by Ann Self
Their effete display over, Elliot and Lucinda blew out on a cloud of self-importance, limo-ed back to the mansion for drinks and rest after such labors.
Westy quietly shook his head at the pompous wake of Elliot and his daughter as he paced around the aisle. He went to get a closer look at the tedious braiding work. “God. That’s worse than two-thread tatting.”
“Two thread whating?” Madeline asked, and both girls burst out laughing. The vaguest tint of pink appeared on the top of his rugged cheekbones.
“I don’t know...something I used to hear my grandmother say. That’s it, I’m leaving. Time to go back to work.” He abruptly left to patrol the grounds with his partner, Kenny Russell. But half a minute later he was back.
“Oh no, he’s probably going to take us out to eat again. We’re going to get quite pudgy,” Jane joked.
“No, no...came to retrieve my coffee,” Westy smiled, taking the paper cup off a stall ledge. He stared at the liquid. “Ugh, cup’s as cold as ice. Think I’ll visit Sam’s office for a real coffee.” He dumped the remains in the sink and tossed the cup. “Well, back to the patrol.” He winked at them and left.
Jane stretched and looked out a window to watch the Chevy Suburban with Travis and Cecily heading back towards the mansion. She checked her watch. Four o’clock. She knew most of the VIP’s, including Brian, would be arriving at the house soon for drinks and hors d’oeuvres, before being limo-ed down at seven for the Grand Prix classes.
Olivia squirmed in her seat belt and kicked the back of her grandfather Evan’s seat with her patent-leathers, in a nervous staccato.
“Hey...” her father admonished her, turning from his driving.
“Oops, sorry gramps, I’m too excited about the horse show!”
Evan turned back and gave Olivia a conspiratorial wink, which Brian did not miss. He smiled, thinking what a help his father had been, helping him raise Olivia after the disastrous car crash in California that took both their wives and his mother. The three of them had grown especially close in the following two years, and were more like three buddies than father, son and granddaughter.
“So...” Evan said, “we’re having a reception and drinks at Elliot’s mansion, and then we’ll all be transported to the indoor arena for the show the man wants us to see?”
“That’s about it.”
“A barrel of big fish for Elliot. I wonder if any other big fish know about his financial status?” he asked Brian.
“A couple of them phoned me. The word is spreading like a brushfire, even though nothing has actually come down around his head yet.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Only that they should proceed with great caution.”
“Good...good answer. We don’t want to give Elliot any ammunition for lawsuits. Anything new from Kevin or Steve about him?”
“Yes, Kevin says from what he’s dug up that Elliot’s making good use of all the usual little tricks—cooking the books on tax returns and financial statements to extend loans. Cannibalizing assets. A few dummy corporations to hide losses, overstating the prices of equipment and livestock. Flim-flam at its best—I can’t believe he got away with it for so long!”
“Eyewash,” his father stated. Elliot’s one of those people who cloud your vision with eyewash—even bankers fall for it.”
“Are you sure Jane will be there?” Olivia demanded from the back seat, not interested in any business talk.
“She’ll be there,” her father answered, “riding a beautiful silver-gray stallion.”
“I can’t wait!” Olivia strained to lean against the window to hurry the passing scenery.
Evan glanced at his son. “Did you ask your detective to keep an eye on...on you know who?”
“I did, but he informed me she’s already being watched. A friend of his—Dwight Westerlund—is a detective with the State Police, and he’s going to be guarding her all weekend.”
“The State Police assigned a detective to watch her for the whole weekend?” His father was amazed.
Brian frowned. “I guess he’s doing it on his own time.”
“Uh, oh.” His father shot him an alarmed look. Brian looked angry and Evan wisely abandoned that particular area of conversation.
“Well, here we are at eyewash estate,” Evan changed the subject.
Brian drove the black SUV through the gatelodge tunnel, across the front pastures, and turned at the drive to the mansion. Olivia unsnapped her seatbelt and pressed her nose on the window. She frowned up at the stone dog on her side that looked down forbiddingly from its pillar. Its reflection rode her window for a moment as it slid past her view. Olivia made a face at it, and then leaned forward between the front seats. “When will we see Jane?”
