Flash Page 11

  Bridgette took a cracker and dipped it into the soft wedge to tempt me. “It’s from Costco, and we bought so much, more than Steve and I could possibly eat. Please help us eat some of it up!”

  As I thought about it, lunch was several hours ago, and it only made sense to have an afternoon snack. And she’d gone to all this work to put the tray together.

  “I really shouldn’t.” I was still reluctant but hated to insult her hospitality. “I’ll just have one or two bites.”

  Heavenly. She had so much of it, maybe three or four bites, or ten, would take some off her hands. It was the least I could do.

  I decided that only classy people happen to have Brie (and gourmet marmalade) on hand for last-minute meetings. Bridgette somehow made me feel like I was doing her a favor by eating as much as I could. I don’t know if Southern women go to school to master the art of persuasion or what, but she had a summa cum laude degree in it. I could learn something from her.

  Bridgette had a new client who needed artwork in his luxury condo in downtown Dallas, and she wanted to go over the design plan for the whole space before we were scheduled to go to the location together later in the week.

  I sipped my lemonade as I took out a notepad and started looking at the paint and fabric swatches she had chosen while piped-in music drifted through the eclectic office that looked part downtown loft, part Texas country, and part urban renewal. Galvanized metal blended seamlessly with stained concrete floors, modern lighting, sleek workspaces, and well-chosen antiques. I loved the old wrought iron stair rail and sliding barn door. Fabulous touches. A library of architectural books and samples filled an entire wall, and a massive bank conference table, used mainly for Ping-Pong, held center stage. You couldn’t help but admire the panache with which Bridgette and Steve merged their work and home lives.

  Over the months of working together on various projects, I had come to appreciate Bridgette’s talent for seeing possibilities in everything. Oh, she’s very good. Case in point was this office. She and Steve had recently bought the property that Flash’s cow friends had lived on and moved from the cottage near us into a barn. Seriously, who moves into a cow barn? Well, only people who can reimagine, repurpose, and reuse anything and everything to convert it into an incredible home and office space. What was once just a big metal structure had become a functional and inviting living and working environment that anyone would envy.

  It was no wonder Bridgette was successful. I could see that now. She could take any old item and make it into art or a functional piece of furniture. She and Steve could design a whole building on the back of a napkin. It almost made me sick, but I was comforted by the fact that they loved what we could bring to their projects artistically. And as it turned out, we worked well together.

  “Say, have you seen how big the dark mare next door is getting?” Bridgette finished fussing over the refreshments and pulled up a chair. “When do you think her baby is due?”

  “I have no clue,” I said. “But her belly is huge! It looks like she might explode any day.”

  It was true. Maria, the beautiful ebony horse that Flash had crashed through fences and gates for, was definitely expecting a foal. There could be no doubt. We watched her girth expand from week to week as she went from sleek vixen to big mama. No longer trotting around the pasture with her band of friends, she now lumbered slowly, as if mindful of the new life inside her.

  Flash had not made any more attempts to break out, but he lingered daily near the back gate and nuzzled with her when he could. It was a sweet sight, but boy, we hoped he was not the party responsible for her ballooning weight and thick ankles. The band of horses in the pasture included two stallions, so chances were good that he was off the hook on this one.

  “Any idea if Hay-soos is the father?” Bridgette shot me a wink. She’d heard about Flash’s rendezvous with the cutie, and it was something of a famous joke by now.

  “Bridgette, you do know his name is Flash, don’t you?” I laughed. This had gone on long enough.

  “Of course I do, but that’s just my lil’ pet name for him.” Doggone it, she looked so sincere, I couldn’t be mad about it anymore. Besides, it really didn’t matter what she called him. It only mattered who owned him, right? He belonged to me, so what difference did it make? None whatsoever. This conversation was far easier than I had thought it would be. Why had I feared it so much? Maybe I was growing or something.

