“I don’t know,” I say. “I think that Riley might be overreacting a little about Joel. The kid seemed sincere to me when I talked to him. I told Riley that if he is really worried, that he should go and try to make some kind of peace with Joel. You know, the whole ‘keep your enemies closer than your friends’ thing.”
“Speaking of that, Riley asked me to go with him tomorrow night down to that beach party, and I bet Joel will also be there. Not exactly what I want to do, but . . .”
“I’d go if I could. I really would.”
“No,” he replies. “I understand why you can’t go, and I don’t want you to go. It’s not your scene at all.”
I am a little perplexed by this statement. “What do you mean?”
“The kids that will be there can be pretty big partyers.”
“Oh.” I don’t want to say it out loud, but I find myself wondering if Lydia will be there. Then I realize—of course she will be.
“I just don’t think you would have a very good time.”
“Because I am not a big partyer?” I ask. I really am not sure how to take this entire discussion.
“Yes. No. I mean, you don’t drink, and that’s all these kids will be doing.”
“And?” I ask. “Hooking up?”
“Probably,” he replies.
It’s quiet and a little tense between us for a minute or two. I don’t like that he’s going tomorrow night, and I also can’t shake what Sebastian had shown me. I want to bring it up, but really don’t know how. Tristan starts to speak at the same time as I do. Right as I say, “Will Lydia be there?” he says, “Lydia will probably be there.”
“Oh,” I reply. “I thought so.”
“I don’t care about her anymore, Vivienne.”
“I know.” My voice sort of gives me away. I can hear insecurity running through it, and I hate myself for it. And, I despise my father for it, because I am smart enough to recognize that so much of my distrust of other people comes from the fact that my dad left us behind. My trust issues are my problem, not Tristan’s, and I feel bad that I can’t keep my emotions in check. But there is more going on with me than feeling insecure about my relationship with Tristan, because truth be told, I am actually pretty confident in what we share together. I am completely into him, and I think he has the same feelings for me.
What is more troubling right now is what Tristan’s horse just revealed to me. I need to go further with Sebastian and investigate. Is Tristan abused by his dad and has Lydia witnessed it? There are even deeper questions than just these two, but for now I try and shove away my spiraling thoughts. I want nothing more than to enjoy my evening with my boyfriend.
“I really don’t care about her.”
“I know.” I take his hand. “And you are it for me, too.”
“I’d better be. There better not be some secret guy hidden away at Fairmont that I don’t know about.”
I shift a little uneasily in the seat.
“I have to tell you, when you first introduced me to Joel, I was kind of curious as to how you knew him,” he says.
“Were you jealous?” I ask teasingly.
He shrugs. “Maybe a little bit. Maybe I was.”
“There is obviously no reason for that, and there is no reason for you to be jealous over anyone. Like I just told you, you are it, Tristan Goode.”
We turn into the state beach and park. “Good. Now come on.” He walks around the back of the Jeep and unloads a picnic basket. “Leave your shoes in the car.”
I kick off my shoes and he takes my hand. We walk out onto the sand, and Tristan finds a perfect spot before laying down the blanket. He sets the basket down and opens it. He takes out another rose and hands it to me, and I am so charmed in this moment that I am not sure if I am still even on this earth.
“I wanted to do something special for you since we didn’t get to spend Christmas together.”
I get a sinking feeling as I realize that he probably has a Christmas gift for me. I mailed his over break, never thinking that it might be more fun to exchange gifts in person. I had kind of wondered why he hadn’t sent me a present, actually, but had tried not to dwell on it.
As if reading my mind, Tristan says, “Thank you for the picture of Sebastian and me. It made my entire Christmas vacation to get your package.”
“You’re welcome. I took it when you weren’t looking and loved how it came out. You are happy when you’re around him.” I’d actually made a copy of the photo for myself, too. In the image, Tristan is looking back at Sebastian, whose nose is almost touching his shoulder, and Tristan is wearing the sweetest, happiest smile that I have ever seen. It’s as if in that second when the photo was taken Tristan felt nothing but pure love and had no other cares in the world. Thinking about the photo now reminds me again of Sebastian, though, and I realize I have to find out if the images that Sebastian showed me are true. If so, when did Tristan’s dad do that to him? Could it have really happened? I have to think it must have. I haven’t known a horse to lie to me yet.
“I was going to send your gift, too,” he said. “But then I thought that I would rather see your face when I give it to you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he replies. He opens the picnic basket. “But first, we eat.”
“You’re going to make me suffer, aren’t you?”
“Maybe a little bit. Enjoy the moment, Vivienne Taylor. Enjoy the moment.”
I look at him and reply, “Are you for real, Tristan Goode?”
He leans in and kisses my lips softly and sweetly. Together, we fall back onto the blanket, laughing, and then suddenly his kiss becomes harder.
“Is that real enough for you?” he whispers in my ear.
I look up at the sky and nod slightly. “Yeah. I think so.”
We both start laughing, and then we tickle each other—two kids with no cares in the world, at least for that moment. We sit up, out of breath. “Vivvie?”
“Yeah?”
