Riding Lessons

  "Where?"

  "Into town. To Across the Border."

  "With whom?"

  "Luis."

  "Absolutely not."

  Her friendly facade crashes to the floor. "Why?" she demands.

  "How old is he?"

  "Seventeen."

  "That's why."

  "Mom! I'll be sixteen in October."

  "And that's when you'll be allowed to go out on dates."

  "It's not a date. All the guys from the stable are going to be there. It's a birthday party for Carlos!"

  "All the more reason I don't want you going," I say decisively.

  "Why?"

  "Because they're older, and they'll probably be drinking."

  "No they won't! And anyway, I won't be," she says.

  "That's right. Because you won't be going."

  Eva explodes. "You are such a hypocrite, do you know that? It's fine for you, isn't it? You can go out with whoever you want whenever you want, and who cares what anybody else thinks? Holy shit, Mother, all I wanted to do was go have dinner with a bunch of people you force me to work with."

  "Forget it. You're still grounded for smoking, and, by the way, I'm extending it by a week for that 'shit' you just threw in. And yes, I am an adult, so I do get to go out with whomever I want."

  "What about Dad?"

  "What about him?"

  "How do you think he'd feel about you going over to your boyfriend's for dinner?"

  "Who cares? Was he thinking about me when he moved in with Sonja?"

  I know instantly that I shouldn't have said that.

  Eva stares at me with something like hatred. Then she slams the fridge and leaves.

  I stare after her for a moment, wondering if I should go after her. In the end I decide to wait until she's had a chance to calm down.

  I spend a few minutes going over the recipes and staring at the pictures. My vision of tonight does not involve referring to cookbooks. I want Dan to think that the magic I concoct comes from my own creative genius, some inspired savant part of my brain.

  The instructions for the gateau involve five different recipes--crepes, three different fillings, and a cheese custard--so I copy little cheat sheets to stick in my purse. Just a list of ingredients, in the order in which they're used, and the state in which they are supposed to make their appearance. You know, diced, minced, pureed, whatever. Just a little something to jog my memory should I find it needs jogging.

  When I emerge from my toilette, Mutti is rinsing spinach in the sink.

  "I see you were successful in your quest," she says.

  "Yes."

  "What are you going to make?"

  "Gateau des crepes, and crepes suzette."

  Mutti freezes, and then turns to look at me.

  "Schatzlein, have you ever made either of those before?"

  "No," I say, crestfallen at her obvious lack of confidence.

  "Don't you think it would be a better idea to try something a little simpler first?"

  "No," I say, crossing the kitchen and pulling the cookbook from the shelf to go over it one last time. "I've got the recipes, and there are lots of pictures. I'll be fine," I say.

  "Well, you look very nice, anyway," she says, returning to her spinach.

  Yes I do. For thirty-eight, I look pretty damn good. It's true that there are lines on my face, but they fall naturally into my smile, and with a bit of lipstick and mascara, I'm feeling almost glamorous.

  I spent longer getting ready tonight than I ever have before. I dried my hair with Eva's paddle brush, dragging it through my thick blonde curls until they fell smooth and straight. Blonde is a good color when you're just starting to go gray, and after I pulled it into a knot at the top of my head, I stood admiring the effect in the mirror. My cheeks, which are in fact sunburned, instead look sun-kissed after the slightest dusting of bronzed powder. I even took the extra ten minutes to file the rough spots from my feet. Just in case.

  "I think your date is here," says Mutti, looking out the window above the sink.

  Dan and the farrier are parked by the pasture. I grab my purse and groceries and walk down the drive to meet them.

  When Dan sees me, he comes over and takes the bags. "You look beautiful," he says, kissing me on the cheek. "You didn't need to dress up."

  "I didn't," I say, but my cheeks are burning, because it's obvious I did.

  "Have you met Francis?" Dan says, returning from the car. He gestures toward the farrier, who is setting up his kit on the flatbed of his truck.

  "No."

  "He does a lot of work for us at the center. He donates his time there for free, but it would go over really well if you'd pay him for this visit."

  "Of course," I say. "It never occurred to me that I wouldn't."

