Training Harry

by Meghan Namaste

  Finally I saw Harry sigh, lower his head and concede to his rider's initiative. The light-footed movement returned, and he trotted around the "eight" with great aplomb. Yes! I was so giddy that you'd think I was the one who'd done it all. I allowed myself this irrational excitement and called out to Lawrence, "Let him go!"

  He rose out of the saddle, let the reins slacken, and Harry leapt forward into a gallop. His strides ate up the arena and threw sand onto my boots, and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of running. After several times around, Lawrence sank into the saddle slightly and Harry rated, slowing to a generous hand gallop. Once they throttled down to a trot, Lawrence halted Harry in the center of the arena and rubbed his neck appreciatively. He was grinning and slightly breathless when I walked over.

  He dismounted and we stood there for a moment, just reveling in the accomplishment. He was very close to me, and I decided to just enjoy the view until one of us broke the silence. It wound up being me. "Well," I said, "I'd say that was a breakthrough."

  He nodded. "I'm hoping he knows now that he can communicate with me on a more...subtle level."

  I laughed. "Are you saying that you'd prefer a head toss over a nasty buck?"

  Lawrence smiled. "It might be better. Not that I have anything against nasty bucks, mind you."

  "You certainly sit them well." I paused. "You should wear a helmet, though. I don't let any of my students ride without one." My face flushed. "Not that I have anything to teach you," I added hastily.

  "Why would you say that?"

  Might as well be truthful. He probably already has an ego the size of a Clydesdale. "Because you're the best rider I've ever seen."

  He glanced downward. "Well, thank you for saying that, but I've still got a lot to learn. And I wouldn't be getting anywhere with Harry if it weren't for your guidance."

  I blushed hard, and as we both stared at the arena footing, I wondered if I was wrong about his ego.

  Lawrence

  I still got checks in the mail sometimes. The IPC was flooded with them in the weeks after Elle's accident, and even now they were dutifully forwarded to me. Initially, I reasoned that people had a right to do what they wanted with their money, and I gratefully (and greedily) cashed in. But now I tore them up without exception. I always read the letters, though. Even if I didn't recognize the name on the envelope, it didn't mean the person was a stranger.

  And the name on the glossy, professional-looking return address label I was staring at gave me chills, in a good way. Marla St. James. I ripped open the envelope.

  There was no check inside. The single sheet of paper was barren except for the IPC letterhead and a brief note. Call me. I miss you. Love, Marla. P.S. You still have my number. I know you do.

  Just before I left for Florida, as I strapped the puffy, light blue shipping boots onto Elle's valuable legs, Wilson had come up behind me. "A word, Cavanaugh, if you please," he said with measurable hostility.

  I glanced up from Elle's then-sound left hind. "I've got a long drive ahead of me, Wilson." I just wanted to get away. For me, Florida wasn't just the promised land, a land of opportunity, whatever. It was a land far, far away from Elaine Windzor.

  He glowered at me. "This is important, Cavanaugh. But if you can't take a minute or two out of your busy schedule, that's just fine by me."

  He was mad because I hadn't been honest with him about my "sponsor". That was probably what hurt the most, his disapproval. His tone of voice reminded me of the way my father always spoke to me, but I knew Wilson was only concerned. "Okay," I said as I fastened the last buckle. I stood up and exited Elle's stall. "I'm listening.”

  Wilson's eyebrows raised in surprise. "That's the first rational thing I've heard you say in a month's time, Cavanaugh."

  My gaze dropped to the floor.

  "I'm not trying to insult your intelligence or anything," Wilson added hastily. "I'm just saying, you haven't been all that easy to be around ever since ..." his voice trailed off. "Anyway," he started again, "that's kind of what I wanted to speak to you about. You're going off to Florida, and it's a great opportunity for you and all. I couldn't be more proud."

  "Thank you, Wilson," I mumbled. How was it that the nicer he was to me, the worse I felt?

  "It's just that - " he hesitated. "I just think maybe a higher moral standard would be nice to see from you."

  "A higher moral standard?" My lip twitched.

