“I haven’t—I really don’t know,” he said.
“The bind you’ve put us all in, I bet you’d like to run away. But I suppose you’d hoped all that had slipped through this rusty sieve.” She tapped her temple. “You’re not wrong. I did spend a day mourning your death.”
Inside, Sonja was stacking dishes. “That might have been better,” Gus said.
“Don’t be falsely bashful with me, Gus.” Carlotta rocked the swing ever so slightly, sending a stab of pain into his hip. “You’re here to say your piece. It’s taken you long enough.”
“I am sorry,” he said, “for the mess of all of this.” Sonja went still, listening.
Carlotta put her hand to his leg, an eerily light touch. He couldn’t help but hope that one of the hidden doors in her mind was swinging open, that he could be Will again. “Of course,” she said then. “Jorge isn’t blameless,” she said this over her shoulder, directing it toward Sonja. “Every man makes his own choices. Most reliable help I ever had, that man. What was the boy’s name?”
Gus had not said it before, not out loud. “Charles Price.” He saw the flash of his hair.
“Yes, I read that somewhere,” Carlotta said. A dragonfly was hovering above the railing of the porch and she gestured at it. “Those bugs can see three hundred and sixty degrees. All the way around themselves. If I come back, it’ll be as that bug. Hindsight, foresight, sideways sight.” She leaned into him, like a schoolgirl sharing a secret. “It’s Robin Sharpe who turned out to be worth her salt. Didn’t see that coming, did you?”
“No,” Gus said. “I suppose. She’s capable enough—”
“Aha. So you’re giving up, then?”
He had been ambitious once. He was tired now. “No,” Gus said. “Quite the opposite.” In the kitchen, Sonja cleared her throat. “I came for your advice.”
“Stop,” Carlotta barked. “Is that what we’re calling money now? Advice?”
The dragonfly lifted from the railing, a helicopter from a battlefield. “It’s not like that,” Gus tried, sincerity eluding him.
“You’re going to have to go back to work, Gus. Reassert yourself. You’ve still got something to teach those kids. Maybe you better talk to your sister. Like you tried before—”
It had been a decade since Gus had asked Carlotta to let him start a breeding shed at Leaning Rock, suggesting they have Joy come in to consult, but—“You said it was too risky.”
“Ah, that’s your weakness, Gus: You back down too easy. You’re like an insecure Clydesdale. It makes you lazy and on your worst days, it makes you dangerous. Get back to work already.”
His ears were full of a tinny ringing, as if she’d struck him. “I can’t ride.”
“That’s got nothing to do with anything.” She made a frustrated motion. “You know horses. Besides, I’ve seen the books and you’ve been skating. Of course you need money. We all need money.” She looked down at her sneakers. “Prove me right about you, Gus. I’d like to be right about bloody something.”
* * *
“HE’S SUCH A crybaby,” June said, meaning Wade.
She was talking to Rory through the crack between their stalls, both of them looking at Preston Fisk, who was standing outside Journey’s stall on the other side of the walkway. He had arrived in Fresno right after breakfast, which meant he must have left L.A. at 4:00 a.m., a fact that added to the chilly, urgent air about him.
“Of course he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to come here for Wade,” June said. “And not even Wade, really. He’s only here because to him that horse is a four-legged pile of cash.”
Wade and Tomás were in the stall, tending the wound that Cosmo had left in Journey’s side the day before. It was clear, in his tailored suit, that Preston Fisk had once played competitive sports.
Rory was trying to read Robin’s lips. “Do you think she’s blaming me?” Rory whispered.
“You mean because your mare is one hot mama who makes all the stallions go wild?”
“I’m serious,” Rory said. “I never would have brought her up by the ring if I’d—”
“If you’d known what Robin should have realized. She’s the trainer, Rory. It would only make her look bad to blame you. Besides, that’s horses—shit happens.” This was something Gus always said and June’s saying it now felt like a kindness, but also true. It wasn’t her fault, not completely.
