Riding Lessons Read online

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes I'm sure."

  "You don't want to revise your answer?"

  "Why would I want to do that?"

  "We have your phone records."

  I miss a few beats, remembering Ian's tone of voice. I look from Samosa to Freakley, who is staring impassively at his notepad. "Am I being arrested?"

  "Not yet."

  "Yet? Oh my God." I sit upright and blink furiously. How did this become such a mess? "I think I'd better speak with a lawyer."

  "That's your right, but since you haven't been charged with anything, we are not obligated to provide one."

  They will, however, provide me with a phone book and point me toward a pay phone. I pick a defense lawyer pretty much at random, opening the Yellow Pages and calling the 1-800 number from the first ad to leap out at me.

  Norma Blackley bustles into the conference room an hour and a half later with the odor of spaghetti still clinging to her nylon sweater. We confer for about twenty minutes, during which time I tell her everything. She leans toward me, nodding encouragingly.

  "Okay," she says at the end of it. "It sounds to me like the most you're guilty of is trying to keep a horse you loved. However, you're in a delicate position here and will be until we all know exactly what happened. Don't answer anything you don't want to, and I'll let you know when I think you shouldn't. Remember, you have the right not to say anything that incriminates you. They can't hold that against you, and despite what they might have led you to believe, it won't make them lay charges where they wouldn't otherwise have done so. Are you ready?"

  I nod. "I think so."

  She goes out to the hall and gestures the two men back in.

  "Hi, Norma," says Freakley.

  "Gentlemen," replies Norma.

  The detectives take their seats opposite me, and Norma sits at the narrow side of the table, effectively between us.

  Freakley rustles his papers for a moment, takes a swig from his refilled coffee, and then resumes questioning me.

  "Do you know what a brindled horse is?"

  "Absolutely. I used to have one."

  "When was that?"

  "Twenty years ago."

  "The horse in stall thirteen is registered as a brindled horse. Do you have any knowledge of how he came to be a solid color rather than brindled?"

  "Annemarie, don't answer--"

  "Sure I do. I dyed him."

  "--that," finishes Norma. She turns slowly to face me.

  Samosa and Freakley freeze, their pen nibs still pressed to paper. Both pairs of eyes stare at me. "You dyed him?"

  "Sure I did, and instead of giving me a hard time about it, maybe you should be thanking me. If I hadn't, those guys--and I'm assuming from what you asked me earlier that they're associated with McCullough--would have gotten away with Hurrah, and that would have been the end of it."

  I look at Norma. Her face reminds me of a ripe pomegranate.

  "Gentlemen," she says in a chilled voice. "May I have a moment with my client?"

  An hour later, they spring me. When my crippled car gets to the back of the house, I brake for a moment, checking all the windows for lights. The house is dark, so I continue on my way. I'm no longer even pressing the gas pedal. My poor mashed car simply coasts along the same path it did last night, running out of steam where the trailer had been parked.

  A minute later, I throw the latch on Hurrah's stall and slide the door open.

  I stand blinking in the darkness, because it takes me a moment to figure out what's going on. Then the bare floorboards come into focus, stripped of all shavings. The upside-down bucket, my unobscured view of the back wall.

  "Annemarie," says a voice behind me.

  I spin around.

  It's Jean-Claude, wearing boxers, a tee-shirt, and work boots pulled over bare feet. He's obviously just gotten out of bed.

  "Where is he?" I say, hearing the tremor in my voice.

  "He's gone," he says quietly. "They took him early this evening. Your mother, she argued with them, but they had a warrant."

  "Where did they take him?"

  "I don't know."

  I stare at him, blinking. "Are they going to bring him back?"

  "I would not think so. No."

  Jean-Claude is standing with his arms slack against his sides. His palms are open toward me and his fingers extended, almost in supplication. Despite the darkness, I can see the pained expression on his face.

  I feel drained, an empty brittle shell. "Were you here?" I whisper.

  Jean-Claude nods.