  "Yes, Cavanaugh. You're goin' to the International Polo Club, and not as a groom, as a player. I think it might be time for you to focus just a little bit. Get your head in the game. No, actually using your head would even be a step up for you."

  "Are you saying that I tend to let a certain instinct take over?"

  Wilson's face reddened considerably. "Just promise me you'll try, Cavanaugh."

  I nodded. "I promise that when I reach Florida and begin my residence at the International Polo Club, I will display a higher moral standard. On the lonely, open road, though, I promise to take advantage of every immoral but extremely pleasurable opportunity."

  Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'll miss you, Cavanaugh. Not your speeches or the sobbing girls who show up at my stable looking for you."

  "Hey, that only happened once," I protested. "And she wasn't crying when she left."

  I fully intended to keep my promise to Wilson. After all, he was right. I needed to focus, use my head, all that stuff. When I walked into the IPC headquarters on that first day, my heart was surely in the right place. And then I saw her, and I forgot then and there that I had ever used the words "higher moral standard" and "I promise" in the same sentence.

  Standing in my kitchen with the phone pressed up against my ear, I counted five rings before the sweet relief of her voice. "Lawrence," she said. "How are you?"

  I refused to acknowledge the unease in her disembodied voice. "I'm okay," I said. "How're things there? Are you still finding things to write about now that I'm gone?"

  "Well, Rahor's proving to be a powerhouse on the field. And the team's kept up the winning streak you started."

  Admittedly, I felt the burn of disappointment. Everyone wants to feel they're needed, and hearing that the team had crumbled in my absence would've been a welcome boost to the old ego. Not that I wanted my former team to fail, but it's difficult for someone who rose to a sort of godlike status to descend back into obscurity and then choke down the realization that everyone's carrying on just fine without you. Which is why I then said, "Marla, I've got to see you."

  A long pause, long enough for the panic to set in. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Lawrence."

  "How could it be a bad idea? Marla ... I've got my own place now. And it's only a little smaller than my hotel room in Florida. Remember how it was, Marla? It was awesome, that's how it was. You can get away for a few days, and come to Lexington. Even if I only have an hour with you, I don't care. That's enough. I just have to see you."

  "I met someone," she said softly.

  I was so deeply immersed in reliving every moment spent with her in Florida that I barely heard.

  "I met someone," she repeated, her voice stronger this time. She still didn't sound confident in what she was saying.

  Or maybe my desperation was trying to twist everything she said into what I wanted to hear. "Before or after you sent the letter?" I demanded with all the calmness and maturity of a twelve year old girl watching a horror film.

  "You act like this is some horrible betrayal, Lawrence, but you're the one who left for greener, or should I say bluer pastures, and I'm not going to apologize, because what I have now ... this could be the real thing."

  "We could've been the real thing!"

  Her quick, harsh laugh cut through me like a chainsaw. "That was never going to happen. You're twenty years old, and your idea of monogamy is only screwing other girls when I'm in a meeting."

  "I was faithful to you," I asserted. "I didn't have to be, but I was, because no one else compares to you."

  "Except
for that one other girl," she countered. "Kaitlyn, the waitress. Remember her?"

  I was about to accuse her of lying through her teeth, because at first I didn't. But slowly a memory surfaced. Many others followed it. Kaitlyn the waitress. Yes, I remembered her.

  "Okay," I said, inhaling deeply. "You're right, I wasn't totally faithful. But Marla, you have to realize how I feel about you…”

  Her response was immediate. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound, Lawrence? You're saying that I'm all you want, when we both know full well I couldn't possibly be enough for you. You managed to whittle it down to one other girl - which I guess I'm supposed to give you credit for - and then you left me for a ..." She stopped so abruptly I suspected a connection problem. I called her a couple more times, hoping for an apology or even more harsh words. Anything but the silence. She didn’t answer.

