A sudden gust of wind swirled and stirred the dust, causing it to spiral high in the air as around them leaves were torn from branches and sent scattering across the grass. The horses retreated into their stalls while the humans raised hands over their eyes, blinking hard.
Looking skyward, Charles saw the low-lying clouds moving in from the southeast across a crimson sky. That stallion wasn’t the only thing getting stirred up, he thought. The wind was a reminder of why they were all congregating here. That storm was coming. The horses were settled. Now it was time to take care of the people.
“Let’s all go inside for a drink and some dinner,” he called to the group. Then, taking Gerta’s elbow, he led his guests back up the winding road to the house.
SIX
August 20, 9:15 p.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
Hurricane Noelle pummels Caribbean islands
The delicious scents of garlic and simmering beef bourguignon welcomed the guests into the house. Grace closed the door on the deepening hush of twilight. Inside, candles flickered on the long, damask-draped table like early stars.
An hour later, Grace leaned back in her chair, wineglass in her hand, and gazed around her table. Through the comfortable haze of wine and good food, the white flowers seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. Yet though her guests were sated, they were anything but relaxed. The conversation had been awkward and stilted throughout dinner. When she’d agreed to let them come, she’d had concerns whether her friends, who for the most part didn’t know one another, would get along.
Charles sat opposite her at the head of the table. He and Angel at his left were engaged in earnest discussion. Well, mostly Charles was listening and Angel was talking in his exuberant, hands-in-the-air style.
At her left, Karl was leaning toward Elise. They talked heatedly, heads bent. They could be an advertisement for a picture-perfect German couple, she thought, with their blond hair and blue eyes. And they had so much in common: their culture, language, love of horses—one in particular. But all they did was continually, annoyingly snipe at each other.
Hannah sat between Angel and Gerta, circling her wineglass with her finger. She seemed to be listening to Angel’s conversation, but not participating. Grace watched and wondered what Hannah’s position was on the sale of Butterhead. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to her friend yet.
She shifted her gaze to the friend sitting at her right. Gerta too sat with one elbow on the table and her long, slender fingers folded near her chin. She looked out under lids at half-mast with an air of elegant ennui. It was a disappointment to Grace that her two friends didn’t get along. Hannah and Gerta were polite when they were together and she didn’t sense animosity between them. Rather, they didn’t have much to say to each other. Looking at Gerta’s plate, Grace saw that she’d not touched her dinner.
Grace leaned closer. “Are you all right?”
Gerta turned her head and a faint smile crossed her face. “It’s my leg. The drive was, perhaps, too long. I’m afraid I’ll have to pay the piper.”
Grace could see the pain reflected in her expression and felt awash in embarrassment. She should’ve known Gerta would be tired. She was failing as a hostess . . . a friend. But in truth, she often forgot that Gerta had lost her leg. She puffed out a plume of air. Well, of course she didn’t forget, not really. But Gerta camouflaged her injury so well, like a wounded wild bird that would spend its last breath trying to look healthy. Gerta was a determined, dynamic woman, one who wielded strong opinions. A woman of influence. And she always wore pants to cover her prosthesis. Seeing Gerta, one never thought of her as handicapped. Grace smiled ruefully. And, of course, wasn’t that the point? Gerta would never let others know that after twenty-five years using a prosthesis, she still suffered.
Grace folded her napkin and placed it on the table, ready to rise and bring the dinner to a close. “It’s time for you to go to bed.”
Gerta placed her hand on Grace’s, stilling her. “One moment. I want to hear how this ends.” She nodded discreetly toward Charles and Angel. “I think your husband is being sold a horse.”
Grace grimaced and darted her gaze back to Charles. Of course Gerta would not be sitting idly by. She was hawking the conversation, feigning disinterest. Hannah too, Grace noted, was leaning toward the two men. Grace was mildly irked at herself for being so oblivious. Like the other two women, she leaned forward in her seat to hear better. Grace groaned inwardly. Sure enough, they were talking about Butterhead.
“The sad truth, my friend,” Charles said in a gentle voice, “is that my jumping days are over. Once upon a time, I’d have jumped at the chance for a horse like Butterhead. Pun intended.” He shrugged slightly. “But I’m not looking for a jumper.”
“Butterhead is a superstar jumper, this is true,” Angel conceded. “But she is older and doesn’t want”—he made a sigh of concession—“or can’t take the high jumps any longer. She knows this and it hurts her.” He fisted his chest. “She’s proud, eh? But Butterhead also knows dressage. The fundamentals of any riding discipline comes from dressage, no?” He spread out his hands. “Butterhead will be able to transition into dressage so smoothly you would think it had been her first profession.”
“Oh, please. . . .” Gerta’s voice rose over the table. Everyone swung their heads around to look at her. “You make it sound so simple.”
Angel cocked his head, surprised that she had joined their conversation. Then he smiled. “Because it is simple.”
Gerta lowered her hand to rest on the table. Her multi-carat diamond caught the light. “You simply will not have the necessary support in the saddle unless the rider is able to sit properly balanced.”
Angel scoffed, “There are different saddles, of course.”
“Saddles are the least of it. Switching disciplines is much more than a change in tack. It requires a change in a rider’s seat and aids. Switching can leave even the most experienced rider feeling as if he is learning to ride all over again.”
Angel leaned back in his chair and slid an arm along the back in an insolently relaxed manner. “But any beginner”—he nodded toward Charles—“must learn all this on any horse he rides, correct?” He paused and moved again to place his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “And Butterhead is not just any horse.” His eyes gleamed. “She is one of those rare, superb athletes that has had great training. She will take care of the rider. And a rider can expect that this horse will maintain the highest standards.” He flattened his palms on the table and leaned forward, chin high as though to prove his point.
Hannah put her hand lightly on Angel’s arm, indicating he should stop.
Karl spoke up. “I think you are both missing the most important point.” Heads turned toward him. “It is not merely a matter of technique. While I acknowledge that there is a connection between rider and horse in any discipline, dressage pushes that relationship to its greatest heights. The riding pair is a team. In body and mind.”
“And you think that is not true of a jumper and rider?” Angel said, sitting straighter, as if affronted.
Karl shook his head. “No, not to the same extent.”