Riding Lessons Read online

  Jean-Claude nods again.

  "Asshole," I say.

  "I think we've already established that."

  Suddenly brave, I take another sip of cognac. I keep this one in my mouth for a while, letting it slide around the sides of my tongue and pressing it to my palate before finally swallowing. This time, I simply relax my throat and let it slip down, anticipating the sensation. Quite nice, when you approach it sensibly. Provides a nice warmth rather than a burn, and ends with a nice tingle. Bolder now, I follow it with another sip. Perhaps cognac is my friend after all.

  Mutti appears again, this time in the folds of the green curtain, and I blink rapidly to drive her away.

  I turn back to Jean-Claude. "So do you know why she is afraid to jump?"

  "Apparently she had a fall. She broke her arm and now she's scared."

  "And he still wants to force her to jump? The--" I glance quickly at Jean-Claude and see him brace. Perhaps I've already overused that word today. "--idiot. Idiot! I just don't understand what goes through people's minds. Maybe she's just not a jumper."

  "I think she is not. Kids are so different. My Manon, for example, will jump anything. She's a fiend. Completely fearless."

  "That's your daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "Manon," I say wistfully. "That's a lovely name. Does she live with her mother?"

  "Yes. In Hull. Quebec. Just over the river from Ottawa. Manon trains at the National Equestrian Centre."

  "Really!" I look at him with increased interest. The kid must be really good. "It's funny, but I always thought you were French. I mean, from France, not French Canada."

  "I am. I'm from Montargis. I went to Canada on a riding scholarship in 1986. My wife, though--my ex--she is Quebecois, pur laine."

  "Poor what?"

  "Pur laine. It means, how do you say--virgin wool. True blood. Quebecois to the bone. My daughter can trace her history in Quebec back for sixteen generations." He emphasizes each syllable of the last two words by stabbing his finger in the air. Then he sighs deeply.

  We lapse into silence, nursing our cognac.

  "Do you miss her?" I finally ask. It's a stupid question, because I know the answer, but I'm not really asking about him. I'm asking him to make me feel better about taking Eva so far from her father.

  "Terribly. Just terribly," he says, staring pensively at the wall.

  A fist tightens around my heart. I throw the rest of my cognac against the back of my throat and immediately double over, sputtering violently.

  Chapter 13

  Other than Courtney, there have been no responses to my attempts at finding new boarders, and the situation is now dire. If I don't take control immediately, I'm going to lose the stable. Not mess it up, not weaken it, not dip into some nonexistent nest egg. I'm talking about actually causing the bank to foreclose.

  The first thing I do is call the farrier to find out how soon he can pull the back shoes off the school horses. That will save me fifty dollars per horse every six weeks. It won't make up for the revenue from the lost boarders, but it's a start.

  Francis listens politely, and then says, "I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's a drought year and the ground is rock hard. If you put a bunch of horses out there with nail holes in their hooves, you're just asking for trouble."

  "Does that mean I'm stuck with back shoes forever?"

  "Not at all. But I'm seeing a lot of bad feet this year because of the ground. I've had to shoe horses that usually go barefoot. To do the opposite would be foolhardy."

  When I hang up, I'm just about in tears. My entire battle plan at this point consists of collecting deposits from imaginary boarders and saving three dollars a tube on twenty-seven wormers. That's eighty-one dollars every eight weeks.

  I need to get out of here.

  I meet Dan in the middle of the staircase. I had been looking at the tips of my boots, and am startled when I find myself facing the legs and torso of a man. Apparently visibly so, because he takes my elbow to steady me.

  "I'm okay," I say reflexively, although I'm just about at the breaking point. I want him to wrap his arms around me. I want to collapse against him, bury my head in his shoulder, and tell him how everything's falling apart.

  This does not happen. I look up at him. He's pale.

  "What is it? What's wrong?" I say quickly.

  His eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't say anything.

  "Dan, what is it? You're scaring me."

  I hear the fear in my voice, and just as I'm imagining Eva tangled in a thresher, Eva with a hoof lodged in her skull, Eva run over by a tractor, he says, "The registry called."