  Dan is quiet for a minute, staring out into the pasture at Hurrah, who is halfway across, and staring back at us, sniffing into the wind.

  "He looks really good, Annemarie," says Dan. He puts his hands on his hips and turns back to me. "So what do you think? Are we going to need to tranquilize him?"

  "I don't think so," I say. "He let me handle him today."

  "Do you want to take him into the barn?"

  "I don't know about that," I say quickly.

  "Will he let you hold his head?"

  "I think so."

  "Then let's try it out here."

  I open the gate and walk across the field. The grass is dry and scratchy, and pokes my sandal-clad feet.

  Hurrah's ears are forward as I approach him, and he blows softly in greeting. I take hold of his halter and then run the fingers of my right hand lightly under his mane. When I turn to lead him to the gate, he starts walking before I pull at all.

  I hold Hurrah's halter as Francis straddles his left foreleg. Then he lifts the hoof up and back so it's resting on his knee.

  "He's got nice feet," Francis says.

  And indeed he has: Hurrah's feet are as surprising as the rest of him--pink with black stripes of varying widths. They look like bar codes.

  "This is incredible," says Dan, as Hurrah stands patiently. "I can hardly believe this is the same horse."

  "It took about a thousand apples," I beam.

  Francis works quickly, pulling out the nails and tossing the shoes aside. Then he trims the edges of the gorgeous striped hooves with what looks like a large pair of garden sheers. Finally, he files them until they're smooth.

  "Hey Dan, come here for a minute," Francis says, setting down Hurrah's right foreleg.

  Dan looks at me, and then moves around to the other side of Hurrah. He crouches down.

  I move around to the other side of Hurrah's head so I can hear what they're saying.

  "Yup, I think you're right," says Dan, running his hand carefully down Hurrah's leg from knee to fetlock, and then up again, before cupping his knee in his hands.

  "Right about what?" I say.

  "It looks like he's got some degenerative joint damage. Very mild," he says, noting the look on my face. "Don't worry. It won't cause problems."

  "Would it cause problems for an eventer?" I ask.

  Dan and I look at each other, because we're both thinking the same thing. Or is he just looking at me like that because he knows what I'm thinking?

  Francis, however, is oblivious. "Well, that's it for me," he says. He straightens up and wipes his hands on his leather apron. "I'm really impressed. This horse was a basket case last time I saw him. Skinny as all get-go, too."

  A lump of pride rises in my throat.

  "It was nice to meet you," Francis says, nodding curtly.

  "Likewise. Oh, do you want me to write a check now?" I say, rummaging in my gold purse.

  "Nah, I'll send a bill. Maybe I can do some other work for you sometime."

  "I'd like that," I say.

  As Dan walks Francis to his truck, I look closely at Hurrah's right leg, touching it lightly with my fingers. I can't see anything wrong with it. He looks entirely perfect to me.

 
I hold the noseband of his halter in both hands and bring his face up to mine so I can kiss it. He obliges, flapping his whiskered lips against my chin.

  Then I turn him loose. He walks a few yards away and begins to graze, swishing his tail against imaginary flies. God, he's beautiful. He looks so much like his brother.

  Dan comes back and puts an arm around my shoulders, and we stand in silence, watching Hurrah.

  "He is really beautiful," he says finally, but I hadn't realized he was going to speak, so I talk over him.

  "Dan, you're a vet."

  His arm stiffens around my shoulders, and I feel the prickle of embarrassment creeping up my scalp.

  "I mean, I know you're a vet. But what I meant was, you've done vet checks for insurance policies, right?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "So if Hurrah started to show signs of degenerative joint damage, he wouldn't pass the exam, right?"

  "Did you just call him Hurrah?"

  I look down, realizing my gaffe. I don't want to admit it, but neither do I want to deny it.

  Dan's arm drops from my shoulders and he comes around so that he's facing me. "Don't tell me you're still on about that."

  I feel like a petulant child, staring at the ground and chewing my lip.

  "Oh, honey," says Dan, and the sound of the worry in his voice makes me want to scream. "You know he's not Harry's brother."

  "No, I don't know that."

