Learning to Fall Page 15

  Jason stayed quiet, turning the rock over and over in his fingers, inspecting it carefully. Derek unclipped Jett from the cross ties. The rain had slowed and the only sound in the barn now was the clip-clop of Jett’s steel shoes over the concrete barn floor.

  “Ayurvedic yoga is the science of life. Just like this rock here, it didn’t come from thin air. It was formed by the wind, fire, and most importantly, the earth.” Jason tossed the small rock into the plastic manure bin next to him.

  “We need to work with both Jett and you, so that your mind, body, and spirit are in balance, one unit of thinking and being. The first shows are coming up soon, February at the latest, and it’s already November. That doesn’t give us much time.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “That’s what I’m saying—” I started, but Jason cut in.

  “You already know how to ride a course. I’ve seen the tapes and I watched you compete, remember?” He stood up straight, towering over me. He grabbed my elbow and led me toward the barn exit.

  “We need to teach Jett he can jump higher. He also has to get comfortable doing it at a faster pace since he’s a bit slow and clunky. For him, that means lots of flatwork, gymnastics, and low jumps. He needs to get his confidence up, his agility. Once that’s in place, we’ll be closer to the win.”

  “What about me?” We reached the end of the aisle, and he stood facing out at the sheet of pouring rain in front of us. We may as well have stood behind a waterfall.

  “Your technique is good—not much to fix, just little things. And your instincts are fast and sure. What we most need to fix is what’s up here.” He tapped his temple lightly, to demonstrate. “You understand?”

  “What’s wrong with my head?” I asked, on edge again, ready to pounce.

  “Nothing. It’s beautiful.” He smiled. I turned away in embarrassment. No one had ever called me beautiful. Cute. Nice. Friendly. But never beautiful.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow!” Jason pulled on his broad-rimmed hat and adjusted the collar of his dark oiled-canvas riding coat. Without another glance he stepped out into the rain, a brown and blue blur running across the parking lot.

  On a cold, rainy December morning, I sat on the phone pacifying the hay farmer up in Oregon when Jason dashed into my office. He held his notepad, a conversation already on his lips. I pointed to the receiver. He nodded, but instead of turning around, he came to sit at the edge of my desk, his foot tapping as he wrote something on the pad. The room instantly seemed smaller.

  The farmer asked if I was there.

  I squirmed in my chair. “Right here, Wes,” I said, nodding.

  “Now listen here. We all go down on hard times, and I’m not gonna tell you that you ain’t got a right to grieve and whatnot. Your dad was a good man and I liked him well.” He drew in a breath. “But I need a payment for the hay Joe dropped off in September. Otherwise, I can’t deliver no more. We got our own bills and we need to see you can pay before we ship.”

  I thanked God I didn’t have the farmer on speakerphone. I didn’t want Jason to be aware of our money problems. We needed the hay delivered this week.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll get that out as soon as I can,” I said, trying to sound nondescript. “Yes. Uh-huh. That’s right. That’ll go out today.” I tried to sound as professional as I could, attempting to get the farmer off the phone.

  After another minute of listening to Wes’s spiel, I laid the receiver down, took a steadying breath, and swiveled my chair to look at Jason. Jason still sat on my desk, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he flipped through the pages of his pad.

  “Time to go over our options—our schedule.” He tapped the pad with the end of his pen. “We need to decide the best shows for you to gain the most points in the fewest number of shows, while still qualifying you for the Cup. They require twenty points, and even though that’s a hefty amount, all you have to do is get in the top four at the three shows to get that.” He paused, and briefly eyed me before continuing, “I assume finances are to be considered, as we don’t have an unlimited budget to send you to all the shows.”

  Did he guess I’d been speaking to the farmer about our outstanding bill? And that I’d lied? That the check wouldn’t go out until after the first when I had more money in from the handful of boarders we still had. “Yes, that’s right.”

  But Jason continued talking about our options. I glanced at the point system for the Gold Cup: each first place at a qualifier earned twenty, a second earned fifteen, a third place earned five, and each fourth earned four points.

