Thorns

by Feliz Faber

  “I suppose,” he said slowly, rinsing off his hands. “Though you realize it wasn’t like that, don’t you? Not at all.” Try as he might, his voice was too unsteady to strike a matching matter-of-fact note. He shut off the faucet and shook off the drops, looking around for a towel in an attempt to avoid looking at Francis.

  “Here.” Francis held one out to him. “Yes, I do. You disabused me in a most impressive way, and I can’t even begin to tell you how glad I was to see I’d been wrong.”

  Surprised at the sudden change of tone, Will met his gaze. Pride and lust shone from those dark eyes as Francis took a step and pulled him into another kiss.

  “Mmph,” Will said, dropping the towel to push against Francis’s chest, and when he could speak again: “You couldn’t have stepped up to save me the trouble, could you?”

  “Yes, I could.” Francis grinned, not letting go of him. “But then I’d have missed out on the best fun, no? My little fierce one.” And he kissed Will again, heedless of the punishing nip to his lower lip that brought him.

  “Ah, how sweet,” someone called from the occupied stall. “Could you two lovebirds shut up now and get to it already so other people can fuck in peace?”

  Will and Francis stared at each other for a moment before they burst into laughter. “All right,” Francis gasped once he had breath enough to talk, “let’s go. I do have plans for you tonight, after all.”

  “Thank God,” the voice from before groaned as Francis led Will out.

  Will almost echoed the statement.

  Five

  Paris, France—Monday, March 14, 2005

  THE mental picture Will had of Paris came from movies and books—the Eiffel Tower, of course, and the Arc de Triomphe, broad boulevards, flowering trees, and happy people dancing in the sunshine on the bridges over the Seine. Nothing he knew had prepared him for the drab ugliness of the Paris suburbs under the rain-heavy sky. Neither had he anticipated meeting with quite as many uncomprehending stares when he addressed someone in English, nor his own knowledge of French to be as basic as it turned out to be. Once he’d collected his rental car, the chaos and insanity of Paris traffic was another surprise. The French drove like madmen. In his ridiculously small Renault Twingo, Will was caught in the draft of millions of similar cars that wafted and wove over the périphérique like a giant school of colorful tin fish.

  Even with the car’s GPS device it took Will over an hour to escape Paris on the Autoroute de l’Ouest. The straight, well-maintained road was a blessing, reminding him of the highways back home. But the moment he had to leave it, he found himself back in the realm of blaring horns and rude gestures, cursing as he fiddled with his rental car’s unfamiliar manual gearshift. To crown it all, rain was coming down in sheets by now, which made it even harder for Will to decipher the road signs.

  He got lost in the maze of streets and confusing roundabouts between Deauville and Trouville as the GPS device failed to guide him around a construction site on the route nationale, leading him right into the city instead. Finally, he resolved to stop and ask for directions, and parked in front of what had to be a railway station. The streets and the nearby marina were deserted, but a small café-bistro vis-à-vis to his parking spot looked inviting. Since it was past noon already and Will was hungry, he found he could assuage two needs at once there. He got out, turned his collar up against the downpour, and sprinted across the street.

  The waitress who took his order listened to him with her head cocked, eyebrows drawn in concentration. “Centre d’entraînement hippique La Thillaye?” she said, the words flowing so much easier than Will’s haltingly uttered question.

  Will nodded eagerly, and the woman turned and hollered something toward the back of the café. Her ear-splitting volume conjured forth another woman, age-stooped and with thick hearing aids in both ears. The two of them started discussing at the tops of their lungs; then the old woman disappeared again. A moment later, her foghorn voice came from somewhere in the back, marginally muffled by distance.

  The waitress turned back to him with a smile. “Nic. Nicolas Pithiviers,” she said. “Jeanneanne telephones him. He will come here, get you.” She patted Will’s hand, cutting off his surprised thank-yous. “You just wait, Monsieur. Eat, drink.”

