When I'm finished, I call Carole.
"Carole McGee," she says, after the receptionist transfers my call.
"There's something going on. What's going on?" I demand.
There's a pause. "Annemarie?" she asks.
"Yes. This is Annemarie."
"Okay, slow down a minute. Take a deep breath."
"No," I say, shaking my head. I stand up and walk until the phone cord brings me to an abrupt halt. "No, there's something going on."
"What's the matter?"
"I just read the settlement."
"Okay," she says slowly, drawing the word out. "You sound upset."
"I am."
"Which version are you reading?"
"The one you sent yesterday."
"Then I don't understand. He's offering sixty percent. That's a very good settlement."
"Exactly. It's too good. It means there's something going on."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but I smell a rat."
"What kind of a rat, Annemarie? You need to be specific. Do you think there are hidden assets or something?"
"I'm entirely sure there aren't," I say. I'm pacing the length of the cord now, back and forth, back and forth. The phone is propped between my ear and shoulder, and I'm twisting the cord tightly around the fingers of my left hand.
"Then I'm not sure I understand your objection," she says slowly.
"Don't you see? He's a lawyer. He knows exactly what I'm entitled to. Why would he offer me more?"
"Maybe he feels guilty," says Carole, sounding distinctly exasperated. "If you really don't think he's trying to hide something, my advice would be to sign it before he stops feeling that way."
I drop--kerplunk--into my chair.
"Annemarie?"
"Yeah," I say. I lean forward and open my desk drawer, scrabbling through it for Tylenol.
"Is that a yes?"
"I don't know."
"Listen. I know this is stressful. I know that. But the court date is coming, and if we don't file the petition in time for the judge to read it first, we risk--"
"All right, all right, all right. I'll sign it," I say, slamming the drawer shut. There is no Tylenol.
"Okay. Good. Can you fax it back to me today?"
"I suppose," I say.
"Again, is that a yes?"
"Yes. It's a yes."
"All right then. Don't forget. If you have any questions about it, give me a call. Otherwise, I guess I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
"For what?"
"The hearing."
"I'm not going to the hearing," I say, confused. Why would she think I'd want to go to the hearing? Isn't that why I hired her?
"You have to. The party who files has to attend."
I drop my head onto my desk. My hair flops forward, covering my face.
"I know this is difficult, Annemarie, but I'll be there with you. You can meet me at the courthouse or come to my office ahead of time so we can go together." Carole has reverted to gentle mode, having brought me back into line. I'm being handled, like Eva, or a horse.
"I'll come to your office," I mumble through my hair.
"Sure. I think that's a good idea. And Annemarie, don't forget to get the signed settlement back to me just as soon as you can. I need to file it."
"Okay. I'll send it today."
"Hang in there. We're almost there."
"Okay," I say meekly.
There's a click as she hangs up. I hang up too, and then sit staring at the phone.
And now, since I don't want to bounce the paychecks, I guess I'd better find out if the bank will let me make the loan payment a little bit late.
I don't like the manager. Not one bit. I'd like to roast her on a spit.
Okay, I'm no Dr. Seuss, but that woman is completely inhuman. She tells me in no uncertain terms that of course I can make the payment late, but I'll be paying a fee for the privilege. A fee to the tune of several hundred dollars.
I protest, and without anything other than instinct to back me up, rail about how we've never been late for a payment in our entire existence. I must be right, because Attila the Manager doesn't dispute that. But she is entirely immovable: I can pay late, but I will pay more.
But this is just the beginning of my very bad morning. I call the shavings supplier next. He can't make a delivery until next week.
"Next week? No. I'm sorry. That's too late," I say.
"I can't come out any earlier. I'm booked solid until next Saturday," he answers.
"Please," I beg. "I'm going to have horses on bare mats in three days. I'm desperate."
"Sorry. I've only got the one truck."
"What if I get a truck out there and load it myself?"
"I can't let you do that."
"Why?"
