by Lacy Camey
I told Chloe about it and how classic I thought she would look in fitted leggings with a sheer white top and the perfect hat. Then, I saw him ahead.
“What, with what?” she asked. “It would look great with what?”
“Oh, uh…” I stammered.
There he was, painting an already perfectly white fence. Painters were cheaters, right? At least, they were on Desperate Housewives. He was probably just a painter with no life ambitions but to paint white picket fences and cheat on innocent women, I convinced myself. But he really wasn’t a cheater, I had to remind myself. Well, at least not with my sister. So, he technically could be a cheater.
But why did he have to look so hot?
He wiped his brow with his forearm while he held his paintbrush. The white paint almost got on his jean shorts. I immediately turned the other way to hide my face but nearly fell off the saddle trying to do so.
“Whoa!” I squealed.
Suddenly, Chloe felt the need to yell, “Norah! Don’t you know-”
Mind you, we were only a short distance away. Surely, he heard the ruckus. But as we approached, it appeared that he was listening to music with earphones, since his head lifted for the occasional nod to the beat.
There is a God!
But then he looked up and put his paint aside.
Suddenly, my horse began to act up. So much so, you would have thought a mouse ran under its hooves. “Calm down, Betsy,” I said. “John!” I called out to the guide. “What’s wrong with my horse?”
“Absolutely nothing, ma’am. Probably something in your nonverbal body language. Horses sense your emotions.” He drew out his words with his southern drawl. He actually reminded me of Owen Wilson.
Great. My horse could feel my never-ending anxiety from Orien. How was I supposed to know he would be there? I tried again to lower my head so my hat would cover my face. But it was too late.
“Norah!” he shouted. “Norah!” He put the paint brush down, wiped his hands on his shorts, and started jogging towards us.
It felt like the longest twenty seconds of my life. Well, maybe second or third longest.
“Norah, do you know this man?” John asked.
“No I don’t. Keep riding.”
“Norah, yes you do. It’s Orien. We just saw him-” Chloe tried to correct.
By the time he caught up with us, he was quite winded.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, or the horse. Norah, I…” He caught his breath and shifted his weight. “No, I’m not about to faint. And, oh yeah, thanks for the concern.” He smiled mischievously. Why did he have to be so darn charming?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I just didn’t think I would ever see you again. Well, I mean, I hoped I would, out running. Anyway, there I was painting and there you are riding a white horse. Hey, how ironic. You appear riding on a white horse. Isn’t it usually the other way around? Guy on a white horse?”
He walked faster, trying to keep up with the horses’ pace.
Poor guy, he seemed nervous. I actually felt a little sympathy for him.
“I wanted to ask you after last night if you would join me for this thing,” he said, then took another breath. “Sorry, I’m just really winded today and, hey, do you normally ride horses? You don’t really seem the horse-riding type, not that that’s a bad thing.“
Chloe giggled. “Orien, you’re just so funny.”
“Sorry, I’m talking too much.”
I just continued to stare at him, not knowing what to say. He was so hot.
Betsy must have thought so as well, as she couldn’t contain her excitement. I was thrown off and hurled to the ground.
I’d always heard of people falling off horses. Now I was one of them and had the privilege of joining their club.
I was the kid who actually made it through her life without breaking anything, or having twisted ankles. How? I had no idea. I must have good guardian angels or something. But in an instant, I fell to the ground. I screamed like a person whose wrist was on fire. That was literally how my nerves felt. I writhed in pain and couldn’t get up. Orien rushed right to my side and helped me sit up. Chloe tried to dismount but was having a hard time. She exclaimed hysterically, “Norah! Oh, my gosh. Are you okay? Are you okay? Please say you’re okay.”
John dismounted and held Betsy.
“My arm!” I screamed. “I think it’s broken. My right arm, my drawing arm. My sewing hand! My-” I started sobbing. Not just crying. Sobbing. There I sat in the sand, with three horses, with everyone looking at me, with hot Orien, who had read my journal, looking at me.
My line!
“Now, now,” Orien soothed. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be fine. Here, let me help you up. I’m right here. Let’s get you inside, and I’ll get you some ice. I can drive you to the ER.”
“Ma’am, is there anything I can do for you? She sure took you for a ride. Terribly sorry. This has never happened to me before. Well, not here, at least.” He nervously shoved one hand in his pocket and looked around in worry.
I couldn’t say anything back.
“Please don’t go and tell all your fancy friends. It would really drive down my business, and we’re in a recession and-”
Through my tears and hysterical breaths, I assured him, “It’s okay, John. Not your fault.”
“Okay, well then, on that note, I need to calm these horses down and get them back to the trailers.”
Chloe looked at him and saw his struggle. One man, three horses. “I think I need to help him back to the trailer. I’ll come right back, I promise.” Worry was written all over her face.
“It’s okay, Chloe. I promise I’m not an ax murderer. I’m right here.” Orien pointed near the fence he was painting. “I’ll take good care of her. You have my number?”
“I think Maycee has it.” Chloe smiled. “I’ll call her and get it.”
“We’ll just call you,” he said.
Chloe and John took the horses back to their trailer. Orien helped me up and led me toward the fence he had been painting.