  Will was on his third cup of sinfully delicious coffee and halfway through what they called a sandwich there—a hunk of baguette with lettuce, cheese, ham, and tomatoes, slathered with mayonnaise—when the doorbell jingled yet again. The café was busy; Will had stopped paying attention after the first ten or so false starts. He barely took notice as the two women greeted the newcomer with a lot of hoopla and cheek-pecks, left, right, left, as they had done with some other customers before. Thus, the English greeting took Will by surprise.

  “Hi, Mr. Yeats. How are you?”

  Gulping down a mouthful of bread, Will looked up into a pair of keen brown eyes. The man might’ve had two or three inches on Will’s own five-ten; he was lean but broad-shouldered under his light grey turtleneck sweater. A blue knit cap sat high on his apparently bald head above a weathered, angular face. Faded black breeches outlined slightly bowed legs that ended in mud-splattered riding boots.

  “I’m Nicolas Pithiviers. Nice to meet you.”

  Dropping the sandwich to the plate, Will rose to shake the hand Pithiviers offered him. Too late he remembered his mayonnaise-coated fingers and hastily pulled his hand back and grabbed the only napkin from the table. “Shit, I’m….”

  Pithiviers’s face darkened in a frown as he looked down at his still outstretched hand. Only now Will noticed that it was deformed, gnarled with knobby joints. Cringing inwardly, Will held the crumpled tissue out. “Sorry,” he sputtered. “It’s just… the sauce, I didn’t want to….” he broke off with a helpless gesture to his greasy lunch. What a way to start, Will, you idiot. Glancing up to meet the other man’s eyes again, Will found them, to his immense relief, brightened by a spark of amusement.

  “Never mind, Mr. Yeats.” Pithiviers kept a straight face though one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I’m glad to see Jeanneanne and Margo took good care of you. Please, don’t let me keep you from eating.”

  Although the encounter had rather spoiled his appetite, Will recalled his manners. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Please, be my guest,” he said, gesturing at the table. When Pithiviers accepted with a smile and sat down, Will dared to feel comfortable with this endeavor for the first time since he had set foot on French soil.

  The rain had let up by the time Will followed Pithiviers’s forest-green Land Rover out of Deauville. As the city fringed out, the landscape turned rural. High, thick hedges lined the narrow street, occasionally allowing a glimpse at cow pastures, fields, or small farms.

  The road veered left into a tunnel formed of the crowns of trees so old and tall they met above the street. The setting sun sent golden fingers though the tight weave of bare branches; Will felt as if he were driving at the bottom of the sea. They crested a hill and turned onto a dirt road that led through an open iron gate and into another alley of wide-spaced, tall, and obviously very old trees. Will noted the white fences behind the trees only in passing because his gaze was caught by the impressive front of a manor-like two-story house at the end of the alley. It looked like something out of an old painting, built from gray granite with a circular drive in front around a flower bed and broad stairs leading up to an ornate front door.

  The driveway went on past the house alongside a gray granite wall. Instead of heading into a parking lot to the right, the Land Rover turned left, disappearing through a passageway. Will followed, and then he hit the brakes hard as a rider crossed right in front of his bumper.

  There were horses, horses everywhere: tethered to walls, peeking out above the Dutch doors of a long stable building, crossing the graveled yard. People in riding attire were busy leading even more horses between more trees and a smattering of outbuildings on the other side of the yard in what Will’s travel guide calle
d traditional Normandy-style framework.

  A knock against his car window woke Will from the frozen state he’d fallen into in the presence of so much equinity. It was Pithiviers, gesturing at him to drive on to a spot next to the back entrance of the manor house.

  While he heaved his luggage out of the trunk, Will kept a watchful eye out. About three yards away, Pithiviers was talking to the rider whom Will had almost knocked down earlier. Both horse and rider seemed completely unfazed by the near miss. Will found himself contemplating the horse’s impressive size, the human on its back appearing dainty in comparison. He’d never cared much for horses and thus never been this close to one, let alone a dozen or more. Huge as they were, they appeared peaceful enough, but still…. When Pithiviers waved him over, Will went timidly, giving the horse a wide berth, just in case. However, Pithiviers seemed oblivious to Will’s unease.

