Riding Lessons

  "Me too," I say. Our eyes meet and lock.

  I sense something mammoth rolling up behind me even before Dan's gaze shifts. When I turn around, an enormous silver Lincoln Navigator is blocking out the sun. The tinted window disappears into the door, revealing furor behind Ferragamo.

  "Dr. Berman, I'm so sorry--"

  "Save it. My husband will call you as soon as we've made alternative arrangements. Nobody talks to me like that, not even my teenager, and you should hear the way he talks. You should be ashamed of yourself."

  "Oh, I am. I really am--"

  "I said, save it. I only wonder what your mother would think." She turns her face toward the windshield. The window rolls up, and the Navigator pulls away.

  As I stand there wondering just that, I hear Dan behind me, laughing.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I come face to face with Harriet, who is contemplating a descent. She takes one look at me and scampers into our room, her short brown legs and tiny black toenails skidding out from under her as she takes the corner.

  Eva's door is ajar. I stand just outside and rap gently. "Eva?"

  After a few moments of silence, I push the door open.

  Eva is sitting cross-legged on her bed. Her back is toward me, but she's looking over her shoulder with obvious alarm. Her eyes are bloodshot, her eyelids puffy.

  "What?" she says indignantly, as though she has no idea why I'm here.

  "Oh, Eva," I say.

  She stares at me, her eyelids flickering. Then her chin starts to quiver. A moment later, a large tear rolls off her left cheek. Then it's followed by one on the right. She drops her face into her hands, her fingers splayed. Her nails are short, the blue polish chipped.

  I stare at her for a moment, and then cross the room. I drag the wooden desk chair toward the bed and straddle it, resting my arms across its back.

  "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

  She stops for a moment, searching my face.

  "Do you?" I continue. "Do you realize how easily you could have set fire to the whole place? You could have burned down the barn. What do you think would have happened to the horses then?"

  "There's a fire alarm! We could have--"

  "No you couldn't have. Do you have any idea how quickly hay burns? You wouldn't have had a hope in hell of getting anybody out of there. Most likely you'd have been stuck in the hayloft and burned to death yourself."

  She stops crying, and stares at the baseboard behind me. Her expression is one of horrified surprise. Incredibly, I don't think this ever occurred to her.

  I get up.

  "Mom," she says quickly. She shifts sideways on the bed, looking at me with wild eyes. "Will you please talk to him?"

  "Who? Dan?"

  She nods.

  "And say what, exactly?"

  "That I'm sorry. That I'll never do it again."

  I shake my head. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I can't."

  "But the foals, and Flicka! If you don't, I'll never see her again. Please Mom! He'll listen to you!"

  I sit on the edge of the bed, and then, when she doesn't move away, tentatively put my arms around her. She leans into me, her body wracked by sobs.

  "I know it hurts, honey, but I can't ask Dan to take you back. If I'd found someone smoking in our barn, I'd have done the same thing."

  "But Mom--"

  "Do you realize what could have happened? Do you have any idea what happens when a barn full of horses burns?"

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  "I know it's tough, baby, and I'm really sorry. But you have to use your head. I know it's not exactly the same, but you can help out around here."

  "It's not the same at all. There's no Flicka."

  I put a hand on the back of her head and pull her closer. "I know, honey. I know."

  Bad move on Dr. Jessica Berman. It turns out she has five horses here--in the main barn, in window stalls--and with the full-service and training options, she represents a sizeable chunk of our incoming funds.

  An hour after I return to the office, I vet a call from her husband, who is livid.

  "Is this the stable manager?"

  "This is she."

  "This is Jack Berman," says a deep voice completely bereft of humor. "My wife told me what happened at the stable today, and I'm calling to give you notice that we'll be moving our horses out as soon as we can arrange it."

  "Mr. Berman--"

  "Dr. Berman."

  "Dr. Berman, I'm so sorry about what happened with your wife today, I really am--I have a teenage daughter and we were having a, uh, teenage moment, and I responded to Dr. Berman in a way I shouldn't have. It was totally inappropriate, and I can't tell you how sorry I am. Is there any way I can persuade you to give us another chance?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "There's nothing I can do?"