* * *
The cross-country course in Fresno consisted of twenty-four fences over three miles of uneven, rolling terrain; grass to sand to leaf-littered woods. Their running order was the opposite of the day before: Wade up first, then June, then Rory. Rory waited for Wade and June to leave for the warm-up ring and then steered Chap to the peak of a hill that looked out over the first six fences, hoping that watching a few other runs would inspire both of them. The first was a girl on a long-legged bay gelding, whose big round stride covered ground as seamlessly as wheels. As they turned toward the water obstacle Rory could see the pair was out of Adler’s barn—the kelly green HR insignia on the saddle pad, Heritage Ranch. The girl was a small, tight fit atop the bay, bouncing like a spring up and over each fence, and she took the embankment without any hesitation, relaxing her hold on the reins and inviting the bay’s drop into the muddy water. Just like that, Rory thought. She watched each ride as if through her camera’s lens, looking for the nearly imperceptible shifts in their bodies. Chap pawed the ground, growing eager. The announcer called Wade Fisk to the starting box and the countdown to his run began: 10, 9, 8. Chap pricked her ears, and with her calves, Rory said, Not yet. 3, 2, 1. She checked her watch so she could track Wade’s speed, then swung her leg forward, reaching down to tighten Chap’s girth.
Someone was yelling. It was Robin’s voice. “Get back on!”
Wade was on the ground in front of the falling trees oxer, fence three. Journey’s nostrils were flared, a spooked horse, empty stirrups swinging at his sides. Shit. Rory scanned the spectators, finding Preston Fisk. His expression was stony, unreadable. Wade had his whip in his hand, and he struck his boot with it, Journey’s head jerking back, startled by the sound. Rory flashed on Carlotta, the time she’d dismounted one of her horses and started whipping it, repeatedly, lashing the air, until its legs were braided with blood. That was the day they’d known she wasn’t well enough to work horses anymore. Breathe, Rory thought. In her better days, Carlotta had always told them to breathe in unison with their horses, to try to sync up their heartbeats.
There was low applause from the crowd as Wade remounted.
He steered Journey around and picked up a canter, standing in his stirrups, then dropping down to his saddle abruptly, as if he could launch Journey up and over the fence. Rory knew then that Journey would refuse again. Journey came from a long line of winning sport horses, never having to prove himself, to grow bigger or try harder, a tin man of a horse, an echo chamber for Wade’s bravado. On the third approach to the fence, Rory watched Preston Fisk, seeing his shoulders lift ever so slightly, trying to hoist his son up and over the oxer with his will, and then the twitch of defeat when it didn’t work. Preston adjusted his shirt cuffs and walked away. This third refusal meant elimination. Rory watched Wade dismount and leave Journey on the course, discarding him. It was Tomás who jogged out to retrieve him while the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this heat continues to make even our top contenders lose their cool.”
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?” Robin asked, as Rory trotted into the warm-up ring.
She had only ten minutes to get Chap limber. June was already in the starting box, a single-minded look on her face.
“You’ve got this,” Rory called to her.
“If you’ve been hiding, avoiding Wade and his dad, don’t give it another thought. I can handle Preston Fisk,” Robin said.
Rory looked down at her. “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind,” Robin barked. “Get moving. You’re all falling ap
art on me.”
Rory got in a dozen sprints up and down the warm-up ring. The mare was loosened up, even playful. Rory heard June’s score come over the loudspeaker: clean over all the fences, and fast.
“Don’t be afraid to use those spurs,” Robin said, steering Chap into the starting box. “Now we know why she’s been so dull, so get after her, you hear me?” Rory felt the spurs on her heels, but she was sure she wasn’t going to need them. Robin smacked Chap’s haunches and the mare swung in, bobbing her head against the bit, her hooves prancing in place.
“Ten, nine, eight,” the announcer started. Rory ran a hand down Chap’s neck, feeling the roiling muscle of her.
“June’s moved up with Wade out,” Robin said. “No harm in giving her a run.”
“Five, four, three, two,” Everything went silent, Rory hearing only the beat of her own and Chaparral’s hearts. “One.”
The two of them leapt onto the open green.
