From Chapter 4 of Horse Power:

His comment made me gulp. When bosses get a good look, they tend to make decisions that alter the status quo. I had the feeling that Ed Duran was about to do that.

He turned to me. “I know the horse trade isn’t your background but Mary Penzler said there’s no one better for fixing up a mess and Dixie Villano’s business was getting pretty messy.”

Now my being at Bright Hope made sense. I assumed a referral had started the process but I’d never had the chance to ask who gave him my name so he could request me specifically from Office Right.

“You’re concerned about her.”

“She’s a great gal and you got to admire her determination but …” He trailed off, reaching for his wallet. “Here. Come back with furniture for that customer lounge. Something that won’t put holes in my ass.”

I took the five one-hundred dollar bills. It was a lot of money to spend on someone who just rented business space from you. Izzy called him “uncle.” What was the relationship between Ed Duran and Dixie?

“How did the meeting with Sal go?” I asked Dixie when I returned to the office.

She was sitting at the desk, writing on a legal pad. “Not well. Sal made some noises about not buying Sunny. He’s bidding some important rehab project in Chicago and he’s worried sick over it because Ed is bidding the same project.”

“Duran Building doesn’t do rehab work, does it? And why move into Chicago? Lake County doesn’t have enough work to keep him busy?”

“I suppose Ed has visions of dining with The Mayor.”

“Still, all that red tape and there must be hundreds of competitors. Is a dinner with Daley worth it?

“To Ed it is. It’s validation. Means he’s made it to the big time.” She stopped writing and looked up. “Sal has good reason to worry. Ed’s a bona fide minority. That automatically gives him an edge in the bidding.”

“But only for government work.”

“True, but that’s where Sal was making most of his money. He has some kind of connection and he gets a lot of the smaller city jobs, like rehabbing this housing project. He told me he’s been forced to bid private sector jobs out here now, the stuff no one wants. Like condo association stuff.”

Hey, I live in an association. What am I – liver and onions?

I let her comment pass. “Sal told you all this in the meeting?”

“He tried to be nice. Gave me some excuse that he fired his bookkeeper so doing that plus everything else takes up all his spare time. He let slip that he’s hauling equipment himself from jobs in the city to jobs out here to save money. The hauling is what eats up his time, not the loss of a bookkeeper.”

“So he doesn’t have time for a horse?”

“That’s what he says but I think money’s tight, too”

“Don’t all contractors have to move their equipment from job to job?”

“Not the big ones. Duran Grading has so much equipment that Ed doesn’t have to hold up one job while equipment is being used on another.”

“I’ve heard rumors that Ed bought his first bulldozer with drug money. Is that how he got started?”

Dixie shrugged. “Who knows? Ed’s wife died shortly after Brisa was born and he poured himself into his work to deal with the grief. Brisa’s twenty-three. Twenty plus years is ample time to get a good business going and his timing was absolutely perfect. He got into construction just as Lake County decided to have a building boom.” She pushed herself up and passed me the pad. “File this for me, please. I’ve got horses to work.”

I left Bright Hope with five hundred dollars in my pocket. After driving south for ten miles and mulling over options, I still had no solid idea of what I wanted to accomplish. In the first few stores, the furniture was too expensive and too nice for a barn. The discount department stores had plenty of tables but no sofas or chairs. I gave up. It was well past noon and my lunch bag sat in Dixie’s refrigerator. I turned the car toward Penzler’s.

            Penzler’s Corner Market is a one-story prefab building with white aluminum siding and light gray asphalt shingles on the roof. A six-foot window overlooks a cement patio cordoned off from the gravel parking lot by two white plastic planters filled with orange day lilies.

Inside, the front half of the store is stocked with grocery and sundry products. The Penzlers have arrangements with a local dry cleaner so, in addition to paying for purchases, customers can drop off their laundry at the checkout counter. The deli cases are at the rear and it is here that Pete Penzler holds court, preparing thick sandwiches from whole grain breads and a wide variety of meats, cheeses, and fillings. Mary, his wife, is in charge of the sides: coleslaw, potato salad, bean salad, fruit salad, all made with low fat and low sugar dressings and all second-helping delicious. She bakes many of the breads, pastry and dessert items herself. Her cinnamon rolls are a local favorite; people drive for miles to get them. She once told me her secret ingredient is the water left over from boiling the potatoes for her potato salad. Whatever it is, her rolls are not the bland, tasteless dough that passes for cinnamon rolls elsewhere. Mary Penzler’s are dense and the flavor is in the dough, not the icing. In fact, she uses very little icing, just a drizzle stripe or two to add some sweet to the spicy cinnamon filing.