  "You've done plenty already."

  My headache returns. "In that case, while I sincerely hope you will change your mind, the contract clearly states that you must give us sixty days written notice--"

  "Unless there's a breach of contract."

  "I didn't breach the contract."

  "Verbal abuse is definitely a breach of contract. Listen, lady--whoever you are--we didn't bring our horses to this barn lightly. We chose it because we liked the way it was being run. Now suddenly, with no warning and no explanation, the trainer is replaced, and then the manager, and then we find ourselves unable to use the facilities and being abused by the staff."

  "Mr.--Dr. Berman. My father--the previous trainer--is very ill, and he had to stop working. My mother is taking some time off to care for him. That's the only reason for any of the changes. I'm here now, and I'm absolutely confident that I can run the barn at the same level you're accustomed to. I know I shouldn't have spoken to your wife the way I did. It was inexcusable, and I can't tell you how sorry I am, but I just snapped. I'd really like the opportunity to make it up to her."

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible." His voice is that of someone who will not be swayed. How can someone hear what I just told him and not feel anything?

  I sigh. "In that case, will you at least consider staying until the end of August? If you leave this month, that gives me less than three weeks to fill five stalls."

  "That, I'm afraid, is your problem."

  And with that, I lose almost a third of our boarders in one fell swoop.

  The next morning, a large eight-horse red-and-chrome trailer comes down the drive. I'm still in bed, floating somewhere wonderful and Dan-related, but when I hear the roar of the truck's engine, I leap out of bed and pull the curtains aside. When I see the trailer pull past the house, I know immediately what's going on.

  I throw on yesterday's tee-shirt and shorts, and then thump down the stairs, two at the time. I slide my feet into Mutti's rubber gardening clogs, and set off across the yard at a shuffling jog.

  Hurrah is going crazy, throwing his head and trotting back and forth along the fence of his pasture. Each time he reaches the end, he pivots so quickly he disappears into a huge cloud of dust. I haven't seen him so agitated since we brought him here.

  "Can I help you?" I shout to the men standing beside the cab. Both of them are staring at Hurrah. The larger one turns.

  "Morning," he says. He tips his cap and approaches me, holding out a sheet of paper. "Just moving some horses out."

  I grab the sheet and look it over.

  "Everything okay?" he asks.

  I hand the paper back to him and nod sickly.

  Disgusted, I turn and walk to the fence. Hurrah is now cantering along the back of his pasture, covered in a foamy sweat. His head is raised, his ears plastered back. At the end of the pasture, he comes to an abrupt halt, just inches from the fence. Then he swivels and takes off in the other direction.

  Before long, I hear the scrinchy-scrunch of hooves on gravel, and turn to watch as Sam I Am, Hello Stranger, Mad Max, Ariel, and Muggins--all beautiful, all expensive--are led one by one onto
the trailer. Then the men close it up, tip their caps, and pull away.

  I stand watching in desperate silence, following the trailer with my eyes. It winds its way up the drive, stops at the end, and then turns right, its engine roaring with the effort. A moment later, it disappears behind the thick maples.

  Gone. Just like that. Four thousand five hundred dollars a month in revenue, and that doesn't even take Jean-Claude's lesson fees into account. I might just throw up.

  "What's going on?" says Jean-Claude's voice from behind me. I turn around. He too is rumpled from bed. There's a pillow crease along the left side of his face, and his long hair is free from its customary ponytail.

  I'm almost too embarrassed to tell him. "The Bermans."

  "Jessica?"

  "Yeah, Jessica."

  He stares at me in incomprehension.

  "They're gone. They took their horses out."

  "What?"

  "I got into it with her yesterday, and they took their horses out."

  "Goddamn," he says. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at the place in the road where the trailer disappeared. "Well, then you'd better keep their deposit money."

  Deposit money--of course! I almost cry out with relief.

