Riding Lessons Page 28

  Other than Mutti and Eva, the only people I know are Dan, Jean-Claude, and the stable hands.

  I hold a drink and a plate, although I am neither eating nor drinking. I clutch them as protection, after having my hand grasped by strangers more times than I can stand. If I hear one more person say "I'm sorry," I might have to scream and throw my plate out a window.

  I wander down the hall to the living room and stop in the doorway. Eva is sitting on the couch. Luis is beside her, holding her hand.

  "Annemarie."

  A woman I've never met appears in front of me. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she says, reaching out and giving my arm an encouraging squeeze.

  "Thank you," I say, looking past her, or rather over the top of her head. Dan is kneeling in front of Eva, is talking earnestly. She nods, and looks up at him.

  "It was a lovely service. I'm sure he would have appreciated it," says the tiny woman in front of me. "And Ursula is holding up so well, poor thing. Such a sad business."

  I look down at her. She's older, her hair dyed into a stiff blonde mass. Her face is an unnatural pinky-rose color, somehow spongy and powdery at the same time. There are deep vertical lines running from her upper lip to the bottom of her nose. Her lipstick has bled into them.

  I turn my head. From where I'm standing, I can see straight through the hallway to the kitchen.

  "My husband has been dying to meet you," the woman continues. "Oh, I'm so sorry--" she says, clapping a jeweled hand over her mouth. "I didn't mean that. But Anton spoke of you so often. He was so proud of you. Ernie and I remember when you used to compete, and that was before we even knew your parents. We used to see pictures of you in Sport Horse Illustrated, on that spectacular Hanoverian. So you see, we've known of you for a long time." She takes my elbow, tugging it gently. "Come meet him. He's right over--"

  I start to walk. All I can think of is getting away from this woman and her husband Ernie, of making it to the back door before I blow up. A few feet into the hallway, I ditch the plate on the telephone table. As I pass the staircase, I reach through the railing and set my drink on a stair.

  My need to get out is overwhelming, all-encompassing. I have the sense that I'm walking through a tunnel, and the sides are closing in on me. People's faces keep popping in front of me, distorted, as though I'm viewing them through a fisheye lens. I don't stop, so they all disappear, and I'm glad, because if they didn't, I think I'd just stretch my arms out and shove them aside.

  As soon as I'm outside, I can breathe again, although I don't dare stop. I'm afraid someone will take that as an invitation to follow me.

  Halfway to the stable, I reach down and take off my shoes. My sheer nylons are no protection from the gravel, so I move over to the grass, watching carefully for thistles.

  I have to cross a bit of crushed stone and I tiptoe gingerly, as though walking on lava. When I finally reach the stable, the cement floor feels cold and smooth.

  These stockings cost a fortune--they're a shimmery black that I bought because the sample puff on the rack felt like water in my fingers. I splurged for two pairs, convinced I would put a run in the first pair just getting them on. I should remove them before they're ruined, but I don't have much use for black stockings. My colors are blues: periwinkle and indigo, robin's egg and cobalt. I've only had one other black outfit in my entire life.

  I had just started at InteroFlo. I was going to my first departmental meeting, and wanted to come across as serious, no-nonsense, the consummate professional. I wore a fitted skirt and soft ribbed turtleneck, both black as night. I felt sleek and streamlined, like a cat burglar, or an artist in a loft. Later on, I went to the washroom and found a green lollipop stuck to my shoulder, planted there by Eva as she clung desperately to me in the morning. And why was Eva sucking a lollipop at eight in the morning? Because she wanted to wear her winter boots in July, and I needed to get to work. Besides, she'd had a healthy breakfast.

  I stop at Hurrah's stall, and then walk past. I also stop at Harry's stall, which hardly even feels like Harry's stall anymore. It feels like Bergeron's, although soon he will be leaving, too. If Hurrah were here, I'd move him into it the second it was empty. It's the prime stall, the best real estate in the place.

  I'm sitting in the lounge when Dan appears in the doorway.

  "Hey," he says. "You okay?"

