by R. S. Kovach
Ali sighed. Robert was certainly right in theory. But in practice? She wasn’t so sure. Ever since she’d started show jumping at a competitive level, she’d always used her own horse. Taking a chance with an unfamiliar animal just to get in a few hours’ practice wasn’t her style, and perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
“I still feel like I’m betraying Lippi.” She thought of the four-year-old Westphalian she should have been riding in New Jersey right now.
Robert turned and winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
Ali scoffed, but the smell of the horses and the thumping of hooves reverberating through the floor from the nearby arena were slowly changing her mind. Much like music was for her father, riding was in her blood. The competitive nature of the activity had helped shape her being, and she was sure everything she’d learned from it had helped her achieve success in her career, too.
After conferring with the trainer, Ali eventually settled on a lean chestnut mare named Seneca. By the time she grabbed the riding tack and saddled up the animal, she had pushed aside her hesitation and was fully focused on the task ahead.
The first hour of warm-ups and basic exercises went splendidly. To her surprise, Ali was even enjoying some of Seneca’s unexpected quirks. Seneca was much more confident than her Lippi, needing less guidance to properly complete a sharp turn and fewer words of encouragement to speed up for a higher obstacle.
Not even bothering with Robert, who was busy polishing his own skills, Ali was relishing every moment. Sweat dripped from her brow down the fine layer of dust on her face, and her thighs against the animal’s back ached from the exertion, but she wouldn’t have traded this feeling for being back at the family brunch.
She’d even picked up a few new pointers from Robert’s trainer. Ready to put them into practice, Ali lined up Seneca at the start of the expert-level course and waited for the signal. At the buzz of the automated timer, she snapped the reins and urged the horse into motion.
Slow and steady wouldn’t get her a spot at nationals, but neither would fast and reckless. Finding the right balance was key, and as Ali guided the horse around the first turn, she let her instincts take over. The rider was in charge, but the horse had to be willing to obey. The first of the ten obstacles was a simple vertical fence. Seneca’s pacing was on point, and she cleared the horizontal pole easily.
So far, so good.
A triple bar was next, and it too caused no concern.
There was a bit more distance to the third jump, and Ali used the chance to regulate her breathing. Keeping her back straight and shoulders square, she noticed Robert from the corner of her eye watching the run. She smiled as the horse approached a Swedish oxer, knowing the two poles slanted in opposite directions to cause the illusion of an X shape looked more ominous than they really were. Seneca wasn’t as confident and faltered slightly in her steps leading to the fence.
Ali’s heartbeat accelerated at the mistake, but the horse cleared the obstacle without fault. Another set of turns led to the fourth fence, consisting of a wide, water-filled ditch under two poles of equal height. Lippi had a natural aversion to water, and Ali had struggled for weeks with the mare to master such obstacles. But Seneca took this one with more fervor than perhaps any of the others before it, sending Ali’s mood soaring.
Clearing the upcoming fake brick wall would put them halfway through the course.
Ali had never been a fan of this type of obstacle, and it appeared her horse also wanted to quickly put it behind her. Without waiting for her rider’s urging, the mare increased her speed and sprinted for the jump. Ali’s eyes widened at the unexpected pace, but the obstacle was approaching fast and instructing the horse to change either direction or speed would certainly end in disaster.
Trusting the animal, Ali let her take the lead.
Seneca reared, her front legs rising into the air and her hindquarters pushing off the ground. Ali leaned deep over the horse’s neck, and the duo effortlessly soared through the air before gracefully landing on the other side.
She grinned from relief, but the emotion was fleeting. Instead of setting a more appropriate pace, the horse kept the jump’s momentum in her gallop. First using the reins and then her thighs, Ali attempted to slow the animal, but Seneca wasn’t having it. Bolting for the joker—an already tricky fence where a lack of filler underneath made it difficult to judge proximity and height—the mare was completely out of her control. Accepting the situation once again, Ali adjusted her posture to prepare for the upcoming jump.
It never came. At the last second, Seneca spooked and skidded to a halt, sending Ali straight over the horse’s head and into the wooden fence.
◆ ◆ ◆
Every part of her body hurt. As Ali attempted to roll from her back to her side, the cool sheet covering her pulled taut, making the pain even more acute. It felt as though she’d been run over by a steamroller, crushing all her bones and muscles and leaving her sore and stiff.
She took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as her lungs burned in response. Opening her eyes, she struggled to comprehend where she was and recall how she had gotten there. Apart from her twin bed, the generic interior had a single upholstered chair, a nondescript side table, a wall-mounted television, and two closed doors. She’d spent her fair share of time on the road, and her first instinct was that this was just another impersonal hotel room. Judging by the laminate finishing, off-white linoleum floor, drab blackout curtains, and garish pink walls, the Ritz-Carlton it was not.
Neither was it home, but for some reason, Manhattan also didn’t feel like it had been her last location.
Ali pushed up to a sitting position, and a sharp pain radiated along her right arm. Looking down, she saw her wrist bound in a splint. Glancing at her other arm, she noticed an IV needle taped to the back of her left hand, with a tube running to a bag of clear solution hanging above.