  Perhaps I did cry out, because he turns to look at me. "Are you okay?"

  "Uh, yeah," I say, although I'm not so sure. The deposit money will help us get through next month, and I'm thankful for that, but I still have a very bad feeling about all of this. We can't get by without the income from those stalls, not even for a month.

  "We'll fill them," he says, reading my mind.

  "It's five stalls," I say in despair.

  "We'll fill them. My students, they have friends. We'll fill them."

  He turns to go back into the stable.

  "Jean-Claude," I say quickly. I don't want him to leave just yet.

  "Yes?"

  "Eva's going to be helping out around here for the rest of the summer."

  "She already has been," he points out quite logically.

  "I mean, full time."

  "She's not working at the center anymore?" His brown eyes stare out at me from under heavy brows.

  "Dan caught her smoking in the hayloft."

  He says nothing, but his expression shifts slightly.

  "She's just at that age," I start to explain.

  "Please," he says, holding up a hand. "I have a teenage daughter myself. I know all about it."

  Through all our conversations--all the dinners, all our meetings at the fence--he's never mentioned a daughter or an ex-wife. I am simultaneously injured and curious. You'd think he'd have at least mentioned the daughter.

  "There is plenty she can help me with," he says. "Plenty. I'll keep her out of trouble, don't you worry. And if I ever find her smoking in our stable," he pauses, and swipes the edge of his hand across his throat. "I'll kill her."

  "Be my guest," I say.

  He smiles and disappears into the stable.

  Alone again, I look into the pasture. Hurrah has stopped pacing. He's standing in the far corner of the field, still looking toward the road. His flanks are heaving, his nostrils flaring.

  And then something amazing happens. He turns to me and nickers.

  I stare at him in disbelief, not sure whether to move.

  And then I go inside and do something stupid.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello. I'd like to speak to Ian McCullough please."

  "Speaking."

  "Ian, I don't know if you'll remember me. My name is Annemarie Zimmer."

  I pause, giving him a chance to respond. When he doesn't, I continue.

  "We rode in the same circuit for a while, a long time ago."

  "Of course I remember. The Claremont," he says.

  Those two words make me feel sick, although you'd think by now I'd be past that. I'm only slightly surprised he remembers the accident. I guess it was noteworthy even in his life. I wonder if he was watching. I also wonder if he's aware that he wouldn't have made the Olympic team if I'd still been riding.

  "Ah, yes," I continue, and then find myself unsure how to segue gracefully into what I want to talk about. It would help if he'd contribute to the small talk, but that's not going to happen. He's completely silent, waiting. "Well, I've, uh, been out of it for a long time. Out of riding, that is. Complete blackout, you might say."

  "Uh-huh," he says, encouraging me to get on with it. I'm suddenly reminded of why I never liked him in the first place. I bet he's wearing a crested jacket right now, with a little pink hankie poofing out of the pocket.

  "I just found out that you had Harry's brother. Harry was my horse, the one I was riding at the Claremont."

  Silence.

  "Anyway, I, uh, I just found out about Hurrah. I mean, that there was another brindled horse at all, and that he got to the level he did. And about the accident."

  There is nothing but faint crackling on the other end of the line. For a second, I think I'm talking to dead air. "Hello? Are you there?"

  "I'm here," he says. There's no mistaking his tone--he's stone, stone cold. But I've come too far not to bludgeon on.

  "I was wondering if you would mind telling me what happened. With the accident, I mean. When you lost Hurrah."

  "Why are you calling me?"

  "Because he was Harry's brother, and I just...It's just that I know what it is to lose a horse like that."

  "I don't have time to talk about this. It was in the trade mags. Look it up." And with that, he hangs up on me.

  Almost immediately after, the phone rings. I leap for it, knocking it off its cradle.

  "Hello?" I say, after scrambling to catch the receiver.

  "Annemarie? Is that you?" says a female voice.

  "Yes," I say, considerably calmer now that I know it's not Ian.

  "This is Carole McGee."