“Soon Olivia, very soon,” her father answered. “When did you undo your seatbelt!?”
“Only just now.”
“You know you’re supposed to wait until we park?”
“I know. She’s so nice...and pretty, ya know, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Evan turned his face to the window and stifled a chuckle.
Uniformed maids served drinks and hors d’oeuvres to a select group of well-heeled businesspeople, politicians and their spouses in Elliot’s oak-paneled drawing room. Guests were still trickling in, with the show-business contingent being fashionably late. People made themselves comfortable in groupings of overstuffed leather and upholstered sofas, club chairs and enormous high-back, brass-tacked, leather wing chairs. Since there was a chill to the air, a fire crackled in the carved stone fireplace with its decorative oak chimneypiece that reached all the way to a plaster Jacobean ceiling.
The room was glowing with touches of russet, hunter green, brown and burgundy. An eighteenth century Persian rug lay at their feet, holding many of these same colors; and antique furniture and priceless brass lamps accented appropriate spaces. Several paintings of racecourses by Degas hung handsomely on the wood-grained walls, and one very large canvas was placed over the mantle, showing a cascade of colorful jockeys on their mounts in a large field. Heavy, cut-velvet drapery adorned the floor to ceiling windows in a cascade of burgundy.
Brian and his father Evan sat together on a large leather couch facing the fireplace, holding snifters of brandy and munching on crab empanaditas and marinated shrimp. Clams with golden caviar and sausage puff rolls were laid out on a massive antique coffee table at their knees; the table groaning with the weight of food. Olivia strolled about sipping ginger ale and sampling puff pastry squares and tiny Swedish pancakes with strawberries and crème fraiche, served on silver trays by a brigade of waitpersons. Brian watched Elliot working the room, slick as oil, and as yet unaware of the spreading news about his financial woes. Denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt, he thought dryly.
As he sipped brandy, Brian saw Lucinda approaching—thumping across the Persian carpet on crutches with her long golden curls bouncing crazily in all directions. She was wearing pewter-satin flood pants stopping just below her knee, with self-buckles on the side, gathered stitching, and a matching peplum top. One foot wore a gray ballet shoe, and the other a cast boot. Lucinda moved right in on the two men, seating herself in one of two tartan-plaid love seats in the grouping, arranging her crutches against the wing chair next to the raised hearth. She lazily stretched the cast-boot out in front of her.
Brian introduced his father. “How’s the ankle doing?” The elder Canaday inquired politely, as the two men half stood while Lucinda sat.
Lucinda took her eyes off Brian. “Oh...very well, thanks, I’ll be getting rid of this stupid boot on Monday. I’m just sorry I won’t be able to demonstrate Charmante for you tonight. I’ve been working very hard with some of the top coaches.” Her eyes fastened back on Brian.
Brian sipped the brandy again, and said casually, “I’m sure Jane will do a good job for you.”
Lucinda tossed back a shank of golden curls. “I’m not so sure about that!” She glanced to her side and
summoned a maid: “Noreen! Get me a diet cola please—with lots of ice.” Lucinda turned back to Brian. “I’ve been watching Jane working with Charmante all week, and the poor girl is trying real hard but I’m afraid it’s just a little too much to ask of her. The horse is out of her league—too big a step up from the cut-rate nags she’s used to handling.”
Lucinda swept golden lashes over Brian coyly, metallic eyes glinting with steel. “You know we found Jane in a cut-rate stable in Rehoboth—not the kind of place where you get top-notch European training necessary to handle a high-strung expensive animal. Charmante is a very difficult stallion, and from what I’ve seen so far she just can’t manage him. Lars says she’s becoming frustrated and upset.” Lucinda looked down and smoothed the satin on her tiny thighs. “In fact, he told my parents he’s very concerned about her fits of temper.”