  "I don't know," I say. I'm slouched on the faded green couch, staring blankly through the window. My bare feet are on the table in front of me, crossed at the ankles. My Italian leather shoes sit in a heap in the corner, on top of my crumpled stockings.

  Dan steps forward, surveying all.

  "Do me a favor, will you?" I say quickly. "Lock the door."

  He stops. "Do you mean with me in or out?"

  "In," I say.

  He looks relieved. He shuts the door and depresses the button in the middle of the knob with a click. Then he joins me on the couch, sitting so close our hips are touching. A moment later, he reaches over and takes my hand, pulling it into his lap.

  He doesn't say a word. He just sits holding my hand, and I am grateful for the silence. After a few minutes, I drop my head onto his shoulder.

  "I saw you talking to Eva," I say.

  "Yes, and I think you'll find what she had to say very interesting."

  "What's that?" I straighten up and turn to face him.

  "She asked me what courses she would need to take to get into vet school. She also asked me if she could continue helping out at the center over the winter."

  I stare at him, letting this sink in.

  "Oh Dan..." I say, suddenly overcome. My eyes grow moist. "Oh Dan," I say again before dissolving into tears.

  He pulls me forward, holds me tight. I want to melt into him, and stay like this forever. I can feel strength flowing from his body to mine.

  It's not long before I find myself running a hand tentatively along his arm and shoulder--gingerly, in an exploratory fashion. After a moment, I look up at him. His blue eyes are so intense it takes my breath away.

  I kiss him, and he responds instantly. His lips are warm and full, his face smooth. He puts his hands on either side of my face, kissing me so tenderly I'm afraid I might melt.

  I lean back and unzip my dress. He stares at me.

  "Annemarie," he says.

  "Shh," I say, wiggling out of the top half of my dress.

  He glances down at my breasts, pale mounds in a black lace bra, and then back at my face. He looks quickly at the window. "Can anyone see in?"

  "Not unless they're on a horse," I say.

  There's probably a tenth circle of hell reserved for people like me, people who make love just hours after burying their father. But nothing has ever felt so right--his naked body stretched out along mine feels like a homecoming, a final piece in the puzzle.

  Afterward, we lie in a lazy tangle of limbs on the couch. He is stretched against the back of it, and I am stretched against him, my leg thrown wantonly over his. He strokes my skin with the very ends of his fingers, from shoulder to hip and then back again. He traces the scar on my abdomen, the outline of my breast, my raised nipple. Then he leans forward and plants a breathy kiss in my ear.

  "You're incredibly--"

  There's a noise. We both freeze, and then scramble onto our elbows, trying to see out the window.

  Eva has led Bergeron into the arena and is preparing to mount. She has one foot in the stirrup, and is gathering the reins in her left hand. Then she grabs the pommel, and next thing I know, she's sitting in the saddle.

  Dan wraps his arms around me and rolls us onto the floor. I land on top of him. My heart pounds wildly.

  "Oh my God," I say, clapping a hand to my mouth. My fingers are trembling wildly.

  "Shh," whispers Dan. His mouth is right by my ear.

  I look over at our clothes. It's hopeless. There's no way to get to them.

  "Jesus Christ, Dan--what are we going to do?"

  Dan continues to hold me. Then he lifts his hips
and scootches both of us over until we're against the wall, directly under the window.

  "We can't do anything," he says, once we're there.

  "Can she see us? What if--"

  Dan rolls me over so that I'm wedged between him and the wall. Then he lays a finger on my lips. "She can't see us. But we're stuck here until she leaves."

  I glance up at the window, still desperate.

  "Don't worry. She can't see us. I promise you. It's impossible." He leans up against me, pressing me against the wall. His breath is moist and warm. "Look on the bright side," he says. "There are worse places to be trapped."

  His body feels so good against mine, so warm and solid, that despite the peculiar circumstances I relax into him. Incredibly, I feel a stirring against my naked hip.

  "Dan!" I say, shocked.

  He moves my hair aside with his fingertips and touches his tongue to my ear.

  "Mmmm," I say, shivering.

  "I love you, Annemarie Zimmer."

  "Oh Dan," I say.

  "You don't have to say anything back," he says, still whispering. "I just wanted to tell you that."

