Stark nodded. “You can ride now, if you want.”
The look on Olivia’s face reminded Cora of what she’d felt like the first time she’d seen Eliza steek a sweater, using sharp scissors to cut it up the middle. Awestruck. “Yes,” Olivia said. “Please.”
They went into the next stall together, Stark and Olivia, and Cora leaned outside as Stark talked her through the way to saddle the sorrel.
That day so long ago, Eliza had held up the new cardigan triumphantly. “There. Like magic, isn’t it?” She’d poured another cup of tea for Cora, remembering how she took it, every time, which made Cora feel more loved than anything else she could remember in her life. “Now let me show you how I did that, so you’ll know, too.”
Cora had bloomed under Eliza’s smile.
Now Stark had Olivia up on the horse named Purple Rain. They moved together out to the ring, walking at first, then easing into a slow canter.
Cora leaned forward against a fence post, threading her fingers through the wire as she watched Olivia ride. Stark stood next to her, one hip jutted out, her eyes intent on Olivia.
“I might be wrong,” said Cora, “but she’s good. Right? She said she’s only had one set of lessons before.”
Stark smiled. “The first time I rode, I knew it was what I was meant to do. That girl’s the same as me. She was born to ride.” She looked sideways at Cora and then back at Olivia. “She new in town?”
Cora shook her head. “Her mom is Trixie Fletcher, with the Independent.”
“Oh shit, seriously? I know that one. She came here once to write something about the kids, and she asked for a wet wipe to clean the horse germs off her hands when we went into the office.” Stark spit into the dirt unselfconsciously. “Can’t stand a woman like that.”
“Who can?” said Cora.
They watched Olivia, her face alight with joy, canter and prance on Purple Rain until the sun dropped and the air cooled. A strip of pink lit the sky at the tops of the trees and a finger of fog traced its way into the valley.
Trixie Fletcher. There was a time when Cora had been able to stand her. There had been a moment, at least, when she’d thought Trixie was going to be a friend. During high school, Trixie had been part of the crowd Mac and Logan had run with, the crowd that sometimes stopped by the barns on their way to somewhere more fun. Cora would be currying a horse, keeping her head behind its flank as she listened to the kids yell friendly abuse at each other, so comfortable with each other. How did they all learn that?
Mac and Logan had idly been teaching her poker using pennies, letting her keep them when she won, which wasn’t often. One afternoon, just as they’d sat down to play, Trixie joined them. She’d been on her way home, but she wanted to play poker, she said, and Cora had been astonished when Trixie smiled at her the same way she did Misty Barrigan. The look was friendly. It seemed accepting.
Louisa came onto the porch then, and yelled at the boys to finish taking the leaves to the bonfire pile. Cora was left sitting with Trixie at the picnic table under the vast, spreading oak. Cora shuffled the cards, trying to get them to move smoothly, like Mac did, but she was all thumbs.
“Let me show you,” said Trixie. She expertly slid the pack from Cora’s finger and shuffled, creating a waterfall of cards that feathered together on the table top. “See? It’s easy.”
Cora nodded. “Do it again?”
“Hey, which one do you like?”
Did Trixie really want to know her favorite card? Jack of Spades, if she had to pick, but…
Trixie smiled again, that inclusive grin that made Cora want to lean closer to her. She studied the fall of Trixie’s hair, wishing fervently that her hair was as smooth, as straight. The light that fell through the oak leaves dappled Trixie’s skin, highlighting her porcelain skin. Cora could practically feel her freckles getting bigger.
“Of the guys, silly. Which one are you after?”
“Neither!” Cora pulled her arms off the table and held her elbows. “Are you joking?”
“Because at school, you’re always staring at Mac. But I think it’s Logan that really likes you.”
Cora felt wobbly, standing on territory she had no idea how to navigate. This was what girls who were friends talked about, right? But the boys would be back any moment, and she would die if they heard this…
“And you’re always here, doing something for them. There must be one you’re crushing on.”