  I say nothing for a long time, picturing it. The police, perhaps even the county animal warden, leading him out of this very stall. Hurrah lifting his beautiful striped hooves over this very door track. His unshod feet clip-clopping as they led him out of the stable and toward the ramp at the back of the truck.

  "How was he about getting on the trailer?" My voice cracks halfway through the sentence. I clap my hands to my face and moan into them. I feel like I'm falling, falling, and step backwards, seeking support from a wall. Instead, I trip over the door track and hit the floor. I'm momentarily shocked, and then roll onto my side. My body curls like a potato bug, knees against chest. My cheek rests against the cool, worn floorboards of his stall. I howl.

  Jean-Claude kneels beside me. "Shh," he says gently. He lays a hand on my shoulder. "Come now, cherie. Come now."

  My response is to cry louder: soul-rending, coyote-yipping wails.

  His hands are on my shoulders now, pulling, and then he slides an arm behind my back. He scoops me up and presses me against him.

  He holds me like this for several minutes, squeezing tighter each time my sobs begin afresh. But I don't want to stop. I don't want to get over this. I don't even know how I'm going to live through it.

  Jean-Claude rocks slowly, side to side, as though I were a child. Eventually I fall silent.

  I sniff, and pull my head back. He stares down at me, his face lined with concern. In the darkness, his eyes are almost buried in shadow, but the rest of his features are clear. The line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, his forehead, creased with worry.

  I reach up quite suddenly and press my lips to his.

  His body stiffens. He pulls away.

  "Annemarie--"

  I pull him back to me, violently, drowning out his objections. I keep my lips pressed against his mouth, letting the tip of my tongue slide over his clamped lips even as I rise to my knees. I reach up and grab handfuls of his hair, pulling his face to mine. He does not push me away, but he lifts his arms up, holding them out to the side.

  I don't care. I continue my assault on his closed mouth, probing and biting and enjoying the feel of his stubbly chin under my hands, the strangeness of his moustache against my lips.

  A few seconds later, he is crushing me in his embrace, sliding his tongue into my mouth. He tastes of Courvoisier and Galloise. He tastes of man.

  I'm on my knees, clutching his head in both my hands. Then I reach for the bottom of his shirt, surprised by the amount of hair I encounter. As I run my hand up against his skin, I savor the feeling of it, a texture so very different from mine. I pause at his nipple, rolling it slightly between my fingers, and then move on. I dig my fingers into the hard contours of his chest, curling his hair around my fingers, feeling his body respond.

  He rises to his feet, lifting me with him. As soon as we're upright, I fall forward onto him, roughly, holding the back of his neck with one hand and reaching for his boxers with the other. I need him now, there is no time to waste.

  He lifts me from the floor, and I wrap my legs around his waist, locking them behind. With his mouth still pressed to mine, he walks forward until I'm against the wall. Then he stops. He pulls away, searching my face with his eyes. By way of an answer, I pull him back to me by the hair.

  I let myself slide down until I'm resting on his erection. It presses against me, hard and insistent.

  I pull my head back so hard it thunks th
e wall. I'm dizzy, seeing stars.

  "What? What is it?" he says. His face is raw with desire, still inches from mine.

  "I can't," I say. I turn my head toward the wall, hoping I won't throw up.

  He leans forward, trying to kiss me again.

  "No!" I bark.

  He drops me as though I were radioactive. We stand staring at each other, panting.

  "I don't understand," he says.

  "Neither do I," I say, my lip curling into an involuntary grimace. "But this is all wrong."

  "It doesn't have to be--" he says, reaching a hand into the open space between us.

  "Just--Just--" I interrupt myself, flapping my hands jerkily beside my ears. "I have to go."

  We're still in the stall, and I have to pass him to leave. I head for the door, looking studiously at the floorboards.

  "Annemarie--" he says. He grabs my upper arm as I pass.

  I stop, but I don't look at him. His grasp is gentle but firm.

  He's looking at me--I can feel it. A few seconds later, he lets me go.

  I run back to the house, blubbering and watching the grass pass beneath my feet.

  "You're back," says Mutti. She's sitting at the kitchen table with her hands folded in front of her.