  I am choked with emotion, my eyes full of tears.

  "Oh Dan," I say as he rearranges me into a position more receptive of his intentions. "I love you too. Oh, I do, I do, I do."

  Later that night, Mutti and I sit facing each other in the winged armchairs. She kneels down to light the gas fire, despite the fact that it's August, and then turns out all the lights.

  The guests have long since gone--even those who stayed behind to help clean up and pack the food. Eva has gone to bed, pleading exhaustion. Before she did, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek.

  Mutti and I sip Jagermeister from cut-lead crystal, neither of us speaking. After today's events, we are grateful for the silence.

  I'm sitting sideways in my chair, with a leg thrown over the arm. I'm playing with my glass, holding it in front of me and trying to catch the flames in its facets.

  Mutti tips hers upside down, draining the last drops into her mouth.

  "Do you want another?" she says, rising.

  "No thanks, Mutti," I say, continuing to rotate my glass in front of me. "You go ahead, though."

  She walks over to the collection of crystal decanters that she set out for the reception and pours herself a tiny second. Then she returns to her seat.

  "Mutti?"

  "Yes?"

  "I was serious about using the house money to bail out the farm."

  "You don't need to do that."

  "Well, yes, I do, actually."

  Mutti stares at me for a very long time. "It's because you are feeling guilty."

  "No, it's not."

  "Yes it is. You don't owe him this. He loved you, and he knew that you loved him. That is all."

  "He did?" I ask. Tears fill my eyes, spilling over before I have a chance to check them.

  "Of course, Liebchen."

  "Did he ever forgive me?"

  "For what?" she says. "What nonsense is this?"

  "For never riding again?"

  Mutti stares at me in horror.

  "No, I'm serious. I know I broke his heart. I know--"

  Mutti shakes her head and lifts a hand, signaling me to stop. "Pappa loved you. He was disappointed, yes, but he never blamed you."

  "But all those years we barely spoke..."

  "You could not bear to be with us."

  "That's because I was ashamed of what I'd become."

  Mutti is silent for a moment, weighing this. "We were hard on you. Harder than we should have been, I think. It was because you had such opportunities..." She shakes her head. "We thought that if we encouraged you, then you would find another horse. That you could still make it. I don't know. Perhaps we were wrong."

  I can't believe I'm hearing this, am afraid to speak in case I break the spell.

  "Your father," she continues. "He wanted so much for you to have a career in riding. I know he pushed, but it seemed for the best. After all, you advanced so quickly..." Mutti pauses, tapping a finger repeatedly on her lips. "If we were wrong, then may God forgive us, but we thought we were doing the right thing. You were so good. It seemed a waste of God-given talent. And we thought you would be happy."

  "I could have been, I think."

  "You found your own way in the end," she says.

  "No, I never did. I mean, I've done things, one after another, my whole life. But I've never exactly found my way. I've never found anything that made me feel the way I did when I was riding Harry. That's why I think I went a little bit nuts when Hurrah turned up. It seemed like a second chance. I don't know. It does sound crazy, doesn't it?"

  I stop for a moment, afraid that if I don't, I'll cry. Mutti sips her drink and waits.

  "I still want to use the money for the farm." Another pause, as I grope for words. I'm not sure how to make her understand. "It's not because of Pappa. It's because of us. All of us. You, me, and Eva. Listen," I shift to the edge of my seat, gathering steam. "I don't want to leave here. What am I supposed to do? Go back to Minneapolis? I'd rather move to Iqualuit. And anyway, there's a horse I want to get for Eva. She's talking about going back to school and working at the center. The last thing she needs is more upheaval. Me either. Or you. No, the only sensible thing is to stay here. You can manage the stable, I'll teach."

  "You can't teach," she says dismissively.

  "Why not?" I can't keep the hurt out of my voice. "I was riding at the FEI four-star level at--"

  "I know all that," says Mutti, cutting me off with an irritated wave. "I was there, remember? But how can you teach if you don't ride?"

  "So I'll ride."

  She turns quickly, staring at me as though I've completely lost my mind.

