At seventeen, Hannah was spotted in Middleburg at a horse event by a scout for the Wilhelmina modeling agency. One look at the coltish, leggy blonde who moved with the grace and light feet of a dressage horse, and he signed her for his agency. Hannah looked at the shiny city and alluring offerings and left for New York City with surprising ease. She was a young, beautiful girl, suddenly the envy of her friends. Her career took off from the gate and she never looked back.
Not until twenty years later when she married business tycoon Randall. He was a good man, twenty years her senior. After a lifetime of being a single career woman, for her Randall had been the right man at the right time. Hannah had turned forty, her career was waning, and in truth, she’d been bored with modeling for some time. Suddenly she found herself free from the burdens of a career and earning a living. For the first time in her life she had the time and the money to return seriously to the equestrian world—and this time she could buy her own horse. Looking back, her marriage had been a good chapter in her life. And though her marriage had ended, her love of horses raged on.
Horses. She smiled. They enhanced her life. Hannah felt the breeze ruffle her hair as she looked out at the fields dotted with horses. She loved the noble beasts. Yet, she knew, they did not fulfill it. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Angel slept on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, dark stubble on his chin, his legs bent in the cramped space. He looked sexy even while asleep. A soft snore sounded from his slightly open, full lips. Hannah sighed. She did not know if Angel fulfilled her either.
The paved country road changed suddenly and without warning to dirt and gravel. Hannah slowed and focused on the road as her GPS announced that her destination was approaching. She squinted in the dimmed light of the thick canopy of trees and slowed further. Max sat up again, alert, sensing that the car was coming to a stop.
The entrance to Freehold was simply marked: a stone and wood gate and a plain black mailbox. Hannah thought she could have found the place without GPS. Grace always did things with a quiet elegance.
She smoothed her hair and added a bit of lip gloss. Grace Phillips had a condo in Palm Beach and took four weeks every year to bask in the sun and catch up on her reading while Charles pursued jumping at the equestrian center. “Pure indulgence,” Grace called it, but everyone who knew her knew that it was an important time for her to recharge her batteries. Hannah had met her at one of the many equestrian season parties in Wellington. Grace had taken an immediate interest in Hannah’s makeup company. Grace had been, in fact, one of her first financial backers. But their primary connection had been friendship. Grace had a daring streak in her that matched Hannah’s own. They both loved a good glass of wine and a spontaneous laugh. Hannah felt a sudden excitement to see her friend.
“Javi!” Hannah called out. She reached back to jostle his arm. “Javi, wake up. We’re here.”
* * *
August 20, 6:00 p.m.
Freehold Farm, Tryon, North Carolina
Grace Phillips was a maestro leading a symphony. On the dining room table were four clear glass vases of various shapes and sizes filled with flowers she had arranged, one for each of the two guest cottages, one for Moira’s bedroom, and one for her dining table. She’d overseen the thorough cleaning of all the houses, fresh linens on the beds, pantries stocked, and both red and white bottles of wine on the counters along with baskets of fruit. Out in the barn, additional feed, hay, and supplies were being unloaded.
She stood in front of her substantial Viking stove, a large Le Creuset pot simmering. She glanced at the kitchen wall clock. Six o’clock already! She felt a flutter of anticipation. Her guests should begin arriving anytime. She’d seen reports on television of how traffic on the interstate was a parking lot, with many drivers taking alternate routes. It was impossible to plan with any surety when they’d all arrive. She kept checking her phones, but no one had texted. It was frustrating for Grace, who liked her dinners to flow seamlessly.
She had decided on a meal that could be served impromptu. It was her favorite recipe, a no-fail concoction that she’d finessed over the years. She picked up a wooden spoon and gave the beef bourguignon a good stirring, releasing the scents of browned filet of beef, chunks of garlic, and seasonings.
It was a large kitchen, filled with sunshine gleaming off all the latest appliances and long lengths of marble counters. Grace loved to cook and spent a lot of time in her kitchen. Still, she was a multitasker and liked to know what was going on in her house and the world, so she’d designed a large open wall over her stove through which she could oversee the family room and the large television. Charles called it her “command module.” Today the television was tuned to the weather station. Outside the windows the sun shone in a cerulean sky. But on the TV the perpetual drone of the voices of meteorologists reporting on the storm created an undercurrent of tension.
The house had the elegant aura and comfort of an old home, with its tapestries, velvets, and oriental rugs—and all the advantages of newer construction: central heating, efficient plumbing, a bathroom for each bedroom, and the expansive, modern kitchen Grace called the heart of the home.
The rear of the kitchen had large, paned windows overlooking the garden, lush with mature boxwoods, hydrangeas, and perennials. It was a small, neat park bordered by a fence that kept her small terrier in and the deer out. Beyond the iron fence was a thick forest, the branches of the trees screening the small lake on the other side from view. The recent addition was a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Grace had had it built for Charles after his terrible accident two years earlier. The rest of the farm’s seventy-five acres was fenced rolling pastures.
Grace gave the stew another stir, then reached for the bottle of burgundy and poured the entire contents into the stew.
“I hope you saved a glass for me,” Charles said, entering the room.
Grace looked up and smiled, even as her sharp eyes swept over the sheen of sweat on his face and his slight limp.
Charles approached, one of his thick, graying brows rising over his pale-blue eyes. He picked up the empty wine bottle from the counter. “That was a damn good bottle of wine for stew.”
Grace offered her cheek for a kiss. He smelled of leathery sweat and horse feed, a scent she’d fallen in love with when she met him at a hunt a little more than thirty years earlier. Charles came from an equestrian family. Though they both enjoyed riding and Grace was an avid hunter, Charles was the true equestrian. He had neared the exalted Grand Prix level of show jumping before the terrible fall that had broken not only his bones but his spirit.
He didn’t have to tell her that he’d worked himself to a lather in the barn getting all in readiness for the arrival of the famous visiting horses. Although Charles no longer rode, his devotion to horses had not dimmed. He worked in the barn as hard as his stable hand, José, taking care of the animals he loved. He was a natural horseman and treated each horse with both affection and respect. His willingness to give his time and effort without any expectation of reward or praise in a field that was fiercely competitive was the quality that she loved most about him. She found him noble and worthy of her devotion.
“Julia Child said one should only cook with wine that one would drink.” Grace grabbed a wooden spoon, then ladled a steaming spoonful of the simmering beef bourguignon. After blowing on it, she raised it to her lips, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. This is good.” She offered him a taste. Charles stepped forward and helped himself. His eyes met hers.