            After I got my tuna salad sandwich and coleslaw, I went outside to one of the picnic tables on the patio slab in front of the store. I adjusted the umbrella, shielding my eyes from the August sun. The dog days of summer had arrived but, unusual for this time of year, a stiff breeze discouraged the yellow jackets. They buzzed around the garbage, crawling in and out of the empty soft drink cans but left me alone to snarf down my sandwich in peace.

            I was just about finished with my lunch when Mary slid onto the bench opposite me and pushed a snickerdoodle at me. During the summer months, her apron covered short-sleeved cotton dresses dotted with tiny pink or yellow flowers. In the winter, Mary favored wool sweaters and long skirts. Her pale skin showed no age spots but a couple of freckles were scattered across her nose. She wore no make-up or jewelry except for the thin gold band on her left hand.

“What brings you out in the middle of the day, dear?”

I explained my mission. “Five malls, seven stores. I certainly ought to be able to find reasonably priced and durable furniture at one of them. The big stuff has to be delivered. That may eliminate a couple of my options.”

“Now that you’ve had some lunch and relaxed a bit, it will come to you. You’ll find what you want now, I’m sure.” Mary pointed to my boots. “I’ll bet Office Right Staffing Service doesn’t get much call for cowgirls.”

I fiddled with my fork. “I don’t work for Office Right now. At least not for this job.”

“But I told Ed to call Office Right. And you are with Dixie?”

“It’s a weird arrangement, Mary. Office Right refused to send me to a horse barn. Margaret said the chance for injury was too high.”

Margaret, my Office Right supervisor, had told me all about the Bright Hope assignment; it was long-term, possibly six months or more. Then, after she had me hooked, she told me Office Right couldn’t offer me the assignment because it was against their policy. Their insurance wouldn’t cover me.

“Margaret, I promise I won’t get hurt. Besides, according to you, I’m not working for the stable anyway. I’ll be employed by Duran Building.”

“There’s no way Office Right will approve you working in that environment. It’s got worker’s comp claim written all over it.”

“But I need a job!” I sounded like an Irish banshee foretelling a death…the death of my checkbook. “What am I going to do?”

Margaret was silent for several moments. I was just about to give up when she said, “I have an idea.” She lowered her voice until I had to strain to hear her. “I shouldn’t suggest this but you could take the job as an independent contractor.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, first you get yourself to your accountant so you thoroughly understand the tax implications. Then you become self-employed.”

Being an independent contractor sounded like I would no longer be independent. I’d be bound by the requirements of running a business, keeping track of details like expenses and estimated tax payments and mileage. Did I want to do that? Did I have a choice?

            I hadn’t worked steadily since leaving my corporate job. So far the lulls between assignments hadn’t been too long but I couldn’t go forever without a paycheck and each period of unemployment had me wondering about my sanity in choosing this method of earning a living. I didn’t want to go back to the corporate stress pool and I had made some significant financial concessions to avoid doing it. So here I was, sitting at Penzler’s Corner Market, telling Mary about how her referral had made me an independent contractor. This was all her fault.

Apparently I hadn’t been out of focus for long because Mary was still talking.

“So Ed told me he wants to partner with Dixie. What do you think?”

“About?”

Mary smiled. “I thought you were somewhere else, dear. One of the reasons Ed wants Bright Hope in tip-top shape is that he hopes to go into business with Dixie doing horse vacations. He called it a vocation vacation. Imagine a week at a horse training facility. The visitors attend workshops with Dixie and Izzy and do the chores. He will put the folks up in a bed and breakfast right on the property.” She winked at me. “Equestrian Escapades Ltd. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

“I think he’d better talk to Dixie before he goes very far with it. Imagine what the insurance costs for something like that would be.”

“Doesn’t matter if Ed passes the costs on to the people,” said Pete, scooting onto the bench next to Mary. “Ed plans to charge a bundle for it.”

“Have you seen Izzy or Dixie work the horses?” asked Mary. “Would people pay to watch?”

            “Yes, I think they would,” I said, “Vocation vacations are hot right now. Several of the local papers have done stories about getaways at vineyards, cattle ranches, different places.”

“Would people pay to shovel shit?”

“Pete!” said Mary. “Mind your mouth.” She looked thoughtful. “You know, dear, now that I think about it, Dixie won’t like Ed’s idea much. It goes against her beliefs.”

I scrunched my garbage and tossed it into the bin. “I agree with you. Equestrian Escapades doesn’t match Dixie’s devotion to animals in trouble or that framed mission statement above the mantle.”

That statement was so important Frank Villano’s memorial was next to it. The declaration had something to do with helping troubled horses overcome adversity and reach their full potential through a gentle, loving approach.