He’s got those intense green eyes focused on me, and I can tell that what he wants to say is important, maybe deep—just from the way he is looking at me. “Let’s eat,” he blurts out.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Let’s eat.”
Are guys always this confusing?
I ooh and ahh as Tristan unpacks the picnic basket he filled with goodies from a local organic market in Malibu. In addition to gourmet turkey and bacon sandwiches, there are strawberries, potato chips, chocolate chip cookies, and sparkling flavored water, which he pours into champagne glasses. We stuff our faces and talk horses and also about this semester’s possibilities. Then, we talk about Liberty Farms.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Will you go if you’re chosen?”
I nod with a strawberry in my mouth. “Definitely. The opportunity would be incredible. I’m not totally sure how I’ll afford all of it. Kayla told me that my scholarship will fund most of it, but I am not sure about the details and whether they’ll need my mom to pay for things, too. I guess we’ll find out if we get there.”
“I bet you’ll get chosen, and I bet it’ll work out,” he says, with a warm smile.
“What about you? Will you go if you make the cut?” I ask. He looks away and I follow his gaze out to the ocean, which is slate colored. Small waves topped with whitecaps roll in toward the beach. It’s almost sunset and a tinted rose color is spreading across the sky.
“I don’t know.”
“Really? Why wouldn’t you? It’s such a great opportunity.”
He sighs and turns to look at me with greenish-blue eyes that look thoughtful. “I know, but my parents usually expect me to come home for the summer. My dad gets really busy with work, and my mom likes having my help.”
I take a sip of my water, not really knowing how to respond. I set the glass down. �
��Is everything, um, is everything okay at home for you?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah. It’s status quo. I just don’t know how they would feel about me being gone all summer. Actually, maybe they’d be happy. Keep me out of their hair. I know I’d love to avoid being there.”
I want to ask more and delve deeper. There is definitely something that Tristan isn’t telling me about his home life. At the same time, I have to be careful not to cross a boundary that he may not want crossed. But, physical violence is something different. If Tristan is being hurt at home, I have to find out. I care so deeply for Tristan that it troubles me to think something bad has happened to him, or could be happening when he goes home from school each break. And, I want to know what Lydia knows about it.
He puts his hands behind his back and stretches. “You know what? I think it’s time that I gave you your Christmas present.” He takes out a small gift-wrapped box and puts it in my hands.
He’s facing me now, cross-legged, and looking as anxious as I feel.
“Open it,” he says.
I carefully take off the wrapping paper. The light-blue box is from Tiffany’s, and I look at him with what I know must be wide eyes. “Oh my God. What did you do?” I ask.
“Open it.” He smiles.
I do. I take out a silver chain bracelet with a heart on it. Engraved on the heart is VT + TG. I am shocked and happy and . . . yeah . . . shocked because this is seriously the sweetest and most romantic gift anyone has ever given me. I mean, it’s not like I have had a slew of boyfriends giving me gifts over the years. Okay, I have not had any boyfriends—my time has always been dedicated to my horses—so this is pretty wonderful. I throw my arms around him. “This is so sweet. I love it.”
“I’m glad.” He takes it from me and unclasps it and then puts it on my wrist. “It fits perfectly.”
“Yes, it does.” For a brief second I think about the charm bracelet my friends back home gave me at the end of last summer before I left for Fairmont—Austen included. I don’t wear it that often because it’s sentimental and special. Ironically, I will probably wear this bracelet all of the time for the same reasons. It also helps that it’s from my boyfriend and doesn’t have a boxer underwear charm on it that requires an explanation. Of course, my friends at home would immediately know that goofball Austen gave me that particular and somewhat embarrassing charm. Austen always found it hilarious to wear all sorts of humorous boxers over his riding breeches on a regular basis, so it’s an inside joke with our little group.
Tristan stands up and takes my hand. “Come on, let’s take a walk down to the water.”
We walk along the water’s edge as the sun continues to set. Just as we get about a hundred yards away, we see two people up ahead. They are facing each other—a man and a woman. Their conversation looks pretty intense. I glance at Tristan. The woman crosses her arms. The man pulls her close and wraps his arms around her. She leans her head on his shoulder and to me it looks like she is crying. A second later, I recognize who we’re looking at . . . but before I can voice it, Tristan does.
“Hey, isn’t that Kayla Fairmont and Christian Albright?” he says.
“Yeah. I think it is.”
“Looks serious.”
“It does.” My stomach sinks, and those happy feelings that had taken over me fade away. “Maybe we should go back before they see us.”
“Definitely,” he replies. “Otherwise things could get really awkward.”
We start to walk back to the blanket in silence. He finally speaks up. “What do you think that’s about?” he asks.
“They’re old friends,” I say. “Maybe she needs a shoulder to cry on. I don’t know.”
“You believe that?” he asks.
“Do you believe the alternative?” I ask.
Tristan pauses. “No. No. I don’t think so.”
“Right. Neither do I.” I think we both respond this way because we know what’s at stake. If Kayla is cheating on Holden, it could change our futures at Fairmont. I know why I don’t want that. My dreams are wrapped up in the school. My guess is that Tristan also has reasons for not wanting to believe the worst of Kayla Fairmont—I just hope the reason isn’t that school is the only place he feels safe.