  Erica

  Today was not shaping up well. I could think of many things I'd rather be doing as I stood in my room, staring longingly out the window at the outdoor arena. Jeannie, our exercise rider, was working a dapple grey gelding over a course of low fences. He eagerly over-jumped everything, occasionally throwing in a joyful buck. I smiled at his youthful enthusiasm, but I had my doubts about him as a hunter prospect. He certainly snapped his legs up prettily over every fence, but bucking was not appreciated in the hunter ring. Perhaps I'd take him in a few low jumper classes at my next show. Jeannie finished the course and began to cool him out, and I watched as one of the grooms brought down the next horse to be exercised. Lucky Jeannie. I knew she worked hard for a living, but Jeannie was getting to ride all afternoon, while I would be stuck indoors. And I was pretty sure she never, ever had to wear a dress if she didn't want to.

  My mother was "entertaining" this afternoon, as she often did. Personally, I didn't find anything entertaining about dressing up and gossiping, but to each their own, I guess. In addition to her typical circle of friends, their husbands and sons would be here. These men were local hunter/jumper breeders and trainers. Normally this wouldn't bother me, but I desperately wanted to be taken seriously by my fellow pros, and it's hard to be taken seriously when you're wearing a periwinkle blue dress.

  I didn't look in the mirror for any longer than it took to ensure I wasn't in immediate danger of a wardrobe malfunction. I knew it was bad. The dress was fairly simple, not too many ruffles or flounces, but the color was an insult to the eye. I knew I had made a mistake as soon as I unwrapped the thing. My mother always asked me what kind of dress I wanted (it was a popular question, second only to "Would you like to go shopping?"). I always told her that I didn't want any dress, but I definitely didn't want a pink one (or one with lace, sequins, or ruffles, and on and on). I knew now that I should have told her "no light colors". She insisted that this one would bring out my eyes. I was pretty sure it would only make everyone else's eyes water.

  I sighed. Time to go downstairs. I slipped on my white sandals ("Heels would be much better, dear") and headed down the staircase. Maybe if I'm charming enough, she'll let me leave early. That happy, hopeful little idea was squashed as soon as I saw my mother. She was smiling in a way that could not possibly be good. Her heels clacked against the floor as she walked up to me. "You look lovely, dear! I wish you would let me pick out your clothes more often."

  She spoke too fast for me to object, or even think.

  "And I've got great news," she continued, still smiling in that unsettling way. "Ronald Stanham is coming over this afternoon, and he specifically asked if you would be here today!" She beamed.

  I would've choked if my mouth hadn't been completely dry. Ronald Stanham was my mother's dream date for me. He was rich, and such a nice boy, and his mother Diane would be a fabulous mother-in-law, you just couldn't ask for a nicer lady! Her words, not mine.

  Ronald was a nice enough guy, it was true. But he just didn't hold any interest for me whatsoever. He was at least 50 pounds overweight, with orangeish hair that looked like it would start thinning in like five years, and a very shiny, pink face. There were a lot of girls out there who would marry for money, but I wasn't one of them. My lack of desperation for a boyfriend had to be my mother's greatest frustration.

  "You haven't told him I'm interested, have you?" I asked in great horror. "Or even hinted at it? Because I'm not interested, I'm telling you. I don't know why you refuse to believe me."

  My mother looked quite distressed at my choice of words. "Oh, honey, won't you give him a chance? It's true, he's not all muscled up like some male model, but looks fade over time anyway! Besides," she added, "he's not vain."

  That's debatable. I'd seen him do a lot of hair-smoothing and tie-straightening at parties. And as far as looks fading, I knew it was a valid point...but wouldn't you rather have the looks for at least a little while, if you could?

  I took a deep, calming breath. It didn't really help, but it kept me from screaming. "Okay," I said, "I will talk to him today if it makes you happy. But I can tell you right now that it's not going to change anything."

  My mother smiled. "We'll just see about that." She turned to go smooth a tablecloth, or straighten a centerpiece, or whatever it is that people do to get ready for a party. I flipped her the bird behind her back.

  The party was a couple hours old, and I was surviving. I'd had some nice conversations about things I was comfortable talking about, and was even faintly enjoying myself when Ronald cornered me.