  “We can do it. That should be easy. All we need is one first place and we’re in.”

  Jason looked skeptical, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Good. Let’s make it happen.” He stood, but instead of walking away, he leaned in toward me, his hair falling into his face. His face was only a few inches away as he pointed out the West Coast League schedule. I breathed in his earthy smell while he talked.

  “Do you agree?” he asked. His intensity overwhelmed me. The best place for me to be around Jason was when I was riding Jett—a good four feet higher than him. Not on a yoga mat less than a foot away, nor with his face in mine.

  “What did you say?” I wanted to start this conversation over. Why hadn’t he come at another time, when I wasn’t distracted with the farmer?

  “A show at Thermal in February, one at Del Mar in April, a practice one at Spruce Meadows in July, then back to Spruce Meadows for the West Coast Gold Cup finals at the beginning of September. Three shows. And before that we need to sit down and review videos of the top riders. It always helps. Let’s set something up for next week.”

  I said it was a great plan. He nodded, smiled, and walked out.

  As soon as he was out of sight, with a shaky hand I wiped my face. “Please, don’t let me be wrong,” I said out loud. “Please, God, let us win.”

  A few days later, I pulled Jett’s tack off, then grabbed a dandy brush and using quick, hard strokes around the girth and saddle area, brushed at the sweat. Dried sweat would itch and look unsightly, like the stains around the brim of a cowboy hat. But I had to hurry since I had a date with Chris in downtown Devon, our first real outing in a couple of weeks. I couldn’t wait to see him. Time had gotten away from me while riding.

  “A mark of a crappy horseman,” Dad would have said. “Too wrapped up in himself to really care about the poor beast. And it’s thanks to them they even get to compete.” I used to get annoyed at him for following me around, double-checking that I’d groomed my ponies and horses properly, but of course he’d been right. He’d drilled into me the importance of horse care, a rider’s number one priority. The rider always came second.

  I used a soft body brush to smooth down Jett’s hair until it reflected the light from the fluorescent bulbs above. I moved in a trance, having done this more than a thousand times in my life. Grooming horses was meditative for me, like brushing my teeth, or going through the motions of folding laundry. I picked out Jett’s feet and pulled on his blanket for the night.

  On my way out of the tack room, I grabbed a couple of carrots out of the bucket. “You want one?” I asked Jett as I undid his cross ties. Our routine was familiar to him since he was a foal, and he was eager to get at my pocket where the carrots were. I pulled one out, broke off a piece, and laid it out for him on my palm. He nuzzled my hand with the penetrating and tough muscles of his lips, then pulled the piece of carrot into his mouth, crunching it. I saved the other pieces until I had him in his stall. Jett nodded his head up and down, radiating joy. He knew he had pleased me and he was proud of himself. I was proud of him too. It turned out I’d had nothing to worry about for today’s jumping lesson, our first time jumping higher. Jett had been perfect, rounding himself over every jump, picking up his feet, kicking up his hind legs. And jumping Grand Prix–level heights was more exhilarating than I ever remembered.

  “Soon. Soon we’ll get our chance,” I said as I slid his stall door shut. Jett turne
d toward his pile of hay, swishing his tail. I practically ran through the barn checking on the horses, then turned the barn lights off and shut the heavy barn doors.

  I jogged up the small hill toward the house. The air seemed extra crisp, tinged with dew, decaying leaves, and the acridity of the neighbor’s burning wood. The holidays were around the corner and yet we still had no plans. How lonely it all seemed. The yellow lights shone from the large windows, and I half-expected gray smoke to curl up from the chimney, but who was I kidding? Neither Mom nor I had bothered to get wood for the fireplace.

  The lights meant she was home, though. Frequently now I caught her cross-legged on the couch, writing in her notebooks. Sometimes I heard her up in the early hours of the morning. She’d been ignoring me, though. Punishing me for my decision. No matter how hard I tried not to let it bother me, I wished I had her support. Her backing. I was doing this for her. I was doing this for Dad. I was doing this for all of us.

