Pleasure Horse (5 page)

“Wait!” Lisa and Carole wailed in unison. Mrs. Reg looked surprised.

“You haven’t finished telling us the story,” Carole said.

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. But there isn’t really any more to tell,” replied Mrs. Reg.

“But what happened? Did Max the Second become an architect?” Lisa asked.

“An architect?” said Mrs. Reg. “Oh, no. After a couple of years he changed his major to accounting.”

“Really? Why?” Carole inquired.

“Well, he decided that he
did
want to return to run Pine Hollow with his father after all. He thought a business background would be useful to help him keep the books.”

“But what happened to make him change his mind?” Lisa asked, exasperated. It was typical of Mrs. Reg to tell a story and never get to the point of it.

“Well, part of it was that architecture wasn’t quite as exciting as he’d imagined. But the main thing was that he had taken a part-time job at a stable near the university to help with expenses. The stable manager there became a mentor to him and he helped inspire Max’s decision.”

After Mrs. Reg finished, she wished the girls luck with
their training, gave Samson a final pat, and headed out of the ring. Lisa and Carole stood in silence for a minute once she was gone.

“Do you have any idea …?” Carole asked finally, not bothering to finish the question.

“What on earth she was getting at?” Lisa ventured.

“Exactly.”

“Absolutely none.”

“Me either,” Carole said with a shrug.

The girls always liked hearing Regnery family history—it certainly was interesting—but they were stumped about why Mrs. Reg was telling it now. In any case, they didn’t have much time to think about it. They had to get back to work with Samson.

“Any ideas?” Carole asked, turning to Lisa.

Lisa put her hands on her hips determinedly. “We’ve just got to think of something.… I know: Let’s pretend Stevie’s here. Without her, we’re one brain short. But we can at least try to think of what she would do.”

Carole liked the idea. She and Lisa decided to walk Samson a little more and then have a pretend “Stevie brainstorm” after putting the colt away. They could eat lunch at the same time and then resume training in the afternoon.

“One thing’s for sure: Stevie’s having a better time than we are this weekend,” Lisa said.

Carole nodded. “You can say that again. Riding with her horsey cousin, going to a great party—sounds like a dream weekend, doesn’t it?”

T
HE RIDE TOOK
up part of the morning, but as soon as lunch was over Stevie was bored out of her mind again. When her father suggested that the family go into Philadelphia for some afternoon sightseeing and dinner, Stevie was thrilled.

“We’ll get out of the way for a few hours and give Angie and Lila some time to take care of a few party preparations by themselves,” Mr. Lake said, as he and Stevie hunted through the bookshelves for a Philadelphia guidebook.

“You don’t have to explain to me, Dad,” Stevie replied.
“I can’t wait to get out of the house and stay out. If I hear the word ‘canapé’ one more time today, I’ll scream.” Her father’s raised eyebrows told her that she had gone quite far enough.

There was no guidebook to be found, but Chad said that with his knowledge of American history they wouldn’t need one anyway.

“And to think I’d convinced myself that I wanted to spend some time with my brothers,” Stevie muttered to herself, following the boys out to the driveway.

In a matter of minutes, Uncle Chester, who had decided to join them, and the six Willow Creek Lakes were seated in the van and buzzing toward Philadelphia.

“It’s the city of brotherly love and the original capital of this country,” Chad announced. “Probably not something you’d know much about, Stevie,” he added.

“Brotherly love? Yeah, that would be a change,” Stevie shot back with a triumphant grin.

“Almost as big a change as your deciding to become an actual girl like Angie,” Alex said, doubling over with laughter at his own joke.

“Imagine if Stevie joined the cheerleading squad!” Michael remarked.

Chad put up a hand. “Please, Michael: Even
my
imagination has its limits!”

“I wonder if it’ll ever happen,” Alex mused aloud.

“What?” asked Michael.

“That Stevie will turn into the sister we’ve never had,” said Alex.

Chad frowned, pretending to concentrate. “I just can’t see it. What I
can
see is Stevie attending her senior prom in jeans and riding boots.”