  “From the size of her, I’d say it’s more likely that one of those big stallions over there is the stud,” I said. “I sure hope so. The last thing we need is a custody situation.” With each day that passed, I worried that our neighbor would show up with papers and a paternity suit. He’d probably have the sheriffs with him and everything. Please, Lord, let this foal be a horse and not a mule.

  “You’d better keep your fingers crossed,” Bridgette cautioned with a smile.

  “Believe me, I am. Anyway, we’re planning to have Flash ‘fixed,’ so we should be able to put this behind us.” I grimaced at the thought of the impending operation as I picked up my pen and notebook.

  We focused on the business at hand. I looked at the plans and took notes, squinting my eyes and staring off into the distance as I imagined the options for the space. The biggest challenge was to create an art piece using a specific shade of brown for a twenty-foot-high wall. Because elevators and hallways would interrupt the space, something on such a massive scale would need to be installed in pieces, yet feel seamless. Between the two of us, we had made a good start on the overall project. But I knew it would take a really special idea for the owner of the luxury apartment to say, “Wow! That’s perfect!”

  After our meeting, I walked home, a flowering perennial from Bridgette’s garden perched atop my stack of samples. Not a bad commute, when the only other traffic is cottontail rabbits who scurry out of the way.

  I stepped carefully over the cattle guard between our properties, and Flash met me by the gatepost. “Hey there, Donkey Boy.” I set my things down and reached out to scratch under his scruffy chin, working my way up his face to his ears. Dust from his last dirt bath wafted up into the air and settled back down. “So what’s that baby gonna be, huh?” I asked him, but he didn’t say. Instead, he turned his body around until his rear end was facing me, and then backed up so I couldn’t miss his rump.

  “Nice,” I said. “You won’t talk to me, but you’ll let me scratch your rear. I get it.” Flash might be an animal of few words, but he certainly knows how to communicate when he wants to. And he loves having his backside—the only place he can’t reach with his teeth—rubbed. He turned to look back at me, with a “well-what-are-we-waiting-for” expression, and relaxed his back hoof in anticipation of a massage.

  So I obliged, chuckling out loud at the incongruity of standing in a field, rubbing a dusty donkey’s backside after a fancy business meeting to discuss a luxury condo design over Brie and crackers. Flash had really come a long way since he first arrived, so scared and broken in those early days. I thought about how he hadn’t wanted us to touch him, how he had shied away when we came to tend to his wounds and had kept a wary eye out for any sudden movement.

  Looking over Flash’s hips to the field beyond, I remembered how Tom had set up that camp chair in the middle of it. He’d been so patient, pretending to ignore Flash by engrossing himself in a book, or by “bird-watching,” all the while allowing the donkey to become accustomed to his presence. Flash had inched his way closer and closer, fearing mistreatment, but receiving instead gentle words and kind handling. First, a rub on his nose. Then, a hand on his neck. He had stood, trembling, as Tom felt his way down the coarse hair, across his chest and over his shoulders.

  His fear had gradually given way to trust, and he repaid Tom by becoming his loyal companion. He followed him everywhere, always loitering near Tom’s work area, curious about anything he did. Affectionate and playful, Flash loved to lean into him, nibble at his water bottle, and sniff his pockets.


  Flash would have let me scratch his bum all afternoon, but I had other things to do. With a final dusty pat and a hug around the neck, I headed back to the house.

  “Here’s what I’ve come up with,” I reported to Tom after seeing the condo later that week. “How about a Venetian plaster finish on two-foot square panels, mounted in a grid pattern over the whole wall? We could use a stencil technique to emboss some Latin phrases that would run up and down the panels to visually connect them.” I believed it solved every issue beautifully, and I was pretty proud of it.

  “Hmmm . . .” Tom thought about it for a few moments and then said slowly, “I think we can do better.” He took out a piece of graph paper. “I like the idea of panels, and if I’ve done the math correctly, it will take forty-five squares to cover that massive wall. But what if we emboss individual words that describe a ‘Life Well Lived’ on each panel? To really knock it out of the park, we could use a different language for each word, which would reflect both the travels of the client and his values.”

