Hannah brought out her makeup kit and set it on the kitchen table with flair. “Girls!” she called out. “Gather ’round.” She began spreading out tubes of lipsticks. “I’ve got some great new colors. Help yourself! Who wants a makeover?”
Rebecca hurried to the table and claimed a chair. “Me! I’ve always wanted a makeover.”
The rest of the women gathered around, drawn to the free samples on the table, eager to scrounge through the lipsticks and try on different colors. They passed around the hand mirror, asking each other, “How does it look? What do you think?”
Only Gerta hung back, almost shyly. But she was smiling, enjoying the company.
I love these women, Grace thought as she watched them. Gerta, Hannah, Katherine, Caroline, Cornelia, and Rebecca—her posse. Her pals. She’d called and they’d come running, no questions asked, as she knew they would. There were only a handful of people one could count on to show up in times of trouble, and those people were here in her kitchen today.
Grace made a final check of the big pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. Garlic bread wrapped in aluminum foil lay on the counter beside boxes of pasta. A big green salad waited in the fridge. It wouldn’t be a fancy dinner, but tonight, after a hard day’s work and the worry of the hurricane hitting Florida, they all needed some comfort food.
She grabbed a bottle of red and a bottle of white and joined her friends at the table. When she’d filled the last glass of wine, she lifted hers and tapped the crystal with a spoon to draw everyone’s attention. She saw their faces smiling up at her, curious.
“To the horses!” she said.
This was met with a chorus and clinking of glasses.
The music changed and Cyndi Lauper began belting out “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” It was too perfect. Instantly the women were back on their feet, laughing, dancing around the kitchen floor, hip-bumping and joining in together to belt out the chorus.
* * *
Moira and Elise had heard the laughter and loud music and came downstairs to check it out. They had changed from jeans to yoga pants and baggy T-shirts for a relaxed evening. They stood at the entrance to the kitchen, mesmerized by the sight of their mothers and their friends drinking and dancing and whooping it up like teenagers. They turned to each other at the same time, eyes agog. Then they started to laugh.
“I hope we’re as cool when we’re their age,” Elise said.
“Oh, we will be,” Moira said with a smug smile. “We will be. Come on!”
Raising their arms, they entered the kitchen dancing.
“Who started a party and didn’t invite us?” Moira called out.
Everyone turned toward them and shouted out greetings and called the girls in, waving their arms. Grace rushed to grab two more glasses. She poured the wine and handed each of the girls a glass.
“Darlings!” Grace was beaming to see them. “I poured you the zinfandel,” she said. “It’s so rich I can almost chew it.”
“Delicioso,” Moira crooned, sipping. She began moving her hips to the infectious beat. She met her mother’s gaze, feeling as she always did the rush of love, and they bumped hips.
“You and me, baby,” Grace said, wrapping her arm around Moira with a strong squeeze.
Grace spotted Elise dancing by Gerta’s side, her long braid swinging. She danced to them and they clinked glasses. Gerta was more reserved than the other women, but Grace knew that for this mother and daughter, it was a good moment.
“Gerta!” Katherine called out. “Tell everyone what happened to you at the barn today.” She turned to the other women. “Really, everyone, quiet. You have to hear this. It’s unbelievable.”
“That’s the problem,” Gerta responded drily. “It is unbelievable.”
“Grace, could you turn down the music?” asked Caroline as politely as she could while shouting over Cyndi Lauper.
“I’ll get it,” said Moira, and she hurried out to the family room. A moment later, the music dropped to soft background noise as Irene Cara started singing the theme to Flashdance.
They gathered around, all eyes on Gerta. Reluctantly, she began telling the story of the Trakehner horse. The women fell silent as the tale unfolded, leaning forward to not miss a word.
Grace had never heard Gerta talk in such hushed tones, as though cautious to venture her beliefs. The Gerta she knew was authoritative, even bold with her opinions, as though daring anyone to question her. Clearly this incident had shaken her to the core. Then Grace remembered far back to when they were young, when Gerta rode Razzmajazz. There had been a devotion between them so profound that Grace doubted she’d ever feel that bonded with a horse. When Razzmajazz had died that terrible, painful, public death at the show, the audience had all recoiled in horror as the horse’s legs kicked spasmodically in the air. Medics and others had come rushing to help the horse and try to move him, even as he was seizing, to pull the woman out from under him. Gerta had been crushed beneath Razzmajazz, but she had only cried out in worry for her horse. Grace would never forget her anguished screams.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Gerta said in conclusion. “I, of all people, can hardly believe this.” Her nose rose a tad, and she added unapologetically, “But I do. I know it’s Razzmajazz.”
“I find it especially interesting that this horse is a Trakehner,” added Katherine. “Finding the brand means he had to have a German sire. I’m looking into it.”
“You really believe all that?” asked Cornelia. “That this horse is your Razzmajazz reincarnated? Couldn’t he just be a horse that happens to do some of the things your horse did?”
Rebecca leaned forward. “Why not be open-minded when we don’t know whether it’s true or false?”
“But we do know, logically at least,” said Cornelia. “No one has ever died and come back to life to tell us about it.”
“Except Jesus,” Caroline added with a meaningful tone.
“Well, yes,” Cornelia replied quickly. “But that’s faith. There is no empirical proof of any normal human who claims they have been reincarnated into this day and age. Much less an animal.”
Gerta heard the skepticism and saw the somewhat amused spark in Cornelia’s eyes. She couldn’t blame her. Cornelia was pragmatic, as Gerta was. Before today, Gerta would have been the first to voice her doubt.
Gerta picked up her wineglass in both hands and looked at it. “It’s hard to explain—much less prove—why I believe it to be true,” she replied, then looked up. “I read once that A great horse will change your life. The truly special one defines it. We’ve all heard that in a rider’s life there is that one special horse. That doesn’t mean we won’t have other horses that teach us or touch us. But most riders can point to the one horse that did more than just change their life. As the quote says, that one special horse defined it.”
“That’s true,” Hannah said and Caroline nodded as well.
“Razzmajazz was that horse for me. I knew this horse. I may not understand reincarnation. But yes. I absolutely believe that this horse is my Jazzy.” She shrugged and smiled. What else can I say?