White Horse Point

by Jean Andrews

“People I don’t want to see.”

  I caught a glimpse of them. “I think that’s the taxidermy guy, Frank, but that’s not his boat.”

  Levade didn’t answer but deftly rowed us away from the island, apparently not wanting the motor to give us away. The oar clamps rubbed against the oarlocks, making a rhythmic metallic squeak with each stroke, and I wondered if the men on the island heard it in the quiet of the evening.

  “Did he really kill his wife?” I whispered.

  “Yes,” she said, and put more force behind her rowing.

  She pulled in at my dock and I hopped out.

  “Aside from escaping pirates and fleeing the island, this has been the best evening I’ve had in a long time. It was wonderful. Would you like to come up to the cabin?”

  “I better not.” She seemed to be warring with herself on that decision. “You’re an addictive woman. Must be the smile,” she said, and pushed back, motoring off to the Point. I watched her until she disappeared.

  Addictive. I smiled to no one.

  Opening my computer, I typed in Levade, and a definition popped up describing a movement made in the show ring during which a horse raises its front legs, tucks his back legs under him, and balances on his deeply bent back legs, forelegs drawn tight.

  I looked at the dictionary photo of a beautiful white horse performing that movement. It takes such balance to keep from falling, I thought, and wondered if the same was true for Levade.

  * * *

  That night I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was in the moon and the reflection on the lake. She was in the whisper of the pine needles. Why was I feeling this way? Because she’s psychic, and she’s opened my third eye, or cleansed my aura, or elevated my kundalini, or some damned thing. I tried to push the feelings back, but all I wanted was to see her again…alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  For the first time in a long time, I spent my entire day writing. The phone rang, but I ignored it. In between writing and brewing coffee, I walked over to the picture windows and glanced at the Point to see if Levade was there. No sign.

  The book was taking shape. The ex-wife was going to find love, perhaps with the most unlikely man she’d ever met—an artist whose sensuality drew her to him, even as her mind was telling her he wasn’t man enough, he wasn’t her type, he wasn’t any of the things she thought she wanted, until he kissed her.

  * * *

  That night, excited by the return of my creativity, I walked through the woods hoping she was home. I was wearing my one nice pair of slacks and a pale-green sweater, and carrying a bottle of wine from the only place in town that sold wine, Gus’s tavern. I’d summoned the courage to go back to the tavern and buy a bottle, owning my outburst and apologizing to Gus but quickly adding, “No making fun of women behind their backs.”

  We shook hands and he said, “By jiminy, you’re almost as tough as Levade!” So in spite of pretending he didn’t know her name, he did, and privately he respected her. How did that come about?

  As I approached her cabin, a voice in me said this must be how gay women date, but I quickly rejected that voice, reminding myself that I was a straight woman. But then I nearly forgot that fact when Levade opened the door, looking spectacularly beautiful in shorts that showed her tanned legs. Even better, she seemed happy to see me.

  “Well, look at you!” She scanned me with those gorgeous blue eyes. “Are we having an evening?”

  “That was my plan,” I said, and she stepped back, inviting me in.

  Her home was shack-chic. Birds’ nests and paddles, fishing nets and wildlife carvings, and horse photographs everywhere, yet the entire place was neatly organized like a master’s class in cabin Kondo.

  In several photos a woman was riding or working horses. “Is this you?” I asked, and she nodded. “So you’re a talented horse trainer like your aunt. Did you train Alizar?” She has beautiful, graceful hands, I thought.

  “Do you think horses take a rider bareback out into a dark lake at midnight without a little training?”

  Always the arch reply, as if she knows something I don’t know. I’ll bet it’s an attitude that’s kept a lot of people away from her.

  “Why don’t people in town know what you do?”

  “Because they wouldn’t appreciate it. They’d ask me to bring my horse over for their child’s birthday party.”

  “But what if they’re saying disparaging things about you because they don’t know you?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “None.” I laughed at her elegant sense of self. She would not be diminished.

  “Before it’s too dark, could I meet Alizar?”

