“I should rearrange the place cards, since so many people have all but canceled,” Mama said but didn’t move.
I joined her on the sofa again as she scrolled through TV channels. On the local stations, the news crawl across the bottom of the screen was full of severe weather warnings, thunderstorms, floods—and some stations showed a map of Virginia flashing red where the weather was especially bad.
Mama sipped her bourbon and paused on a movie where Henry Fonda and Lucille Ball were toasting with champagne. “You like old movies, don’t you?”
“I do.” I liked black-and-white movies better than color, but I was surprised she knew I liked any movies at all. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Then put on something else.”
She resumed surfing. “I don’t watch TV. I keep it on for company.”
She was still surfing when Daddy returned.
“Five-thirty. We’ve heard from nearly everyone. Obviously it’s just the three of us. Roan, have the caterers remove the extra place settings and tell them they can serve.”
He looked the same. He sounded the same. But a hot, sharp vibe radiated from him, and I would have obeyed him even if I hadn’t been conditioned to it.
The table seemed even more vast and formal with only Daddy’s place at the head, Mama’s at the foot, and mine forlornly in the middle. We wouldn’t be so remote from one another if we removed the extensions, but Daddy was already escorting Mama to her place. I’d never seen him do that.
The candlelight didn’t soften the hard line of his mouth. The way he picked up his wineglass made me think he could snap the bowl from the stem with a twitch of his fingers.
Mama pushed her food around on her plate and downed two glasses of wine before the second course. No one was speaking, but the atmosphere was spiraling downward. I wanted the table full of guests. I wanted the card game back, even if we were only playing parts, even if it made me sad.
Albert emerged from the kitchen during the main course. “Is everything to your liking?”
“Excellent, Albert, thank you,” Daddy said.
“Wonderful,” I added.
Daddy gave Mama a pointed look.
“Lovely,” she said.
Albert returned to the kitchen.
“Darlin’,” Daddy said, “when you finish, take your dessert up to your room. Your mother and I have something to discuss.”
A bite of Gertrude’s dressing stuck in my throat. I swallowed it and looked at Mama, who should have been alarmed but just seemed tired. I didn’t know who that last caller had been, but I was sure of one thing.
Daddy knew about Mama and Mr. Dashwood.
- seven -
THE PECAN PIE and milk on my nightstand looked like the bountiful end to a happy holiday meal.
I sat cross-legged on my bed and strained to hear something through the storm that battered the house, but the human silence welled up the stairway and flowed under my door. When I couldn’t sit still another second, I tiptoed down the stairs in my bare feet.
The doors to the study were closed.
“… unless you want to nullify… no question…” Daddy spoke so quietly that I only caught disjointed phrases.
Mama raised her voice, babbling.
Daddy interrupted her, but all I understood was the last word. “… Dashwood?”
Abruptly I didn’t want to know what they were saying. This was between them. Back upstairs, I stood indecisively outside my room. I wanted to talk to someone. I tried to talk myself into calling Chelsea, but I really wanted to talk to Will. I could ask about his brother. Concern for a friend was a good excuse to call.
Was he a friend?
Before I could overthink myself into inaction, I ran down the hall, grabbed the handset from Daddy’s nightstand, and ran back to my room. I closed my door and bounced onto my bed, ready to dial.
I didn’t know the number. I visualized the logo on the side of Will’s pickup. Howard Construction—and in smaller type was another name and a contractor’s license number. The name started with an H. Henry. I dialed information, and in seconds I had the residential number of Henry Howard. I punched it in.
The telephone rang twice, which was enough time for my courage to waffle, but then a woman answered. “Steve?”
There was such distress in her voice that I nearly hung up.
“No, ma’am. It’s Roan Montgomery. May I speak to Will?”
“Hold on.” She called Will’s name, and then, her voice muffled, added, “Don’t stay on the phone too long.”
“I won’t,” Will said. “Hello.”
“It’s Roan. Is everything all right?”
“Steve and Amy haven’t turned up yet. Mom’s freaking out.”
He sounded strained, too.
“I’m hanging up,” I said.
“No, don’t. How’s everything there?”
Daddy and Mama’s marriage was no one else’s business. It was barely even mine. Will had a much worse crisis to deal with, but when he prompted me—“Roan?”—I answered.
“You know Sass’s cartoon? Well, it’s true. Daddy found out, and now he and Mama are having this big fight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “They fight a lot.”
“It’s not nothing. My parents don’t fight much, but when they do, it’s not nothing.”
That made me smile a little.
“I think my mom needs me,” he said. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you. Daddy says I’m too young to be getting calls from boys.”
“How many boys are calling you?”
“Dozens.”
