misgivings about their relationship, Luis has been a wonderful influence. I should have known it was too good to last.
At eleven o’clock, Mutti rises from the table, takes Eva’s dish to the counter, and puts plastic wrap over it. Harriet follows hopefully, but after Mutti puts the plate in the fridge, she sighs and collapses to the floor. Fortunately, her legs are short and she doesn’t have far to fall.
Mutti turns to me and rubs her hands in front of her. “Well, I’m turning in. And so should that girl of yours. It’s a school night.”
I’m still sitting at the table, working on my second glass of wine. “I’m headed out in a minute. I’ll send her in. Good night, Mutti.”
“Good night, Schatzlein. ”
When she disappears into the hallway, Harriet rises immediately and follows.
“Good night, Harriet,” I call out as she scrabbles around the corner. I stare after my fickle dog, listening as her toenails click up the staircase. I sigh, put my wineglass in the dishwasher, and head out to the stable.
When I first started sleeping there, Harriet automatically came with me. After a month or so, she started spending the occasional night with Mutti. Now she spends virtually every night in my mother’s room. I liketo think she’s only making a statement about being forced to take a cold, dark walk last thing at night. But still, she’s my dog, and dogs are supposed to be faithful.
I crunch my way toward the stable, which looms like a sleeping giant at the bottom of the long graveled drive. I stick my hands deep in my pockets and hurry, puffing like a steam engine.
When I get there, I slip inside and follow the only light in the building.
Eva has Flicka, her two-year-old Arabian filly, in the cross-ties. Flicka’s long winter coat is spotless, a glossy jet black, the result of regular and thorough grooming. Eva is finishing up, pulling Flicka’s long tail off to the side, catching up a section with the brush, running through it, and then letting it fall. I see a flash of metal handle, and lean forward, squinting.
Eva is using my hairbrush—my forty-dollar, ionically charged hairbrush—to detangle her horse’s tail.
Chapter 5
“Lean further back, Jenna. Further. Good. But don’t stick your feet out in front of you,” I say, walking a small circle in the center of the arena as my student thunders around the perimeter on Tazz, who is quite possibly the most patient school horse ever put on this earth.
Jenna is a middle-aged mom who took up riding again after a twenty-year lull, like I did. Perhaps because of this coincidence, I feel an unusual affinity toward her. She is cantering for the first time since she was nineteen, and is scared out of her wits, holding on to the pommel and leaning so that her center of gravity is in her upper body instead of her seat. This causes her to bounce out of the saddle with each stride and then reunite with it so violently it’s painful to watch.
“Okay, good, now bring him back to a posting trot,” I say, for the sake of both Tazz’s spine and Jenna’s rear. “Good. Only sit a beat, because you’re on the wrong diagonal…One beat, Jenna. Not two. Try again…Good. Now you’ve got it. Cross at B and change directions…Sit one beat right in the center. Good. And again, at E. ”
Her riding is more than rusty, by which I mean that I don’t think the hiatus is responsible for the way she rides. I believe this is probably the level she was riding at before she quit, and that’s fine with me. When we hired Joan, I made a conscious decision to take the students who were doing this for pleasure and to leave the competition-minded ones for her.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and flick it open, scanning the glowing blue display. It’s Mutti, calling from the house.
“Jenna, keep doing figure eights. Sit one beat right in the center when you change directions. I’ll be right with you.” I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mutti.
At eleven o’clock, Mutti rises from the table, takes Eva’s dish to the counter, and puts plastic wrap over it. Harriet follows hopefully, but after Mutti puts the plate in the fridge, she sighs and collapses to the floor. Fortunately, her legs are short and she doesn’t have far to fall.
Mutti turns to me and rubs her hands in front of her. “Well, I’m turning in. And so should that girl of yours. It’s a school night.”
I’m still sitting at the table, working on my second glass of wine. “I’m headed out in a minute. I’ll send her in. Good night, Mutti.”
“Good night, Schatzlein. ”
When she disappears into the hallway, Harriet rises immediately and follows.
“Good night, Harriet,” I call out as she scrabbles around the corner. I stare after my fickle dog, listening as her toenails click up the staircase. I sigh, put my wineglass in the dishwasher, and head out to the stable.
When I first started sleeping there, Harriet automatically came with me. After a month or so, she started spending the occasional night with Mutti. Now she spends virtually every night in my mother’s room. I liketo think she’s only making a statement about being forced to take a cold, dark walk last thing at night. But still, she’s my dog, and dogs are supposed to be faithful.
I crunch my way toward the stable, which looms like a sleeping giant at the bottom of the long graveled drive. I stick my hands deep in my pockets and hurry, puffing like a steam engine.
When I get there, I slip inside and follow the only light in the building.
Eva has Flicka, her two-year-old Arabian filly, in the cross-ties. Flicka’s long winter coat is spotless, a glossy jet black, the result of regular and thorough grooming. Eva is finishing up, pulling Flicka’s long tail off to the side, catching up a section with the brush, running through it, and then letting it fall. I see a flash of metal handle, and lean forward, squinting.
Eva is using my hairbrush—my forty-dollar, ionically charged hairbrush—to detangle her horse’s tail.
Chapter 5
“Lean further back, Jenna. Further. Good. But don’t stick your feet out in front of you,” I say, walking a small circle in the center of the arena as my student thunders around the perimeter on Tazz, who is quite possibly the most patient school horse ever put on this earth.
Jenna is a middle-aged mom who took up riding again after a twenty-year lull, like I did. Perhaps because of this coincidence, I feel an unusual affinity toward her. She is cantering for the first time since she was nineteen, and is scared out of her wits, holding on to the pommel and leaning so that her center of gravity is in her upper body instead of her seat. This causes her to bounce out of the saddle with each stride and then reunite with it so violently it’s painful to watch.
“Okay, good, now bring him back to a posting trot,” I say, for the sake of both Tazz’s spine and Jenna’s rear. “Good. Only sit a beat, because you’re on the wrong diagonal…One beat, Jenna. Not two. Try again…Good. Now you’ve got it. Cross at B and change directions…Sit one beat right in the center. Good. And again, at E. ”
Her riding is more than rusty, by which I mean that I don’t think the hiatus is responsible for the way she rides. I believe this is probably the level she was riding at before she quit, and that’s fine with me. When we hired Joan, I made a conscious decision to take the students who were doing this for pleasure and to leave the competition-minded ones for her.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and flick it open, scanning the glowing blue display. It’s Mutti, calling from the house.
“Jenna, keep doing figure eights. Sit one beat right in the center when you change directions. I’ll be right with you.” I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mutti.
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