“Sweetheart, you’re up.” Her father entered the room, followed by her mother and Robert. All were holding to-go cups of coffee, but while her parents were dressed semiformally—he in a tan linen suit and she in a flowing yellow dress—Robert was in a dusty riding uniform.
Suddenly, it all came flooding back. The family breakfast. Robert’s invitation to the arena. The chestnut mare barreling at top speed toward the obstacle. Strangers fussing over her and the sound of sirens still ringing in her ears.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was Grace and Esteban’s weekend, and now they were here, worrying about her. She’d distracted them from the celebrations.
“What time is it?” Against her best efforts, her voice was weak.
Her father looked at his watch. “Quarter to two. Why? Is there someplace you have to be right now?” He smiled, stopping at her elbow.
She shook her head, unable to hold back a rogue tear. “Yes, and so do you. Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry. You too, Mom.”
Grace patted her daughter’s hand. “Darling, we’re just happy you’re okay.” She gave Robert—who’d remained conspicuously in the background—a stern side-eye glance.
“Where’s Marco?” Ali noticed her younger sibling’s absence.
Her mother smiled in sympathy. “Don’t think your brother doesn’t care about you, Alejandra. He was just as worried as the rest of us.”
“He left about an hour ago after your CT scan came back clear,” her father added.
“You know how Marco is. The nurses were practically fighting over him.” Her mother laughed. “Besides, he’s more useful keeping the guests at home in line. You should be happy he’s not here for any more distractions.”
I’d be happy to make that decision for myself, Ali thought, but there was still too much ambiguity to the situation to argue.
“You said something about a CT scan? What happened? My head is all foggy and I can’t . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to jog her memory. “I
can’t think straight.”
“That’s the concussion,” Esteban explained. “The doctor said it would affect your short-term memory for the rest of the day.”
“The meds you got probably aren’t helping, either.” Robert grinned before Grace shot him down with another look.
“Is this broken?” Ali raised her right hand before the pain forced her to gently lower it again.
“I’m afraid so,” her mother said. “We’ve insisted they get the best orthopedic surgeon to reset it, but he won’t be available until tomorrow.”
“Surgery?” Ali’s voice cracked.
“Nothing to worry about. And we’ll be right here with you,” Esteban reassured her.
In spite of her escalating heart rate, Ali’s thoughts had returned to the consequences of her accident. “But you can’t miss your party.”
Grace kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Nonsense. We’ll have another anniversary and an even bigger party next year. But we only have one of you, so that means our place is here.”
“Although we would appreciate a quick respite to run home and change if you don’t mind.” Esteban took his wife’s spot next to Ali. Leaning in, he whispered, “You gave us a right scare, but you’ll be shipshape in no time, sweetheart. And don’t worry about your mother. I’m sure a trip to Aruba over Christmas will smooth out any ill memories she’ll have of a forfeited party.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” Ali kissed his cheek. “Go ahead. I’m really sleepy anyway. I’ll be fine.”
Robert cheerfully advanced as her parents stepped out of the room. “I’ll keep you company, Alley Cat. Whatever you need, I’m your guy.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Sunday morning’s surgery to reset her distal radius fracture—as Dr. Best-in-the-County described it—was a success. The five pins holding the broken pieces together were expected to make her recovery somewhat more painful and complicated, but the generous dose of painkillers she had received helped Ali not care as much initially.
When she learned that she wouldn’t be discharged until Tuesday morning at the earliest, Ali began to panic. She had a multitude of daily meetings, not to mention deliverables that now couldn’t get done. Without access to her laptop or cell phone—her father still refused to hand over either—she couldn’t verify where she’d been scheduled to fly, but Ali did recall having a business trip planned for later in the week. With the surgical anesthesia wearing off and her body hurting more and more again, the added anxiety was making her even sicker.
“Just give me her number and I’ll call your assistant for you,” Robert offered, turning away as she vomited bile into a plastic kidney-shaped dish. “What was her name again? Nora?”
Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hospital gown, Ali held out her hand. “Give it to me. I need to talk to her.”
But Nora didn’t answer, and Ali was stuck with leaving a harried voice mail about having a medical emergency but expecting to return to the office by Wednesday.
“Are you sure about that?” Robert looked skeptical when she handed his phone back. “Didn’t the doc say to rest for at least a week or two?”
“I’m fine, Robert,” Ali replied before hunching over the vomit pan again.
◆ ◆ ◆
Against her mother’s wishes, on Tuesday Ali headed back to Manhattan. Marco had offered to drive her home, but apart from making a wisecrack about the color of the short arm cast running from the base of her elbow to the middle of her hand, his greeting was terse.
Like it was her fault someone in the operating room had decided to use neon-pink fiberglass material on the accessory she’d be wearing for the next six weeks.
Ali frowned. The next two hours were going to be awkward, but she knew better than to pry at her brother for conversation. It would probably circle back to how she’d ruined their parents’ special weekend anyway. They had visited the hospital every day and insisted her well-being was their priority, but Ali worried they were quietly disappointed by her foolishness. How could they not have been, when even she couldn’t forgive herself?