"Liability. Look, if you're really desperate, go to a feed store, and get some bagged shavings. I'll come out as early as I can, but I'm booked solid."
I call Kilkenny Feed and Seed. They have bagged shavings, of course they do. For just twelve times the cost of bulk.
There's also a hay shortage. At this point, I'm waiting for locusts to appear.
Our usual supplier, the one Mutti has used for years, is clean out. I wheedle a little, testing to see if he's holding out for more money, but he seems to be telling the truth. But he knows someone else who might have some. When I call that person, he doesn't have hay, but he knows someone else who might. After eleven phone calls, I finally find someone with hay. He wants eight dollars a bale.
"You've got to be kidding!" I blurt.
"Hey, I'm sorry," he says, "there's a shortage."
"We've been paying two dollars a bale. How can you possibly justify charging that much?"
"Like I said, there's a shortage."
"So you're going to make the most of it. Is that it?"
"Do you want the hay or not?"
I pause, and then, because he's holding all the cards and I've got thirty-three--sorry, make that twenty-eight--round-the-clock eating machines downstairs, I place the order. At this price, a single shipment of five hundred bales will just about do us in.
I drop my head on my arms again, and stay there for almost half an hour. When I sit up again, I find the bare skin of my arms has stuck to the desk. They make a ripping sound when I lift them.
As much as I hate the thought, I can't do this anymore. I've got to tell Mutti, before it's too late.
As I approach the house, I see that the van's gone. I can't face going back to the stable, so I stop where I am and plop down in the middle of the drive. I cross my legs and drop my head in my hands.
The sun settles on my shoulders like a blanket of stinging nettles, and the sharp edges of the gravel poke into the backs of my thighs.
I can't believe it's come to this. I was so offended when Mutti suggested that stable management was beyond me. It's not brain surgery, I said. It's not rocket science.
Actually, it's not, and that makes it even worse. If I had been paying attention, I would have done just fine. But I haven't been paying attention. I've spent the whole summer on the Internet, trolling for information that will confirm my horse is Hurrah.
I pull my knees up suddenly and moan, rocking back and forth on the gravel.
Then I hear a nicker. I stop rocking and listen carefully, continuing to look at the shaded gravel between my legs.
I hear it again.
This time, I lift my head. Hurrah is standing at the fence, only nine yards away. He's looking straight at me, his one eye glistening and fringed with long, gorgeous lashes, his ears forward and curious. And then, while I'm still looking, he nickers again, and I see the soft flesh of his chin and nostrils rumble with the vibration.
I jump up and start walking, without even bothering to dig the gravel out of my thighs. I walk with calm purpose--not slowly, not rushing--but with a sense of inevitability. I climb the fence, and next thing I know, I'm standing at the shoulder of this horse, this creature of my dreams.
I raise a trembling hand, poised to touch his neck. I'm afraid to make contact, afraid to break the spell.
He swings his neck around and presses his muzzle up against me, blowing against the cotton of my shirt. And then I touch him, actually feel the warmth of his flesh under my fingers. Before I know it, I'm running my hands over his sun-warmed body, tracing the lightning bolts that zigzag through his blood red coat, memorizing his familiar contours with all the ecstasy of a new lover as he sniffs and blows and bobs his head.
He turns to face me, and I lift my hand up to his damaged face. Gingerly, timidly, I touch his cheek, and despite the lack of an eye, he doesn't flinch when my fingers make contact. I feel the bare skin of black scars, and then swoop back, past the empty socket, until I'm grasping his ear in my fist. I lean up against him so that our legs are almost touching, and run my right hand down between his front legs, over the skin, as velvety and soft as a caterpillar, until my fingers find the cowlick that I already knew was there.
And suddenly, everything, everything, everything is okay.
When Mutti and Pappa return, I'm sitting at the kitchen table. Harriet is on my lap, having politely asked if I would lift her up. She's never been much of a lap dog, being too short to jump up. She's more of a foot dog, coming over and plonking herself down on your toes. But today, Harriet is needy.