He laughed. “ ’Night.”
I clicked off the handset and returned it to my parents’ bedroom.
Back in my room, I added a splash of bourbon to my milk and got ready for bed. Maybe Will’s brother had pulled over somewhere safe and lightning had struck a cell tower so he didn’t have reception.
I downed my milk, rinsed my glass, brushed my teeth, and crawled under the quilts. I intended to keep my lamp on, thinking Daddy or Mama would tell me what was going on, but lightning flared, and with a pop, the lights went out.
* * *
A WEIGHT NEAR my hip made the bed dip. Under the covers, I stretched my legs, and Bailey settled down against my thigh. He had his own bed, a big pillow on the floor, but I liked feeling him tucked up against me.
He growled softly, and through the covers his body tensed.
“Down,” Daddy said. “Roan, why’s the dog on the bed?”
Bailey’s growl became an openmouthed snarl, and he lunged.
I jerked awake. The lamplight was blaring, the red numbers on my alarm clock blinked 12:00, Bailey was dead, and Daddy stood by my bed holding a mug.
“Time to wake up, darlin’,” he said.
Slowly things started coming together. The electricity had gone out and I’d fallen asleep in the blackness.
“What time is it?” My voice was congested with sleep.
“Ten-thirty.”
“A.M. or P.M.?” It was a legitimate question. With the heavy blackout drapes over my window, I couldn’t tell morning from night.
“You are the sleepyhead. A.M. Sit up. Have some cocoa.”
I should have been at the barn hours ago. Daddy handed me the mug. I was barely awake, but I sipped. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn yesterday. He’d loosened the tie, and stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip. Daddy could get as down and dirty as any stable boy, but I’d never seen him look disheveled when he was dressed up.
Then I remembered.
“Daddy—”
“Drink up, darlin’. Then we’ll talk.”
He didn’t say anything further until I finished the cocoa. Then he took the mug, set it on the nightstand, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Roan…” He frowned. “I know what happened at school.”
My heart stopped.
“It’s okay that you didn’
t tell me.”
My heart started again. Not telling him could have been construed as taking Mama’s side.
“Linda Dashwood called last night. John told her everything, and when I confronted your mother, she admitted it. We’ve decided the best thing for everyone, and that means you most of all, is for your mother to move out.”
My breath came in shallow rapid inhales and exhales. She was saving herself.
Daddy put his arms around me and hugged me to his chest.
“Nothing’s going to change for you. You and I will stay here, and you’ll train and go to school, just like always.”
Just like always.
“She hasn’t left yet, has she?”
“She’s packing.”
“Already?”
He let me go. “There’s no reason to prolong it. We’re in agreement for the first time in a long time. She doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t want her here.”
I knew kids could decide which parent they wanted to live with—and I knew with just as much certainty that a future with Mama meant living somewhere else. She wouldn’t stay in Sheridan. She hated it here. Going with her took me away from Daddy, from Rosemont and my horses. Leave Jasper and Vigo? Let someone else win on them?
“Your mother doesn’t want—” Daddy broke off. “Why don’t you get dressed, go down to the farmhouse? Gertrude will make you breakfast.”
“I don’t want breakfast. Mama doesn’t want what?”
“Darlin’, I’m sorry.” His forehead furrowed. “Your mother’s giving me full custody. She doesn’t even want visitation.”
My ears buzzed like they were full of bees.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “She doesn’t want me, either.”
The difference was that he didn’t care.
* * *
I CURLED UP under the covers. Mama’s rejection wounded me, but not fatally. I never missed her when Daddy and I were at a show; I dreaded running into her when I came home from school; meals were always emotional ordeals.
So why did this hurt so much?
Because Mama knew the truth. Ignoring it was bad enough, but abandoning me was worse. How could she leave me all alone with him?
Something bumped against the floor in the hall.
“Got the dolly,” said an unfamiliar male voice.
Heavy work boots clomped down the hall.
Movers. That hadn’t been Mama’s doing. She wasn’t that organized. Daddy had been on the phone a long time before dinner last night. He couldn’t have had that much to say to Linda Dashwood. He’d decided how everything would be handled, right down to scheduling the movers, before we’d even sat down at the table. He must be paying them a fortune.
I was chilled, so I layered on an undershirt, a turtleneck, and a sweater, even though it was the kind of cold that came from the inside, and the warmest clothing couldn’t alleviate it.
Down the hall in Mama and Daddy’s room, a man in gray coveralls was emptying a dresser drawer into a big box with MOVING TARGET printed in red on the side. Lingerie and nightgowns spilled into the box. He replaced the empty drawer and pulled out another one.