Brian swirled his brandy and watched Lucinda closely, his bright navy eyes fastened on her. “Ahhh,” he nodded.
Lucinda sighed and leaned back in the generous seat, her tiny figure almost swallowed in luxurious fabric. Blonde curls shimmered with the firelight as she continued: “Jane was in tears a couple of days ago—Lars actually had to lead the horse around like a circus pony because she couldn’t even get him to do the simplest school figures. I kind of feel sorry for the spot she’s in, but with this ankle, I just won’t be able to ride. I hope you won’t be too disappointed.”
“Not at all,” Evan answered smoothly with a big smile. His son flicked him a glance.
Lucinda stretched daintily like a kitten and rearranged her foot. “I’m afraid it’s going to be tough-going for Jane tonight. I’ve sat for hours in the ring monitoring her lack of progress, watching her fight with Charmante. Even when she manages to control the horse, he just doesn’t have the spirit and lightness that should be brought out. She needs to go back and learn the basics, but it’s probably kind of late for that at her age—pushing thirty. You need to be schooled properly from a very young age.”
“Thirty, my God that is pretty old,” Brian joked, but Lucinda’s attention was taken up by a drink that the maid handed her. Her storm-cloud eyes, accented by pewter satin, swarmed over Brian’s face with a wide-eyed innocence as she sipped daintily. She casually adjusted her peplum top so it wouldn’t ride up and obscure the view of her porcelain neck, tiny shoulders and delicate cleavage; which she knew—from many hours observing her friend in the mirror—was more than just a little alluring. She could bring men to their knees with a glance. Lucinda noted that Brian’s gaze never left her face, and although she found that a little odd she was satisfied with her progress. He would be hers for the taking. Now if the old geezer would just take a hike...
Lucinda lifted and fluffed the hair on the back of her neck and spoke again to Brian: “I just hope to God Jane makes it through her musical Kur. Maybe the hokey Hawaiian music she’s selected will cover up all the mistakes.”
Evan stood up. “Please excuse me...I see an old friend, Bob Ayer over there. I think I’ll just go and say hello and see what’s up with him.”
Brian raised a cautious eyebrow at his father’s subtle sense of humor. Lucinda took no notice of Evan Canaday’s departure—or any comments he made, she was far too busy savoring Brian’s dark hair, the chiseled outline of his cheek and jaw, and the wide, muscular shoulders. She studied the way his eyes were focused intently on her face as she talked, and reveled in it. Not many men spent so much time just observing her face—even if it was stunning in its cream and gold beauty, but she hoped that he was also missing nothing about her lithesome figure.
She flashed her eyes invitingly and basked in his awed expression, an expression she had seen from many men, many times before. How easy it was going to be to snatch him from Jane. Not that Jane ever had a chance—she was way out of his class. This one is mine. Brian Canaday was a keeper, the best looking man she’d laid eyes on in a long time. She was already planning her wedding.
Taking candy from a baby...
Brian took another sip of his drink while keeping his eyes pinned on the tiny woman. Most amazing lack of grace and display of narcissism I’ve ever witnessed, he thought behind the awed expression.
And the silvery fish-eye stare gave him the creeps.
A lost show schedule blew past her dormer window as Jane looked out at the crowds below. The sun was shining brightly but the giant trees were just starting to dance and lift their skirts, and every so often the barn gutters and downspouts would play an ominous moaning tune like maniacal pitch-pipes. A few ragged fragments of dark clouds looked out of place against a bright blue sky. The hurricane was still a day away—but the area was beginning to feel peripheral effects.
“Are you ready to put your hairnet and bow on now?” Madeline asked.
Jane turned away from the window, nervously checking her watch. It was six o’clock. “Yes, I think I’ve got the bun tightly in place.” She added one more hairpin and patted the thick roll of shinning black hair at the back of her neck. Madeline helped her slip the black net over the knot of hair and then attach the barrette with the black velvet bow. She now had a perfect seat for the low crowned, glossy top-hat. Before placing the hat on, Jane touched her face lightly with blusher and pink lipstick. It was all she needed. Her smooth skin held the glow of the sun and her lashes were naturally dark and thick, sweeping over large ocean-blue eyes set in beautifully carved features. An aquiline nose and a lovely shaped mouth gave her a dramatic, exotic countenance, especially with a formal top hat. Tiny diamond studs in her ears polished the look.
