“Dios, Max,” he exclaimed, waving his hand. “What’s that smell?” He stood up and took a few steps back. Back on his feet, he felt the need to stretch his legs. “Come on, boy. I need some fresh air. Want to go for a walk?”
Max lifted his head barely enough to look at Angel and thumped his tail.
Angel noticed how sedentary Max was becoming. There was more gray salting the dog’s wiry black hair—especially at the chin and along his belly. His heart lurched as he recalled the harsh reality that dogs aged seven years for every human year. And these big dogs didn’t live as long.
“Max,” Angel said gently, scratching him behind his cropped ears. “You’re getting old and fat and lazy. Come on. Don’t you want a walk?” He slapped his thighs to motivate him.
Max plopped his head back on the sofa as his answer.
Angel put his hands on his hips and sighed with resignation. He turned his head and looked out the window. The rain had stopped. All the houses around the lake were dark and seemingly empty. The lamplight cast eerie shadows on the living room walls. Angel tapped his fingers on the bottle and pursed his lips. He was antsy. He had to get out of this house.
There was only one place he wanted to be. He swallowed the dregs of his beer, then walked to the door, grabbed the car keys from the table, and went out into the night.
* * *
The lights of the cottage were still on. The blinds were down and he didn’t see any shadows cross the windows. He put the car in first and slowly went up the driveway. The gravel driveway was slick with rain, mud, and fallen leaves. At the top of the hill he stopped and idled when he saw that the vintage Mercedes was gone. But the lights were on, so someone might be home. But who? Elise or Gerta?
He turned off the engine and sat a moment to get his head straight. If Elise opened the door, he could tell her he’d come to talk about selling Whirlwind. She’d been open to the possibility, and he had a few people he knew who would be interested in such an important horse and willing to pay the minimum two million dollars the horse was worth. Angel would get his percentage of the sale. A little off the top, enough to help him acquire a horse he could develop. Could he go through with the sale of Whirlwind now? he wondered.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Why did life always have to be so damn complicated? He was at a turning point in his career. He should be, as Hannah had told him repeatedly, more sensible. A businessman. Or, as his father had told him, “You deal the cards and play your hand.” If he thought in these terms, Whirlwind was his ace of spades.
Angel huffed out a wry laugh. Who was he kidding? He might be clever, even occasionally devious. But he was not hard-hearted. In this deal, Gerta was the trump card. If she played it, he was out.
Angel gazed again at the small cottage shining with yellow light in the darkness. After all that wind and rain, the air was calm. He chuckled to himself. No doubt the calm before the storm. He felt that his future lay in that house. Who would be inside?
He exited the car as a gust of wind shook the branches overhead. Droplets of water sprinkled down, cool and refreshing. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked to the shelter of the small front porch. Standing between a planter filled with red geraniums and a pair of tall, black rubber boots, he raked his hair with his hands, the best he could do without a comb. Then he cleared his throat, straightened, and knocked three times, firmly, on the hunter-green door.
He waited a minute, but there was no answer. He could hear music in the house. Edith Piaf was singing “La Vie en Rose.” Someone must be home, he thought. Determined, he rang the bell. Tapping his foot, he looked out at the shadows of trees in the woods and waited another two minutes. Then three. Could they both be gone? He knocked again, louder this time. Still no one. He felt awash with disappointment. He very much wanted to see Gerta tonight. With a sigh, he turned to leave when the door suddenly swung open.
Gerta stood in the doorframe, backlit by the house lights. In the darkness she seemed to glow in the simple white cotton nightgown. For the first time he caught a glimpse of her prosthesis beneath the hem—a metal foot. Her blond hair was pulled back from her freshly scrubbed face with a black headband. With her hair falling loose around her shoulders and the prim gown, she looked like a fair-haired schoolgirl.
Gerta’s eyes were wide as she stared at him, her fingers at her lips, too stunned to speak.
Angel’s face was grave as he stepped into the house. Gerta took two steps back. He closed the door behind him. They stood still, silent, each gauging what those few feet between them signified. Once he crossed the divide, he couldn’t turn back.
He held her gaze, waiting.
Wordlessly, barely perceptibly, she nodded.
In two long strides Angel swept her into his arms. He looked down into her face. Their kiss earlier had been one of discovery—cut off abruptly by the arrival of Grace and Charles, and soon after that the vet. This time, he wanted to explore her more. He held her face in his hands so he might kiss her more deeply. Her pupils flickered, inviting him. As he lowered his lips to meet hers, he thought that this time, there was no hurry.
* * *
Elise just wanted to go to bed. She felt weary and depressed. She climbed into her mother’s Mercedes and fired up the engine. As always, it purred into action. She hated fighting with Moira. It left her with a weight in her chest that made it hard to breathe. One she knew was tied to guilt. Moira had been so happy, and Elise? She’d been a downer.
She was happy for Moira, even proud of her for fighting so hard for this self-discovery. Did she have to suffer longer and drag out her misery? Of course not. It was as if the hurricane had put them all in a pressure cooker up here and sped up the process. Why was Elise such a brat just because she felt sorry for herself? Her fingers squeezed the leather-covered steering wheel.
She shouldn’t have gotten so mad. But sometimes Moira didn’t know when to shut up. Why did she always have to have the last word? The last thing Elise needed from her best friend—who was feeling pretty good about herself—was a lecture about what a loser she was.
She shifted gears and headed down the driveway toward the road. The night was thick with fog and as black as tar, but at least the rain had stopped. The headlights carved out a yellow beacon, enough to see twenty feet ahead at most. Branches littered the driveway, ripped from trees during the windstorm; Elise wove around a few of the bigger ones. It was a good thing she was driving slowly, because when she made the final curve by the pasture, eight or nine white-tailed deer startled her as they crossed the road. After she caught her breath, she enjoyed the final sight of the white tails of the does flagging high in the air as they gracefully leaped away.
It was a short trip to the cottage. Elise yawned as she pulled up the gravel driveway, hearing the crunching beneath her tires. Then she rubbed her eyes, squinted, and did a double take at spotting the Audi parked in the driveway. What was Hannah doing here so late? she wondered. Then another person sprang to mind.
She turned off the engine and sat in darkness chewing her nails. Yellow light shone from the house, carving out the black night. Would Angel tell her mother that she was thinking of selling Whirlwind? A chill ran through her. No, she couldn’t believe he’d do that. After all, it was he who’d come to her with the idea. He’d asked her to be quiet about it, to keep it between them until he learned more.