  The wall in front of me starts to swim.

  "The chip was registered to Ian McCullough," he says quietly.

  I stare at him until the edges of his face lose focus, and then drop down onto one of the stairs. I misjudge it, and jam my tailbone against the edge. Blood whooshes through my ears.

  "No," I say.

  "Yes."

  "No," I say again.

  "He's Highland Hurrah. He's Harry's brother, Annemarie."

  "No, he can't be," I say sickly. "Highland Hurrah is dead. He died in a fire. It was in all the papers." I wait for Dan to agree with me, but he doesn't. Why doesn't he agree with me? My fingertips start to tingle.

  "It's him, Annemarie," he repeats. He sits on the stair and reaches for my hand. I let him take it, but my fingers remain limp as spaghetti. I feel like I'm shutting down.

  "Annemarie?" he says gently.

  "You told me yourself that the insurance company wouldn't pay out that kind of money without seeing the body."

  "I don't know what they saw. I can't explain that. But the horse you have downstairs is Highland Hurrah. There's no mistake."

  "Maybe they've reused the chip," I continue. "Or the number. It could just be a typo."

  "They can't reuse numbers. Each one is unique."

  I pull my hand away.

  He watches me for a moment, and then continues. "I can't explain it. But there's no mix-up with the chip."

  The enormity of what's going on hits me, and I moan like a woman in labor, rubbing my forehead with a quaking hand. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. What now?" My voice is tremulous, barely under control.

  Dan shakes his head. "I don't know."

  "What are they going to do?"

  "I don't know."

  I stare at him for a long time. "They're going to take him away from me," I say.

  Dan says nothing, eyes locked on mine.

  "Why did you do it?"

  "Do what?" he asks.

  "Call in the chip."

  "What?" Dan looks baffled.

  "None of this would be happening if you hadn't called in the chip."

  Dan stares at me, wide-eyed. "You can't be serious."

  "Of course I am. I asked you not to."

  "You asked me not to after I'd already done it," he says indignantly. "And after you pestered me about the chip reader."

  "What pestered?" I continue, my voice rising in irritation. "I asked you about it once."

  "You've been obsessed with this all summer."

  "I wasn't obsessed!" I hiss.

  "Oh really? Then what would you call it?"

  "I was just...curious."

  "Oh really? You had no interest in chip readers, then?"

  "That was just research."

  "Just research. I see." Dan nods quickly, bitterly.

  "I wanted it to be him, but I didn't want it..." I struggle for the word, and then sputter stupidly, "confirmed. You never asked me whether I wanted you to call in the chip."

  "What? Oh, Jesus. This is rich. You're completely nuts, do you know that?"

  "No I'm not!" I'm shouting now, as full-bellied and loud as a fishwife. I know this is irrational, but I can't help it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Carlos appears and looks up in alarm.

  "What the hell do you want?" I scream at him. He di
sappears.

  "Jesus, Annemarie. It's not his fault."

  "That's right," I say bitterly. "It's yours."

  He stares at me for a moment, eyebrows knit. "Why are you doing this?"

  I can tell from his tone of voice that he's trying to get me to take a step back. But it's too late. It can't be done.

  "I'm not doing a goddamned thing," I bark.

  "I swear to God, Annemarie, you are the most impossible woman I have ever met."

  "And you just cost me Harry's brother," I respond.

  Dan rises to his feet and stands absolutely still. Then he pivots and rams his fist into the wall. A long crack snakes its way toward the ceiling. I recoil instinctively. Then he walks down the stairs and turns the corner without ever looking back.

  I shriek with rage and also punch the wall, both surprised by and welcoming the explosion of pain.

  I'll hide him. I'll deny he's here. Oh, sure, they might be able to get a warrant to scan all my horses, but that won't even occur to them until after they realize I'm not going to cooperate, and I'll make sure they don't figure that out until the last possible moment. By the time they've done the paperwork for a warrant--never mind finding the right kind of scanner--Hurrah will be far, far, away.

