Amber’s expression turned murderous. “Damn it all.”
I shrugged my shoulders apologetically and went over to look at my mail, my feet dragging the whole way. Bills, probably. I shifted the envelopes so they fanned out like cards. A flash of glossy black with gold writing drew my eye. Marla. I stood there dumbly, riveted, emotions churning through me and mixing to form a feeling I couldn’t name or even understand.
I tore the envelope open. What else was there to do? No IPC stationary this time. Just a folded printout with a lavender Post-It attached. Marla uses Post-Its? I thought somewhat randomly.
I read her handwriting, print and cursive mixed. Too messy to be calligraphy, for sure, but beautiful in its own way.
Thought you should see this. It’s old news, but I know you don’t keep up with current events.
Whoever wrote this is a brainless hack. They should’ve let me do it. And they got my age wrong. I’m 41.
Cabo is nice this time of year.
I looked blankly at the soothing pastel color of the note. That wasn’t at all confusing. Um. Okay then. I shifted my focus to the printout. I unfolded it and lay it down on the countertop.
St. James Terminated, the headline blared at me.
Marla St. James, 30, of Wellington, FL was recently terminated from her position at the International Polo Club Palm Beach after engaging in inappropriate relations with a player whose name has not been released. St. James was terminated due to contract violation.
Harvey Kissinger, who advocated strongly on Marla’s behalf during both the hiring and firing negotiations, says that “Marla will be missed. I’m very sorry to see her leave us here at the International Polo Club Palm Beach . She was quite an asset during her time here. But unfortunately, we do take such things as contract violation very seriously, and we cannot make exceptions, no matter how much we might want to.”
St. James gave no comment.
I stared wearily at the photo of Marla that accompanied the article. She was stunning even in pixilated black and white. I was thoroughly lost. “Amber,” I called pathetically.
She appeared at my side, obviously still miffed about the mail lady. “What?”
I thrust the deadly printout-and-note combo at her. “Decode this. Please.”
“Why the hell would I want to read your stupid mail?” She snapped. Then her eyes skipped over to the image of Marla, and she snatched it away from me in a fraction of a second.
“OhhhhmyGOD.” Amber stood there mouthing like a fish.
“Amber.” I barked impatiently. “Read it. Read it. Please.”
She ignored my pleas quite effectively. “That hair! The legs. The ass. The…the everything!”
“Yes, I know,” I said, cutting into her raving. “But could you please read it for me?”
Amber looked up, dazed. “What? Read what?”
I rolled my eyes. “The article, genius. And the note. I don’t understand what she means.”
Amber was starting to return to reality. And she didn’t look happy to be back. “And you think I’ll understand? I don’t even know her!”
“You’re a girl, though. So you can translate girl code for me. And don’t call me a sexist bastard. Please.”
“I had another word in mind,” Amber said darkly. But she bent her head and started to read.
Soon she looked up. “Well?” I said expectantly.
“She’s 41?” Amber asked incredulously.
I threw up my hands. “Apparently.”
“Damn. I’m assuming you’re the unnamed player she ‘inappropriately related’ with?”
“That would be me,” I said with a note of pride I didn‘t even try to conceal.
“I hate you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. Don’t even say that, you fucking liar.”
“Okay, I’m not sorry. But seriously. That’s all you got?”
Death stare. “What was I supposed to get?”
I exhaled heavily. “I don’t know. I just…I don’t understand why she would send me this. After…how things went down.”
Now I had her interest. Somewhat unwilling interest she appeared to be fighting hard, but interest nonetheless. “How…did things…go down?” She asked with the strain of wanting to know and wanting to not care apparent in her voice.
“You sure you want to know?” I asked teasingly.
Her whole body went rigid. “Yes,” she admitted, the word barely making it through her clenched teeth.
“Okay then. But you have to promise not to hit me.”
“I’m not promising anything, asshole. Just get on with it.”
I snorted inwardly. “Alright. Well, we met the day I got to the IPC. She was always around, covering matches, interviewing players. Stuff like that. I wanted her from the first second I saw her, and I think it was the same for her. But she made me work for it. Which made it infinitely hotter.” I smiled at the memory. “Eventually I quit screwing around, you know, to show her I was worthy, I guess.”