Chapter eleven
I’m on the couch in our dorm suite fingering the bracelet that Tristan gave me last night and smiling when Martina comes through the door looking very unhappy. She tosses down a tabloid. “There it is in black and white. Says that my mom is being unfaithful to my father!”
“Oh, Martina, I am so sorry.” I put my arm around her. “You know that isn’t true.”
“Do I?”
I take a step back. “It can’t be true. I’ve met your parents. They seemed totally in love. Your mom told you it wasn’t true.”
She hangs her head. Her long dark hair falls across her face, hiding her expression. “I guess. But either way, people will believe it. Even people around here.”
“I know. I get it. And, it sucks that you have to be a victim of all this.”
“It does, but it comes with the price of having celebrity parents. You would think I’d get that. But my parents have always been really good about keeping our family out of the limelight. They aren’t the stereotypical Hollywood celebs. They’ve kept me sheltered. They keep even themselves pretty isolated, and they don’t give reasons for stupid magazines like this one to air the family laundry. But ever since this stalker thing started with my mom, they’ve been printing all kinds of trash about my family.”
“Have you told your parents you’ve seen this?”
“Yes.” She plops down on our couch. “My mom called me a little while ago to let me know that the story was out. She didn’t want someone else to tell me. I hadn’t seen it in person until Shannon Burton so kindly gave me her copy, while Lydia watched and giggled like the stupid moron that she is.”
“Figures. Ignore them. They’re total idiots and they love crawling under people’s skin.”
“I know. I just wish it didn’t hurt.”
“Of course it hurts. You have every right to feel that way, but you have to keep in mind that you know the truth. Your parents know the truth. The people who love you know the truth, and that is what is important. This will blow over. The stupid writers for these rag magazines will find other stories. They’ll claim that Angelina and Brad are breaking up, or that Justin Bieber is being sued by some skank who claims he’s her baby’s daddy.”
She laughs at this.
“Oh, I can come up with more, if you like.”
“Maybe you should write for one of the tabloids.”
“Better yet, I should start one around here. The first story can be about Lydia Gallagher’s nose job. . . .”
“Did she?” Martina says.
“No. I don’t know.” I laugh. “But see how easy it is for people to believe a rumor? And that is what this stuff about your parents is. Pure rumor.”
“You’re right.” She looks at her watch. “You know what I’m going to do? Go home for a couple of hours. See my parents. I think I’ll feel better.”
“I think you’re a smart girl.”
“You’re a good friend. When I get back, what do you say we eat junk food, watch a movie, and hang out?” she asks.
“I can’t think of anything better,” I reply. I don’t say it out loud, but I feel relieved that Martina will be back here to take my mind off Tristan being down on the beach at the bonfire, where Lydia and the DZ will likely be flirting and fueled by plenty of alcohol.
“See you later then.”
I look at my watch and realize I have a dressage lesson with Holden in a half hour. After changing into my breeches and riding boots, I race down to the barn to tack up Harmony. I bump into Riley, who is just getting off Santos. “How was it?” I ask.
“Good.” He kicks
his right leg over and slides down off Santos. “Kind of weird, though. I had my first lesson with Christian.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods. “He’s good. He’s really different from Newman, that’s for sure.”
“That has to be a plus. Because Newman was not easy.”
“No, he wasn’t. Plus, he was a murderer.”
“Very true,” I reply. “Sociopaths aren’t so easy to work with.”
“Right.” Riley nods. “I think I’ll like working with Christian, but he is kind of, I don’t know . . . he’s different. He’s emotional in a way . . . I guess it’s passion.”
When Riley says the word passion, all I can think of is the embrace Christian and Kayla shared on the beach. I don’t know for sure if what Tristan and I saw was passion, but it was definitely serious.
“I guess I’ll see how I like him soon enough, huh?”
“Yep. What do you have right now, dressage?” Riley asks.
“I do. I’d better get moving. You know how Holden feels about being on time.”
“Yeah.” He puts Santos on the cross-ties.
“You worried about tonight? About talking to Joel?” I ask.
He walks into the tack room and gets a treat for his horse, who eagerly takes it from the palm of his hand, and then Riley begins untacking him. “I’m a little anxious.” He pulls the saddle off and sets it on the saddle rack to be cleaned.
“It’ll be okay,” I reply. “I really believe that.”
“I hope so.”
I take Harmony out of her stall and begin grooming her. As I slide a brush along her body, I feel that mutual rush of affection that so often precedes our communication. Moments later, she shows me an image of a pony I don’t recognize. I set the brush down and lean my head against hers for a minute and the picture becomes clearer: an all-white, expensive-looking hunter pony with a little girl on its back. This is quickly followed by another image, but this time the pony is on the ground. I concentrate on the emotion Harmony is giving me and pull back, alarmed. The pony she’s showing me is dead. Wow! The horses are telling me all sorts of things these days that I really don’t understand.
Dark Harmony: A Vivienne Taylor Horse Lover's Mystery (Fairmont Riding Academy Book 2) Page 6