  “Of course.” She leaned out the back door, and just the sound of the squeaking screen brought the horse running. He paused on seeing me, sniffed, pawed, and then ambled over, deigning to allow me to touch him.

  “He’s so lovely!” I said, thinking she was so lovely. “What do you do with him at night, when he’s alone out there and bears are around?”

  She took me by the arm and guided me to an attached building right up against the back of the cabin. “Don’t trip over the hose. That’s how I wash the lake water off him after a swim.” Her grasp felt so natural, as if she should always have my arm and I should always be with her. “Here’s his little barn,” she said. “I moved him out of the larger barn and built this one. I put him in at dark and close his window. He’s safe. And if there’s any sound of trouble, my bedroom is right up against his wall. He’s a beautiful and communicative soul,” she said, rubbing his head. “He knows things.”

  “That’s what people say about you,” I replied.

  “That makes me a good partner for Alizar. Partners have to be able to communicate at every level.” She raised an eyebrow in my direction as if hinting I might practice that suggestion. “He and I do that. I know how horses think. They’ve spent centuries at the hands of men who hurt them, in order to try to make them bend to their will, by breaking their spirit. But like women, the horse is smarter, and patient, and mystical, and the horse will survive.”

  “Alizar is a lucky horse,” I said, and I meant it. He gets to put his muzzle in her beautiful neck and breathe in that cologne she wears. What in the world am I thinking?

  “Lucky me,” she said, and we moved back indoors.

  She went to the fridge and pulled out a block of cheese, deftly cut several wedges on a small wooden cutting board, placed a few crackers alongside, and set it on a low birch-wood table in the living room along with glasses for the wine. Everything she did spoke of casual elegance, as if she’d been raised to operate and think differently.

  I opened the bottle and poured the wine and, after a few sips, noticed she barely drank, and was probably doing it just to be polite. I was drinking to calm my erratic heart rate.

  “I find you…your life…very intriguing.”

  “Why is that?” Her voice was sensually smooth, and although I knew she was younger, she somehow felt wiser than I was. Or maybe she just has her act together and I don’t, I thought, and then I conducted a little self-therapy. I am doing just fine, actually.

  “For starters, the way you spent time with your aunt and her horses. That’s a great beginning for a girl.”

  “It wasn’t all that romantic. My mother and stepfather argued. My mother sent me to be with my aunt, probably to protect me, but at the time I didn’t understand that, and I was angry because I thought I’d been rejected. My aunt was tall and strong, and she became my role model. I copied the way she dressed, and what she did with horses, and even her name, Bisset, my mother’s maiden name. Of course my aunt was nearly six feet tall, so someone my height couldn’t look exactly like her.” She laughed lightly and quickly turned the conversation to me, asking about my marriage.

  “I married because friends said if I waited much longer, no one would be left but married men and gay guys. I married at thirty-three and divorced Ben when I turned forty-three, four years ago.” She can do the ma
th, I thought. “I liked Ben’s sense of humor, but I didn’t love him, and he was bad in bed, or I was, one or the other. Let’s just say we weren’t a match. In addition, he was controlling and accusing, and I let him do it because it wasn’t worth the fight. That’s so odd, because I have a lot of fight in me, but I didn’t use it on Ben.” For the first time I stopped to think about my lack of fortitude as we sipped our wine in silence.

  “So everything you experienced wasn’t ‘for nothing,’ the way you think,” she said. “It helped you create, and it helped create you.”

  “I haven’t been creating much lately.” I appreciated her comforting me, but I didn’t want to get into my life with Ben. In fact, I felt she could use some comforting herself. Finally, after an hour, I was relaxed enough to tell her so.

  “I’ll bet it’s difficult just to have an ordinary friendship with someone because everyone wants you to read their cards or tell them what their future will be. I want you to know you don’t have to do that with me. I don’t need that from you.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  Her directness unnerved me. She had this manner of relaxed chatting, and then, boom! It was like sticking your hand in an electrical socket. My heart jammed in my chest, and my breathing seemed to stop.