Mac, Mac, Mac… “No, neither of them,” she lied again. “No way.”
Trixie let the cards ripple through her fingers again, a soft whirring sound matching their motion. “Well, I think Logan is cuter. More exciting, you know? The way he rides? But Mac is taller. He looks older, and I heard he was able to buy beer for the last beach party. And he’s freakin’ hot. Those eyes, you know? All sleepy-sexy.”
It felt wrong to talk about them like this, and at the same time Cora was desperate to hear more.
Trixie went on, “Becca Raddison says Mac was the best kisser.”
Cora, who had never been kissed, felt her stomach twist unfamiliarly.
“They didn’t do anything else, though. I bet I could get him to do more.”
What more?
Trixie’s eyes reminded Cora of a well-fed cat. “Logan likes you better, anyway. So you don’t mind if I go for Mac?”
Cora did mind. Oh, she minded so much. “Logan doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t be stupid. He can’t stop staring at you.” Trixie’s voice had changed – Cora didn’t understand it. Why did she sound angry about what Logan was doing if she wanted to date Mac? Cora was missing great chunks of subtext, and she knew it, but she didn’t know how to keep up. She continued, “He asked you to the Spring Fling dance, right?”
Cora felt dumb surprise. How did Trixie know that? “I said no. I don’t need to go to some dumb dance.” In reality, Cora hadn’t wanted to ask Eliza for the money for a dress. “Why? Do you want to date Logan?”
“Date? Oh, little girl. I want more than a date from a guy. But Mac will do,” said Trixie, licking her gloss-slicked lips.
Mac would do? Cora wanted to take the cards out of her hands and throw them, she wanted to push Trixie across the yard to the main road and tell her to keep going, that she didn’t belong in their little club. That she couldn’t ruin the threesome Cora and the boys had become. But instead, Cora clutched a penny so hard it indented her palm.
“Yeah, I like Logan,” she lied. “You’re right.”
When the boys rejoined them, Cora asked, “Is it too late to change my answer to yes?”
He’d whooped, and thrown his hat into the air.
“If I was a Scan-tron test, then it would be too late. But I’m Logan, baby.” He’d put his strong, muscled arms around her and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a circle right there. She’d laughed out loud as she looked up, suddenly dizzyingly happy.
Mac was so busy teaching Trixie a card trick, he’d hardly seemed to notice.
That day, along with the game, Cora had lost something else, something she couldn’t name. But it felt precious. She didn’t know how to get it back. And she and Trixie had most definitely not become friends.
Cora shook herself, coming back to the present. Trixie’s daughter was right here in front of her, the horse dancing smoothly underneath her.
“Can you take a picture of me?” called Olivia. “Before I have to put her away?”
Cora snapped a shot with her phone. She’d email it to Olivia tonight.
Olivia beamed at Cora, and Cora grinned back.
Oh, this, at least, was just right. Everyone needed a passion. A calling. Eliza had taught her that so well. Cora felt Eliza’s ghost next to her, a pale, unseen shadow, illuminated only by her imagination. She would have approved of Olivia’s joy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Happiness is a cardigan that matches your eyes. – E.C.
Mac finished running the table by smacking the eight ball into the corner
pocket right where he’d called it. “And that’s the way you do it, my friend.”
“I can’t believe you just did that,” said Royal, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen you play like that.”
“You mean I’ve been waiting for years to hustle you,” said Mac, feeling ridiculously satisfied by how much fun he’d just had, watching Royal’s face get redder and redder every time Mac sank a ball. “I don’t believe in spanking a man at his own table, and we’ve only ever played together at yours.”
“So for years you’ve just been letting me win.”
“Think about it, you rarely actually beat me.” Mac leaned his cue stick against the table and dug three more quarters out of his pocket. “I’m just a little more considerate when it’s your table.”
“Shit. So you’ve been soft-hustling me?”
“Learned from the best,” said Mac.
That, at least, puffed out Royal’s chest, as Mac had known it would. “It’s true. I’m the best.”