  At The Lodge, the locals’ pick for an evening restaurant and bar, I scanned the parking lot for Chris’s Porsche and didn’t see it. Our reservation for the dining room would hold a few more minutes, one advantage in being a local. Even though it was called The Lodge, I doubted anyone had stayed overnight in the upstairs empty rooms in the last twenty years. It boasted about its reputation as a speakeasy in the 1930s, with photos of Jerri Feri, Frank Lanza, and Anthony Lima, local mobsters, garnishing the wood-paneled walls.

  The place was bustling with Friday night activity.

  Inside, I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of Chardonnay. A moment of guilt flitted, then disappeared. Jason had said no alcohol, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I took a slow sip and pulled out my cell from my purse to double-check the time. One voice mail from Chris.

  “Brynn. Something came up, and I won’t be able to make it. I feel terrible, and I’ll make it up to you soon. Sorry, love. I can’t get out of this—you know how it is, this crazy horse business. Call you later.” His voice, like always, was smooth, sexy.

  I took another sip of wine, and tried not to be disappointed. Tried not to allow the thought of Chris teaching pretty girls to fill my mind. This was the way our business worked, and I had to get used to it. I ordered an appetizer. When it arrived I reveled in the flavors of baked artichoke, tomato, glazed onion, and roasted garlic topped with crumbles of blue cheese. “As usual, Robert has outdone himself,” I said to Zach, the bartender, pulling out my wallet, then hesitated as I tried to remember which credit card still had an available balance. I hoped my cheeks weren’t turning red as I handed one to him. Luckily it went through.

  Since it was still early I decided to take a drive through town.

  I rarely had a chance to walk around the little cafes and shops that clustered Devon Creek’s main street anymore. Even with the short winter days, the street was full of life. Devon Creek was a small community, but its shops rivaled those of Tiburon or Sausalito. I preferred coming here, though. Fewer tourists, more charm.

  The old-fashioned iron lanterns cast yellow circles of light. People milled around the storefronts and sidewalks, teenagers laughed, older couples strolled hand-in-hand. I parked my car, then walked along Devon Street, gazing at the local art displays in the numerous galleries. You could find something here for even the most discriminating art maven—everything from the franchised Thomas Kinkade to contemporary artists specializing in aluminum sculptures or paintings of nudes. I couldn’t help smiling, overfilled with a sense of love for this small community.

  “Brynn?” A deep voice behind me called. Jason. I cringed internally. I wasn’t planning on seeing him tonight. The white of his T-shirt under his brown leather jacket contrasted against his olive skin.

  “Hey,” I said, attempting to be casual, and turned to the blown-glass display.

  “I didn’t recognize you with your hair down,” Jason said. “Or with anything but britches or yoga pants on.” One of his dark eyebrows lifted.

  I smoothed the front of my dress, wishing it were a bit longer. My hem stopped halfway down my thighs, shorter than I normally wore, but I had wanted to entice Chris. I pulled my trench coat around me, spinning away from him, almost tripping in my high-heeled boots.

  “I thought you were going out in San Francisco tonight,” I said.

  “My plans changed.”

  He stared at me. I had to look away. I had no idea why he unnerved me. He was just another guy. My trainer no less. “Out on a date?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” he said. “Getting to know the neighborhood. How about you?” He leaned against the entrance of the gallery, facing me. “Alone, walking the streets of Devon Creek. Is that safe?” He chuckled.

  “I’m enjoying a quiet evening out. In fact, I was just heading over to Patterson’s to get a cup of coffee.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I wanted to be alone, but at the same time I had a million things I needed to talk to him about: Jett, the upcoming shows, the schedule. So why shouldn’t he?

