by Leigh Riker
Before Emma could open her mouth again, Grace had left the shop. In the parking lot her hybrid car started up, and she pulled out without even a glance in Emma’s direction.
Emma stood in the doorway, watching the car turn onto the street, seeing Grace’s stony profile at the wheel. So much for her success in getting Melanie as a new client—assuming she liked Emma’s final bid. One wouldn’t be nearly enough, and now Emma would have to stay late to put out the newest fires with Sally Stackworth and Mrs. Turner. And hope the other two potential customers actually showed up. She’d have to rethink her talk with Grace—and try to figure out where they’d gone wrong.
Am I doing anything right?
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST dusk when Christian turned into the driveway at Mountain View Farm. The green-and-white sign by the gate proclaimed it was home to Tennessee’s finest, and famed, Walking Horses.
He hadn’t intended to stop, had in fact been on his way to see his mother, as Emma had asked, but in the end he couldn’t avoid the detour. He had another reason for this visit.
His hands shook as he unlatched the gate. He slapped them against his thighs, got back in his car and drove through. Then he relatched the gate behind him, and strained for a glimpse of the General.
Christian parked near the main doors of the barn. He got out, shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and left everything in the truck along with his tie.
On his way into the stable he skirted a wheelbarrow full of steaming horse manure. In the soft, late-afternoon air he caught its pungent scent. To true horse people, even that strong aroma was like perfume and Christian had been used to it since his early teens, when he started riding. Nearby, as he passed the indoor arena, he glimpsed several girls, also boarders, on their horses, but Rafe wasn’t there to give a lesson. He must have left work for the day.
So much for asking him to exercise the General more. Christian himself hadn’t been on the horse in almost a year.
Halfway down the aisle he halted, hearing the occasional stamp of a hoof, a sudden snort from other stalls, the far-off munching of grain. He inhaled the smells that had once made his heart glad. Fine leather and saddle soap. He’d loved each one, separate or mingled, since his first time on a horse. Still, the barn reminded him with crystal clarity of that fateful day.
So many times he’d come here with Owen, bringing carrots and gummy bears. He heard a familiar whicker and his spirit warmed in spite of what had happened and the lingering regret for his harsh words to Emma the other night, his harsh thoughts.
Still, for another second, he hesitated. He stood outside the General’s stall, his pulse beating harder, his hand lingering over the brass nameplate beside the door. It had come just to the level of Owen’s head then. He could still see in his mind’s eye the mounting stool lying in the aisle, the half-open stall door his child had slipped through, intent upon feeding gummy bears up close—too close, it turned out—to Christian’s horse.
Now the General stood at the open window of his stall, gazing out toward the pastures, as if ever hopeful of seeing the mare from the next farm, but at his approach the gelding swung his head around.
Was Christian imagining things? Or had the General glanced down, as if hoping to see Owen there? All at once he could hardly see the beautiful black-and-white horse for the sudden blur in his vision.
Emma hated the General. With good reason, but Christian had owned him for years, ridden him too long. Grace had, too, until she started college and married Rafe. They knew the General didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’d always taken care of Owen...until that last time.
It was this place, not his horse, that Christian found hard to face.
His throat tightened. “Hey, boy.” The General ambled over to the stall door and, making the snuffling sound Christian viewed as his personal greeting, stretched his neck out to accept a pat on the sleek column of warm muscle.
Christian offered him a carrot from the bag he kept in his truck. The horse chewed, steadily sucking its length into his mouth like an efficient vacuum cleaner. His dark brown eyes seemed to glow with pleasure.
“Glutton.”
What was it Emma had said? That horse is just standing around in his stall, eating up money. After what he did to my family.
Christian grabbed a brush from his trunk in the tack room, unlatched the stall door, stepped inside and nudged the General back. The horse had gained a few pounds, which only made Christian feel more guilty for neglecting him.
“Okay, fatso. I want this coat to shine like a mirror.”
As he worked, he heard giggles coming from the indoor ring, and he felt a part of this place again. As if he really could turn back time. Those girls were novices, but they acted as if they were preparing for a big show in Madison Square Garden.
He envisioned the General not that long ago, getting ready to strut his stuff in some local ring, lifting each leg high in the “big lick” that was the Walking Horse’s learned signature gait as well as the slow, rolling natural gait that had covered ground so comfortably for many long-ago plantation owners. Riding him was like sitting in a rocking chair.
Christian leaned against the General’s side and let the brush drop to the sawdust-covered floor. There would be no more gaited shows, no competitions, no red or blue ribbons to hang in the tack room, no shot at a national championship. No more.
It was dark by the time he stroked the General’s velvety nose one last time, then latched the door shut and said good-night. Maybe he should take Emma’s advice to sell. Yet he couldn’t seem to.
Looking over his shoulder once, then again, he hurried down the long aisle to the open barn doors, out into the parking lot. He rolled down his sleeves, slipped into his jacket and got into his truck. He was already late.