  "Annemarie, Harry's dead. Harry's brother is dead."

  "It's not about Harry this time. It's really not. It's about Hurrah."

  "Annemarie--"

  "Look, I know you think I'm nuts, and I'm actually prepared to accept that. But don't write me off just yet. I've been doing some research."

  The pity in his eyes is clear, so I pick up the pace, thinking that if I can only keep a few steps ahead of him, I might be able to avoid his coming to the obvious conclusion.

  "No, listen, really," I stop, breathe deeply, and then start again, the very picture of self-control. "There are three different kinds of chip technology, three different kinds of scanner."

  "There are two, and I have scanners for both back at my place."

  "Which ones?"

  "What?"

  "Which ones? Which types?"

  "FDX-B and HDX."

  "Aha! But not FDX-A."

  "Annemarie, you have to be kidding," Dan's voice is low now, and he's frowning.

  "I am most certainly not. The Trovans, Destrons, and AVIDS are all non-ISO, and wouldn't be picked up by your scanner."

  "That's because nobody uses them anymore."

  "Hurrah's an older horse. Why shouldn't he be microchipped with the older technology?"

  Dan stares at me, unblinking, and I stare back.

  Then he puts his hands on his waist and turns away from me. After a moment, he walks to the fence.

  Hurrah is now upside down, squirming ecstatically in the hard dirt. After a minute, he gets to his feet and shakes off a cloud of dust.

  Dan puts his hands in his back pockets, and stands absolutely still for several minutes. Then he returns to where I'm standing.

  "Annemarie," he says, lifting his eyes to mine. "I want you to make a deal with me."

  "What?"

  "I'm going to try to locate an old scanner, but if I do, and I don't pick anything up, I want you to let this go. It's not healthy."

  I nod solemnly, my heart pounding.

  "I want you to look at me," he says, putting his hands on either side of my face. He lifts my face to his and looks deep into my eyes. "I'm not going to do this unless we have a deal. If I don't find a chip, you let it go. Whoever he used to be, he's your horse now. So if this really isn't about Harry, it shouldn't matter. Deal?"

  I continue nodding, but even as I'm agreeing, my mind is racing to find a back door, just in case there is no chip.

  My plans for the perfect dinner start to go wrong almost immediately. For one thing, the atmosphere in the car is somewhat strained, and for another, the quaint old farmhouse of my vision turns out to be a trailer. A grotty white trailer with its trim peeling off, resting on concrete blocks behind a row of scraggly trees. I am appalled. This does not bode well for the kitchen.

  As Dan fiddles with the key, I take a moment to look around. The space between the trailer and the hard, cracked ground is filled with junk and cobwebs, and there's a broken broom handle sticking through one of the cinder blocks.

  "Ah, there we go," he says, pushing the door inward. He steps inside and then turns around, holding the screen door open for me. I swallow, and mount the stairs. The wood is rotten, and I'm more than a little worried I might put a foot through it.

  The inside is better than the outside, but it's still a trailer. I mean, I suppose you could consider it homey, in a way. A bachelor sort of way. At least it's clean.

  The front door opens immediately into the living room. Or actually the dining room, if you can call it that. At any rate, there's a large open area that has a table in it, and off to the right, a couch, chair, and cheesy fake fireplace. To the left, also part of the same open area, is the kitchen.

  I stare in horror. So much for the maple cupboards and central island.

  "I'll go get your bags," Dan says, pushing past me. The screen slams behind him, devoid of any mitigating spring action. When he returns, I am still standing there.

  "You okay?"

  "Fine, fine," I say, trying to recover.

  I follow him to the counter. There's a loud rustling of plastic as he sets the bags on the counter and starts to unload them.

  "Wow," he says, holding the bag of endives in one hand and a Valencia blood orange in the other. He sets them down and picks up the bottle of Grand Marnier. "I can tell I'm in for a treat," he says, holding the brown bottle up to the light.

  By now, I've taken an armful of things over to the fridge and opened the door. It's completely empty except for a bottle of wine, three cans of beer, and a jar of mustard. And a box of baking soda.

  "Would you like a drink?"

