by Laura Moore
“Pop, as one betting man to another, I’m willing to make a wager with you right now, before I even have a chance to hop on his back and see how he moves. I’ll wager Clyde’s asking price that in seven years’
time, this horse and I will be at the top of the show jumping world.”
Silently, carefully, Steve Sr. inspected Fancy Free once more. The horse was standing quietly, but even motionless he radiated energy. His head held high, his nostrils flared, his intelligent eyes were fixed on the distant pastures where other horses grazed. His long black tail was extended, individual strands lifting slightly in the warm summer breeze.
Steve’s father continued his scrutiny of the gelding’s conformation, searching for any hint of weakness or flaw, finding nothing but strength and beauty. His connoisseur’s gaze moved up and down the horse’s legs. He knelt close, running his hands up and down, his fingers probing for swelling in the tendons, any slight puffiness that might signal injury. Finally, he stood, a small smile hovering about his lips as he gave his son an answer: “Sorry, Steve, but you know I don’t take sucker bets.”
5
“ W e’ll have to organize a party for after the show at Madison Square Garden. I’ll get Smythe to write up a guest list.”
“Really, Father, a party’s not necessary. Just qualifying for the National is exciting enough.”
“Nonsense. We’ll need to celebrate your winning the Medal class.”
Ty stared at her father. He was standing before her in his library. An interior designer had been hired to decorate it, his mission to underscore Tyler Stannard’s immense wealth in this and every single other room in the mansion. Against one wall stood floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, filled with perfectly aligned rows of Moroccan leather–bound books which no one ever disturbed. On the opposite side of the room, an enormous fireplace had been built of imported Italian marble. Green, gray, and black marble were inlaid in an intricate pattern modeled after one of the fireplaces in the Palazzo Medici in Florence. Above the massive mantelpiece hung a Picasso depicting a female armed with long, daggerlike teeth and eyes grotesquely distorted, their stare cross-eyed.
Ty hated the painting and always tried to avoid looking at it. She knew, however, that the Picasso hung there for a specific reason. Two years ago, Smythe had been sent to bid for the painting at an auction held at Sotheby’s in New York with strict instructions that he wasn’t to return to the Stannard mansion without it. The following day, her father’s purchase had made the headlines in all the major papers, having set a record for Picassos that had come on the art market. As Tyler Stannard’s representative, Smythe had emerged victorious after a furious bidding war that involved several major museums and some Japanese and Arab collectors, too. No one who entered her father’s library could fail to recognize the artist, the painting, or the vast amount of money at her father’s disposal. Alight scent of beeswax lingered in the air, proof that the staff, before Ty or her father had even stirred from their beds, had performed the daily task of rubbing the mahogany desk, which had once belonged to J. P. Morgan, by the side of which her father now stood. He was as meticulously polished as the room. Although it was a Saturday in August and the temperature had soared to ninety-eight degrees, Tyler Stannard was dressed in a perfectly tailored Savile Row gray wool suit. His white shirt had been sewn in Paris by a shirtmaker near the Ritz who had her father’s measurements and details of shirts, pajamas, and bathrobes previously ordered, written down in a black leather notebook he kept with him at all times. Just in case Mr. Stannard should happen to call. The tie, a baroque swirl of navy, gray, and dark green, came from Milan.
He was a handsome man. Patrician was the adjective the magazines and newspapers used to describe her father’s tall frame, his carefully pommaded hair, his piercing gray eyes. Right now those eyes were regarding her with impatience, because she’d taken too long in replying. Few people dared to keep Tyler Stannard waiting for anything.
“But, Father, you don’t truly expect me to win the Medal class at the Garden. The finals are a whole different story from the regional classes. The best junior equitation riders from the entire country will be there. While it would be thrilling to win a ribbon, I’d be as pleased to have a good, clean round.”
“You aren’t talking like a Stannard.” It was unnecessary to specify which Stannard she should emulate—he was the only other one alive. “I didn’t spend such a huge amount of money on that horse of yours to see you settle for second place. If you truly feel you aren’t up to the challenge, I suggest you call up Meghan and schedule some extra lessons. You can practice until you are,” was her father’s implacable reply. The look accompanying his words told Ty it was pointless to say any more on the subject.
Indeed, Ty’s father was already turning his attention to the papers that Smythe had organized, lying next to the dark blue rectangle of his passport. His jet was leaving for Paris in an hour. There were a number of chateaux as well as a hotel on the Riviera that he was considering purchasing. He’d be gone two weeks. Ty watched as he gathered up the papers and slipped them into his leather briefcase.
“Have good trip, Father.”
The steel-gray head stilled momentarily, catching a foreign note in his daughter’s voice he’d never heard before. It triggered an immediate response. “By the way, Tyler, please remember the following while I’m away in Europe. If I should learn of your going off without Sam Brody for any reason whatsoever, I will make certain you never see that friend of yours, Lizzie Osborne, again. I’ve tolerated her presence far too long as it is. If her bad influence should impair your judgment again, I’ll see to it she’s no longer in your school or your riding club.”
