“He’s an amazing horse.”
“No doubt. Magnificent. This is the year I’m supposed to introduce him to the equestrian world. Like Edward Gal did with Totilas.” She lifted her hands. “Shock and awe. We wanted early wins, high scores to get the attention of the Olympic team for 2020. That’s the horse my mother chose to take me there, and we’ve been preparing for this moment for years. The horse is able. I’m a good rider.” She sighed and flopped back against the cushions. “But we’re just not in sync. To tell you the truth, I don’t think Whirlwind likes me much.”
“Elise—”
“I’m not being dramatic. Frankly . . .” She looked up at Moira and found sympathy there. It encouraged honesty. “Whirlwind is bonded to Karl. He’d do anything for him. I can see it. And so can my mother. It makes her furious. In one breath she pushes me to work more with Whirlwind. Then in the next she holds me back so I don’t get hurt. She’s convinced there’s something I’m not doing. Not giving. But, Moira, you know that bond can’t be forced. I’m trying. Really I am. It’s not all Whirlwind’s fault. I’m not that fond of him either!”
Moira laughed sympathetically.
“Mother’s forbidden Karl to ride him for dressage. She wants to break that bond. As if she could. He can only act as groom for the horse and trainer for me.” She shrugged, and tears flooded her eyes. “He’s not a miracle worker. It’s up to me, and I can’t make it happen. And the pressure is building. We’re running out of time, Mother is getting more demanding. She’s spent so much money! And me . . . I hate her for what she’s making me feel. She’s turned me away from riding. It’s getting so I hate to practice. I don’t want to compete. I just want all this to end!” She put her hands over her face.
Moira reached over to lightly take Elise’s hands from her face. Elise was ashamed of the tears there.
“What can I do?”
It was what Elise needed to hear now. Not suggestions. Not a lecture. Just her presence.
“Be here for me.”
“I am.”
Moira let her hands retreat and moved to sit on Elise’s cushion. That small bit of closeness felt comforting to Elise.
“I don’t know what else there is. It’s all I’ve ever worked for.”
“Well!” Moira announced. “Then you’re like me. Hitting thirty years old and trying to find out what we want to do in life.”
They both erupted in broken laughter.
“What a pair we are,” said Elise.
“There are worse problems.”
“For sure,” Elise said. Then more soberly, “Like losing everything you own to this damn hurricane.”
“Yeah,” Moira agreed. Elise looked up at the sky. The stars still were visible, but wisps of clouds were moving in. “My house is on the coast too.” She giggled. “Frankly, I wouldn’t care if it got blown away!”
“Hey, it’s not my house,” Elise said with a short laugh. “I have no skin in the game. Here we’re safe. We have our health.”
“We have each other,” Moira said, and reached out her pinky finger to Elise. “Friends forever,” she said, quoting what they used to say as young girls.
Elise linked pinky fingers with Moira. “For evah!”
Then, for no reason in particular and a thousand others that were buried in their hearts, the two grown women laughed and giggled like schoolgirls again.
NINE
August 21, 6:00 a.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
24 hours before expected hurricane landfall in the Keys Hurricane warning issued
Charles arrived at the barn as dawn broke the darkness. A thin rosy line etched the mountains. The air wasn’t as crisp as usual. Early bands from the storm were bringing water to the air, even so early.
He’d had a restless night and found the gentle nickers and whinnies of the horses soothing as he went about his chores. Though his body was calm, inside his head was a maelstrom of feelings. He didn’t like to quarrel with Grace. They rarely did and both felt the repercussions deeply. But he knew this morning’s deep disquiet was born from more than their terse words.
He felt lost. Having top equestrians at his home, Angel in particular, hearing him talking of international jumping events, hopes for the 2020 Olympics—events that Charles had once aspired to, even participated in at his prime—made him feel both a keen longing that he thought he’d gotten past and, worse, a self-pity that he despised. How far he’d fallen, literally and figuratively. He still wanted to be a player. To ride the circuit, to compete. Goddamn it, at the very least to ride again. The yearning churned inside like the hurricane barreling toward them. He’d suffered worse than broken bones. He’d broken his spirit.
At six José and Karl ambled in. They all shared a quick cup of strong coffee as they divvied up chores. The horses were whinnying and kicking the walls of their stalls impatiently. Then they began the morning routine. By six-thirty, the horses had their fresh water and hay. By seven, they’d been given their grain, and by seven-thirty, sated and quiet, they were ready to be turned out into the paddocks and have their stalls cleaned.
Charles paused from his stall mucking and let his head rest on his hands against the pole of the pitchfork, still plagued by his thoughts. God help him, he was the evacuee. He was the man running from the storm—a coward, too afraid to get back on the horse. Shame coursed through him. He felt a complete and utter failure. An aging has-been. A bystander worthy of nothing more than mucking stalls.
Once his chores were done and the horses had been brought back in, he sought comfort from his horses. One by one he visited their stalls and put his hands on his old friends, who accepted him with equanimity. He brushed them, checked their water, talked to them. He let the palms of his hands slide against their gleaming coats, attuned to the rippling muscles, the turning of the heads, the low nickers in a morning communion. He breathed them in, talismans, so deeply he could almost taste the sweet hay.
On his way out he stopped to visit Butterhead, who welcomed him with cool regard. He courted her, but her gaze was fixed on Angel as he strode through the hall, stopping to talk in rapid Spanish with José. She was devoted. Angel should never sell this horse, he thought to himself. It would break her heart. He meant to talk to Angel about it in a quiet moment.
The last horse left to visit was Whirlwind. Charles felt a bit of anxiety at approaching the big stallion, especially after the spectacle yesterday. Damn, he thought. I’m not so much of a coward that I’m afraid of a horse in a stall! Gritting his teeth, Charles left the barn and crossed the square to the second, smaller grouping of stables where the stallion was housed. He saw that Karl had already cleaned the stall. Good man. Whirlwind was out in the paddock especially designed for stallions, separate from the other paddocks and five boards in height rather than four to prevent the stallion from jumping out if enticed by a mare. Whirlwind’s carefully groomed coat gleamed in the sunshine like a raven’s wing, and his soft mane flowed in the breeze. Charles approached slowly, with no expectations. He simply wanted to pay his respects to his guest.
Whirlwind lifted his head from where he was grazing and watched him approach, his eyes fixed and his ears twitching. As he drew near, Charles looked for facial expressions to give him clues how to proceed with this spirited horse. Most people were not aware that horses had facial expressions, much less seventeen, three more than chimpanzees. He’d read studies, but it was his own experiences with horses that guided him the most.