“Just keep telling yourself that,” said Mac. He put the quarters in the slot and pumped them into the table. The shoonk of the balls as they dropped and rolled for the next game was a friendly sound and for just a moment, Mac was happy to be exactly where he was, back in his home town, around people who’d known him before he’d had to shave.
Looking for the same girl he’d been looking for back then.
Well, that was awkward.
Mac shook his head as if he could shake the thoughts of Cora out of it, but even so, he scanned the incoming crowd for the twelfth time, looking for that red hair of hers. Tonight the Rite Spot wasn’t so much a bar as it was turning into a gathering place. Down the street, at the center the new doctors had opened, the community had held some kind of a fundraiser for Windward Group Home. Mac had stopped by on his way to meet Royal, but had only gotten a few feet inside before he’d had to fend off questions from six different people about what he was doing back in town. He’d received a hug from a tall, skinny blonde woman he hardly recognized but thought maybe he’d gone to high school with and had finally written a check he could barely afford to buy his way out of the place in a hurry. As he’d pushed open the side door, though, he’d caught sight of Cora, just for a split second. She was at the front of the room by the dais where a teenager was getting ready to sing a song with his guitar. She’d been laughing at something the boy’d said, and Mac felt compassion for the red flush that started at the base of the boy’s neck. Any guy would feel like that, if Cora turned those blue eyes of hers on his. God, when he was the kid’s age, he hadn’t been able to think of much else but kissing her. Of course, Logan had beaten him to the punch, as usual.
He’d watched her for another moment, thinking of the video he’d found last month on YouTube. He and Royal had already hatched their plan, and Mac had known he’d see Cora soon. Fine, that would be fine. It would have to be, right? He’d googled her, unable to stop himself, and then stared in shock as he heard her voice again for the first time in years. And God bless it, the image of her had still made him feel exactly the same way.
Intoxicated.
Infatuated.
Okay, more than infatuated. Way more.
Goddammit.
In the video, she’d described item by item what to pack in an emergency bag. He’d been fascinated by the way her mouth moved, how she laughed about the corkscrew and the way she blushed when she held up a ziplock full of sanitary supplies. He’d watched it three times before he realized that doing so was creepy as hell. He wasn’t a stalker. And he wasn’t going to become one, thanks very much. But that last little lilt in her voice as she’d signed off, the cute way she’d leaned forward with a grin to shut down the camera – it got him.
At the fundraiser, he’d been in grave danger of staring at her the same way he had the video on his MacBook. As if he might never see her again.
Jesus, get a grip.
Mac had made it out of the center without Cora seeing him, and he’d met Royal at the bar, shaking off the intense longing by smacking the cue ball with ferocity, slaking his thirst with cold beer.
The problem was that Cypress Hollow was, always would be, a small town. When the fundraising concert finished, a crowd of people started squeezing their way in to the Rite Spot, and they were still coming. Just as much coffee was ordered as alcohol. Jesus, couldn’t they do that at Lucy’s bookstore or something? Anywhere but here. At any minute, Cora might push her way through that old-fashioned swinging bar door. After realizing that, Mac couldn’t sink another shot to save his life.
“I know you’re full of crap, Mac. You trying to make me feel better? You feel sorry for me now?” Royal shook his head and smacked the side pocket, calling his next shot. “’Cause I know you’d never play pity pool with me. I mean, you’d never do it again.”
“Guess you’ll never know, huh?” It wasn’t pity pool, though. Mac couldn’t keep his attention on the game for more than the twenty seconds it took for him to line up each crap shot.
A flame of red hair caught his eye – no. It wasn’t her. The redhead was too tall, too thin. Cora had curves on her, real girl-shaped curves. Without having her in front of him, Mac could conjure in his mind exactly where Cora’s breasts curved out, and where her waist dipped in. Cora looked like a real woman.
Whereas the redhead, the one that had just come through the door, just looked skinny. Pretty, but not interesting like Cora. The woman smiled at him and waved, and with a jolt Mac realized he knew her. Knew her well. He’d been thinking about Cora so hard he’d almost looked right through her.