Pressing a finger on the intercom button that would summon Smythe, Tyler Stannard didn’t catch the defiant look that flashed across his daughter’s face. Before he could, Ty quickly dropped her eyes. She didn’t dare risk angering him, for her father wouldn’t think twice about using his influence to hurt Lizzie Osborne’s family in some way. If not socially, they were certainly financially inferior. Thus, as far as Tyler Stannard was concerned, that made the Osbornes vulnerable and easy prey. It didn’t matter to him that Lizzie was her best friend, her truest friend.
It was better to retreat, to let him focus on his business, erasing the very memory of his daughter from his mind. With a quiet, if mocking, “Yes, Father,” Ty turned and left the library. Neither father nor daughter considered hugging or exchanging a kiss good-bye.
Once again, Tyler Stannard’s head lifted. This time at the quick tapping sound of her footsteps crossing the parquet floor. He watched her slip through the halfopened double oak doors and knew with utter confidence that her destination would be her bedroom, where she’d immediately change into her riding breeches. His wishes had been explicit.
Yet an annoyed frown nevertheless creased his brow. How thin she was, far too frail-looking. And that wasn’t her only problem, he reflected. She was fourteen years old. And while she favored his height and his coloring, so far Tyler Stannard had difficulty recognizing even a trace of his character in his only child. At her birth, his decision to name his firstborn after himself had been made in the hope that some of his indomitable will, his tireless ambition, would imprint itself on the newborn baby, even though she was a girl.
Ordinarily, of course, he’d have waited for a male child to pass his name on to the next generation. But when his wife, Catherine, immediately following the emergency delivery of the baby, was rushed into intensive care, and the obstetrician informed him it was unlikely that his wife would ever be able to carry another child, he decided that the infant would have the name Tyler Montgomery Stannard, after her sire.
His decision proved prescient, for his wife, Catherine, a descendant of one of the founding families in America, died four days later from complications resulting from an obstructed valve in her heart. He’d loved his wife, as he knew he would love no other human being. She, who had given him so much. Because of Catherine, he
’d been able to grasp the wealth, the social prestige, and the power he’d always dreamed of. From that moment on, he’d never relinquished his hold.
Fleetingly, in the cold, dark hours after his wife’s death, it occurred to him that he could change his mind and name the tiny newborn girl after Catherine. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. No one could take the place of his beloved in his heart. Above all, he wanted the memory of the woman he’d loved to remain pure, unmarked, and unchanged. There would only be one Catherine Elizabeth Adams Stannard. Since her death fourteen years ago, Tyler Stannard had made a new marriage, of a different sort: to his company, Stannard Limited, the privately owned international real estate and luxury resort business he’d built with his bare hands and Catherine’s money. This new relationship consumed him. And he was amply rewarded for his devotion. According to the rankings of Forbes and Money World, Tyler Stannard was now one of the wealthiest men in the world.
But that his only child should prove lacking, perhaps as weak of heart and will as her mother, filled him with bitterness, a sense of gross injustice, because Tyler Stannard knew he would never remarry. He didn’t need to. His sexual urges were tended to by women who flocked to his side, drawn to the immense fortune. He only needed to nod in their direction. And were he ever to fancy himself in love and consider marrying again, the prenuptial agreement alone would kill—with ruthless efficiency—any
romantic illusion he might be under.
So he would make do with the only child he had, bending her to his will, fashioning her into the kind of person who could carry on the Stannard name.
P ART 2
1991
6
Gladstone, New Jersey
T he tableau before Steve filled him with awe, it was so moving, so beautiful. Set against the background of the immaculate, princely splendor of the USET stables at Gladstone, the grooms were leading the small band of horses out in single file into the open courtyard. The horses were dressed for travel: their legs wrapped in identical navy blue bandages, their bodies covered in blue and red quilted blankets, with the letters USA stitched on the corners. He knew that beneath the protection of their blankets, the horses’ well-groomed coats gleamed, muscles rippling under silky smoothness. These equine athletes were in peak condition, incredible examples of power, agility, and speed. They were embarking on a voyage to prove just that.
One by one, the horses were loaded into the long silver van that would take them to Kennedy International Airport, where they would then be put on a cargo jet, destination Sweden, where the World Cup qualifier was being held. The qualifier represented the first in a series of long and grueling events leading up to the final championship round. Among the horses chosen to compete for the United States’
team was Jasmine. Steve Sheppard would be riding her.
He felt like a kid again, bursting with excitement, jittery with nerves. Frank Delano, the stable manager for Gladstone, had kindly offered Steve a ride to Kennedy so that Steve could rest easy, seeing for himself that Jasmine had been safely loaded onto the plane. It was the first time she’d ever made a transatlantic flight.
“Really, Shepp,” Frank said as he turned the ignition. The van started with a loud rumble of engine, and Frank eased it around in a wide circle, giving a signature toot of the horn before heading down the driveway. “It’s nothing to worry about. The cargo areas in the jets have these boxes in them that are just like stalls in a horse van. And the ride in the plane, even with the takeoff and landing, isn’t any worse than a long trip down a bumpy road. After a couple flights, this mare’ll be a seasoned traveler. A jet-setter.”