  I look back. He's blinking at me innocently. He seems completely oblivious to my horror, which is good. I don't want to insult him. But at the same time, if he lives here, what does he do with all his money? He's a successful vet. I know vets aren't rich, but surely they make enough money to live in...well, houses. And then it comes to me, and I'm so filled with shame I'm afraid I might cry. Dan lives like this because he has no family. He pours all his money into his horses.

  Dan is still staring at me, only now he looks baffled. I realize I haven't answered him.

  "I'd love a drink. Thank you."

  I close the fridge and walk back to the counter. Instead of unpacking, I finger the edge of the laminate, which is ragged and cracked. I sigh and look back across the living room and dining room, wondering if I'm going to be able to manage the necessary mental adjustment.

  Just then, I hear a pleasant pop. Dan has uncorked the wine (Thank God! A cork!), and as I hear the glug-glug-glug of the glasses filling, I think I may have managed the shift. Everything is going to be okay. If this is what I have to work with, this is what I have to work with.

  I line the ingredients up on the counter, and feel the stirrings of pride and excitement return. The glossy, firm endives; the wedge of fragrant, crumbly goat cheese; the wild mushrooms with their earthy, secret scent.

  "I didn't know you could cook," says Dan, sliding up behind me and setting a wineglass on the counter. I note from the clink that it's made of real glass. I pick it up gratefully and swirl the pale liquid gently around its bowl, watching the sheer glaze cascade down the sides. Yes, I do believe I'm starting to recover.

  "There are a lot of things you don't know about me," I purr. "I'm actually a domestic goddess. Good at all sorts of things."

  His eyes widen, locking on mine, and he brings his glass forward slowly until it meets mine with a clink.

  And this is where I should begin my choreographed dance of the creative genius. I should t
urn gracefully, and with a naughty, flirtatious look set my glass on the counter and commence chopping, and stirring, and frying, and sending fragrant bursts of delicious steam wafting through the air. I should wield the instruments of my art with grace and speed, should flit between tasks and get my thirteen pots going at once, all while managing to look cool and delicious, pausing once in a while to sip my wine and shoot a suggestive look in Dan's direction.

  The problem is, I can't remember where to start, so I have to consult my cheat sheets immediately. But I don't want Dan to know I have them, so instead I retreat to the bathroom. But I have to take my purse, because there aren't any pockets in my dress, and that means he'll think I have my period, which, of course, is impossible, but he doesn't know that I've had a hysterectomy--not that I'm planning to end up in bed with him tonight. Not really planning it anyway, but would it really be so terrible if I did?

  By the time I get to the bathroom and close the door, I feel like a blathering idiot. I sit on the toilet lid and rummage through my purse for my cheat sheets, my pride and excitement replaced by outright panic. First, I read the crepe batter recipe, and then close my eyes to see if I can repeat the ingredients from memory. And then I read the ingredients for the fillings. And the salad. And what the hell are duxelles, anyway? Are they something you add to the mushrooms, or are they the mushrooms? And roux? My God, couldn't I have added little hints in the margin, or something? What was I thinking?

  Just before I leave, I remember to flush the toilet, and then wash my hands for good measure. I'm beginning to regret not having brought the cookbook. The thing is, I can remember the ingredients for any one thing, but I'm having trouble keeping the ingredients for all of them straight. I mean, I know that half a cup of whipping cream is involved somewhere, but at this particular moment, I can't for the life of me remember where.

  Consulting the cookbook wouldn't have been so bad. It wouldn't have been quite as slick as doing it all from memory, but it's a nice-looking cookbook, glossy and colorful. I could have left it open at the right page and stolen occasional glances. It wouldn't necessarily have looked like I was being a slave to it rather than following my culinary instincts.

  Back in the kitchen, I take a slug of wine for courage. Then I turn to give Dan my first seductive smile and lean backward into something cold and wet.

  "Oh Jesus," I say, leaping forward. I pull the material of my dress as far around as I can to gauge the damage. The spot is immediately above my bottom, an ellipse that's approximately seven inches long and four inches high. And continuing to spread across my beautiful, blue silk.