“What an epic sacrifice, “ Amber said cuttingly. “Not fucking the whole universe for a while. I can’t believe you survived.”
“If you can’t be nice, I won’t finish the story,” I threatened.
“Finish the goddamn story.” There was a homicidal note in her voice.
“Okay. So.” I said hurriedly. “We got together. And it was awesome.” I chose not to elaborate for Amber’s sake.
“But then I left with Elle, and I didn’t hear from her for a while. Until she sent me a letter basically saying ‘Call me, I miss you’. So I’m thinking she wants to reconnect, right? And I’m more than willing to, you know, reconnect. Don’t hit me,” I added hastily.
“So I called her, and tried to get her to come to Lexington, which I don’t think was that unreasonable, considering I had a horse on stall rest I couldn’t just leave, and she’s always doing impulsive things like that. And she told me she met someone, which I don’t think was true, and that it could be ‘the real thing’, and I said ‘We could’ve been the real thing’, and she said all this stuff about how I didn’t know a thing about monogamy, and then she hung up and I thought I’d never hear from her again. And now, out of the blue, this.” I gestured at the news article and note Amber still held.
Amber stood there, blinking for a minute. “You said you stopped fucking other chicks to show her you were worthy. You did keep that up, right?”
“Um.” My mouth dried to the consistency of sandpaper. “This is the part where you have to try not to hit me.”
“What did you do?” Amber spat the words aggressively.
“Well, um, while I was, uh, seeing Marla, I would, occasionally see this other girl. Kaitlyn. A waitress at the Mallet Grille.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry to say that I did.” I watched Amber’s fists closely. “At least I’m being honest, though, right? I could lie to you and make myself seem better, but I’m not! That’s good, right? Honesty is good...”
“Wow, what a killer argument for your decency. I cannot believe you, Lawrence. Every single time I think you might have some redeeming qualities, every time I think you might be an alright guy, you prove me wrong.”
I winced at her painfully harsh and accurate analysis. “But. Amber. I know how it sounds. But Kaitlyn wasn’t just a random fling. She absolutely hated my guts, and also had an unstoppable attraction for me. Have you ever had hot hate sex, Amber? If you haven’t, then don’t judge me.”
“Was that supposed to help your case? Drop dead.”
I had the vague realization that I should have shut up a long time ago. But I pressed on. “We weren’t even exclusive, Amber! We never said we were exclusive! It was just a fling!”
“It’s nice that you feel that way. Obviously Marla felt differently. What the hell is wrong with you, Lawrence? What’s it going to take for you to grow up and stop throwing away the potential for something real? When are you going to evolve and start thinkin
g beyond it feels good?” She shook her head, disgusted. “Be a man,” she spat at me. “Instead of a horny teenager. It’s really getting old.”
She whirled around, reached the door, threw it open and was gone. The silence she left behind screamed eloquently. I followed her lost presence out the door and, head down, went to Harry. I could no longer avoid him. I had something else I needed to avoid more.
Erica
I stepped out of my truck, trying to quell the urge to jump right back in. I needed the money, after all. I really needed the money. I should be thanking my lucky stars that the little brat, I mean, Maggie, wanted another lesson after the way I chewed her out last time. It’s not like anyone else is beating down my door for lessons. And my only horse in training is Harry, who is a major drain of my time and energy, and do I get anything in return? No. Absolutely nothing. But I’m crazy in love with his owner, and the only reason he even knows I exist is because I give him free training. So I can’t exactly complain, or pick and choose my clients.
I walked up the Allsteens’ long, landscaped driveway, toward their hulking mansion. It was exactly like I remembered. No, it was worse than I remembered. This place (not to mention the people who inhabited it) would undoubtedly have a starring role in my nightmares. Right along with that course I had to jump today.
I heard a shrill voice calling my name. Glancing up, I saw Maggie’s mother as she descended the front steps of their massive covered porch. “Erica! It's so good to see you again. Maggie will be right down."