  “I’ve been asking myself that,” I murmured, as my body inclined toward hers, and my brain completely shut down, leaving everything up to my heart. I wanted more than anything to kiss her. For a split second I was sure she wanted that too. What am I doing? The physical sensation was so overpowering that it short-circuited my rational mind. I was no longer thinking, just feeling.

  “You probably know what I need more than I do.” My lips were close to hers, but she made no effort to close the gap. She merely ducked her head, and I could no longer see her face. I felt she’d willed a wall between us.

  I paused and then blamed my behavior on the chardonnay, saying, “But right now, I’m thinking I’ve had sufficient wine, and I need to go home.”

  She stood up. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Her offer to escort me back to my cabin clearly communicated she didn’t share my feelings. I took a beat. “I know the way back. It was a nice evening, and thanks for hosting me uninvited.”

  She said nothing but watched me go.

  On the way through the woods, I thought about what had happened. Maybe she thinks forty-seven is too old for her, or I’m not her type. Or she doesn’t like the way I look—too disheveled, although she said she liked that. Or I’m too non-equestrian for her—she did make that remark about me being fried chicken. And what in hell am I doing coming on to some woman in the woods! I show up uninvited and hit on her. I think I’ve truly lost my mind! I’m not into women to start with. Men may be bad in bed, but they’re obviously less complicated.

  This is soooo life, I said to myself. A great thing happens, like my desire to write and create returns, and on the same day a bad thing happens, like I’m rejected by a…a…great-looking woman. It’s just to keep me balanced. The universe doesn’t want me toooo happy. But you would think the universe could give it twenty-four hours between good and bad. I don’t think that’s asking too fucking much! And I fell into bed and drifted right off to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  It had been almost three weeks since I arrived on the lake, when Judith, a woman in her early fifties, and her elderly mother, retired Judge Robertson, checked into the red cabin. Marney introduced us, dragging me to their doorstep. I didn’t want to go.

  “Of course you have to meet them, so you don’t shoot them! I heard you bought a gun and that Sam gave you lessons. That Sam is one handsome fellow.” Marney eyed me, clearly waiting for me to confirm that Sam was indeed handsome, but I refused to fuel her obvious matchmaking desires.

  Marney banged on the screen door, and a tall, dark-haired woman appeared, looking like Joan Collins in Dynasty, if Joan had taught law at the university in Minneapolis. She was slightly taller than I was, perhaps five foot nine, but wearing spike heels, which made her look both dramatic and imposing, if not a bit overdressed for the woods.

  “Well, hello, Taylor James. I recognize you from your book-jacket photo,” the woman said, letting me know immediately that she’d read my work. “I’m Judith Robertson.” She extended her hand, revealing long, tapered fingers ending in bright nail polish and a retro ID bracelet, which made me think she feared getting lost in the woods and needed to tag herself. “Come in!”

  Marney was atwitter and marched into the living room as if leading a parade. “This is Judge Robertson.” She presented the woman in the wheelchair with a flourish normally reserved for the royal family. Judge Robertson was dark-haired and dressed in a conservative black suit jacket and slacks, and she had the air of someone who knows how smart she is. She was cordial, but even less excited than I was about me popping into her living room for a spontaneous chat.

  “Taylor’s here this summer because of her writer’s block, but she’s working that out,” Marney said happily.

  “Oh?” Judge Robertson seemed startled by the personal-reveal only seconds after my arrival, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “‘Oh?’ Indeed,” I said. “You’ll soon learn that everyone up here gets a descriptor. I’m ‘the author with writer’s block.’”

  “So I’ll be the woman in the wheelchair?”

  “If you’re lucky.” I was joking. “It could be something worse.” She laughed, and I liked her more than her daughter. We made small talk, but I never took a seat, saying I’d let them settle in. Judith followed us to the door.

  “It’s so nice to meet you. My mother really liked you. I hope you’ll find time to chat.” Her tone begged an invitation for coffee and conversation, but I was focused on the book and, in truth, on Levade, the only person I wanted to talk to.