As he drove away he could see the girls from the ring leading their horses back to their stalls, laughing and calling to each other. Christian headed for his mother’s house.
He wouldn’t come here again.
CHAPTER FOUR
FRANKIE OWEN MALLORY stood in the parlor of her home on East Brow Road, waiting for Christian. He was an hour late. On the mantel the clock chimed seven times. She was already tired, still exhausted from the fund-raiser last night, and it had been a long day.
He was her son, she told herself. Her only son. She would be glad to see him. But like many Southern women she was no shrinking violet. She could handle him. Emma had already hinted about the anniversary party.
Forty-five years.
“Mom?” She heard Christian calling from the entry hall. At last.
“In here,” she answered, barely raising her voice.
She had no intention of giving in. She’d rather sell her antebellum sterling silver, the family antiques that had been handed down for two hundred years, or the oil portraits in the gallery from so many generations, including one Confederate general.
Frankie refused to take part in her family’s countdown to her anniversary. She wouldn’t see the humor in their teasing. Some of those years—much of the last year—had been impossible to bear.
She smoothed her tailored pants as if putting on armor. If only she and Christian could conduct this conversation without a battle.
“Hey.” He strode into the room and she sniffed the air.
“Do I smell horse?” She eyed his dark suit. “Surely you didn’t go riding dressed like that.”
“I just stopped by the barn. I didn’t have time to change.” He kissed her cheek. “How’s my favorite mother?” He folded Frankie into a hug, but the best defense, as Lanier would say, is a good offense.
“That horse is a killer. You should put him down.”
He flinched. “Have you been talking to Emma?”
“No, but it seems we agree. I can’t imagine you’d e
ven think of going anywhere near that barn again.”
“Well, I did,” he said in the same stubborn tone he’d used since he was a little boy. “And I’m not here to argue about the General. Emma asked me to come by—speak to you about a party for your anniversary.”
Her heart lurched. “No party,” Frankie told him. “A small private dinner would suit me, thank you very much. Here’s the guest list—you, Emma, Grace, Rafael—” she all but wrinkled her nose “—your father and me. No one else.”
“That would be a first. Mom, half this town will want to celebrate your day,” he said with a cheeky grin that curdled her already precarious mood. “All those people, maybe we should rent the convention center for the night.”
Frankie picked invisible lint from the upholstered arm of a chair. The wooden surface of every end table, the gleaming white marble of the fireplace mantel, showed not a trace of dust.
“My anniversary hardly compares with the annual Pink Ball,” she said. “I should know.” Last year Frankie had served as co-chairperson of the event to benefit breast cancer research. Still, she was, in her own way, a survivor.
“Of course it does. We could even get corporate sponsors,” he said, straight-faced. “Big budget. Forget the chicken and go for the filet mignon.”
“You will do no such thing.” She patted her hair. “And don’t try to trick me with a surprise party, either. I’ll walk out. I can’t speak for your father but this guest of honor will disappear into the night.”
Christian’s smile had faded. “If this was your Ladies’ Tea Society, or whatever you call it—”
“A worthwhile service to this community.”
“—you’d jump at the chance.” He ran a hand through his dark hair.
Frankie felt a swift pain across her chest. She never knew how to talk to him. But then, in these past months she hadn’t known how to deal with what life had handed her once more.
She voiced the painful truth. “I see nothing to celebrate.”
His eyes flashed. “How about the fact that you and Dad are still walking around, breathing and talking, sixty-some years longer than my son did? Or is it easier to just forget him? The way you’ve stripped this house of every last reminder?”
She felt a pinch right behind her eyes. Yes, she’d put away all the pictures. Frankie stared, unblinking, at the room’s sparkling-clean windows. And yet...
Not quite gone.
From here she could see that single, untouched spot on the glass where Owen’s small palm print still showed, far more precious than even her antique silver. Every Friday when her “girls” came to clean, Frankie warned them to avoid that one smudge.
For most of the day the smear would be invisible to anyone but her. But at certain moments, with the angle of the light just right against the windowpane, the outline of his little hand came to life again. As if he were still...she looked away from the window.
“How I choose to run my home is none of your concern,” she said.
His tone hardened. “Fine.” He walked out into the hall. “I did what Emma asked me to, but I wash my hands of this.”
“I don’t want a party, Christian!”
“Which is exactly what I thought you’d say.”
She tried to call him back, but the slam of the front door told her he was gone. Immobilized, Frankie stood there alone, wishing she could make Christian understand.
She twisted her hands together. She’d lost a child of her own many years ago, and last year her grandson. In a very different way she’d always feared losing Christian, too.
Frankie marched upstairs. In her bedroom she studied a framed painting on one wall, an autumn scene in greens and golds. A moment later the front door opened, then shut again. Had Christian come back?
“Frankie?” Instead, Lanier’s booming voice came from downstairs.
She turned from the painting and schooled her features into a calm mask.
