Page 75 of Touch the Sky

I chuckle and flip her the bird, and then we get to work.

Chapter 17

Jacinthe

On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, a miracle happens.

I end up with two free hours to myself.

Mamanis having a good day today and felt well enough to drive into Saint-Jovite to do a huge grocery shop for us. Tess is out on a farrier call. Things are quiet at the inn, with most of the current guests signed up for an ‘autumnal watercolours’ course Natalie is running all weekend.

I’m keeping an eye on Shel until Tess gets home to drive her to a play date. She’s been up in the hayloft all morning practicing her guitar. I’m planning on bringing her some hot dogs for lunch soon, but between then and now, there’s nowhere I need to be.

I sit down on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and stare out at the property. The barn chores are done. The horses are all where they’re supposed to be. There are about a million and one things Icouldbe doing, but right now, in this moment, there is nothing I absolutelyhaveto get done.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, stretching my arms above my head.

The trees are still bursting with red and orange like brilliant flames. The ground is coated with even more leaves, the whole yard covered with tufts and clumps, but for once, I don’t think about raking them up.

I just take a deep breath and let the scent of crunchy foliage, and crisp, clean air fill my lungs.

The sky is streaked with a few lines of clouds, almost like someone whipped an arc of white paint over their head. The sky itself is a deep, brilliant blue Natalie would probably have a dozen different names for.

I just think it looks pretty—prettier than it has in a long time, or maybe I just haven’t given myself many chances to look up these days.

I walk to the edge of the porch, where I stretch my arms up so high the edge of my jacket rolls up and exposes a strip of my stomach to the cold. I wiggle my fingers and imagine sweeping the clouds out of the way to turn the dome above me into one giant blank, blue slate.

I think about what Tess said that night she came out on a trail ride, when we sat side by side at Sunset Ridge and watched the day come to an end.

Out here, I feel like I could reach up and touch the sky.

I didn’t know what she meant then, but today, I get it.

The right sky can make anything feel possible.

I head down to the farmyard, whistling an old Québécois folk songMamanused to sing for me when I was a kid. The horses lift their heads like they’re saying hi as I stroll past the paddocks. When I get to the barn, Citrouille slinks out to twine around my feet.

“Salut, minou,” I say, bending down to give him a scratch behind his orange ears.

I can hear some janky-sounding chords up in the hayloft, so I don’t bother asking Shel if she’s all right. The last thing I wanted when I was learning guitar back in the day was people interrupting me.

I wander into the empty stall we use as a tack room, the smell of musty leather filling my nose. The walls are lined with saddleracks and bridles on hooks. I run my palm over the seat of the closest saddle. The material is worn extra smooth from years of use, the cocoa brown colour faded to a tawny ring in the shape of a permanent butt print.

I check all the tack before every ride, so I know when something is no longer safe, butcleanis another matter.

I try to remember the last time I did a good tack cleaning session and come up blank.

Ten minutes later, I’m out in front of the barn with my supplies set up: a bucket of warm water, some rags, a variety of sponges in different sizes, and a tin of saddle soap. I’ve hauled two saddle racks out, one for working and one for drying.

I keep humming the folk song while I get started on clearing out all the gunk from the different buckles, straps, and flaps of the first saddle.

A memory of doing the same chore with my dad decides to show up in my mind. He’s the one who taught me how to clean tack when I was a kid. He used to drill me on how fast I could take a bridle apart and put it back together like we were training for an Olympic sport. He’d always give me candy and a pat on the back at the end.

I pause in the middle of my scrubbing and wait for the first flash of anger to hit.

I always feel the angriest when I remember the good things about him. If he’d left us with nothing but pain, it would have been easier. I would have been quicker to accept the truth: that we’re better off without him and can do just fine on our own.

The good stuff—like his whistling in the morning or the peppermints in his pockets—only made it harder. They left a hole we had to learn how to fill.