Trixie Fletcher. He hadn’t seen her in the last fifteen years, but her long green cat eyes were the same as always. Somehow, she’d grown into her looks, which had been spectacular even at eighteen. She smiled at Jonas, the bartender. How her gaze managed to be friendly and predatory at the same time baffled Mac, but then again, he’d dated her for a short time in high school and had never understood it even then.
“Holy hell. Who… ?” Royal’s mouth hung open for one ludicrous second.
“You’re actually gaping, you know that? You look like an idiot.”
Royal snapped his mouth shut. “Introduce me.”
“In a minute,” Mac turned around to take his shot. Missed it, chunking the felt with his cue tip. Again.
“You’re fired if you don’t introduce me this second.”
Mac took a sip of his beer and tried to ignore the fact that Trixie was coming toward them. “Screw you,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
She was upon them then: one long arm wrapping around his neck, cool lips pressing against his for one short second, just long enough to remind him that they had a history. “Mac,” she purred. “I heard you were back.”
He untangled himself from her arm and took a step backward.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Trixie leaned against the pool table and picked up Mac’s cue stick, running her fingers up its length.
“Do I have to?”
“Jesus, Mac,” Royal said, stepping in front of him. “I apologize for my friend, but you obviously know him, and you know what a jackass he can be. Me, I’m the opposite. Nicest guy you’ll probably ever meet.”
“Trixie Fletcher,” she said, holding out her hand. “Editor of the Cypress Hollow Independent.”
“Royal Berring. In charge of nothing but horses and this guy right here.”
“Oh, you’re Mac’s boss?” Trixie’s smile increased.
“Yeah?” Royal squinted at Mac. “It’s kinda like breaking a stubborn bronc. But he makes good jokes and every once in a while buys the beers, so I guess he’s all right with me.”
Mac scowled. “If anyone’s the problem, it’s you.”
“Ow.” Royal put his fist to his chest. “You see how he treats his superior? I’m wounded. To the core.”
Trixie laughed, a tinkling sound. God, that brought back late nights, Trixie leaning against him, her hand stuck in his pocket, Mac’s
mind stuck on Cora.
The same Cora who was standing now just behind Trixie. She looked surprised, and then, worse: she looked irritated. How could Mac have confused Trixie’s red hair at the door of the Rite Spot with Cora’s? Trix’s was obviously out of the bottle, always had been, while Cora’s was all natural sun and flame. Just like the color on Trixie’s lips was glossy, while Cora’s shone a natural pink. He watched as she bit one, and forgot that he should say something. He wanted to watch her, and remember – again – about how her lips had tasted.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse, as if she’d used it too much at the benefit. “Can I get by?”
Trixie turned and said, “Oh, look. It’s just like old times, isn’t it, Mac?” Her eyes glinted. Mac didn’t trust her any more than a three-year-old filly.
“Good times, yeah.” Cora tried to brush past them, but Royal was too quick for her.
“No,” said Royal. “Stay a minute, can’t you? I’m pretty sure I didn’t help anything last Sunday at the diner. I’m back in town again to make it right. Can I buy you a beer?”
“No, thanks.” Cora jammed a hand into her hair. And that, in turn, made her look even sexier. Lord, if he had his hands in that wild tangle… Mac wanted to speak, but found his mouth suddenly too dry to form words.
“Come on.” Royal slid his pool stick onto the green felt. “Open table,” he said. “Someone else play. I feel like drinking, not playing pool. Cora, want to do a shot? Barkeep! Line us all up with tequila!”
Jonas grinned and set out four shot glasses.
“Do I look twenty-one?” Cora asked. But there it was, in her voice, that hint of amusement that every single woman had in response to Royal’s playful innocence.
“No one could accuse you of that.” Trixie said and opened her eyes guilelessly.
“I suppose none of us look that young, I guess,” said Cora. “But you were always the oldest of the group, right, Trixie?”
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