Although my wrist was throbbing, and I had tried to avoid Orien minutes earlier, I was actually glad his home was nearby. I desperately wanted to sit inside in air conditioning, have ice on my wrist, and call my dad.
He led me through the tall grass, past the white fence, and into the screened-in porch area.
“So, will the owner not mind I’m here?” I asked, as we walked into the back entryway and took off our shoes. I attempted to use my right toes to stand on my left heel and use my left hand to take my boot off. Seeing my struggle, he told me to sit, and he took my boots and socks off despite my, “Oh you don’t have, you don’t have to“ protests.
There was a small shower nearby to rinse off our sand-covered feet. Even though it was my wrist that was sprained, and I had practically no sand on my feet, he led me over to the shower as if my leg was broken, careful to let me lean on him each step of the way.
He turned on the faucet and squatted down. “Here, lean against my shoulders.” Before I could object, he started washing the very little sand off my feet. I was glad I had gotten a pedicure a few days earlier.
Trying quickly to think of something to say to assuage my awkward feelings, I asked, “So, will the owners mind that you brought a guest here?”
He rinsed off my other foot and chuckled. “No, I don’t think they’ll mind.” A smirk appeared on his face. He motioned for me to sit down in a rustic chair that looked like it had come from the catalogue of Restoration Hardware. Rustic, yet appropriate. I let myself sit back into the cushion.
I winced.
“I’ll just be a second. Sorry. You must be in a lot of pain.”
I glanced down at my wrist. “I’m in pain. I’m in shock.” I was about to go into elaborate detail of the clothing pieces I needed to create, but I just didn’t have the energy.
“Oh I’m sure it was quite a shock to fall. Here you go,” he said as he helped me up, again as if I w
ere either a senior citizen or someone who hadn’t walked in years.
No, the shock is the fate of my line!
I smiled. “You would make the perfect nurse,” I said, while he led me into a pristine white kitchen.
He motioned for me to sit down at the ivory-colored, distressed wood kitchen table.
“I’m really digging the décor here. Great taste.” Ivory-chipped wooden beams hung from the ceilings, giving off a very French vibe.
“Oh, thanks,” he said, as if the place were his.
I studied him as he opened a drawer and took out a Ziploc bag and then grabbed a yellow towel. He went to the freezer for ice. He sure did know his way around the kitchen for someone who didn’t live in the house.
I looked around at the pictures in the kitchen. One depicted a beautiful woman on the beach smiling innocently as the sun set behind her. She looked like Penélope Cruz. Another showed two boys, one with dark hair, the other with light, building a sandcastle. I was about to get up to look closer at the picture, but Orien saw me eyeing it.
“Don’t get up. Allow me,” he said, as he brought it over with the bag of ice.
“Yeah. Those boys are just so cute.” As I looked closer, I realized the tan-skinned boy had a remarkably angelic face. Orien smiled proudly as he stood next to me looking at the photo with his hand on his hip. I looked at the face in the photo, and then back to Orien’s face.
“Time hasn’t been too harsh for me, has it?”
“This is you? And Ryan?” I asked, surprised.
He nodded.
“I’m confused. Why does your client’s house have this picture of you two?”
“My client’s house?” he asked, bewildered.
“I saw you painting.”
“Oh!” He laughed, clearly caught off guard. “No, this is my house. Well, my grandfather’s. It’s in the family.”
“Oh, I see.” I nodded, embarrassed. “Oops. Sorry. Your grandfather has nice taste.”
“Yeah, my grandmother did. It’s been a great place for me to prepare for my dissertation defense.”
“Your dissertation defense?”
“Yeah, it’s for my PhD in counseling, actually. I have my defense coming up on Monday. Then I’m home free, ready for my own practice. So, got anything you want to talk about?” he asked jokingly. “’Cause I’m all ears. No charge.”
I shook my head, letting the unexpected turn of dialogue sink into my mind.
I guess he took it as the shake of, “No, I don’t.” So he suggested, “Is there someone you should call about your wrist?”
“Oh, yeah, my dad.”
Dumbstruck and completely embarrassed, I remembered my wrist, the throbbing, unbearable, writhing-in-pain injury.
Instinctively, my left hand went to my thigh in search for my cell phone. Leggings.
“I just realized I don’t have my phone.”
He handed me a cordless phone. I placed it on the table and dialed Dad’s number with my left hand.
“Hello?”
“Dad?”
“Norah, I almost didn’t answer the phone because it says-“
“Dad, I’ve been in an accident,” I interrupted.
“What?”
“A horse accident and, well, I fell off, can’t move my wrist. I mean, it hurts.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
“Yes.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, take your temperature and call me back if you have a fever because you’ll need to go straight to the emergency room. Otherwise, you’re better off icing and elevating it at home instead of sitting in the waiting room. Sounds like a sprain. I would know if it were broken.”
“What do I do, then?”
“You need to rest it four to five days. That means absolutely no texting, no sewing, nothing,” he ordered. I sat in defeat, numbed in pain, numbed in sorrow.
“So why are you at the Hood’s?” he asked.
“The hood? I’m not in the hood. I’m at Orien’s house.”