“You know what I can see?” Stevie asked. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Three boys. All of them trying to impress a bunch of cheerleaders at a certain birthday party, when all of a sudden, somebody starts to tell embarrassing secrets about them in a really loud voice …”

T
HE FIRST STOP
in Philadelphia was Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. Stevie’s brothers had either been convinced by her threat in the car or were distracted by the sights. In any case, they stopped teasing long enough to act like tourists.

“Do you know why it’s called Independence Hall?” Chad asked, when the group had assembled outside the building. “Because this is where the U.S. proclaimed itself free from England, in the Declaration of Independence. I just finished a school project on the American Revolution.”

“Do you know what year the Declaration was, Chad?” Uncle Chester asked as they all started up the stairs.

“That’s easy. 1776,” Chad replied.

“Correct you are. Say, since you’ve just finished studying it, how about you tell us some more about that period, in honor of Presidents’ Day,” Uncle Chester suggested.

“Good idea, Chester. Chad can be our tour guide,” Mr. Lake agreed.

Stevie grimaced as Chad drew himself up proudly. Somehow she knew she was in for a long, boring lecture that would show off Chad’s knowledge of colonial history.

“Sure,” Chad said eagerly. “Let’s see … well, the Declaration was written by Thomas Jefferson. And John Hancock was the first to sign it—his signature is the biggest and showiest. The colonists thought that everyone was entitled to ‘Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,’ or, at least, that’s how Jefferson put it. When they proclaimed the Declaration, they rang the Liberty Bell, which we’re about to see.”

In a few minutes the Lake group had surrounded the famous bell. “The bell was hidden during the British occupation of Philadelphia,” Chad explained. “You can see it’s been cracked twice, but that happened later, in the nineteenth century.”

Beside him, Stevie was seething with jealousy. She almost wished her brothers would start teasing her again.
At least then she wouldn’t have to put up with Chad’s giving a history lesson. Her parents and Uncle Chester looked so impressed it made Stevie feel ill. After all, anyone could learn a little history. What was the big deal?

“The King of England at the time—”

“Yes, yes, we know, Chad,” Stevie heard herself say, surprised that her mouth had opened by itself.

“No, no—go on, I’m interested,” Uncle Chester protested.

“We’re
all
interested,” said Stevie’s mother, with a warning look at Stevie.

Stevie couldn’t help it. Her ultracompetitive spirit had kicked in. She was sure she could play tour guide as well as Chad.

“The King of England was—” Chad began again.

“George the Second,” Stevie jumped in. She waited for everyone to look as pleased with her information as they seemed to be with Chad’s.

“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Lake.

“Good try, Stevie,” Chad said, grinning. “But you mean George the Third.”

“Second? Third? What’s the difference?” Stevie said, in a feeble attempt at a joke. “In any case, everyone drank tea in Boston to celebrate the Revolution.”

The whole family looked at her blankly. “Actually,
Stevie, the Boston Tea Party wasn’t a party at all. The colonists didn’t drink the tea: They dumped it—into Boston Harbor, to protest George the Third’s high taxes,” Chad informed her.

“You sure know your history, Chad,” Uncle Chester commented. “I think that’s great.”

“Excuse me, I need some air,” Stevie gasped. She pushed by the group and into the next room and collapsed on the nearest bench. Behind her, she could hear Chad droning on. A few words floated out to her: “Concord,” “Lexington.” Then, all of a sudden, she heard, “Paul Revere.”

“Aha!” Stevie said, jumping up. She tore past a few bewildered tourists and back into the room. “On April 18, 1775, Paul Revere, a well-known silversmith, rode from Boston to Lexington to warn Massachusetts that the British were coming. His ride was immortalized in a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow which begins, ‘Listen, my children, and you shall hear/Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.’ How do you like that, Chad, huh? Pretty good, eh? Gotcha! Gotcha!”

Mrs. Lake put a hand on Stevie’s forehead. “Do you feel all right, dear? Did you catch cold out on that ride this morning?” she asked.

