didn’t even bother him that he didn’t know why, or that a minute later he could feel the familiar way his son’s memory cut his stomach like shrapnel. The fleeting moment of feeling okay—that moment was enough.
Jack had expected the show grounds at Windmist Farms to look more crowded. According to Macy, this was a major event, but there seemed to be only a smattering of motor homes and trailers, most of which looked like mansions on wheels, around the show grounds. All had “slide-outs”—whole sections of the motor home’s side that popped out on hydraulics to give the residents more living space. Through windows he could see lighted display cabinets, leather couches, and more square footage than he and Magda had had in their first apartment together. More than one had a group of Mexicans diligently washing and polishing the exterior. They chattered as they worked, their quick back-and-forths in Spanish sounding like a song.
Macy caught him gawking.
“Not too shabby, huh?”
Jack shook his head and let a low whistle escape his lips. He made a decent living with his concrete company, and he and Magda ran in a social circle made up of prominent local doctors, lawyers, and Packers front-office executives, but this was a whole different level of success. He knew that most of these rigs had to cost more than his and Magda’s house, and just by reading the ads in magazines stashed throughout Macy’s truck, he knew that the horses did, too.
“How do they do this?” Jack asked.
Macy shrugged. “That one there . . .” She pointed to a massive black-white-and-chrome bus with slide-outs on both sides. “That one belongs to this amateur lady. She buys a new one every single year. Her family’s old money; her dad was a railroad tycoon or something like that. Just for tax purposes she has to spend a million or so a year. That’s how the chatter goes, at least,” she said. They walked by motor homes, gleaming semi trucks pulling giant horse vans, and cars that should have been in a showroom somewhere, or at least under protective covers—not parked haphazardly along gravel driveways and grass embankments. “Family jewelry store, insurance company, hotel chain, oil,” she explained, pointing at each rig or car of note as they passed.
Jack wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money. He figured that, at the very least, he’d have a pretty stellar golf game.
“Oil. Wasn’t that how your grandfather made his money?” Jack asked.
Macy offered an affirmative nod only, nothing else. But Jack had heard enough of the story through Nash. Her grandfather had had more money than he could have spent in his lifetime. He ensured that his wife—Macy’s grandmother, who was now in some sort of home—had been fully taken care of, and after Macy’s father had died, ten or fifteen years ago, he set both Macy and her sister up financially for life. Instead of handing each of the girls a chunk of cash, though, Macy’s grandfather sat down with them separately and discussed with them what they most wanted to do with their lives. Then he set up a fund for each of them that would pay any and all expenses, but only those that had to do with their designated career paths. Regan, who wanted to someday act on Broadway, was given an apartment in Manhattan, a full ride to New York University, and any and all acting, singing, or dancing classes she could take. For Macy, their grandfather bought a farm on Vancouver Island, imported from Europe one ready-made show jumper and several additional mares that were in foal, and ensured she had the best possible truck and trailer that she could need. The horses’ feed, her show entry and trainer’s fees, and vet and farrier bills were all covered. As long as either granddaughter could tie an expense to her chosen field, it would be paid. Before he had passed away, their grandfather had solidified the arrangement with a raft of legal documents to be executed by the
Jack had expected the show grounds at Windmist Farms to look more crowded. According to Macy, this was a major event, but there seemed to be only a smattering of motor homes and trailers, most of which looked like mansions on wheels, around the show grounds. All had “slide-outs”—whole sections of the motor home’s side that popped out on hydraulics to give the residents more living space. Through windows he could see lighted display cabinets, leather couches, and more square footage than he and Magda had had in their first apartment together. More than one had a group of Mexicans diligently washing and polishing the exterior. They chattered as they worked, their quick back-and-forths in Spanish sounding like a song.
Macy caught him gawking.
“Not too shabby, huh?”
Jack shook his head and let a low whistle escape his lips. He made a decent living with his concrete company, and he and Magda ran in a social circle made up of prominent local doctors, lawyers, and Packers front-office executives, but this was a whole different level of success. He knew that most of these rigs had to cost more than his and Magda’s house, and just by reading the ads in magazines stashed throughout Macy’s truck, he knew that the horses did, too.
“How do they do this?” Jack asked.
Macy shrugged. “That one there . . .” She pointed to a massive black-white-and-chrome bus with slide-outs on both sides. “That one belongs to this amateur lady. She buys a new one every single year. Her family’s old money; her dad was a railroad tycoon or something like that. Just for tax purposes she has to spend a million or so a year. That’s how the chatter goes, at least,” she said. They walked by motor homes, gleaming semi trucks pulling giant horse vans, and cars that should have been in a showroom somewhere, or at least under protective covers—not parked haphazardly along gravel driveways and grass embankments. “Family jewelry store, insurance company, hotel chain, oil,” she explained, pointing at each rig or car of note as they passed.
Jack wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money. He figured that, at the very least, he’d have a pretty stellar golf game.
“Oil. Wasn’t that how your grandfather made his money?” Jack asked.
Macy offered an affirmative nod only, nothing else. But Jack had heard enough of the story through Nash. Her grandfather had had more money than he could have spent in his lifetime. He ensured that his wife—Macy’s grandmother, who was now in some sort of home—had been fully taken care of, and after Macy’s father had died, ten or fifteen years ago, he set both Macy and her sister up financially for life. Instead of handing each of the girls a chunk of cash, though, Macy’s grandfather sat down with them separately and discussed with them what they most wanted to do with their lives. Then he set up a fund for each of them that would pay any and all expenses, but only those that had to do with their designated career paths. Regan, who wanted to someday act on Broadway, was given an apartment in Manhattan, a full ride to New York University, and any and all acting, singing, or dancing classes she could take. For Macy, their grandfather bought a farm on Vancouver Island, imported from Europe one ready-made show jumper and several additional mares that were in foal, and ensured she had the best possible truck and trailer that she could need. The horses’ feed, her show entry and trainer’s fees, and vet and farrier bills were all covered. As long as either granddaughter could tie an expense to her chosen field, it would be paid. Before he had passed away, their grandfather had solidified the arrangement with a raft of legal documents to be executed by the
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