. Couple of dorks with badges.

"Yeah, those bozos. They had a bet going on what the first sentence would be out of your mouth each day."

"Let me guess…
Io non sono Fiona Sullivan!"

"That'd be the one. Every day, no matter what time it was, no matter who came in to see you, no matter what the reason, the first thing you always said was
I am not Fiona Sullivan
."

"And you still got me a horse?"

"Well, I was telling my buddy about it and he figured I could find something to do with her even if you ended up not being Fiona."

"Just out of curiosity, what does a horse like this cost?"

"Well, if she wasn't a gift, I could probably buy a new house with that money, let's just leave it at that. Do you have horses at your home right now?"

"Yes, but not good ones. I always had to sell my show horses at the end of the school term or someone else sold them when I had to be pulled out suddenly. I never took them home. My horses at home are just beach ponies used to trot around the island. Half the time when I ride them somewhere they leave me stranded as soon as I dismount."

We both laugh at the thought of my ponies abandoning me. "They like the idea of going home, I guess."

"I guess everybody does. Like the idea of going home, that is."

"Yeah, I guess we do." I change the subject because it's starting to make me think of this place as home, and I'm confused enough already. "Will Lindsey ride her? I mean, if I leave?"

"
If
you leave?"

I shrug and sigh at the same time. "I
will
leave. Eventually."

"Yes, Lindsey is just about ready for this horse. She's been training so hard since she came here when she was six, trying to get better. And she's into it, you know? You can't make a rider be into it, they have to want to work hard and get through the falls, and the injuries, and the pain. If she stays interested I'll send her to California in a few years to train. Give her a chance to ride in the Olympics."

Wow, that's quite the support system Lindsey has here with Frank, I might even be a little jealous. "She's really yours, then? I mean, I realize how terrible that sounds, but adopted kids, especially those who are adopted later in childhood…" I have no good way to make this come out right, so I stop. "Well, sorry. It's surprising, that's all."

"I love them all. And yes, I love the fact that Lindsey is interested in what I do and wants to do it as well. But Sean's going to school for business and that makes me happy too. I just want them all to be happy. I could care less what they do with their lives, if they move away and never want to come back… That's what kids are supposed to do. Grow up, become their own person, leave, and do it all over again. That's why we have them—to watch them do all that stuff. To go from little helpless babies to competent, fulfilled adults. There's no other reason to have children."

"God, you are so different from my dad, it's… weird. He's a good guy, Frank. Don't read too much into this, but he's all about mapping out my life. And I realize there's extenuating circumstances, like safety for one. But I wouldn't know what to do with the freedom you just talked about. I'd have no idea what to do."

"Well, no matter what you think of your father's methods, Fiona, he's done a good job. I'd just like to say that out loud because you're a very well-adjusted and sweet young lady."

I blush at the compliment. "Hey, how'd your friend know I could ride, anyway? No one knew anything about me back then."

"Well, that's the funny part, I guess. He said,
Frank, if she's your girl, she'll be a rider
."

My whole face tightens and I have to take a few deep breaths and swallow hard to prevent the tears from falling out. I let out a sad whisper. "And I am a rider. I can't remember a time when I didn't have a pony to ride on the beach."

Frank comes over and squeezes my shoulder. "Lots of little girls in wealthy families are riders, Fee. Don't let it confuse you, OK? That means nothing."

I nod and wipe the tears away just as a vehicle is crunching up the gravel driveway out by the house.

"I bet that's them!" Frank says with excitement. He takes off to go meet the new horse.

I start to follow but I can't. There is just so much to be confused about. I mean, that's true, what he just said. Riding is something many rich kids do. But do rich foreign girls also speak English as their native language and have American mothers? Or have silver eyes like the girl in Brody's picture? Or have to use fake names, all of which have the initials FS?

I have these rationalizations for my questions…

One: My father met an American woman, is that so unusual?

Yes. We're not Italian, or French, or Spanish or German. No one comes to our country as tourists. It's just not a desirable place, or to be honest, safe. That's the whole freaking reason I don't live there. So where did my dad meet my mom? And why have I always been able to speak English? My second language was Spanish. Which is weird. Because, like I said, we're not Spanish. Why not learn my dad's native language second? But I never took classes in that, I can barely speak it now, in fact.

Two: Silver eyes are just common gray eyes dressed up with flowery language.

OK, maybe they are just gray or whatever, but mine are pretty unique in that they have these little flecks of lights and darks in them, making them sparkle a bit.

Three: Why do all my fake first names start with F? It's not a common letter for names in any language. In fact, almost every name that begins with F is stupid and nerdy. I've been—don't laugh—Fifi, Fritzi, Francine, Francesca, Fannie, Faith, Fatima, Faye, and Filia. Which is what they call me on the island.

And the S last name? They always begin with S.

I have a headache. I rub my temple and try not to think too hard, but one thing is for sure, my dad has some explaining to do. Why didn't I ever wonder about this stuff before?

"Hey!"

"Brody! What're you doing here?"

He walks down the barn aisle with a swagger that makes me giggle.

"Sean came over this morning before work and asked me to come help you guys. Said the dinner invitation went through too."