Deja vu. I smiled through my pain, trying to be polite. "I'm glad Maggie has decided to continue her lessons. And thank you for having me again.”
Mrs. Allsteen waved her hand dismissively. “Well, you were the only trainer I called who had any time to spare.”
Terrific. Maggie clattered down the front steps just then, wearing the same fuchsia riding clothes and sour expression as the last time I’d been graced with her presence. “Hi, Maggie,” I said.
She ignored me completely, taking off for the arena where Juan, the Allsteen’s groom was dutifully longeing Twinkle. I followed, dragging my feet. My once promising career had hit a new low. I knew the equine world could be a roller coaster, but my professional life didn’t seem to rise and fall. It merely flat lined.
I saw Juan hand Twinkle’s reins to Maggie, and she mounted her pony (from a block, I was pleased to see). I headed into the arena. “Okay,” I said, voice cracking as I was asphyxiated by a cloud of arena dust. “Show me what you’ve been working on with…Twinkle.” I still couldn’t help cringing at the pony’s cutesy moniker.
Maggie walked the pony a few strides, then squeezed him into a trot. She rode around the arena, occasionally circling or making a haphazard change of direction. Then she leaned forward, kicking Twinkle hard with both legs while bouncing all over his back and catching him in the mouth with her unsteady hands. Twinkle raised his head, hollowed his back and trotted faster, legs swinging through the air stiff as boards. “MAGGIE!” I yelled. “What are you doing?”
Maggie pulled her pony up, clearly frustrated. “He won’t gallop. I want you to tell me how to make him gallop.”
Oh, great. Not this again. “You’re not ready to canter yet.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Not canter. Gallop.”
“You’re not ready to go faster than a trot, Maggie. You need to learn how to sit the trot first.”
Maggie stared at me, defiance etched on her little bratty face. “I already know how to sit the trot.”
I stared back at her. Don’t push me, kid. “Fine. Show me.”
She kicked Twinkle into a trot. I could see the pony was getting more than a little tired of his rider, but he complied with her demands, albeit with the foot-dragging forcedness of someone held captive against his will. Her seat bones slammed into Twinkle’s back with considerable force at every stride, and her hands clutched at the reins, catching the pony in the mouth. The pony’s ears flattened and his mouth gaped. “STOP!” I bellowed, inadvertently causing Twinkle to jump sideways. Maggie lost both her stirrups and was nearly thrown, but she managed to grab the pommel on the fly and haul herself back into the saddle.
“Why are you YELLING at me?” She yelled back. “I’m just doing what you told me to do.”
“That was not a sitting trot,” I said, fighting to hold onto a semblance of calmness and professionalism. “You have to follow your pony’s motion to sit the trot. All you were doing was stiffening against his movement. And you were finding your balance in your pony’s mouth. You really need to take some longeline lessons.”
Maggie wrinkled her nose. "What are you talking about? What's a longeline?"
Seriously, kid? Don't you know anything? "A longeline...is.....like a long lead line, or a leash."
"Oh, that." Maggie rolled her eyes. "I don't need a leash. Leashes are for babies who can't ride."
I looked her straight in the eye. "Exactly."
I could see the insult hit home. Maggie glared at me, her face contorting with the irrational fury of someone who didn’t know what they were doing and thought they did. “Why are you being so mean to me? My old trainers never said stuff like that to me! I hate you!”
For a fleeting moment, I was speechless. You insufferable little brat. I can’t believe you actually went there. Then I found my voice again. “That’s fine,” I snarled. “You can hate me all you want, Maggie. But I know what I’m talking about. That’s why I’m the trainer, and you’re the student. If you already knew everything, you wouldn’t need any lessons, would you? If you’re such a great rider, Maggie, then how come you have to ask me how to get your pony to canter?”
Maggie was wide-eyed and silent. The birds stopped chirping. Twinkle stopped swishing his tail at flies. I noticed none of this. I was no longer in control. I couldn’t see through the cloud of scarlet building behind my eyes. In some dark corner of my brain, I knew this was not about Maggie. And I knew I was crossing a line, and I would regret it later. But right now my breath was shallow. Rage and adrenaline coursed through my veins like an illicit drug. I strode over to where Maggie sat on her pony, immobilized by shock and fear. I picked up the longeline Juan had conveniently left by the mounting block. Maggie flinched, probably anticipating a beating. What I had planned for her was far worse.