  I'll claim he was stolen. I'll file a report. I'll move him to...Where? To Dan's? Not a chance. If they even try to take Hurrah from me, I'll never speak to Dan again. And besides, he won't help me. He's too moral, too good. He won't understand that there is a time and place for everything, including fraud. But it leaves me with a serious problem. Where the hell do you hide a one-eyed striped horse?

  I'm pacing the pasture like a madwoman when the solution comes to me. I stop, press my hands to my mouth to suppress a yelp, and then pat my pockets, checking for keys. I must have left them on the hook by the kitchen door.

  A few minutes later, I open the back door to the kitchen. I step inside and lean over, out of breath from my sprint. Eva is sitting at the table, flipping through a magazine. No one else is here, and there's no sign of dinner.

  "Where's Oma?" I demand.

  "I dunno," says Eva. "The van's here, but I haven't seen her."

  I stride through the kitchen, boots and all, and stop in the doorway. "Mutti?" I call loudly into the empty hall. "Mutti?"

  A second later, the door to the dining room opens, and Mutti's face appears in the crack.

  "Shh," she says, frowning. "Quiet. Pappa's sleeping."

  "Is everything okay?" I roll onto the balls of my feet, straining to look around her.

  "Fine," she says, closing the door until it and the doorframe flank her ears.

  I peer over her head. "You sure?"

  "Yes, but can you make dinner?" she whispers.

  "Mutti, no!"

  She stares at me, gray eyes unblinking.

  "Mutti, I can't. There's somewhere I've got to go."

  "Annemarie, please."

  "Oh, Mutti--" I say. I search her eyes and see that I don't have a hope. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it."

  "Thank you, Liebchen," she says, before shutting the door with a click.

  Liebchen?

  I return to the kitchen, desperate. There's no time for making dinner. It's only a matter of time before the insurance company calls or shows up. Maybe I'll take Eva with me and just grab a pizza. Of course, if I do that, I'll have to confide in Eva.

  But I've forgotten about Jean-Claude, who chooses this moment to enter by the back door. He surveys the kitchen, clearly as surprised as I was by the lack of evidence of dinner.

  "Don't ask, because I don't know," I say preemptively.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Yeah, fine. He's just tired," I say.

  "Your mother--?"

  Jean-Claude is interrupted by the phone. I glare at it, willing it to stop. It doesn't. On the third ring, I answer.

  "Hello?" I bark into the mouthpiece.

  "Uh, yeah, hi. This is Brian, the home health aide. Is Ursula there?"

  "She's busy."

  "Is this Annemarie?"

  "Yes it is."

  "Um...Is everything okay over there?"

  "Yes, of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?" I say irritably.

  "Did you know that your mother canceled my scheduled visits for tonight and tomorrow?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Look, this is awkward, but...does she have some other help, or is she just planning to manage on her own?"

  "I have no idea. You'll have to ask her."

  "It's just that she was really upset when I was late the other day--"

  "You were forty minutes late. Austrians don't like people to be late."

  "I had a flat tire, which I explained to her. But basically...Look, all I'm saying is that she's entitled to the help--it's covered by insurance--so if she's canceling because she doesn't want me to come anymore, I can arrange for someone else. She doesn't need to go through this on her own."

  I pause. Despite the fact that my skin crawls every time I think about Brian, I find his concern touching, especially since it appears that Mutti fired him for having a flat tire.

  "I'll ask her," I say, trying to sound nicer. "I can't tonight, but I'll find out what's going on tomorrow. Can you call back then?"

  "Yeah, sure. Thanks," he says.

  I hang up and turn back to the others. Eva is now perched on the edge of the table, sitting on her hands and swinging her tanned legs. Jean-Claude sits in a chair at the head of the table.

  "What?" I say, because they're both staring at me.

  "Um, dinner?" says Eva, sarcastic to the nth.

  "Goddamn it," I say. I turn my back to them and lean up against the counter. Its edges poke into my hipbones.

  "What's the matter?" asks Jean-Claude.

  "I have to go somewhere."

  "Would you like me to make dinner?"

  A rush of relief. I turn around, all smiles. "Really? Would you mind?"

  "Not at all. Go do whatever you have to do, and come back to the apartment when you're finished. I'll make something there. Eva, would you like to help?"