  It was my fault for going near the food table, which I knew to be his territory. But I was starving, and those crab cakes looked seriously good. I didn't see him anywhere, so I decided to try and grab some sustenance, then go directly back to my territory on the other side of the room. I had just popped a crab cake into my mouth when I felt his presence behind me. I would've cursed a blue streak (whatever that means) if my mouth hadn't been full.

  I turned around and smiled politely, then chewed for longer than any crab cake needs to be chewed. I even chewed the air a bit after I'd swallowed, because I wasn't ready to face this conversation. I briefly considered pretending to choke, but decided against it because Ronald would probably attempt the Heimlich maneuver. Any excuse to get his hands on me. I stared at him, filled with irrational hatred. He smiled angelically, waiting for me to finish.

  I sighed, almost loudly enough for him to hear. "Hi, Ronald."

  "Tough crab cake?" He asked, still smiling.

  "Extremely." I rolled my eyes, glad to get that out of my system. "That's the last time I'm letting my mom try to cook."

  In truth, Helga, our cook/housekeeper had made the crab cakes, and they weren't tough at all. But he didn't have to know that.

  I noticed he hadn't laughed at my sad little attempt at a joke, he just kept smiling. That annoyed me to no end. Why so smiley, Ronald? What the hell is wrong with you? It probably meant that he did like me, I realized with a sinking feeling. He was the only type of guy who ever did.

  The conversation seemed inordinately long, possibly because it was excruciatingly boring. Ronald was not picking up on the strong "I'm not interested" vibes I was trying to send him. Nor did he care that I only gave one-word answers to his questions. I guess he was so used to getting his way that it didn't even occur to him he might not get it this time around. I finally excused myself, citing lightheadedness. That might have been a bad choice of words, as he probably thought it was a symptom of love, but I didn't care. I practically raced up the stairs to my room, where I tore off the hated dress, threw it in a heap behind my bed (out of sight, out of mind) and changed into my favorite jeans and shirt combo. Then I snuck out the back door. I had a few errands to run, and by the time I got back, the party would be over. Then I could ride all evening until I had to go back inside and face the wrath of my mother.

  As I started my truck, I felt a strange euphoria/guilt combo. I had never ditched one of my mother's parties before. I always tried to compromise myself for her when she threw a party, because she compromised herself every time she let me leave the house in
my barn clothes. We were as different as we could possibly be, but she was my mother, and I tried to please her at least occasionally. And ditching stuff just wasn't like me. I had never ditched class when I was in high school, so maybe I was just making up for lost time. Though, as I drove, I had a feeling that high school had nothing to do with this little rebellion.

  I had spoken with Ronald before, and while I had always been vehemently opposed to the idea that I should go out with him, I had never really minded him as a person. Talking to him hadn't been torture. So why was it now? Why was it such an insult to me that he was interested?

  Because I’m interested in someone now.

  I decided to stop at the tack shop on my way through town. With over 30 horses on our place, we could always use more fly spray. As I walked through the door, I heard the cashier giggling wildly. I knew her well, and she wasn't the giggling type. I glanced over to the counter and saw Lawrence Cavanaugh leaning against it. He was buying a schooling helmet.

  He turned his head my way, a lock of dark hair falling into equally dark eyes. Recognizing me, he smiled. Then he winked at me.

  I smiled back. He's trainable. And I slipped down further into the abyss.

  Lawrence

  The lean Thoroughbred galloped across the turf, its gawky, young frame momentarily transformed into a guided missile by the rider crouched above it. I recognized the colt's rider by the long strands of dark brown hair that had worked their way out of her helmet.

  After the sprint, she began pulling him down. The colt fought her at first, but slowly conceded, and they drew nearer to where I stood at an exuberant trot. The look of intense focus on the exercise rider's face made me realize I probably wouldn't get a "hello", or even a glance, until after she'd handed the colt off to a groom. She stared straight ahead, but I knew where her focus was. She felt the colt's every motion, each footfall. If those footfalls became uneven, she would know almost immediately. Focus like that could save a horse's life.