“It’s damned hard to imagine, my heading off to Europe to compete. Something I’ve looked forward to for so long. Now that it’s happening, I’m as fussy as my Granny Polly.”
“You won’t be a rookie for long when it comes to the international scene. Wait till you get to the airport, though. It’ll blow your mind. These horses, they’re treated like VIPs by the crew and handlers. Ahelluva lot of money standing on those hooves. Too much to risk injuries.” Frank patted the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of Wrigley chewing gum. He held it out to Steve. Steve shook his head, “No thanks. Mind if I smoke, though?”
“Go right ahead,” Frank invited with a wave of his hand. “Used to smoke, too, but the wife made me quit. Still love the smell, though.”
Steve grinned. “Yeah, so do I. In Kentucky, you learn to appreciate the finer things real early in life: beautiful women, fast horses, bourbon, and cigarettes.”
“I guess you must be doing all right for yourself then, Shepp, a true connoisseur—if the gossip floating around is even close to the mark. I’ve heard all of the above are yours for the asking.”
Steve gave a wide smile, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. His eyes were exactly the same color as the faded denim jacket from which he withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a miniature box of matches. He stuck the tan filter between his lips and struck the match head with the edge of his thumbnail. The flame flared, small and blue.
After inhaling deeply, he let out a stream of gray smoke, blowing out the flame with his breath. “The good Lord willing, Frank, the good Lord willing.”
Even two long years later, Steve Sheppard’s gift to Ty remained her most valued treasure. The day after her encounter with Steve, she went to a jewelry store and asked for a small loop of silver to be soldered onto the medallion so that she could thread a delicate sterling silver chain through it. Ty still wore the medallion around her neck, tucked away out of sight, something private that only she knew about. Every so often, she awakened in the morning to find her hand wrapped around it, clutching tightly. To Ty’s great disappointment, especially now that she was riding at the Junior Jumper level, she had yet to run into Steve Sheppard again at any show. Moving up to the jumper division represented for Ty a huge personal coup, a triumph that continued to astonish her. It had taken the combination of winning the Medal class at Madison Square Garden (a stroke of luck Ty more than half believed was caused by Steve Sheppard’s medallion) and her trainer’s cunning diplomacy in winning over her father. Observing her father’s obvious pleasure in having his daughter beat the national competition, Ty had seized what she recognized as a golden opportunity and asked his permission to move on to a greater challenge: the jumper division. Ty’s riding instructor had backed her, stroking her father’s ego further, assuring him that with Ty’s talent and Charisma’s athleticism, they would almost certainly enjoy the same kind of success Ty and her mare had in the equitation classes. That had seemed to clinch it, for there were few things Tyler Stannard relished as much in the world as beating the competition. For herself, Ty was thrilled at the prospect of riding at a higher level. She was having a blast. The jumping events were so exhilarating, the more challenging courses demanding all of Ty’s skill. Still, she wished she might see Steve once again, if only to show him how much she’d matured in the past two years. She was no longer the geeky, ice cream–covered fourteen-year-old she had been. Her braces had come off, and her body had finally gotten some curves. She even had breasts. And while she didn’t truly need to wear the bras she’d bought for herself, at least she no longer was as flat as a basement floor. Ty knew she’d never dazzle the opposite sex effortlessly the way Lizzie could, but
nonetheless she felt she’d come a long way in the looks department.
But Steve Sheppard was in Europe now, had been for most of the summer, except for quick trips back across the Atlantic to ride at some of the bigger shows with his other mounts. All the while, Ty had read articles from American and European horse journals, scouring them for news of him. He was competing in the major European shows that the USET entered for the World Cup. He and Jasmine were the top scorers among this year’s American riders. Back home in the United States, Steve was also doing really well with a horse of his own, a younger horse, Fancy Free, that he was “bringing along,” showing at the Preliminary Jumper level.
Ty was keeping her fingers crossed that he’d be at Devon, a show scheduled later in the show calendar, perhaps riding Fancy Free. From the pictures, the gelding looked like a real beauty. It would be thrilling to see them in the flesh.
Devon would be Ty’s last show of the season before she had to knuckle down and get back into the routine of school. Not that she really minded school. Academics had always come easily to her; the math that continually stumped Lizzie seemed to her absurdly simple. She often helped Lizzie in the afternoons at the school library during study period. It never bothered Ty that she forfeited the chance to get her own homework finished, for Lizzie was still her closest friend. During the seven years she’d been enrolled there, the other girls at their school had hardly softened toward Ty. She’d learned to block out the cruelty of the ostracism, pretending not to notice the looks they darted at her, the whispers behind cupped hands, as if she were a freak in a side show. At times she could even smile at the irony, the big cosmic joke of it all, that here, in this upper-crust, private school for rich kids where money was revered, the fact that Tyler Stannard had more wealth than the fathers of all other students combined made it so she, his daughter, was stigmatized. It wasn’t necessarily true that you can never have too much money.
7
“ H ey, Ty, want to grab a bite at the concession stand after warmup?” Lizzie called out as she trotted up on her gelding, Rushmore, a big bay hunter her parents had bought her in the spring. Unlike Ty, Lizzie had chosen to continue competing in the Hunter division, and she and Rushmore had been doing extremely well.