  "Sure," she chirps, sliding off the table.

  I grab the keys from the hook and go.

  The color enhancer I thought I saw at Kilkenny Saddlery turns out to be nothing more than a shampoo that promises to "bring out" highlights in specific colors. Bring out? Pffffft. Read: waste of money.

  There's a hairdresser nearby. I try there next.

  "May I help you?" says the pencil-thin woman behind the desk. She is made up till Tuesday, her dark hair cut short. I swear I see purple highlights glimmering in its spiked tips.

  "Hi, yes," I say, sidling up to the counter. "Would it be possible to speak with a colorist?"

  She looks me over, and then examines her long, eggplant-colored nails. "We don't do walkins," she says.

  I look down at my hands--at my dirt-encrusted nails and the green slobber on my discolored teeshirt--and then it dawns on me that I'm being snubbed. Me! Snubbed! By someone who makes a living sweeping up hair clippings!

  "I'm not asking for an appointment," I say, enunciating icily. "I just need to talk with a colorist for a moment. And the reason I look like something the cat dragged in is that I just came from a stable."

  She crumbles instantly. "Oh God...I didn't mean...I would never..."

  A tall heavyset woman sails behind the desk. Her tiny, thin-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of her hooked nose. Her caramel-colored hair is cemented into place.

  "Norah, what's going on?"

  "Oh, Lise--do you have a couple of minutes? This lady wants a consultation." Now that her inner cocker spaniel has been revealed, Norah is quaking.

  A couple of minutes later, I'm in the back of the shop poring over color swatches with Lise.

  "That. That's the color," I say, stabbing the curled sample lock with my finger.

  "That? Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  Lise stands back and crosses her arms over her impressive bosom. Her e
yes move between my face and hairline.

  "I don't know," she says doubtfully. "I mean, it's up to you, and if you really want me to, I'll do it, but I have to be honest. I don't think it's right for your complexion. You're too pale. You'd look washed out. And I don't normally say this, for obvious reasons, but your natural color is beautiful. Have you considered just getting highlights instead?" She steps forward and plays with the hair on the left side of my face, picking up strands and then letting them slide through her fingers. "I could do foils. Bring it up maybe half a shade. Something more...subtle."

  "No. This is what I want," I say, pointing once again at the copper red swatch.

  Lise continues to look concerned. "All right. But I have to warn you, it's really hard to lift red. If you don't like it, you're going to be stuck with it until the hair grows out."

  "Good. Perfect. That's exactly what I want."

  She stares at me long and hard. Finally she nods. "Well, okay then," she says. "Let's check with Annette to see when I have an opening."

  "Oh no," I say hurriedly. "I just want the dye. I'm going to do it myself."

  "I can't sell you the dye," she says, hardening visibly.

  "Why not?"

  "Because these are professional products."

  "Where can I get them?"

  Her eyes narrow. "We get them from beauty-supply distributors, but you can't. You have to have a license."

  Fortunately, the owner of Helen of Troy Beauty Supplies is not particularly bothered about licenses.

  I walk up to the counter and tell him that I need four tubes of Schwarzkopf 0-88, which should be a clue right there that I'm not stocking a shop, but all he does is ask me if I need developer as well.

  "What's that?" I say, wantonly handing him clue number two. I'm pretty sure he doesn't care--I've already pegged him as someone who cares more about a sale than some silly legislation.

  "It's the catalyst that makes the color stick," he says, proving me right. He turns around and takes three small boxes from the shelf behind him.

  "What's it made of?"

  "Hydrogen peroxide. It comes in these three strengths," he says, laying the boxes on the counter in front of me. "Here, you'll need these too."

  He reaches into an open box and pulls out a handful of rubber gloves. I ignore them, and pick up a box of developer. "Peroxide. Is it irritating?"

  "It can be if your skin is sensitive, but it's not a problem for most people."

  "What happens if you don't use it?"

  "On someone with coloring such as yourself, you'll still get color. On someone with darker hair, you might as well flush your money down the toilet. You've got to lift color before you can add it."