  “Mr. Yeats, meet Louis Meerow,” he said, gesturing at the rider. Will looked up into a narrow face shaded by the broad rim of a riding helmet. Meerow’s gaze lingered on Will’s face, then quickly slid down his body and up again. The moment stretched on beyond politeness, making Will want to squirm.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Yeats. I hope you had a good journey.” The voice that wafted down to Will was deep, and rough like years of whisky and cigarettes. Of course Will had heard it before on the phone, but hearing it come from such a small person startled Will enough that he almost missed the hand Meerow held out to him. He hastily reached out to grab it, meaning to save the moment with a polite “The pleasure is all mine,” but he didn’t get further than the first syllable before the horse made an angry-sounding noise and tossed its head. Will flinched. He kept to his feet, but just so; it certainly helped that Pithiviers’s solid form was right there for Will to bump into.

  “Hey, easy there,” Pithiviers said, his lips twitching again. Will felt his face heat up from embarrassment and turned away. Of course, this brought his blush into Meerow’s line of sight. The jockey tipped his hat, and Will only just caught a glimpse at a smirk before Meerow turned his mount and rode off. Will wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to Pithiviers. The trainer shrugged, his face impervious now.

  “No harm done. Racehorses can be a bit skittish at times. Now, I assume you must be tired from traveling. Would you like to rest for a while? You could meet Louis and me for dinner later.”

  Relieved, Will nodded. “Sounds good to me. Thank you.”

  “Come on, then, let’s get you settled in.” Will trailed after Pithiviers, picking up his luggage on the way.

  In the back of the manor house, a door opened for a petite, elderly Asian woman in jeans and short rubber boots. Pithiviers exchanged a few French words with her, then turned back to Will. “This is Madame Kim. She’ll show you to your room.”

  With a sunny smile, Mme. Kim nodded at Will. “Welcome to La Thillaye, Mr. Yeats,” she said in perfect English.

  “Make yourself at home,” Pithiviers added. “If you need anything, don’t be shy to ask, please. See you tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Will replied, scrabbling for the rest of his dignity. The trainer left with a smile and another nod, and Will found himself politely defending his luggage against Mme. Kim, who seemed determined to haul it for him, despite the fact that she couldn’t have more than ten pounds on his suitcase.

  DINNER was Asian, a tasty variety of fish and vegetable dishes with rice, served in a homely private dining room furnished in a tasteful mix of antiques and modern pieces. Initially, though, Will was too busy digesting his surprise over Meerow to give either the food or his surroundings much thought.

  He was tiny, for a start. Will knew most jockeys were short, but this one couldn’t be more than five-two and, at the very most, a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. His legs were comparably long and straight, making him appear taller, the illusion furthered by his casually elegant clothing. But it was Meerow’s face Will’s eyes kept returning to again and again.

  Earlier in the yard, Will had been too busy being embarrassed to really pay attention. Now that he had time and opportunity to look, the beauty of Meerow’s features came as a shock. Sure, Will had seen pictures, but mostly dated ones, and always taken around races. Meerow shouting, his eyes hidden behind mud-spattered goggles, or giving an exhausted grin from under one of those oversized, gaudy jockey’s helmets. None of the pictures had done the man justice. From what Will knew, Meerow had to be almost forty, but his age showed only by some faint lines at the corners of his eyes and between nose and mouth. Otherwise, he appeared ageless. Sparks danced in his bright blue eyes when he smiled. He ate little, accompanied his words with gestures when he spoke, and listened carefully to everything Pithiviers or Will said. The contrast between Meerow’s intensity and Pithiviers’s casual reserve was remarkable, and Will found himself mesmerized.

  Their interactions spelled familiarity and affection. Not like a finishing-each-other’s-sentences symbiosis, but it was there in the glances they shared, in casual touches and in the way they seemed constantly aware of each other, like one reaching for a dish which the other was already pushing his way, or one topping off the other’s glass without asking. Watching them filled Will with sympathetic warmth while at the same time a distinct yearning ache he wasn’t inclined to inquire about at the moment tugged at something within his chest.

  To take his mind off things, Will made a polite remark about the food, which was in fact very good.