  “Your mother is charming,” I said, ignoring the request for a chat. Marney bubbled over as I sprinted toward my cabin. “Now that was so nice. You and Judith probably know some of the same people.”

  Marney’s upbeat attitude seemed to bring out the worst in me. I wanted to say, “Marney, Judith is a law professor in Minneapolis. I am a writer in New York. Who are these ‘same people’ we would know?’ But instead I said, “Thanks for the introduction. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  * * *

  For the next four days, I stayed at the cabin and worked and fretted over what had happened, or not happened, with Levade on the Point. Anger and anxiety fueled my writing, and my fingers flew across the keys describing how this artist, whom the heroine thought she loved and who was so erotic and sensual that a mere kiss owned her, had now proved to be nothing more than an artistic version of all the other men she’d known.

  * * *

  By Thursday, I set the manuscript aside, acknowledging that I was out of almost anything to eat and had to go to Muskie Market for groceries.

  Helen whooped on my entering the store as if I’d just portaged a canoe across the Canadian border and made it back alive.

  “Wonderin’ if you was just eatin’ skunks and badgers.” She laughed. “Haven’t seen ya in a week!”

  I explained I was writing and could go days without looking up, but hunger had finally changed that. She said she’d saved a few things for me. “Thinkin’ ya might want some fresh raspberries, like you got last time, and some local honey.” I expressed my gratitude.

  “You never save us any special berries or nothin’ like that,” a big gal in her late thirties joshed, and I was fixated on her mid-section, which resembled a series of inner tubes wrapped in bright-red spandex.

  “I’m feeling left out.” Her friend, a shorter version of spandex-lady, chimed in with more teasing, until Helen finally flapped her hand at them, as if to say they were just “carrying on.”

  “Hey, raspberry girl.” The big woman pointed at me as if I were standing in a lineup. “I’m Leona and this is my runnin’ buddy Marilyn. Heard you’re out on the lake. Wondered if you’d like to joi
n a bunch of us gals and go bear-baiting?”

  “Is that a thing?” I asked.

  “Is it a thing? Yeah, it’s a big damn thing…in the garbage pits on the backside of the dump.”

  “Do the bears die?”

  “Do the bears die?” She snorted at my ignorance. “No, the bears don’t die! We haven’t even lost any people, although you could be the first. You just toss raw meat into the pit, and the bears come, and you get to see them up close, cuz they’re not paying attention to you.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you, and follow you in my car.” I spoke without thinking.

  “She doesn’t want to ride with us, Marilyn. Uff-da!” Leona expressed colloquial distaste.

  Helen came back up to the counter. “The woman has common sense. No one wants to ride with you!”

  “Nine o’clock tonight right here, and we’ll head out.” Leona jabbed my chest with her finger, and I felt like a butterfly being pinned to a specimen board.

  I don’t know why I accepted such a bizarre invitation from two total strangers. But my sexual energy was back up, making me restless and nervous, and bear-baiting sounded so horrible and at the same time a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something to regale people with in New York. Besides, Helen knew them, so it wasn’t like my voyage with Frank.

  * * *

  Leona and Marilyn were drunk when they screeched to a stop in front of the Muskie Market at nine p.m. I’d donned a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and wished Helen was working late so she’d be a witness to me leaving with them, in case I didn’t return. I waved to the duo out of my car window and tried to keep up as they careened down the highway, then took a sharp turn onto a gravel road that quickly became dirt. The dump was up ahead, ten miles north of town on another chain of lakes called Hammertoe.

  The signs as we neared the dump designated this the official TOWN OF MUSKIE DUMP SITE, and a huge iron gate marked the entrance. A vertical plank protruded from the ground with the dump hours painted on it, but no sign of animals or people. Aside from the big gates, there was no fence, so anyone could walk around the gate rather than go through it. Kind of like cabin locks, the gate didn’t seem serious. They might as well have posted a sign that said, PLEASE DON’T WALK AROUND THIS GATE, instead of the sign that said, STAY OUT. Perfect place to dump people you never want to hear from again.