  I stand just inside the door, not sure whether I should join her. "Yes," I say, wiping my eyes hastily.

  Harriet scurries out from under the table, doing a dance of joy. I scoop her up. She squirms and wiggles. I turn my head, cocking it toward my shoulder to prevent her tongue from probing my ear.

  "Harriet, stop that," I say, trying to offer my chin instead. Then I catch sight of Mutti. She's staring at me, her pale eyes icy.

  I set Harriet down. She stands with her front paws on my feet, stamping hopefully in case I change my mind.

  "When did you get back?" says Mutti.

  "I don't know. Maybe twenty minutes ago."

  "I didn't see your car."

  "I left it at the stable."

  "So you know, then," says Mutti.

  "Yes. I know."

  I cross the kitchen and open the fridge. There's a bottle of Liebfraumilch in the door. I pour two large glasses and join her at the table.

  "I tried to stop them, you know," she says. She rests her hands on the base of the wineglass, staring at the top of the liquid.

  "I know."

  She looks up quickly. "How?"

  "Jean-Claude."

  "Oh," she says. "So what is going on with you?"

  "They let me go."

  "Obviously."

  "I mean, they haven't charged me with anything, but they know I dyed Hurrah. So I don't know." I down a third of my wine in one gulp. "How about you? Have you heard from the police?"

  "About what?"

  "About what the coroner said?"

  "No," she says, continuing to stare at her hands. Finally she looks up, and apparently takes pity. "The lawyer said that if we don't hear anything in a month or two, everything is probably okay."

  "You have a lawyer?"

  "Dan arranged for one."

  Funny, but if I'd had to lay odds on which Zimmer woman would end up needing a criminal lawyer, I would have been wrong. Twice.

  The next morning, I call Minneapolis. "Roger?"

  I know it's him, but it's an alternative to hello. I'm grateful beyond expression that he is the one who answered. I don't know why the sound of Sonja's voice hurts me so much, but it does, almost physically.

  "Annemarie," he says. "I've been hoping you'd call."

  "You were?"

  "Yes. How was the drive?"

  I'm rendered mute. How do I answer that? I can't tell him that I thought I'd traveled to the depths of hell and back, only to arrive home and find that my descent had just begun.

  "It was fine," I say.

  "Good, good..." he says, and then pauses. "There are a couple of things I need to tell you."

  "Oh?" I say. If he tells me they're having twins, I'm going to have to kill someone.

  "Good things. Don't worry," he says quickly. "First of all, someone's made an offer on the house."

  "Oh," I say again.

  "It's four percent below our asking price, but I think we should take it."

  "Um...sure," I say.

  "I'll fax something for you to sign."

  "Okay. Fine."

  "The other is Eva. I've convinced her to return to New Hampshire."

  "Oh, Roger," I say. My voice cracks.

  "No, wait, Annemarie. She doesn't mean for good. Yet. But she wants to go back for the funeral."

  I fall mute, which he apparently mistakes for anger.

  "You know how she is," he continues quickly. "She's drawn a line in the sand, and now it's a matter of pride. She doesn't want to be seen going back on her word. But it's a step in the right direction. I'm going to buy her a return ticket--but before you say anything, it's cheaper that way. Also, it will make her feel like we're taking her seriously. Then you can work on her when she gets there."

  I drop my head, supporting it with my free hand.

  "Okay," I say in a tiny voice. "Thank you." And then I hear myself say something else. "Roger?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" he says, sounding confused.

  "For everything," I say.

  And I am. Sorrier than he'll ever know.

  The day stretches interminably before me. I don't know what to do with myself. I can't go to the stable. I don't work there anymore, and anyway, I don't think I can face it now that Hurrah's gone.

  The house is no better. Everything in it reminds me of Pappa--the curtained dining-room doors, the track in the ceiling. There are other things, too, reminders of his life before his illness, and these make me even sadder.

  Just shy of noon, I find myself on the back porch, standing virtually unprotected in the blazing sun.

  I poke a finger experimentally into the dirt of Mutti's hanging baskets, and then go in search of a watering can.