  “Kim used to be a starred chef. We lucked out with her,” Pithiviers said with a fond smile. “She’ll be happy to hear our guest knows to truly appreciate her cooking. Unlike the rest of us.” He had changed for dinner and now wore dress slacks with a crisp shirt and necktie under a V-neck sweater. His head was indeed almost bald except for some close-cropped, reddish-grey growth in the back. It made him appear older than the forty-nine years Will knew him to be. “The grooms only care about quick, plentiful, and filling. Louis can’t eat much at all ’cause he must watch his weight for the races, and I’m well-advised to avoid getting fat because of my health.” He held up his deformed hands for emphasis. “Arthritis. Luckily, it’s only mild now, and I want it to remain that way.”

  Will winced, recalling their first meeting, but Pithiviers only gave him a wink and continued to eat, which encouraged Will to stick to the subject for now.

  “As I understand, you are a horse trainer, Mr. Pithiviers. Isn’t that difficult with a condition like this?”

  “Not at all,” Pithiviers said, which elicited a snort from Meerow. Ignoring him, the trainer went on. “It’s true that I find riding a bit taxing these days, but ordering people around works just as fine from ground level as from horseback. Besides, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to take care of. It’s mostly Louis who works with the horses.”

  “So you’re more like the manager? I thought you owned this place.”

  “Technically, it’s a joint ownership,” Meerow cut in. “My mother’s family, the Desmins, have been breeding horses here for centuries. La Thillaye last belonged to my great-uncle Georges Desmin, and he left it to me when he died five years ago. Well, half of it; the other half went to his daughter, my grand-cousin Michelle. But she didn’t have much of a use for a horse farm beyond selling it anyway, so Nic bought her out, and we turned the farm into a training center.” He gestured with his chopsticks between Pithiviers and himself. “My great-uncle had been ill for a while, and the place was pretty much in ruins. The only thing he kept in prime condition were the stables, though most of the horses were gone. In the beginning, Nic and I camped in one of the stalls while we had the first part of the house renovated.” He grinned at Pithiviers. “At the mere thought of it…. The wiring was a fire hazard, the water pipes blocked up for the most part, half of the second-story windows broken—we had bats in there, for God’s sake! And the rain got in too. Where we’re sitting right now, mold was growing up and down the walls.”
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  “You wouldn’t be able to tell, looking at it now,” Will said, casting an appreciative look around. Mme. Kim had taken him on a tour earlier; there was an artfully renovated foyer outside the dining room door, complete with dark wood paneling and a staircase, and the guest apartment she put him in was one of four on the first floor, each with stuccoed ceilings and state-of-the-art full baths en suite. “Everything in here is perfect. I can’t even begin to imagine how much work you must’ve put into this.”

  He’d clearly said the right thing, judging from his hosts’ pleased smiles.

  “This house is more than two hundred years old,” Pithiviers said. “But the walls are as solid as our linden trees out front.”

  “Is that what they are?” Will asked. “I took them for chestnuts.”

  Pithiviers shook his head. “No, they’re linden trees, tilleuls. That’s where the name comes from. La Thillaye means ‘a place where linden trees grow’. Anyway, it’s a good thing they built for eternity back then. And if Desmin hadn’t sold off most of the ground already, we couldn’t have afforded to buy Michelle out. The price of land around here is insane.”

  “Too bad he kept Goya,” Meerow said. Meeting Will’s confused gaze, he chuckled. “Sorry, Mr. Yeats. Goya was a horse, La Thillaye’s last stud. He was worth a small fortune, even though he was almost twenty years old already. Actually, he was about the only thing of value left here. We had a buyer for him, but the dumb beast had to drop dead on the eve of contracting. And since Uncle Georges hadn’t paid any insurance fees for years…. Goya was part of our bargain with my grand-cousin, though, so she asked his full price from us.”

  “Wow. Could she do that?” Will asked.

  “Obviously. Lucky for us, we had a good lawyer.” Louis winked at him. “I believe you have met him already, Mr. Yeats. Francis had his firm’s French branch bring in the big guns, and in the end, they got Michelle to accept a settlement.” He sighed. “Still tore a big hole into our budget. It’s the reason why I’m still a jockey and Nic still gets to pick the horses I ride.”