Riding Lessons Read online

  "Good enough. I'll take just the color then."

  "You sure? Why don't you take the ten volume. It provides just a bit of lift without drying out your hair."

  "No, just these," I say, pushing the tubes of 0-88 toward the cash register.

  I've offended him by not taking his advice. I know this because he raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. He also makes a point of not looking me in the eyes again for the rest of the transaction. But what does it matter, as long as I get the color?

  By the time I return to the stable, I'm enjoying a small respite from my initial panic. I can't guarantee that I've stopped the juggernaut, but I've got the ball rolling.

  I stop at Hurrah's stall on my way through the stable. He's lying down in the shavings--he's a three-bagger, of course--but clambers to his feet when he sees me.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, baby," I say, kissing the velvet muzzle that sniffs and pokes through the feed hole. "You didn't have to get up."

  There's a small wooden box screwed to the outside of his stall. I open its lid and drop the plastic bag with the tubes of color inside.

  Hey," I say to the still-extended nose. "I got you something tonight." I cup my hand under his chin, squeezing the soft flesh. He flaps his lips. "Sorry, it isn't candy," I whisper, kissing him one last time. "I'll bring you some tomorrow. I promise. If you're a good boy about your special bath, you can have all the mints you want."

  "Ah. You're here," says Jean-Claude, when I let myself into his apartment. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to knock, but it didn't. Fortunately, he does not seem to think this strange.

  "Here and hungry," I say, walking to his couch and flopping down. "Where's Eva?" I ask, looking around.

  "Finished, gone," he says, waving vaguely. "Kids."

  I laugh. After a day like today, a dose of Jean-Claude is exactly what I need.

  He is standing by the window, looking over at the house. He has changed from breeches into jeans, and is wearing a burgundy polo shirt, tucked in and cinched with a leather belt at the waist.

  "Your chore, it is done?"

  "Yup. Yours?"

  He looks puzzled.

  "Dinner?" I remind him.

  "Ah, yes," he says, clapping his hands together in front of him. "Of course. Apologies. First, wine. Then vichyssoise. Your Eva, she helped me. She will be a good cook. She understands food."

  "You just happened to have the makings of vichyssoise in your apartment?"

  "But of course. You expect me to eat macaroni and cheese for lunch?"

  I am charmed beyond belief. "Wait a minute. Did you just say Eva is a good cook?"

  "Yes."

  "Really?"

  Jean-Claude is on his way to the kitchen, but he stops dead and looks at me.

  Oops. He probably thinks I'm a bad mother for underestimating her. I go for damage control. "I'm just surprised, that's all. Put it this way. She didn't get it from me."

  "You cannot cook?"

  "Not very well," I say, deciding, for various reasons, to keep the details of my most recent kitchen disaster to myself.

  Jean-Claude stands twiddling the end of his moustache pensively between thumb and forefinger. "Well," he says finally, as though forgiving me, "you are not French."

  As he disappears into the kitchen, I laugh out loud.

  The vichyssoise is excellent, as is the mousseline de poisson a la marechale, which Jean-Claude whips together with casual aplomb after we finish the soup.

  "Apologies," he says, digging through a bowl of produce on the counter. "I am out of shallots. Ah," he says, extracting an onion and then inspecting it. "I have a Vidalia. That will have to do."

  I watch, stunned, as he does exactly what I had hoped to do at Dan's. He starts with about a gazillion ingredients and sets them up on the counter without ever consulting a list. He does other things too, like producing a bowl of cracked ice that screams of competence and glamour. I want to make something complicated. I want to make something that needs to be whipped over cracked ice.

  Instead, I slurp back the beautiful white burgundy that seems to flow so freely, and watch this man who rides and cooks like such an angel. And he really does: when the dinner appears, it is simply spectacular. Sweet seasoned fishcakes, made of nothing but flounder, whipped cream, and nutmeg, sauteed slowly in generous amounts of butter, and served over creamed mushrooms and asparagus tips with beurre blanc drizzled over top. It is probably the best thing I have ever eaten.