Fences one and two were an easy opening combination. And now, fifteen strides out from the falling trees oxer, Rory realized she’d never started her stopwatch. She wouldn’t know her pace, except to sense it, but she was up and over the oxer now and she had a long clear run of the field ahead. She got up in her half seat and brought her whip around, cocking it like a jockey does. She’d never laid a whip to Chap like that, never would, but just having it there created a new current of electricity between them. She gathered the mare up for the ditch and palisade—up and clear—then let her out again. Hooves and pulse and wind. At the embankment into the water, Rory remembered the golden stitching of the HR rider, the poise of her seat, and then she was her, sitting deep into her saddle, letting Chap take control of the bit before leaping into the water as easy as a kid to a puddle, the cool of the water spraying up, the hit of swampy stink riding on with them. Chap had never run so fast or jumped so neatly. This was months of galloping in the hills paying off, of secretly jumping her over fallen logs, of trusting one another. Chap jumped higher out here, an arc to her back that Rory levitated above ever so briefly, finding the balls of her feet against the stirrups, her thighs holding on. She scarcely touched the reins and just after the angled combination, her crop fell away. Jump, land, gallop, jump, land, fly. It might not be so easy in the ring tomorrow, but now, she was galloping through the finish line, knowing she had zero faults. Easing Chap back into a trot, she stood in her stirrups, listening for her final time over the loudspeaker: she’d been five seconds faster than June.
Robin came running down the hill, pumping her hands in the air. “I knew, I knew,” she was shouting. “I knew you had it in you.”
“I forgot to start my watch,” Rory said.
Robin was jogging to stay beside her and Chap. “You didn’t need it.” She laughed. Chap shook and froth flew from her lips. June was coming toward them on Pal. “She’s in first,” Robin said. “She’s pleased. But you should be, too. Do you want to know where that run put you?”
Rory shrugged. “Of course.”
“That was impressive,” June said, catching them. Pal’s sweat was dried to his coat, crisp and white. “You’ve moved into fifth.”
Robin patted Rory’s leg. “How about that?” She was in the ribbons. She’d have a ribbon to bring home to Gus, so long as Chap didn’t take any rails down the next day.
“What about Journey? Is he okay?” Rory asked.
“Vet checked him,” Robin said. “He’s sound, wasn’t that. It’ll all be fine.”
“I should say something,” Rory said. “I still feel bad.”
“Nah, don’t bother,” June said. “Daddy’s taking him over to meet Mark Adler.”
* * *
VIVIAN WAS STRETCHED out on a towel beside the pool. She’d looked so pale in that picture with Wade. She dropped a straw into the papaya-seltzer-vodka spritzer she’d managed to mix between dinner with Everett and Carmen’s cleaning up.
“You’re going to burn,” Everett said. He’d sat down at the table, under the umbrella, his Watchman TV blaring while he fiddled with the channels.
“That’s the point.”
She’d stopped thinking of him as Daddy. He was more like a cousin. Cousin Everett. A distant relative who’d gotten stranded here and grown too comfortable after some snafu in his travel arrangements.
“Maybe we should get a tanning bed,” he said, settling on the primal ranting of the nightly news (what to dread, who to fear, and the weather never changes!).
Vivian closed her eyes. “Yes, let’s buy a tanning bed. It’ll be like living in Los Angeles.”
“Oh, I see. Very funny.”
Howard Stern had been fired and an abortion doctor had been shot in Wichita, Kansas. Vivian couldn’t stand it. “Everett,” she said, hoping to move him inside. “When will you go see Mommy again?”
“It’s only been a week.”
“More than two.”
“I’ll go. I’ll go soon.” He leaned toward the tiny screen. “Are you hearing this?” NASA had lost communication with the Mars Observer. Vivian rolled over and opened her magazine again. “You like him?” Everett asked. “Wade?”
He wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t really care. Why ask at all? “Yeah,” she said. “I like him enough.”