  Yep, it was better. In fact, it was brilliant. We presented the idea, and the client loved it.

  With approval granted for the design, Tom perfected the plaster finish technique, while I researched words to describe elements of a well-lived life. Now this is the kind of art I adore, because it combines the aesthetic with a meaningful message. It made me pause and reflect on what a well-lived life really looks like.

  Is it about success? Relationships? Experiences? Character? Faith? What would make someone say about another, “This person really knows how to live life well”? The concept for the art had been a simple one, really. But its profound questions resonated with me as I pondered the characteristics that have marked humanity’s aspirations throughout history.

  In the end, we used words like these:

  Love

  Honesty

  Friendship

  Generosity

  Kindness

  Faith

  Patience

  Gratitude

  Peace

  Hope

  Each element of the art piece required time. Time to decide on just the right word, time to translate it into another language, time to choose a font, time to lay it out, time to apply it to each panel. I found that when I handled a word like love or gratitude or joy that long, I meditated on it throughout the day, even when I wasn’t working on it. I felt intentional with my energies as I worked, talked with the kids, did laundry, and bought groceries.

  Can a person have joy while scrubbing a toilet? Can you experience love while spreading peanut butter on a sandwich? Gratitude when your head hits the pillow? I was beginning to think that perhaps living well—in any circumstance—might be possible, if your heart is in the right place.

  The condo project would take several weeks to complete. Bridgette and I conferred regularly and took a couple of shopping excursions to purchase decor. Our common mission was so enjoyable that sometimes I even forgot we were working.

  Imagine me, laughing it up with the CEO of a prestigious design firm! Yet here we were, having a ball digging through thrift shops and antique stores as we sought treasures for our client’s home.

  One day, Bridgette called with some exciting news.

  “Did you see the new foal?” she asked. “I just caught a glimpse of it out my window!”

  “No!” I answered breathlessly. “It’s here? What does it look like?” Then worriedly I inquired, “Does it look like a mule?”

  “I couldn’t tell. It was staying pretty close to its mama.”

  I threw down the phone and ran out the door, grabbing Grayson by the arm as I passed him in the breezeway.

  “The baby! Maria’s had her baby!” I huffed.

  Now outside, we opened the gate and took off across the field toward the fence, with Beau joining in to see what the fuss was about. We arrived at the back gate and climbed onto the lowest crosspiece to get a good view. Leaning forward into the sunlight, we could see the horses grazing midfield. I spotted little legs hidden behind the black mare as she nibbled grass. Everything was quiet except for the rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.

  Move aside, Maria! We willed her to turn. We could see a small tail swishing near her, but the baby’s form was obscured by her frame.

  At Grayson’s whistle, the horses’ heads came up and turned toward us. They paused; then the leader, a large copper stallion, started forward. The rest followed suit, with the mare and her baby bringing up the rear. Still can’t see!

  Fifteen yards now, nearly close enough to view. Almost . . . almost there. The group stopped just beyond us, clumped together around their newest member, before slowly fanning out. C’mon, c’mon . . . We held our breath. At last the mare broke from the group and gently nudged the baby at her side, as mothers often do . . . as if to urge him, “Say hello to these people, Son.” He tumbled forward, blinking at us in surprise.

  Finally, our first glimpse of the foal.

  Oh honey. Just look at you.

  Our eyes took in the perfection before us, and we exhaled, the air passing slowly through our lips as we took him in.

  You look just like your mama . . . and your daddy.

  You’re dark brown, with unmistakable markings.

  A distinct gray muzzle.

  Softly circled eyes.

  Ears that are much too long.

  Your mane is all bristly.

  Your tail is funny.

  Your head is just a little too big.

  Darling baby, you are a mule! A beautiful little mule.

  And your daddy is that smug-looking donkey in the next pasture.