“Wow!” Madeline exclaimed when Jane set the small top hat in place. “You look marvelous!” she joked, in her best Billy Crystal.
“I’ll pass...”
“No, I’m serious, Jane. Those white breeches are obscene! It’s a mighty good thing you’re so fit and have a perfect figure—the pants are nothing more than a spandex glove with knee patches.”
Jane smiled as she adjusted the bib-front stock tie around her neck. “Hand me the tail-coat would you, and I’ll cover up these obscene breeches.”
Madeline held up the navy blue tailcoat and she slipped in and buttoned the gold buttons, adjusted the gold vest points and smoothed down the weighted tails in back.
“My God,” Madeline cried, “just wait until Brian gets a load of this.”
Jane looked in a mirror on her closet door and felt a little shocked at the difference between this coat and her old coat. “No more Plain Jane,” she mused.
“You are so far from plain! You are downright beautiful!”
“I never felt beautiful before,” Jane answered.
“Drop-dead gorgeous!”
“Well, if Charmante doesn’t dump me on my head, I could make a good impression out there, maybe get a job.”
“Is the horse that hard to handle?”
“Sometimes. I never know what to expect—Lucinda really messed up his mind.”
“What a twit that woman is. A lost cause.”
Scalloped edges of striped tents rippled in occasional gusts of wind, and bits of paper blew around on the grass. There was a sharp chill to the air as the grounds of Springhill grew quiet in the gunmetal glow of early dusk. Major chunks of spectators had left and most of the exhibitors were done for the day. They stood around in little groups with show coats and derbies off and ties loosened, exchanging war stories about the weekend’s adventures in the ring. Some exhibitors had packed up their trailers and left, but many were staying to see the Grand Prix Classes and to attend the party afterwards. Those few riders entered in the evenings high-level classes were still dressed and spit polished, nervously warming up their elegant horses in a lighted outdoor Dressage ring.
Sam and Dylan were sitting on cots in front of Charmante’s stall. Sam was eating a cheeseburger and French fries, but Dylan just sat on his own cot, leaning his head back against the stall boards. Sam stopped munching and they both looked up at Jane and Madeline approaching. Both Sam and Dylan were stunned.
&
nbsp; “Omigod, look at her!” Sam exclaimed, as he stood up. “Holy cow…” Then he deadpanned, “Where’s Jane?”
“Very funny. It’s still me. The dolled-up me.”
“I’ll say—doll is right!” Sam agreed. Dylan smiled dully from his seat, his expression vacant, which alarmed Jane. “What’s the matter with you?” She looked down at him.
“It’s his stomach,” Sam explained. He’s been moaning for an hour about his stomach.”
“Well, man, you brought me the poisoned sandwich. I haven’t felt well since I ate it,” Dylan complained.
“I ate the same thing—I got one for me too!” Sam defended himself.
“Yeah, but you gave me the one with salmonella, thank you very much.”
Sam sighed exasperatedly. “You can’t be sick now!”
“I’m trying not to be...”
Jane leaned on her knees to look at Dylan. “I’ve never seen him so ashen. Should you see a Doctor?”
“Right,” Sam said, “Let’s take him to the emergency room and tell the crew there that Mike gave him indigestion.”
Jane sighed and shook her head, almost laughing, but not quite. Dylan waved her away with his hand. “I’m fine, it’ll pass. No pun intended. Go get on your horse before someone steals him.”
“Okay. You sure look rough, though.” She reluctantly walked over to the stall to admire the gray stallion standing quietly on the cross ties in his stall, saddled and ready and looking like gleaming polished silver.
“He looks almost as good as you do,” Madeline noted.