“With Frank missing,” said Mary, “I worry about Ed trying to run things. He’s a strong man with strong opinions. I hope he doesn’t try to bowl over Dixie like he does Brisa.” Mary reached out and patted my hand. “I’m glad you’re working out there, dear. Dixie is a fine person and I knew you two would hit it off.”

I looked at my watch. “I’d better get going. I’ve got furniture to buy.”

            They waved me out of the parking lot. I felt completely rejuvenated, thanks to the Penzlers – and that snickerdoodle. Even Milwaukee Avenue’s five lanes of honking horns and lane jumpers didn’t bother me as I drove back to the mall.

This time around, I found exactly the right items. After ordering a couple of inexpensive leather chairs, I stopped at a discount store for a small dinette, chairs, occasional tables and lamps. Most of it required assembly but I was sure the customers would get a kick out of helping me with it. The trunk and backseat of my car were completely filled but I had everything I wanted.

            On the drive back, I thought about furniture placement, which led me to think about the fireplace and the last item on my list. It didn’t take long to swing by Jewel’s floral department. Dixie had specific requirements. A yellow rose. If that wasn’t available, yellow anything but carnations or glads.

“No funeral flowers,” she had told me. “I’ll do funeral flowers when we find him.”

“Yellow for remembrance.” I thought as I got back into the car. “Dixie sure is a sentimentalist.”

            Duran’s black dual-wheeled pick-up truck was still parked in the shade by the riding ring when I returned. It was a lot of truck with a masculine, hard-hitting look; its spotless mirror finish reflecting everything around it. Stencils on the door panels read Duran Building and Grading in bold red script. I looked over at Dixie’s muddy white Ford F10 and my own used Altima. As I went inside, I thought about what our vehicles said about us. Dixie had no time, I had no money and Ed Duran had plenty of both.

Duran was talking to Henry when I stepped into the lounge. The two men looked up.

“Dixie’s in the arena,” said Duran, smiling. “Mission accomplished?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You know Henry, my foreman?”

“Nice to see you up close again,” I said. “Usually we wave at each other across the fields.”

Henry removed his cap. “You help a lot. Thank you.”

We shook hands, my fingers wrapped in his enormous palm. I felt his rings bite into my skin and pulled back. Henry looked distressed.

“I hurt you,” he said, looking at his fingers as though they didn’t belong on his hand. “I didn’t think. I am sorry.”

“Jesus, Henry,” said Duran. “Do you have to wear those things all the time? I’ve warned you it’s not safe.”

“No harm done.” I held up my palm.

Henry nodded, staring at his hands. I excused myself, going into the office to set down some of my parcels before dealing with the flower.

The stable office was small; the desk taking up much of the floor space. I had arranged it so the desk backed up to the north wall and was pushed tightly against the west wall so there was room for a file cabinet. Shelving over the file cabinet created more storage. Above the desk was an opening to the lounge where two ivy plants sat on the ledge. The tiny arch provided light and air movement but did not serve any other purpose that I had been able to discover. At five feet, it was too high to be a functioning pass-through.

The men were still at it when I went back out to the lounge to put the rose in the bud vase. Duran and Henry watched, both of them frowning. Sal thought the memorial was obscene. By the looks on their faces, so did they.

“Sorry, Ed,” said Dixie, stopping just inside the door. “I didn’t realize you were still in here.”

“No problem. Henry and I were discussing the fall chores list. I left a copy on your desk.”

“Thank you. Anything special this year?”

“You might say that. It took a year of arm-twisting but I finally bought the place across the road.”

“You did? When?”

“Last week. I was afraid that old geezer’s family was going to sell to some developer and another strip mall would go in. Now it’ll protect this place.”

“Are you going to farm it?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t decided what crops yet. I’m thinking truck farm with a nice vegetable stand.”

“Retail? Tours for children? That kind of thing?”

“No kids. The liability insurance I got is already too much. I’m thinking small. And all organic. Henry, here’s a list of farms out in McHenry County that are like what I want to do. You and Chuck check them out next week.”

“Sounds like quite an undertaking,” said Dixie. “I suppose Henry will be tied up with that all winter?”

“Henry’s staying here to run this place.” Duran clapped a dour Henry on the back. “I think Chuck will do great over there. Henry trained him well. He should be proud.” Duran looked at me. “You got a trunk full? You want Jorge to bring stuff in?”

“Please.”

“Jorge is in tack room.” Henry stepped forward. “I will get him.”

The two men carried boxes into the lounge and stacked them in the corner. Dixie hovered, looking at the illustrations on the cartons and offering comments. Just as we finished unloading my car, we heard frantic shouts of alarm. Someone was making a real commotion.

It was the pitch that caught my attention, elevated and intense. I’d heard Chuck bellow before but this was frenzied, like the call a person uses if a house is on fire. But Chuck wasn’t shouting about fire. He was yelling about bones.