“Mom, I feel fine! And I’m right, aren’t I, Chad?” Stevie demanded.

“Yes, you are right,” said Chad, eyeing her suspiciously. “I was just getting to that part. Let’s see …”

“Oh, I get it!” Alex exclaimed suddenly. “It’s Paul Revere’s
ride.
It’s part of history with a
horse
in it. That’s why Stevie remembered it!”

Everyone sighed with relief. “That explains it,” Chad responded. “Now, where was I?”

Stevie opened her mouth to protest but then stopped. The truth was the only other fact she could seem to remember from her U.S. history unit was the name of Ulysses S. Grant’s horse. It was Traveler. Resolving to have Lisa brush her up on the rest of the stuff, she trailed grumpily after the group.

A
FTER
I
NDEPENDENCE
H
ALL
, the Lakes wandered around Society Hill for a couple of hours and then went downtown to Center City. Since Mr. and Mrs. Lake were busy lawyers in Washington, D.C., they didn’t have much time for shopping. They were looking forward to the prospect of some leisurely browsing. They also planned to get a birthday present for Angie.

“Sorry, Stevie, no tack shop here,” Alex announced as they entered Wannamaker’s, a department store on one end of the shopping mall. “You’ll have to go to normal stores with the rest of us.”

“But there is a bookstore—in case you want to buy a
textbook on American history,” Chad joked. He, Alex, and Michael cracked up.

“That’s funny,” Stevie responded, “I was going to suggest that you head for the bookstore, Chad, and pick up a few
self-help
books. There should be one on learning not to show off. And then the three of you could get an etiquette book—after all, it’s never too late to try to learn good manners.”

Mrs. Lake spun around, her hands on her hips. “All right, enough—all of you. I’m getting pretty tired of your bickering. We’ll split up and meet back here in an hour and a half. And I don’t expect to hear any arguing after that. Got it?”

“I can hardly wait,” Stevie said.

“Me either,” Chad agreed.

The minute their parents and Uncle Chester had departed, Chad turned to Stevie. “So, what do you want to do?”

Stevie shrugged. “I don’t know—you?”

It never failed: As soon as they were told to split up or were sent to their rooms as punishment for fighting, Stevie and her brothers would immediately make up and hang out together.

“Can we go to the toy store? I want to look at the G.I. Joes,” said Michael.

“Sounds good to me,” said Alex, as the four of them trooped off together.

T
HE GROUP REGATHERED
at the appointed time by the huge eagle statue near the Wannamaker’s entrance. Mr. and Mrs. Lake had bought Angie a bath oil-perfume set, and Mrs. Lake had gotten herself a new lipstick for the party. Stevie, Chad, and Alex had hung out in the toy store with Michael, and they’d all chipped in for a deck of cards to use on the train ride home Monday. Since it was too cold to wander around anymore and everybody was hungry, the seven of them went back to the van and then drove to Bookbinders, a famous old Philadelphia seafood restaurant.

The food at Bookbinders was delicious—or so Stevie gathered. By the time her stuffed shrimp arrived, she could barely eat them. She felt stuffed herself after polishing off most of the rolls in the bread basket and gulping down two Shirley Temples waiting for dinner. Still, she insisted on ordering dessert and managed to cram in a few bites of mud pie. That was the problem with nice restaurants, Stevie decided. There was so much good food you couldn’t appreciate it all.

After dinner, Uncle Chester drove the van across town so they could see the Philadelphia Art Museum
and Boathouse Row by night. The river that cut through that part of the city was called the Schuylkill, pronounced “
Skool
-kill,” according to Chad. Along the dark strip of water, the small buildings where the city’s rowing clubs stored their shells and oars were draped with twinkling white lights that were mirrored by the river. It was a beautiful sight—especially when a gentle snow began to fall. Soon the few flakes turned to a picturesque flurry. In Virginia it hardly ever snowed; when it did, the snow was usually patchy and didn’t stick, so this northern flurry was a treat. Watching the ground whiten, Stevie could even forgive Chad for announcing that “Schuylkill” meant “hidden river” in Dutch.