Though she wasn’t thinking about Wade so much as Theodore LaGrange. Years ago, she’d talked Teddy into driving her up to the lake cabin Everett had bought in Big Bear, telling her parents she was spending the night at a friend’s. Everyone called Theodore Teddy. Big Teddy Bear, she’d growled at him, pulling the fur rug around them. She’d run her hand over the fur, then onto Teddy, his breath minty with schnapps. They were on swim team together. She was fourteen then and he was seventeen and so frustratingly nice, never trying to take off her shirt, holding her all night long. She’d talked him back to Big Bear a second time, but then they couldn’t stay, couldn’t even go inside because Everett’s BMW was already there when they arrived, the lights inside dimmed, smoke coming from the chimney. “My dad,” she said to Teddy, realizing her father wasn’t alone and that he wasn’t with Mommy either. Like a boulder rolling from the hillside and dropping to the road in front of her, an impasse, crushing whatever innocence had lingered. Teddy drove them back the long way, around the lake, with a consoling hand on her knee. At the first turnout, she’d insisted he stop, and she’d found her way onto his lap, losing her virginity this way, alongside the reflection of the moon and its ladder of light on the surface of the otherwise pitch-black water.
“That’s good,” Cousin Everett said. “He seems cute enough.”
“He rides horses,” Vivian said.
“Oh, really?” He still wasn’t listening.
“Up here,” Vivian said. “Up the road.” It had been one of the first things Wade had told her. That he knew Jorge Flores, though he’d not called him by his name. Saying that, knowing him, the man who killed her brother, made him feel particularly—how had he said it, connected to what had happened. That he’d needed to tell her, in person, just how sorry he was, that if he’d known about him drinking at work—she’d gone ahead and kissed him then, wanting to taste his pity. Wanting a repository for her anger. That Mexican … that was how he’d referred to Jorge Flores. She dropped her sunglasses down on her nose so Cousin Everett would feel her stare. “It’s probably why he’s so good in bed.”
Before Cousin Everett could speak—his face had bloomed a primary red—the phone started ringing inside. A muffled, buried ring, a cry for help from beneath the avalanche of rubbish he’d brought home. Vivian strode inside, navigating the three blue armchairs, the clutter of lamps and collectible (?!) clocks, the topographical map of the Hawaiian islands that sat inside a cracked frame, behind which was the ringing replacement for the other portable (x marks the spot), and answered in a high note of fake pleasantry, “Price residence. A small faction of us is still operating in reality. How may I help you?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Sarah Price’s doctor.” This was a nurse from Cliffsid
e who’d not yet dipped into the meds, such was the speed and agitation in her voice. “We’re calling to check how Mrs. Price is adjusting? Because it says here that she missed her required post-discharge appointment. We do not take—”
“I’m sorry?” Vivian asked. “What did you say?”
“Who am I speaking with? May I speak with Mr. Price, please?”
“This is a joke,” Vivian said, stepping outside again and handing the phone to Everett.
“This is Everett Price,” he said, his eyes questioning Vivian.
She was picturing Mommy just beyond the gates, standing there, locked out.
“Post-discharge?” Daddy asked, then repeated the question with varying deliveries. Then a litany of expletives. Then threats.
Vivian made her way back through the house, to the front doors, opening them to emptiness—the same warm air as by the pool, the white noise of distant traffic. The fountain grasses shifted in their pots. She opened the gates onto the road, just as a car was passing, its music trailing behind.
Ever since the accident, Mommy’s BMW had been left alongside the outer wall, right where she had parked it earlier that day.
Out back, Cousin Everett’s litany peaked in an exclamation of “Son of a bitch!”
Vivian looked in the car windows: an empty handbasket from the local market beside Charlie’s car seat, a pacifier dropped to the floor. All still sealed within, a time capsule. As if there were any going back. As if Mommy hadn’t already told her she wasn’t coming home.
* * *
RORY WAS WATCHING the red bars of the motel clock shudder over—10:12 to 10:13—when someone knocked on the door. She had torn the picture of Vivian and Wade from the Entertainment Weekly, throwing the rest of it away. She slid the picture into the drawer of the bedside table before undoing the latch. She assumed Robin had locked herself out, but there was June, in her nightgown and a short matching pink silk robe. She was bouncing on her toes, the motel pool lit up and steaming behind her. “I found pot,” she said, then checked the balcony above for eavesdroppers. She’d been asking around all weekend, unwilling to travel so far with weed in the car. “Come on,” she said, and took Rory by the wrist.
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