  Now I happen to think that Austrian cuisine is fine. But let's face it: it's a hearty, stick-to-your-ribs kind of fine. But this--well, in many ways, this is better than sex, something I choose not to share with Jean-Claude as the evening ends, in case he wants to test the theory. And I think he might. As I help him clear the table, we reach for the same plate, and his hand rests on mine for a moment. I look up to find him staring at me, his brown eyes smoldering. The air is charged, and I am sorely tempted, because there is one other thing the French are famous for, n'est ce pas?

  It's almost eleven before I head back. The moon is high, casting a blue pall over the house and fields, and the wind is heavy and warm, carrying with it the promise of rain.

  About halfway to the house, I turn to face the stable.

  The floodlights of the parking lot shine down on a single car. A gold Impala.

  A moment later, I'm running full tilt toward the stable.

  I don't even bother sneaking up to the door of the lounge. I storm right up and throw it open. Before it even hits the wall behind it, I've reached inside and flicked on the light.

  Eva and Luis stare at me in horrified unison. They are lying on the couch. Luis is not wearing a shirt.

  "Mom! What are you doing here?"

  "What am I doing here?" I say incredulously.

  I step inside and slam the door. A small picture of Harry and me slides down the wall and hits the ground with crash, followed by the tinkle of broken glass.

  "Mom! What is it?"

  I survey the scene in front of me, and then address Luis. "You," I say. "Go home."

  He stares at me for a moment, and then leaps up and grabs his shirt. He pulls it over his head, struggling to find the armholes.

  "Mom, don't overreact. We weren't doing anything wrong."

  "Like hell you weren't."

  "We weren't!"

  Luis is now dressed and hovering in the back corner. The only way out is past me, and he's clearly terrified.

  Eva turns to him. "She's always like this. Don't worry about it. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "No you won't," I say.

  "What do you mean?" asks Eva.

  "He's not welcome here anymore."

  Eva looks horrified. "What do you mean? You're not firing him."

  "I can't exactly fire you, can I?"

  Luis scuttles past, looking sick. From inside the lounge, I hear his footsteps as he runs down the aisle.

  "Mom! You're totally overreacting."

  "Oh, really. Then why was his shirt off?"

  "He was showing me his tattoo."

  "With the light off?"

  Eva stares at me, arms against her sides. "Please, Mom. You can't fire him. He needs this job."

  I lock eyes with her. "Just tell me this. Did I get here in time?"

  "In time for what?"

  "Did you sleep with him?"

  Eva looks horrified. "Mother!"

  "Did you sleep with him?"

  "No! God, Mom. We were just kissing. Just because you're dying to get into bed with your boyfriend doesn't mean--"

  "Trust me, Eva. You don't want to finish that."

  She stands silently, eyes filling with tears. After a moment she says, "I love him."

  "He's too old for you."

  "No, he's not. I'll be sixteen in two months, and he doesn't turn eighteen until April."

  "That doesn't matter."

  Eva stares at me for a long time. "It's because he's Mexican, isn't it?"

  "Of course not," I say.

/>   "Yes it is. You're a goddamned racist, that's what you are."

  "And you're grounded for the rest of your life, that's what you are."

  I storm out of there, slamming the door behind me. A microsecond later, I hear another picture hit the floor with a crash.

  After I get to bed, I lie awake, listening for the back door. I should have followed her to the house, to make sure she came home, but that didn't occur to me until it was too late.

  Eventually, I hear the door open and shut, and then a few minutes later, the click of her bedroom door. I wait about ten more minutes, and then sneak down to the kitchen.

  I open the corner cupboard. The paper pharmacy bags are gone, but the Valium bottle is still there. I've been drinking tonight, so I crack one yellow pill carefully in half, and put it on the back of my tongue. Then I turn on the water faucet and lean over, sucking sideways from the running stream. When I did this as a kid, it made Mutti furious. I did it anyway, of course.

  I return to my bed to wait. Before long, the Valium kicks in.