You might think that she's picking something up from me, but she's not. I'm fine. In fact, I'm suffused with something almost like ecstasy. I sit stroking Harriet as though in a dream. My hands are on the dog, but my mind is on the horse.
I'm even beginning to wonder whether I should tell Mutti about the stable. Surely I can find a way to pull us back from the brink.
I'll post advertisements for the stalls. I'll take cash advances on the corporate credit cards to pay for the hay and shavings. I'll use the loan payment to cover payroll, and then, when the new boarders come, I'll ask for security deposits, which I'll use to pay off the credit cards and catch up on the loan.
By the time Mutti and Pappa come in--Mutti clutching a small white pharmacy bag, and Pappa looking almost transparent--I've decided not to say anything. After all, I came here to help, not to add to their stress.
I return to the office filled with purpose. I am Annemarie, the (ex) Grand Prix rider. Annemarie, winner of the International Association of Software Editors' Award of Excellence two years in a row. I can turn this around. Of course I can.
The first thing I do is call both local papers and place advertisements for the empty stalls. Then, for a small fee, I place online ads at four local dressage-related Web sites, and although I feel a little bit like a fraud for doing it, I mention my own name in the knowledge that it will provide an extra draw for anyone who remembers me. Finally, I call Kilkenny Saddlery to see if they have an advertising board, which they do. I fire up CorelDRAW, and in the space of ten minutes crank out a flyer that offers ten free lessons to people who move their horses to our barn by the beginning of next month. As it prints, I'm waiting with a pair of scissors. Before the roller has even released the sheet of paper, I snatch it out and snip nineteen times, creating a fringe of tear-off phone numbers along the bottom.
Just as I grab my purse to leave, Dan calls. It's as though the day has changed directions, hinged in the middle like a book.
"Hi, it's me," he says, and I feel drunk with the intimacy of his assumed recognition.
"Hey, you."
"Are you free this evening?"
"Uh-huh," I say in what I sincerely hope is a sultry voice.
"Great. I was thinking it was time to have a look at your boy's feet, maybe get those corrective shoes off him. Is it okay if I bring the farrier by at, say, five?"
My heart sinks. "Yes, of course."
"Right. Well, in that case--" he starts, in the kind of rote voice people use right before they wrap up.
I take evasive action. "Dan?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if I could cook you dinner."
"I would love that," he says. "When?"
"I don't know. Tonight." I feel brash, brazen. I'm a Cosmo girl, taking control.
"Sure."
"Well, the thing is, can it be at your place? There's always a crowd here."
"Of course. What would you like me to get?"
"Nothing. I'll bring everything."
"Well, okay then. Do you want to just come back with me after we're finished with the farrier?"
"You'd have to drive me home afterward, too."
"I don't mind."
"Okay then," I say in my own wrap-up voice. Except there's nothing rote about it. I'm purring. "I'm looking forward to it."
"So am I," he says.
Of course, I'm not much of a cook, but I'm not about to let a small detail like that stop me. I never learned--just wasn't interested.
It's not as though I'm completely hopeless--I can make spaghetti, and grilled cheese, and fry a chicken breast, and after Eva swore off meat, I expanded my repertoire to include a few vegetarian items, but they were strictly plebeian. Not what you might expect from the wife of a notably successful patent lawyer, but there you are. I never saw the point. And why should I anyway, when there are perfectly good catering companies around to handle dinner parties?
But suddenly I want to know how. I want to make something rich and scrumptious. Something complicated and impressive and absolutely gorgeous, and I want it to look easy. I want, in other words, to blow Dan away. After all, the last time he was interested in me, I was a prospective Olympian. Now I have to find some other way of impressing him.