  Uh-oh. My lawyer. Whom I have been sort of ducking.

  She lays into me. I hold the phone slightly away from my ear once I get the gist of her rant. It's hard to believe that the source of all this squawking and yelping is the same demure, comforting brunette who took me into her homey office and told me how the law was set up to protect women like me from faithless men like Roger. She had looked at me with concern and understanding, had pushed a large box of tissue toward me in case I needed it. Which I didn't.

  The squawking ebbs into a smoother flow, so I bring the phone back to my ear.

  "So you need to think about it, Annemarie. Do you want me to continue to represent you or not?"

  "Oh God, yes," I say. The last thing I need is for my lawyer to ditch me this close to the hearing.

  "In that case, you need to start being more responsive. I need to know that if I send you something, you'll read it, and if I leave a message, you'll call me back. Especially with the court date looming."

  "Yes, of course. I'm sorry," I say. "I really do want you to continue to represent me."

  She is silent, and I clench my teeth with suspense. Please oh please oh please..."All right then," she says finally. "But if it happens again, you'll have to find another attorney. I simply cannot represent you if you continue to avoid me."

  I haven't been avoiding her. Not really. After all, I did send her an email when we first arrived.

  Granted, it didn't include the phone number, but that was simply an omission. And I suppose I did stop reading email after that, but it wasn't just hers--I also stopped looking at Roger's, and the scads of messages I was getting from the job placement firms my ex-employers have apparently sicced on me. It's just that I didn't want to deal with all that just yet. There's too much going on here.

  But Carole doesn't know that. All she knows is that she had to call Roger to get my telephone number. I think that's the real reason she's so pissed off, and I don't suppose I blame her.

  Chapter 10

  When I head for the stable in the morning, I find Eva leading Bergeron to one of the outdoor arenas. She's got him on a lunge line and is dragging a
long whip.

  "What are you doing?" I ask.

  She looks at me as though I were brain-damaged, as well she might.

  "Jean-Claude told me to lunge him to get the bucks out," she says grudgingly.

  "Wear a helmet."

  Her voice rises instantly. "Mom! I'm just lunging him. I'll look like an idiot!"

  "He's a stallion. Wear a helmet."

  "Geez, Mom," she grumbles. She turns Bergeron around and leads him back into the barn. She doesn't let the fact that gravel is not conducive to stomping prevent her from trying.

  When I get to my office, I pull out the Bermans' file and discover there was no deposit money.

  My head hurts. Without deposit money, I'm not at all sure we can pay the loan and also cover payroll. We may be okay for this next round of paychecks, but after that, unless I fill the stalls, we're hosed.

  I stare morosely at my empty can of Coke and wonder if there will be any backlash from my phone call to Ian. Am I crazy? Am I losing it? Is this the kind of thing that counts as stalking? What if Mutti finds out?

  If she does, she'll go ballistic. Of course, she'll also go ballistic if she finds out what's transpired at the stable, which means I can't let that happen.

  I launch Internet Explorer, seeking a few minutes of distraction. An hour later, there's a tentative knock at my door.

  "Um, Annemarie?"

  I minimize my browser, but remain facing my monitor. "What's up, P. J.?"

  "When are the shavings and hay arriving?"

  "Not sure exactly," I say, preferring not to admit that I haven't gotten around to ordering them yet.

  "Can you find out and let me know?"

  "Yeah, whatever."

  "When?" he persists.

  "Later."

  "Because we only have about two days left."

  I turn to him, horrified. "What?"

  "I've been asking you to get some for weeks," he says, sounding a little horrified himself.

  "Oh, Jesus," I say. I spin my chair around so it faces the arena. I am mad, furious--at me, I suppose, for lack of a better candidate, and I don't want him to see my face. "Okay. Okay, I'll call right now."

  He disappears, and I lean forward, grabbing a messy stack of papers from my desk. I shuffle through it, searching for the phone numbers that I know I dug out a few days ago. Then I set the whole disheveled heap down again. What I ought to do is read the divorce settlement.