All the horses are named after Tolkien characters,even the ponies, which made the kids scream with delight.
Sophie’s perched on Galadriel and Dan’s on Boromir. They’re so excited they kept butchering the names.
“I can’t believe I never tried this here,” she says, straightening upright again.
Yeah, unbelievable.
It’s a surprisingly warm day, cloudless and blue. Sully Bay is one of those quaint coastal fishing towns that looks like it sprouted up from the landscape sometime in the last two centuries and hasn’t changed much since.
Very different from New York.
Different from my uncle’s place out west, too, which always had something falling down in need of a fix and people running around to keep up an active cattle farm.
Never thought I’d be one for country living, but here we are.
Today, it’s the getaway I needed.
If only Little Miss Sweetass would stop rubbing every time she twists around to catch the passing scenery.
I think it’s unintentional, but we’ve only been riding for about ten minutes or so, and my balls are blue enough to rival that heap of blueberries back at the house.
It takesworkto keep her from noticing how hard I am.
Luckily, she’s distracted by everything she sees, from the friendly people waving to the jealous boy who makes a face behind his ice cream cone when he sees my kids.
“Why does it look so different on a horse? It’s like a whole new town.” She giggles and her hair brushes my chin.
Goddamn.
She smells like vanilla and the last hint of summer, and it does terrible things to me as it mingles with the fall smells in the air.
“Maybe you just forgot?”
“Nope,” she says with a flick of her hand. “According to Sophie, I only have another few years until I’m half-senile like you.”
“Shut it,” I say, winking at Sophie when she overhears and throws back a smile.
“Sorry, Dad. You know it’s true!”
“If it’s true, then you’ll be my caretaker. I’m not going off to a damn home.”
Dan chuckles and Margot waves gracefully at the people passing by like she’s a regal princess traveling her kingdom.
“Let’s go left,” she decides, waving at a friendly old lady. “Hi, Mrs. Solomon!”
I ease our horse to a crawl, calling to Sophie and Dan to hang back and join us.
“Do I know you?” Mrs. Solomon squints up at us. She’s a tiny woman, probably in her nineties with puffy white hair curls around her head and dark eyes that still seem vibrant.
“It’s Margot,” she says. “Leonidas’ granddaughter?”
“Margot.” Mrs. Solomon’s face splits into a grin, creasing her skin like old leather. “You should’ve said something sooner, honey. Glad to see a Blackthorn back in this town!”
Margot laughs brightly, shifting against me again.
I remind myself that we’re in public, and the last thing I should do is pop a hard-onhere, right in front of little old ladies and all.
I try like hell to focus on the conversation.