  This business about Hurrah is terrifying--horrifying, even--but I have to believe there's a way out. If they think they can just come and take him away, they've got another think coming. I'll fight to the death to keep this horse. I haven't worked out the other details yet, but by tomorrow morning, anyone who comes looking for a horse with white brindling is not going to find one. It's not a permanent solution, but it will let me hide him in the herd until I figure out what to do.

  And what am I going to do about Dan? My heart lurches when I remember the sound of his fist hitting the wall. It was a clean sound, a swift thunk. The sound of wood reverberating. My own fist hit with a series of crunching pops, and my cartilage continues to protest.

  Despite the Valium, an unwelcome surge of adrenaline rushes through me, a terrible longing mixed with sickening regret.

  I was out of line, completely unreasonable. I know that. It's just that I was numb with fear--I didn't know how else to react.

  I'll call him tomorrow. I'll tell him I'm sorry. I'll tell him that it was the fear talking, and that I didn't mean a word of it. Surely he'll understand that? Surely he'll forgive me?

  As I try to convince myself that everything will be all right, I have an increasingly desperate sense that maybe this time I've gone too far.

  I shut my eyes, trying to push the panic back down.

  Chapter 14

  Valium head again. Lead weights behind my eye sockets, cheesecloth around my brain.

  When I open my eyes, it's twenty past eight. Even with Valium head, I'm shocked enough to sit up.

  Eva usually wakes me up, although I guess I can't blame her for staying out of my way this morning. I look down at Harriet, who's stretched out and snoring at the end of the bed. Other people's dogs wake them up and ask for walks. I think my dog is secretly a cat.

  I stop in the kitchen long enough to make some toast, and then duck out the back door.

  I pause on the porch, rubbing my upper arms with my hands, still clutching my unbuttered toast. There's a strange feel about the day. The temperature has dropped a good fifteen degrees, and the sky is pea-soup green. It's not raining yet, but it will. I can feel it in my bones. I should go back for a jacket, but that would mean I might be in the kitchen when Pappa gets up.

  If Pappa gets up. Can Mutti do it without Brian? Whatever would possess her to cancel the help?

  At the entrance to the stable, I hear a nicker, and then catch a flash of muzzle through a stall door. Then I realize that part of what felt strange was the empty pastures. P. J. must have decided to keep the horses in, although I can't see why. Rain won't do them any harm, not in the summer, unless we're expecting lightning. I make a mental note to check in with him.

  Still rubbing my upper arms, I go to the lounge, expecting to find Eva. She's not there. I look in all the obvious places, but there's no sign of her. She must have convinced Mutti to drive her to Dan's, knowing that I wouldn't have had a chance to talk to her yet. In many ways, you have to admire the girl.

  I go upstairs in search of my polar fleece, which is slung over the back of my chair. As I'm about to leave, the telephone's red message light catches my eye. I pick up the receiver and punch in the code.

  "Hello, this is a message for Annemarie Zimmer. Harold Oberweis here. My men delivered some hay recently, and, well, my bank just called and apparently your check bounced. Please call me as soon as possible so we can arrange some other form of payment."

  Panic jolts through me.

  That check shouldn't have bounced. There should be plenty of money in the account.

  I turn on the computer, and a few minutes later am staring at our account balance online.

  Oh, shit. Oh, God. They took the loan payment out despite the fact that I told the manager I wanted to make the payment late.

  I reach for the phone. Under the desk, my knee jiggles frenetically. My other hand taps the desktop. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.

  "I need to speak with Sylvia Ramirez," I say when the receptionist answers.

  "Please hold," she says.

  A click, a few seconds of silence, then a female voice. "This is Sylvia Ramirez."

  "Sylvia. Annemarie Zimmer, at Maple Brook Farm."

  "Hi Annemarie. How are you?"

  "Not so good, I'm afraid. Apparently your bank took out the loan payment, and now I'm bouncing checks."

  "Hang on," she says. "Let me take a look."

  I hear the clacking of computer keys, then silence.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "It was set up as a direct debit, so it came out automatically."

  "I told you I wanted to make the payment late."