“No, I mean-“
“What?” I asked.
“What?” my dad asked back.
“What?” I asked in confusion. “You just said-“
“Well, tell him I said hello. His father and I are friends. He’s… well, I’m about to give a lecture. I’ll call you in a painkiller and call you in about an hour. Love you.”
I hung up the phone and sighed, not really caring about the nonsense.
I felt tears coming to my eyes. All my hard work, my meeting with Chris, my line. What would happen to it?
“Here, let’s keep this iced and elevated for about twenty minutes, and then get you home safe and sound and cozy. Nothing like home, huh?”
He poured water into a teapot. “Tea?”
“Yes, please,” I said weakly. Dazed. “Why does everything bad happen to me? Why did I have to ride that stupid horse?”
“It’s okay, Norah. You’ll be fine.”
“No, you don’t get it. This happened at the most absolute worst time for me.”
“Well, I find that in my own life, sometimes interventions are blessings in disguise. Sometimes, interventions bring us to new paths and shut doors that needed to be shut.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out tea canisters.
“Chamomile, English Breakfast Tea, or Earl Grey?”
“Chamomile.”
“Right, of course. I should have guessed that. The calming effects.”
“Yeah, most men don’t know that. You know, about the effects of herbal teas.”
“Yeah, well I know a lot of things.” He winked and walked over to the table.
“You’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
You’ll be fine, you’ll see. I sat perplexed. Doctor Hood had said those very words to me.
“It’s just, I’ve worked so hard on this path. So many obstacles and trials have stood in my way, and I was finally seeing the shoreline once again.”
“I can understand that. But you have to trust the great Architect of the Universe.” He smiled.
“You mean, God?”
“Right. You have to trust whatever season you’re in and let it run its course.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what my—” I stopped myself before I completely let out my dirty laundry with Oh, my therapist said that! Instead, I said, “Oh, goodness. Where is my mind? I need to call Chloe.”
I quickly called Chloe, and she was dying to know how I was. She said she was on her way to pick me up. She asked me a hundred questions with interjections about the horse trainer’s on-going—never-ending, “Please don’t sue me sympathy-attracting apologies.” She was at the door ringing the bell before I knew it.
“Well, she’s all mine now. Thanks so much, Orien,” she said perfectly.
“Oh, uh, no problem. It was my pleasure,” he said. “I’d like to check on you later, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” I heard myself say.
And with that we left to go to the nearby pharmacy for my rushed painkillers and some ice cream.
Chapter Eleven
Two hours later, I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, as Chloe attempted to sew a stitch for me on one of my creations. I didn’t care at that point, probably because I was heavily medicated.
I felt dizzy. “You know, I just have to accept the fact that it’s over. My career is over.”
“Norah! No, you don’t,” Chloe insistently corrected me as she placed the needle, thread, and fabric down. Like a woman on a mission, she stood, walked to the kitchen, and opened and closed kitchen drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“That’s just the meds talking. Everything is fixable.” I saw her grab something and put it in a basket she found in the pantry.
“Up.” She commanded as she walked my way, basket in hand. “You’re coming with me.”
She led me out the back t
o the side of the house where our rose bushes were. “We’re getting you some fresh air, and we’re going to pick a nice vase of flowers and get rid of this pity party.”
I rolled my eyes. “Great, you know I can’t cut with my left hand.”
“Which is why you are to point, and I’m here to cut.”
“There. That one. That one. That one. That one.” I pointed. Then I heard a car coming up the driveway.
“I wonder who that is,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not checking until I cut all these flowers.”
“Geez. What’s the deal with you, Miss Bossy?”
“Well, I have to be! Otherwise, you’ll wallow in self-pity all day long. I’m going to help you, Norah. Watch,” She said, determined, as she cut the roses and put them in a basket, careful not to let the thorns prick her fingers.
“Norah,” she said definitively, as she held up a rose. “Life is not always peaches and roses. It’s how you handle the thorns in your life.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling and then laughing. Just as I was about to reply to her witty, yet poetic thought for the day, another car pulled up and a door slammed. I heard a familiar voice.
“Yeah, man. Almost in the bag. Just here to fake this whole engagement crap thing for three more weeks, then I’m out. I’ll be on my way to Southern Cali.”
Oh. My. Gosh. It was Josh’s voice. Fake this whole engagement crap? I placed a finger over my lips and motioned for Chloe not to utter a sound. I needed to hear absolutely everything he was divulging to whoever was on the phone.
Astonished, Chloe looked at me with wide eyes. I returned the dazed look. Chloe put the basket down, and we quietly tiptoed to the edge of the house, the side covered in stone, not glass.
Standing in the doorway, we could see Orien standing there holding sunflowers. He placed them on the porch as he turned around to eye the new guest.
“I’m telling you, it’s all about who you know. Do your research. You’ll get there. Gotta go.”
Josh walked up the steps, and asked Orien, “Who are you?” He impatiently rang the doorbell three times in a row and looked down to the flowers on the porch.
“Hurry! Run inside,” I ordered Chloe, and we ran around the back of the house. But as soon as we made it past the stone, we slowed to a walk, since it was likely they could see us through the glass.
