from the horses made the stable itself safer for the animals.
Stevie opened the door to the feed shed and turned on the light. Bags, barrels, and bales were piled neatly everywhere. The place was pretty full, so it seemed odd that Mrs. Reg wanted to order more for Friday, but who was Stevie to disagree with something on Mrs. Reg’s list?
And who was Stevie to figure out what Mrs. Reg wanted to order? And how on earth was she going to do it?
She sat down on a bale of hay and began chewing on a fingernail. It didn’t taste very good, and it didn’t help her thinking. She stopped chewing on the nail and looked around, hoping to pull an answer out of thin air. And she did.
For there, fastened to a clipboard that was hanging from a hook by the door to the shed, was a piece of pink paper. On a hunch, Stevie walked over to look at it. It was an invoice, dated just a month earlier. At the top of the piece of paper, it gave the name of the place that had delivered the feed: Connor Hay & Grain. Then there was an address and a phone number. Better still, it said at the top:
Standing Order
. That meant that this was probably just about exactly what Mrs. Reg ordered every time she called.
“Bingo!” Stevie announced. She took the clipboard down off the hook and dashed back to Mrs. Reg’s office, remembering to turn off the light and lock the door behind her. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to be Mrs. Reg after all.
“B ONJOUR ,”
L ISA SAID , practicing her welcome to the French ambassador.
“Je m’appelle Lisa Atwood.”
Introducing herself wouldn’t be so hard. The hard part was going to be chatting about horseback riding, or international affairs—whatever the man wanted. She’d spent more than two hours the night before boning up on her horseback-riding vocabulary. She’d made herself a list, but she’d worked so hard on memorizing it that she hoped she wouldn’t have to refer to it too much. Saddle, for instance, was
selle
. Sidesaddle was
selle d’amazone
. She didn’t actually think she was going to need to talk about sidesaddles because she’d never even ridden one, but she was interested to learn that the name in French was connected with the women warriors, the Amazons. Perhaps she could work it into a conversation, although she didn’t know the word for “warrior,” and that would make it hard to talk about.
Lisa found that she did get mixed up between horses and hairs. In French the word for horse was
cheval
and more than one horse was
chevaux
. Hair, on the other hand, was
cheveux
. She certainly hoped she didn’t goof and ask the poor ambassador if he wanted to ride any hairs!
A car pulled up to the stable. It was ten-fifteen. All the riders, plus Max and Red, were in the jump class. This could only be the French ambassador. When a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man stepped out of the car, Lisa knew she was right. She took a deep breath and went to work.
“Bonjour,”
she began.
“Je m’appelle Lisa Atwood.”
There was no question about it, the look on the man’s face was complete surprise. Then he smiled. Lisa was terribly proud of herself.
“Bonjour, Lisa,”
he said, offering his hand for a shake.
They had definitely gotten off on the right foot—or
pied
, as the French would say. Lisa began her carefully memorized words of welcome and explanation. She took the ambassador to the locker area and told him she would be putting
une selle
on his
cheval
and would meet him by the
porte d’ecurie en dix minutes
. That would give him ten minutes to get to the stable door. He said
merci beaucoup
, so Lisa figured that would be fine.
Quickly she tacked up Barq for herself and Delilah for the ambassador. Delilah was a beautiful palomino mare, and she was sure the man would be pleased to be able to ride her. Delilah was also very gentle, so no matter whether the ambassador was a good rider or not, Delilah would be a good horse for him.
The man was ready and waiting for Lisa when she appeared
Stevie opened the door to the feed shed and turned on the light. Bags, barrels, and bales were piled neatly everywhere. The place was pretty full, so it seemed odd that Mrs. Reg wanted to order more for Friday, but who was Stevie to disagree with something on Mrs. Reg’s list?
And who was Stevie to figure out what Mrs. Reg wanted to order? And how on earth was she going to do it?
She sat down on a bale of hay and began chewing on a fingernail. It didn’t taste very good, and it didn’t help her thinking. She stopped chewing on the nail and looked around, hoping to pull an answer out of thin air. And she did.
For there, fastened to a clipboard that was hanging from a hook by the door to the shed, was a piece of pink paper. On a hunch, Stevie walked over to look at it. It was an invoice, dated just a month earlier. At the top of the piece of paper, it gave the name of the place that had delivered the feed: Connor Hay & Grain. Then there was an address and a phone number. Better still, it said at the top:
Standing Order
. That meant that this was probably just about exactly what Mrs. Reg ordered every time she called.
“Bingo!” Stevie announced. She took the clipboard down off the hook and dashed back to Mrs. Reg’s office, remembering to turn off the light and lock the door behind her. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to be Mrs. Reg after all.
“B ONJOUR ,”
L ISA SAID , practicing her welcome to the French ambassador.
“Je m’appelle Lisa Atwood.”
Introducing herself wouldn’t be so hard. The hard part was going to be chatting about horseback riding, or international affairs—whatever the man wanted. She’d spent more than two hours the night before boning up on her horseback-riding vocabulary. She’d made herself a list, but she’d worked so hard on memorizing it that she hoped she wouldn’t have to refer to it too much. Saddle, for instance, was
selle
. Sidesaddle was
selle d’amazone
. She didn’t actually think she was going to need to talk about sidesaddles because she’d never even ridden one, but she was interested to learn that the name in French was connected with the women warriors, the Amazons. Perhaps she could work it into a conversation, although she didn’t know the word for “warrior,” and that would make it hard to talk about.
Lisa found that she did get mixed up between horses and hairs. In French the word for horse was
cheval
and more than one horse was
chevaux
. Hair, on the other hand, was
cheveux
. She certainly hoped she didn’t goof and ask the poor ambassador if he wanted to ride any hairs!
A car pulled up to the stable. It was ten-fifteen. All the riders, plus Max and Red, were in the jump class. This could only be the French ambassador. When a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man stepped out of the car, Lisa knew she was right. She took a deep breath and went to work.
“Bonjour,”
she began.
“Je m’appelle Lisa Atwood.”
There was no question about it, the look on the man’s face was complete surprise. Then he smiled. Lisa was terribly proud of herself.
“Bonjour, Lisa,”
he said, offering his hand for a shake.
They had definitely gotten off on the right foot—or
pied
, as the French would say. Lisa began her carefully memorized words of welcome and explanation. She took the ambassador to the locker area and told him she would be putting
une selle
on his
cheval
and would meet him by the
porte d’ecurie en dix minutes
. That would give him ten minutes to get to the stable door. He said
merci beaucoup
, so Lisa figured that would be fine.
Quickly she tacked up Barq for herself and Delilah for the ambassador. Delilah was a beautiful palomino mare, and she was sure the man would be pleased to be able to ride her. Delilah was also very gentle, so no matter whether the ambassador was a good rider or not, Delilah would be a good horse for him.
The man was ready and waiting for Lisa when she appeared
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