“There you are.” Lanier stepped into the room, his oxford shoes sinking into the plush carpet. “How was your meeting?” He kissed her forehead. “Why are you standing here in the dark?” He leaned past her to switch on her nightstand lamp.
She tried to soften her tone. “I’m standing in the dark because after my cataract surgery I don’t require floodlights to see.” Lanier was forever turning on lamps and overhead fixtures. She paused. “The meeting was...a meeting. You know how Elise can be,” she said with a half smile.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve agreed to chair next spring’s fashion show.”
“And luncheon,” she admitted.
“Again? One day, my love, you should learn to say no.”
“I did moments ago,” she murmured with another dash of regret for the tense exchange she’d had with Christian. Lanier knew instantly whom she meant. He avoided her gaze.
“That boy.” He tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes. And left them all in a heap on the floor. Frankie bit her lip and looked away. “He tried to strong-arm me into some ridiculous party. I refused. You see? I can say no. Why would y’all insist on making me miserable?”
Lanier wrapped his arms around her. “Darlin’, you might as well give in.”
“The convention center, Christian said. Of all places.” Although she tried to scoff, her eyes filled with tears. “What good would a party accomplish? And don’t assume you can take his side and sweet-talk me. Why would you?”
“Too bad. That party would be a good thing.”
“I don’t agree.”
He stepped back, then walked to his dresser, removed his cuff links and unbuttoned his shirt. Silence invaded the room. Except for the faint rustle of fabric as he tossed his shirt onto the bed, she heard nothing.
“Then, to change the subject,” he said after a long pause, “why does Christian keep hinting that he’s fed up with his job? Even last night in front of my friends? Where would he find a better-paying position, better benefits for his family and most of all a secure future?” he muttered with a curse.
“Don’t swear, Lanier.”
In four and a half decades of marriage he’d evolved from the charming Southern boy she’d wed into this stubborn older man who knew just how to push her buttons.
“If he doesn’t shape up, I’ll cut him out of my will. Leave the business to Chester Berglund. How does that sound?”
“Foolish, as you well know.” She rose to the challenge. “Chester Berglund may have kept a low profile so far—and don’t look at me as if you’ve never seen that. They may even play tennis together now and then, but underneath, I assure you, he’s Christian’s rival. Chester Berglund would love to be VP of sales. You and Christian may not see eye to eye, but he is your own flesh and blood.”
“And yours,” he pointed out, which counted for everything in the South.
Frankie turned her back.
“I’m worried about him, too,” she said. Every April on Christian’s birthday she gave thanks for another year of his life. Trying to save herself from a messy bout of hysteria—like Aunt Pittypat in Gone with the Wind—she said, “What would my Ladies’ Tea Society think if you disowned him?”
Lanier snorted, a habit of which she’d never been able to make him break. “Social climbing doesn’t become you, Frankie Owen Mallory.”
Yet he wouldn’t meet her eyes. His teasing seemed halfhearted.
“Wait a minute,” she said. The timing of his arrival struck her as too perfect. Almost as soon as Christian had stormed out, Lanier had gotten home. “That party was your idea. Wasn’t it?”
He framed her face in both hands. “Frankie, I only want you—us—to be happy again. Somehow. Maybe a party could be the right start.” His eyes stayed somber and his fingers trembled. “I haven’t forgotten how you were...after Sarah died. It’s the same all over
again. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He sighed. His hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sure you do.”
An anniversary party. Indeed, she thought.
* * *
“NO SALE,” CHRISTIAN ANNOUNCED, shutting the door to the garage a bit too hard. He walked down the short hall into the kitchen and went straight for the sweet tea in the fridge. “The party’s off. If my mother isn’t the most stubborn woman—on the way home I thought I’d have a stroke.”
Emma sniffed the air as if she, too, smelled horse. But at least she didn’t bring up the General. And he wasn’t about to do so, either.
“Well, at least you tried. With Frankie, I mean.”
“Ball’s in your court now,” he muttered, dropping into a chair at the table. “And Dad’s.” As if that were a cue, Bob appeared from the other room, tail wagging, and laid her head on his lap. Her chocolate-brown eyes stared up at him in sympathy. “Why not forget the whole thing, Em?”
“I agree with Lanier. This family needs a celebration,” she said, stirring something in a pot.
“My mother doesn’t think so.” I see nothing to celebrate.
“I can try to change her mind, but after last night at Coolidge Park—”
“Emma, I’m sorry. I never meant to say wife instead of life.”
Still, he wasn’t sure of anything these days. Then he’d seen Emma deep in conversation with Max Barrett near the carousel, and something inside him had curled into a tight little ball. She never talked with Christian like that anymore. He didn’t think for a moment she was interested in another man, but she was pulling back...already had. He stroked Bob’s head. “How did your lunch with Mel go?”
Her face brightened. “If she approves my estimate, I’ll be doing her twins’ bedroom.”
“You think that’s the best idea?”
“I think it’s a fine idea,” she insisted. “If Melanie likes my work, she’ll recommend me to her friends the way someone else mentioned me to her.”