I have a vision: We are in his kitchen. It is large, because he lives in an old farmhouse. The counter-tops are granite, the cabinets maple. The air is suffused with the smell of butter and garlic and seared pan juices. Dan is standing nearby, sipping a glass of wine, and watching in loving admiration as I flit about like a hummingbird. I hover in front of the stove, perfectly coiffed and looking divine in a pale blue sheath dress, giving one pan a shake, poking the contents of another with a wooden spoon, and then changing instruments before pushing something through a wake of butter in a pan on the back burner. Immediately after, I whirl gracefully to scoop a pile of perfectly diced something from a cutting board and plop it, sizzling, into the copper pan on the fourth burner. If possible, I want something in the broiler, too, and the microwave chirping to tell me that it has finished whatever it was doing.
The vision is lovely, but my reverie comes to an abrupt halt when I realize I have less than four hours to prepare. And I don't have a clue what to make, never mind how to make it.
I rush to the house and pull all of Mutti's new cookbooks from the shelf. There are six, but I'm not interested in the paperbacks. I want pictures. I want numbered steps. I want to see how it's going to look at every stage along the way.
I know the minute I see it. Of course, my hand doesn't respond as quickly as my mind, so I have to flip back to find it again. But I do, and there it is, and it is lovely.
A glossy picture, a full-page spread. A gateau des crepes--a tower of homemade French pancakes layered with beautiful and colorful fillings, all held together with a light cheese custard. Complicated, impressive, and absolutely perfect. Add to that a light salad of mixed greens, poached pears, and roasted goat cheese, and a bottle of Chianti, and we're in business. And since I'll be making crepes anyway, I might as well do crepes suzette for dessert.
I picture the blue-bottomed orange flames leaping from the copper pan as I swirl its contents with panache. I am already delirious with pride.
I don't have time to copy out the list of ingredients, so instead, I stick the book under my arm and head out the door.
I'm already rolling away from the house when Mutti runs out, flapping her arms. I stop the van and wait for her.
"Where are you going?" she demands, running up to my now open window.
"To the grocery."
"You can't. I need the van to go to the pharmacy."
"You went this morn
ing!"
She stares at me, furious. "And what is your point, Annemarie? Your father is very sick."
"Mutti, please. I won't be long."
"This is ridiculous. You don't even ask before you take the van. How do you know I don't need it? When are you going to bring your own car here, anyway?"
"I'll bring it back after my court date. Please, Mutti."
Her chin sets, and my heart sinks.
"Why do you need to go out so badly?"
"I'm cooking dinner for Dan tonight. At his house. I said I'd bring everything I needed."
She continues to stare at me, and just when I've lost all remaining hope, she says, "Go." Just like that. And then she turns her back to me and crunches across the gravel to the porch.
I'm not entirely sure what happened here, but who cares? I've got the van.
I make one quick stop at Kilkenny Saddlery to post my flyer, and then head for the grocery. As it turns out, taking the extra time to make a list would have been a good investment, because I could have grouped all the things I needed from each section of the store. Instead, I end up getting things in the order they are listed in the recipes, which means I go to the produce section at least six times. By my third trip to the baking aisle, I've about lost it because time is running short and I can't remember the last time I shaved my legs. I feel like the little kid from that comic strip, whose circuitous route home is marked with a dashed line of loop-de-loops.
When I return to the house, Eva is waiting in the kitchen.
"Hey, let me help you with that," she says as I struggle with the screen door. I grunt and thrust a hand toward her so she can extricate some of the bags, whose thin plastic handles have left purple indentations on my fingers.
"So what's all this for?" she says, putting the bags on the counter and looking into them, one by one. She turns to look at me in surprise. "Are you cooking?"
"Yes, I'm going to Dan's," I say.
Eva freezes--just the slightest hiccup in the flow of her movement, but it's enough for me to see--and then returns to her task. She pulls out a bag of endives, and inspects it carefully.
"Actually, honey, could you just leave everything in the bags? See if there's room for it in the fridge."
"Okay," she says. Now I know she wants something, because otherwise she'd have torn a strip off me for making a date with Dan.
"Hey, Mom," she says casually, and I know it's coming. She pulls the fridge open and peers in. "Is it okay if I go out tonight?"