  "Yes, but you didn't tell me it was set up as a direct debit."

  It's a good thing she's not here to see my face, that's all I can say. After a moment, I press my lips together Mutti-style and collect myself. "How soon can you put it back?"

  "I'm sorry, but I can't."

  "What?"

  "Once the payment has been made, I can't reverse it. If you'd told me--"

  "Why not? You're the manager."

  "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I really am. If you want to make the payment late next month, that's fine, but make sure you let me know in advance so I can stop the payment from coming out."

  "And you can't put this month's back in," I say.

  "No. I'm not even supposed to suspend payments at all, but your parents have been good clients over the years. So I'm willing to do it this time."

  This last puts a cork in what I was going to say next. Instead, I thank her kindly and hang up.

  Hurrah stands patiently in the wash rack, probably wondering why I don't just turn on the water. Instead, I dig out a tube of color, reverse the cap, and puncture the seal.

  A small line of thick, pearly liquid oozes from the tip. I set it on the concrete floor and reach for a pair of gloves. My fingers are clammy and the gloves are not powdered, and for a moment I'm not sure I'm going to be able to get them on.

  My brain is running laps, inner panic belying my outward sense of purpose. It's entirely possible that I could be arrested for this.

  Despite the fact that I didn't use developer, I'm worried the mixture will hurt Hurrah's skin. I squeeze a bit onto my gloved finger and bring it to my nose, sniffing tentatively. It's white and opalescent, unlike any other substance I've seen. It certainly doesn't smell noxious. Smells kind of good, even.

  And so, taking a deep breath, I squeeze a line of color onto Hurrah's left shoulder and massage it in with my gloved thumb.

  Before long, every bit of white on him except the star on his face is covered. I left the star, because developer or no developer, I don't want this stuff getting into his eye. By the time I rub the last little bit into his right rear leg, the mixture has taken on a purple tone, which I take to mean that it's working. I stand up and walk back around to his left shoulder, and then wipe a little bit off with my thumb. Hard to tell exactly what's going on without rinsing i
t, but it certainly seems darker.

  I check my watch, and cross the aisle. Then I turn and sink slowly down the wall until I'm crouching against it. After a moment, I give up and plop down on the floor, being careful to keep my gloved hands away from my clothes.

  Okay, so I've dealt with the stripes. That might mean he won't be recognized right away, but it certainly doesn't remove him from danger. He might not be the first horse they scan, but they'll get to him eventually.

  Surely it will blow over before too long. Surely they won't spend too much time looking for him. He may have been worth a fortune before, but with one eye and degenerative joint disease?

  A crazy thought passes through my head. There's only one other person in the world with as much reason as me to keep Hurrah hidden, and that's Ian McCullough. But I can't call him for help. He's the one who tried to kill Hurrah. I want Hurrah hidden; he wants Hurrah dead.

  I moan and let my head drop back against the wall.

  "Is everything all right?"

  I open my eyes. Jean-Claude is standing in front of me.

  "Yeah, fine."

  "Where are the guys?"

  "What guys?" I say, wondering how to keep him away from Hurrah.

  "P. J., Carlos, Manuel. The stable hands."

  "What, none of them is here?"

  "Nope."

  No wonder the stable looked deserted. How could I have missed that? "I don't know. Maybe they had car trouble."

  Jean-Claude walks over to Hurrah, and reaches out a hand. Then he stops, sniffing the air. "What is that?" he says, making a face.

  "Coat conditioner," I say. "A new kind. Picked it up at Kilkenny Saddlery yesterday."

  "Huh," says Jean-Claude, still frowning. He stares at Hurrah for a while, and then walks on. I almost cry with relief.

  What the hell am I doing? Did I actually expect to be able to get away with this? As soon as I rinse him off, Jean-Claude's going to know what I'm up to. Or at the very least, he's going to know enough to incriminate me.

  It might take a while for someone to notice slight modifications to a bay, or a chestnut, or a black. But we're not talking slight modifications here. We're talking complete transformation. I've got to get Hurrah out of here. Now. Today, before anyone notices what I've done.