  One look was all we needed. The strong family resemblance vanquished all doubt. We had a mule baby on our hands. And Flash was the father.

  The foal’s long legs carried him toward us before he suddenly realized that his mother had stopped several feet back. He leaped as if his legs were made of springs and quickly hopped to her side. Turning shyly to look at us, his eyes were inquisitive and eager in a face that was a perfect blend of Flash and his ladylove.

  “Come! Come here,” we called to the group as they made their way through the grass to our open hands. Then the foal and his mama hung back, reluctant to get too close. It looked like the baby was just a few days old, its legs far too long for its body, but otherwise robust and healthy. What a miracle he was! His tiny tail bobbed back and forth as he decided to remain out of our reach.

  Oh, he was cute. And now I figured we’d get a visit from the sheriff’s department, demanding that responsibility be taken. There was no denying the truth before us: Everything on the inside of that baby showed on the outside. He had donkey blood in his veins, and it endeared him to us more than any thoroughbred breeding could have.

  We slipped to the fence whenever we could to watch his progress as he filled out and grew into his long legs. Always bashful around us, he never ventured far from his mama’s eyes. Flash’s laissez-faire parenting style left the day-to-day care to the ebony mare while he observed from a distance the darling baby that bore his markings. He looked on indulgently while the mule leaped over imaginary obstacles and kicked up his heels with rambunctious energy. Maria seemed quite content with this arrangement, looking after the needs of her growing foal without interference from the opinionated donkey next door.

  Everyone who saw him seemed to fall under his charm, including his mama’s owner, who joined the ranks of those smitten by such a perfect mule. Much to our delight, he decided to keep him after all. We could continue to see him anytime we wanted.

  The summer flew by as we worked on the luxury condo. Bridgette and I had one last meeting to wrap up the details. We sat in her office amid stacks of files and samples and her colored markers and architectural plans. I felt fortunate that someone of her professional stature would be willing to take me under her wing and teach me how to take things further.

  I’d learned so much already: how to create design boards, how to make presentations, and how to read constru
ction documents. I was picking up the terms: FF&E (Furniture, Fixtures, and Equipment—my first!), RFQ (Request For Quote), charette (an intense collaborative session), lights (windowpanes), chamfer (to round off), and ingress/egress (in/out), to name a few. I was out of my league but trying hard to look as pulled together and confident as Bridgette.

  I looked at the punch list in my hand. “Tom and I will be on-site when the chandelier gets installed,” I told Bridgette. “I think that’s the last thing to be done.” The condo had turned out even better than we had hoped. It was thoroughly urban-contemporary, with a touch of Texas rustic flair. The art piece that graced the massive wall was a stunning focal point for the entire space, and it was gratifying to see how it had all come together.

  “Great.” Bridgette checked off her notes. And then there was a little pause. “So . . . Rachel, how do you do it?” she asked, returning her orange marker to its case and resting her chin in her hand.

  “Do what?” I was puzzled by her sudden question.

  “You know.” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “How do you . . . have such a beautiful family in the middle of everything you are doing?” I looked up and saw a serious expression on her face. “I mean, you and Tom have so much going on, and yet you make it seem so easy to love each other. You have good relationships with your kids, and you’re so at peace all the time.”

  Bridgette stopped for a moment and then added slowly, “Steve and I used to drive past your house when we lived in the cottage, and sometimes we could see inside your windows. It always looked so warm and wonderful in there. It’s made me wonder how you’ve done it.”

  I dropped my pen with a clatter, speechless at this revelation. But it was her next statement that nearly made me fall off my chair.

  “You seem so perfect, and it’s hard not to be intimidated by you.”

  Intimidated? By me? I couldn’t be hearing right. This, from the beautiful, impeccable, successful Bridgette. The woman I idolized as having it all, who could eat raspberry jam–topped Brie and crackers, balance her business and personal lives, and still maintain a twenty-four-inch waist.