Marco’s Range Rover hit a pothole, and Ali had to balance a vase full of summer wildflowers on her lap so it wouldn’t spill. The bouquet had officially come from Foxhall Investments, but Nora was more than likely responsible for the gesture. It was the only thing Ali took away from the hospital; she’d left the two dozen red roses from Robert to brighten up the nurses’ station.
When she finally arrived home, her fourteenth-floor Greenwich Village apartment felt emptier than ever. Dragging herself to the couch, she fired up her laptop for the first time in four days. She’d tried to make a dent in her 139 unread work emails in the car, but staring at the small phone screen had made her nauseated. Without such an issue now, she cleared half of the lot in an hour. But those were only the easy, “FYI” messages, and her recurring aches kept her from focusing much longer. Deciding the remainder would need to wait until tomorrow, Ali took some pills and went to bed.
Invigorated by the thought of getting back to her old routine, on Wednesday she was one of the first people in the Midtown office. Arriving early also helped her avoid the more curious looks and awkward quips about why she was wearing oversized sunglasses inside.
Because not even Estée Lauder makes foundation substantial enough to cover my shiner, Ali thought as she grimaced at the junior account manager who’d made the latest comment while she snuck into the ladies’ room.
By the time Nora arrived, she had sorted the rest of her emails, which was no small feat given the almost uselessness of her dominant hand. Operating the computer mouse was nothing compared to having to peck at the keyboard, but writing something even remotely legible with a pen was impossible. Worse yet, she’d halved the recommended dose of pain meds, and the increasing throbbing in her wrist was making it harder and harder to concentrate on bond ratings and profit ratios. After a few hours, when the pain got so bad it made her eyes tear up during a colleague’s presentation, Ali finally took another one of the small, round pills.
She probably should have eaten something first.
The opiates quickly blocked her discomfort, but they also made her uncontrollably drowsy. When lunchtime rolled around and Nora entered her corner office with an unsolicited chicken Caesar salad, she had to nudge Ali—who was unceremoniously sprawled across her keyboard—awake. The woman was respectful enough not to comment, but her face conveyed both sympathy and concern.
Less than an hour later, the phone on Ali’s desk rang. It was an internal company number, but she didn’t recognize the extension. Usually, most calls would come through her assistant, so it was a surprise when the director of human resources greeted her.
The woman on the other end of the line was polite yet firm. Word of Ali’s hospitalization had reached her, and as per company policy, she needed a copy of Ali’s medical clearance authorizing her return to work. Knowing her paperwork stated her return date to be next Monday, and even that was contingent on a follow-up visit, Ali had no choice but to head back home.
Luckily, no one had thought to remove her remote access. Still, although she was operating out of the relative comfort of her own home—including switching her Burberry suit for flannel pajamas—the afternoon didn’t get much better. Alternating between painful distraction and sleepy restlessness, Ali managed to accidentally send a half-completed email to a new client and carry on a phone conversation for two minutes before realizing she’d called the wrong extension.
By Thursday, she had learned her lesson. No more work until Monday.
That vow lasted for approximately six hours.
Ali had taken a leisurely stroll through Central Park, gotten a manicure, and bought a new Dior scarf when her phone rang. It was the colleague who’d gone on the trip to San Francisco in her stead. He had used her presentation with the potential investors, but they had questions he couldn’t answer. As she sto
od in front of a Chelsea coffee shop staring at her pathetic reflection in the storefront—hair in a haphazard ponytail and wrist in the pink cast—Ali also couldn’t recall why she had calculated potential first-year earnings based on the Nikkei index instead of the Nasdaq. Neither the clients nor the venture were Japanese, which would warrant the former, so why didn’t she use the New York numbers?
There was always a solid reason for her methodology, but Ali’s hand shook as she struggled to recall this instance. Knowing it was a key factor in determining financial viability and that it could stall the deal even before it began, she attempted one of her canned answers.
“Tell them the liquidity requirements for Nasdaq aren’t favorable for IP-heavy start-ups. We’re maximizing profit—”
“They’ve been in business eleven years,” her colleague on the other end interrupted. “That’s hardly a start-up.”
She gritted her teeth at the error. “Well, I’m on sick leave, so I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now. Just tell them to call me next week.” Ali hung up the phone, scolding herself for the compound blunders. She’d never let down a colleague before like that, but making up stuff now would just lead to a bigger mess to clean up later. She’d have the proper answers on Monday after reviewing the files again.
In the hopes of ending the disastrous workweek on a high note, after her follow-up doctor’s visit on Friday Ali arranged to meet an old friend for lunch. Armed with clearance to return to the office on Monday, she tapped her fingers on the white tablecloth before checking her watch.
Shelby should have arrived twenty minutes ago, but just as Ali contemplated ordering, the mousy brown–haired woman slipped into the opposite chair. “I’m so sorry for being late, but my boss—” She cut herself off as her gaze landed on her friend’s face. “Oh my god, what kind of bastard did this to you?”
Ali self-consciously touched her cheek. She’d taken off her sunglasses and had forgotten that she’d skipped the heavy makeup for the benefit of her doctor’s visit. “The name was Seneca?” she recalled with a slight doubt.