  We walked toward Patterson’s against a cold wind that had picked up. Jason moved a few inches closer. Outside Patterson’s, people sat in clusters at the mosaic-topped tables beneath heat lamps. It was a favorite hangout in Devon Creek, the perfect aprés date-night dessert and coffee spot, and it made me uncomfortable to bring Jason here. It felt too intimate. But the idea of a hot cappuccino won out. As we neared, a pretty brunette glided through the glass doors, her head pulled back as she laughed at something someone said to her. A blond man followed, his arm around her, tugging her closer, his hair falling over his face as he nuzzled her neck.

  I froze. Holy shit. Chris!

  I jumped to my right, flattening myself against the wall. Jason stopped too, staring at me. His gaze followed mine to the couple outside Patterson’s. I watched them make their way across the street, the blue of the woman’s dress and heels resembling the color of Chris’s new Porsche. The couple walked toward a silver SUV, with car seats in the back.

  Not Chris.

  Was I losing my mind? I rested my head back against the cool brick of the building.

  “Someone you know?” Jason asked.

  I didn’t answer, too embarrassed by my behavior.

  “Someone you don’t want to know?”

  I shook my head.

  “It was no one,” I said. “I . . . I . . .” I was an idiot.

  Jason nodded his head. He didn’t ask for an explanation.

  Jason held the door for me as we entered Patterson’s. The smell of waffle cones, ice cream, and espresso beans warmed me instantly. We found a small table at the back of the shop. His knees angled toward the center of the room, not fitting under the small table, while I crossed my ankles, tugging my dress as far as I could over the goose bumps on my thighs.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “A cappuccino, please.”

  He let an older couple ahead of him in line. They were probably in their seventies but held hands, as if they were on their first date, their age-spotted hands adorned with simple gold wedding bands.

  The honey-colored light cast a warm glow over the cafe. Jason brought our drinks over, his black tea and my cappuccino.

  “So why are you doing this?” I said.

  He gave me a confused stare. “What? Having tea?”

  “No. Not the tea. The training. Why are you training me?” I asked. “You must have so many options, all probably paying way more than what I can.”

  “I was curious.” He smiled.

  A tiny scar near his right eye, a shade whiter than the rest of his face, melded with his laugh lines. “Oh, come on. That’s not truly the case.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He smiled again.

  “I’d like it if you were honest with me,” I said. He stirred honey into his tea, his spoon making a whirlpool in his cup.

  “It’s good for me to be here,” he said. “My sister needs me.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Her
daughter. Eve.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “She has AML. Acute myeloid leukemia.”

  My heart stuttered. Arrhythmia, I thought, the vet school training automatic. “I’m so sorry. How old is she?”

  “Three.” He peered into his large mug.

  My throat clenched at the thought of a child so young, yet so sick.

  “They’re alone. Her husband’s in the reserves. Got called up two years ago, and hasn’t been home for two months straight since. My mother would normally help, but she passed away years ago, before Eve was even born.” He seemed to flinch a bit, his eyes briefly scrunched. “Currently Eve’s in the hospital, and Ashley, my sister, stays with her as much as possible. I relieve her so we take turns. She’s gone through chemotherapy, radiation, blood transfusions, you name it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. I rested my fingers lightly on his. The touch seemed to startle him.

  “She’s my little sister, and Eve’s my only niece. Plus, there’s no one else.”

  I nodded.

  “Ashley had a job, but with all the medical care Eve has needed, well even with family leave”—he paused, running a hand through his hair—“she got laid off. Was told they were restructuring, but I think that’s all an excuse. She’s trying to make it work just off of Tyler’s salary, but”—his voice trailed—“you know how that goes.” He ran his thumb along the edge of his cup. “Anyway, Ian calling was a blessing in disguise. Eve was diagnosed the same week I got Ian’s call. She’s been hospitalized since.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again. I picked up the teaspoon and swirled it around in the thick foam, mixing in the dark chocolate flakes.

  “What about your father?”

  A shadow seemed to cross his face, and if he had flinched before, the look now held something much darker, more fierce.

  “I haven’t seen him since I was nine.” Jason cleared his throat, took a sip of his tea, then his face went blank again. “What about you?” he asked. “Why are you doing this?”