  "What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

  Mutti's forehead twitches, but she doesn't say a thing.

  "What's so crazy about that? I'm not offering to compete again."

  "All these years, you've gotten angry at the mere suggestion--"

  "Yeah, but it's different now. Things are different." I pause, wondering how to explain to her that my entire world has shifted, that staying here now means everything to me. That I see my future here, and Eva's, and I'm willing to fight for it. That I can't stand the thought of losing Dan. That I really do want to start riding again, have been itching for it, dreaming about it at night.

  In the end, I decide I can't explain it. The only thing I can do is show her.

  Chapter 21

  "Keep your heels down, Malcolm."

  The microphone isn't working, and I've shouted my way through the last three lessons. By the end of the day, I'll have no voice at all. "More. Still more. Try bringing your toes up instead."

  Razzmatazz is incredibly patient. This kid's hands and legs are flapping about impossibly, and Tazz still gives it to him on a platter. No wonder Pappa loved him so much.

  "That's it. Much better. Now think about your arms. Bring your elbows back. I want a straight line from your elbow to the bit...Good...Good...Okay, now cross at the diagonal. Give me a half-halt at the corner, and then start the canter. And watch your lead."

  Halfway across the arena, Malcolm's arms start bouncing again, and his legs shoot forward, toes down.

  "Come on, Malcolm. You're riding a horse, not a Harley."

  The kid shoots me an appreciative grin.

  "Face forward!" I bark.

  Teaching is much more fun than I ever anticipated. I feel like an actor, slipping into persona. I am demanding yet patient, strict yet forgiving, inspiring and entertaining--or so I like to think. I push my students to give me their best, and tell them when I think I'm not getting it. I also make damn sure to tell them when I am.

  My approach seems to be working, because we have a full retinue of students again. Under Mutti's management, our stalls are full, and I'm teaching eight, sometimes nine lessons a day.

  Malcolm faces forward and adjusts his arms and legs, temporarily, into th
e correct form. He reaches the corner, and tightens the reins. After a tiny pause, Tazz starts off at an easy canter on the correct lead.

  Which would all be very well if Malcolm had gotten around to asking for it. All he did was shorten his reins, and Tazz predicted what was coming next. Next time I'll put him on Malachite. No one ever accused Malachite of being accommodating.

  "Door!" someone shouts.

  I swing around, checking to see where Tazz is. He's in the far corner, cantering with glazed eyes. Malcolm is bouncing out of the saddle with every stride.

  "Come on in," I yell.

  Eva enters, leading Flicka on a looped purple lunge line. Everything she has for Flicka is purple: halter, fly sheet, lead rope--even a show sheet, which I suppose is her way of telling me that she plans to start showing Flicka in halter classes. I imagine they'll do other shows too, later, and I have mixed feelings about that. I want to be careful not to push her, but I also don't want to hold her back. It's a tricky business, parenting.

  "Hey, babe," I call. "You done your homework?"

  "Yes, Mom. Of course, Mom," she intones in a God-you're-tiresome voice. She leads Flicka toward me.

  Flicka is a fine little horse, a grand little horse, and as pretty as they come. A typical Arab, spirited and playful, but without a mean bone in her body. There's no question that when the time comes she'll be fun under the saddle.

  Dan brought her over on Eva's first day of school, which was nearly two months ago. When Eva came home and saw Flicka in the paddock, she burst into tears and hugged me so violently I fell backward onto the gravel. I smelled smoke in her hair, but there was no way in hell I was going to ruin that moment. They've made enormous progress together, and I'm so proud of Eva my heart could burst.

  "Can I lunge her in this end?" Eva asks as she trudges past.

  "Yes, just keep your circle small enough that you don't get in Tazz's way."

  "You got it," she says. She keeps walking, dragging the long whip on the ground behind her. Then she stops and turns back to me. "Hey, Ma, did you see the magazine that came today?"

  How could I not? Mutti left it on the kitchen table. She didn't need to leave it open at the article. Ian McCullough and Hurrah were splashed all over the cover, stretched out in descent from an enormous water jump. The picture was taken in Atlanta, during the 1996 Summer Olympics.