“You don’t know how to ride.” I said through clenched teeth. “You don’t know anything, Maggie. So shut up and learn.” I snapped the longeline onto Twinkle’s bit ring. “Drop your reins,” I ordered Maggie. “And your stirrups."
She did as I told her, and I knotted Twinkle's reins and crossed the stirrups over his withers. Then I sent the pony out on a circle. Maggie looked scared and white-faced. I asked Twinkle to extend his walk, and Maggie fell forward, making a grab for the reins and gripping wildly with her legs. Obediently, her pony broke into a trot, and she stiffened even more, bouncing up and down and yanking the reins. "Twinkle, walk," I said firmly. "Maggie, drop the reins. I don't ever want to see you use the reins like that again. Ever. Got it?"
"But I was gonna fall off!"
"That's because you don't know how to ride. You have got to get an independent seat, Maggie. You can't keep relying on the stirrups and reins to hold you on your pony. Okay," I said, inhaling deeply, "Let's start over. Let your legs hang down around your pony's belly. Let your weight drop into your heels. Stay loose and relaxed, and just go with his movement. Don't try to move with him or you'll overdo it, and make sure you don't stiffen up. That's how you stay on a horse."
Twinkle circled me as I watched his rider, barking out instructions and verbal abuse. It took a long time for her to relax into his movement, even at a slow walk. I was dizzy, utterly sour, and thoroughly pissed at whoever had given Maggie her initial "training". With a little kid's suppleness, balance and fearlessness, she could have easily gained an independent seat. All it would have taken was a few longe lessons, but now she was hopelessly reliant on the stirrups and reins to keep her upright.
I
lost track of time. I didn’t care if the hour lesson I was supposed to give turn into three hours, or five. If I had to stand there all night waiting for that kid to get tired enough to relax and ride well, I would do it.
When I saw what I was desperately looking for – Maggie’s legs dropped, creating a straight line from her ear down to her heel, and her seat quietly followed Twinkle’s walk – I moved the pony up to a slow trot. Maggie sat the trot well for a few strides, then stiffened up. “Post the trot,” I said firmly. She began posting, grimacing in pain as the minutes stretched on. I made Twinkle extend his trot, forcing Maggie to work even harder. I knew she had never worked this hard in her entire life, and I didn’t care.
“Try sitting,” I suggested when Maggie looked as if she might start crying from the muscle pain and fatigue. She dropped into the saddle, visibly relieved. And she sat her pony’s trot beautifully, without bouncing or leaning or snatching at the reins. She sat because she was so tired it was all she could do. It was an age-old teaching technique. But even though my method had worked, I didn’t feel much like a teacher. I felt like a bully.
“Good job, Maggie,” I said as a sudden wave of exhaustion hit me. “Whoa, Twinkle.” The pony stopped, and Maggie dismounted. Her knees buckled and she crumpled onto the sand. Her blonde hair was matted underneath her shiny pink helmet, and sweat rolled down her face and neck onto her pink T-shirt, which was soaked through. I recoiled. What have I done?
I left Twinkle, and walked over to Maggie, who lay where she had dropped. I sat down in the sand next to her and listened to the rasp of her breathing. Then I said something I never thought I’d say to the little brat. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”
She stared at me, surprise evident on her little face.
I just kept talking. “I had a terrible day today, Maggie. I humiliated myself at a horse show, when I really, really wanted to prove myself and my horse. I made a huge mistake that could have hurt my horse, and seriously injured or killed me. And I took it out on you. That was wrong, and I’m really sorry I did it. One of my rules is that I never take my frustration or anger out on a horse I’m training, and that rule applies to you, too. You’re not so different from some of the horses I’ve trained over the years, Maggie. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t like being told what to do, and you talk back a lot. But it’s not your fault. You aren’t trying to be a brat, it’s just all you know how to be.”
Training Harry Page 19