  I find one under the sink. Each basket takes a full can of water before starting to leak out the bottom.

  I stand back, admiring the flowers. Mutti really does have a green thumb. I'm no gardener, but even I know that petunias are difficult. Notoriously so, in fact. If you don't deadhead and prune and basically do everything but read to them daily, you'll come out one sad day and find they've gone belly up. It's usually about halfway through the summer, and their collapse is almost instant. Their limbs wilt and shrink, and their blossoms take on the texture of old skin.

  Not Mutti's, though. These babies will last until October. They're gorgeous, hanging so luxuriantly they obscure the pots completely. They also reach upward, a thick mass of magenta flowers.

  I start idly pinching off finished blossoms. Eventually, I take one basket down and carry it to the edge of the porch. I slide an arm through the mass of hanging flowers and lift half of it carefully over the railing. Then I rest the pot on the edge. Now I have access to the entire basket.

  I'm just starting on the second basket when I see Mutti heading down the lane toward the house. I'm secretly pleased that she's going to find me doing something useful.

  "What are you doing?" she says sharply when she climbs the ramp and surveys the colorful mess at my feet.

  "I'm deadheading," I say, continuing to pinch.

  "Those are the buds," she says.

  I freeze, and look in horror at my feet. Masses of curled trumpets, so tender, so friseed they look finished, not nascent.

  "Oh God, Mutti. I'm sorry. I really thought...Oh God, Mutti," I say helplessly.

  "Never mind," she says, reaching for the handle and yanking the basket out of my grasp.

  I stare at her back as she reaches up and places it on its hook. She walks over to the other basket and examines its denuded greenery.

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Never mind," she says. She wipes her hands on her hips, and then turns to look at me. "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

  "No," I ad
mit.

  "You will burn. Come inside."

  I follow, miserable.

  She starts a pot of coffee, and sits at the table waiting. I sit on the floor in the corner, stroking my recumbent dog.

  Harriet still likes me. Harriet even thinks I'm useful, since I showed up with her basket.

  When the coffee gurgles to a finish, Mutti rises and pours two cups. She doctors mine with cream and sugar, and then takes them to the table. Then she pats the tabletop in front of where she wants me to sit.

  "So what are your plans?" she says after I've obeyed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Where are you going to go?"

  "When? What are you talking about?"

  "To live," she says.

  "I thought I'd live here," I say weakly.

  "You can't. I'm selling the farm."

  "You what? What did you just say?"

  "I'm selling."

  "You can't! You and Pappa poured your entire lives into this farm--what would Pappa say?"

  "I don't have a choice, do I?"

  "What do you mean?" I say, with a sinking heart.

  "I cannot make the payments. I cannot keep the horses fed--"

  "But--"

  "--I had to sell our stocks to pay the stable hands. I have empty stalls. I have no trainer."

  "What?"

  Finally, Mutti stops. She looks me square in the eye. "He didn't tell you?"

  "No!" I say.

  And indeed he did not. Even as he was preparing to make love to me, he did not. I'm flabbergasted. "When did this happen? Why?"

  "The day you returned. Because I guess this struck him as a somewhat less than ideal work situation. Because his paycheck bounced. Because he spent most of last week mucking out rather than giving lessons."

  "Oh, God."

  "He gave a month's notice."

  "Mutti, don't sell."

  "There's no way around it," she says. Her lips are pursed, her hands wrapped around her mug. She hasn't taken a single sip.

  I push my coffee away and lean forward, stretching my arms out onto the table. Then I drop my head onto them. The surface of the table feels cold against my forehead.

  My whole world has suddenly come unmoored. My God, if Mutti sells the farm, every home I've ever known has just--

  I lift my head, blinking. My hair flops forward over my face.

  "Mutti," I say quickly. I grab for her hand across the table and hold it tightly in both of mine. "Mutti, listen to me. You don't have to sell."

  She looks at our hands. She's shocked, but doesn't pull away.

  I blow the hair away from my eyes, but it falls back instantly. I don't care. I have a plan.