Mama emerged from the closet in yoga pants, flats, ponytailed hair, and no makeup. She didn’t meet my eyes.
“Mama? What happened?”
The mover tipped the contents of another drawer into the box.
“Didn’t your father speak to you? He said he would.” She picked up a tall, empty box.
“Yes, but…” I couldn’t have this conversation in front of the mover.
“I didn’t think it would come to this,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d care.”
How could she have been married to him all these years and not know him at all?
“Don’t look at me like that. You judge me all the time, both of you.”
The mover started thumping the drawers and boxes around, as if he didn’t want to hear what was said.
“I’m not judging you.” I didn’t want him to hear it, either. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t help me.”
I couldn’t, not in any way that would truly matter. “I’ll help you pack.”
She scoffed. “Of course.”
I followed her into the closet, where she started yanking dresses from hangers, and I waited for words to come to me—not words that would make her stay, but words that would make her want me.
“I tried,” she said. “I wanted to be a good wife, a good mother—”
Really, Mama?
“—but neither of you needs me. Neither of you loves me.”
“I love you, Mama.”
“You never say it.”
“I don’t like saying it.”
She stuffed her dresses into the box. “Then why do you say it to him?”
“Because he says it to me.”
She looked at me, her eyes like lasers. “Are you telling me you don’t love him?”
“No, I do—”
“End of story.” She pulled some blouses from their hangers, which dangled and swung from the rod. “You love him. You chose him. You’re thick as thieves, and you expect me to believe he’s hurt you? You’ve played us against each other one too many times. It’s over. You win. He’s yours.”
No wonder I didn’t have any words. All the words belonged to Mama.
I felt shaky, sick. “Did you ever even try to stop him?”
“Did you?”
Instantly hot tears seared my eyes, but she would not make me cry. It wasn’t my job to stop him. It was hers. She was the mother.
She stuffed her blouses into the box. “If you’re going to help, help. Get a box from the bedroom.”
The room she shared with Daddy had begun to look empty despite the pecan-wood furniture, the art, the heavy brass lamps, the room-sized Persian rug. Those were family pieces. They weren’t going anywhere. But the nightstand clutter that irritated Daddy was gone—fashion magazines, hair clips, greeting cards bought and never sent, stray pens, a collection of journals that remained blank.
Also missing: the pill bottles from the top of the dresser. If the mover had packed her scripts and Mama couldn’t find them, she’d have a fit, but it was unlikely she’d have left the packing to him. She’d have done it herself first thing.
The mover picked up a silver-framed photograph and flashed the picture toward me: Mama, Daddy, and me on Roxie at a show on Long Island when I was ten. It was the last time she’d seen me ride. “This stay or go?”
On Long Island, Mama’s dislike of horses had been irrelevant. The parties and dinners were a chance for her to socialize. In public, she and Daddy gave every outward appearance of happiness. Being Monty Montgomery’s wife had its perks in the equestrian world, including lots of attention. He was the sun and she was the moon, reflecting his glory. But the next week, he was out of town, and she’d let me spend the night at Chelsea’s. Sass was there, too. She was too old to play with Barbies, she said, which I didn’t want to play with, either, but we had until Sass asked me, “What’s Ken doing?”
“Kissing Barbie.”
Sass frowned. “Boys can’t kiss you there.”
“They can kiss you anywhere.”
Chelsea, who had driven Barbie’s convertible off the edge of her desk, left the scene of the accident. “What are you talking about?”
So I told her and Sass what boys and girls could do, and the more Sass insisted it was impossible, the more I insisted it was possible, until she ran down the hall to tell Mrs. Yost, who came into Chelsea’s room, looked at Ken with his face planted between Barbie’s legs, and suggested we play Monopoly.
When Mama picked me up the next morning, she asked me whether I’d had a good time.
“It was okay.”
“What did you do?”
“We played Monopoly. I won.”
“I’m sure you did. What else?”
“Watched TV.”
“What else?”
I knew then I was in trouble. “That’s al
l.”
“I talked to Chelsea’s mother. Were you girls playing Barbies?”
The deliberate neutrality of her tone put me on guard.
“It was boring.”
“Apparently not. What was Ken doing to Barbie?”
“Kissing her.”
“Where?”
“I was just playing.”
“Where?”
She’d never sounded this way before. She was often sarcastic, often irritated, but stern was Daddy’s territory. I was surprised that coming from her, it had the same effect on me, like a combination of a lie detector test and truth serum.
“Down there.”
“What makes you think boys kiss girls down there?” Her voice had lost its sternness, which made it easier for me to lie again.
“I’ve seen it in movies.” That was what I’d told Chelsea and Sass.
“What movies?”
“I don’t know.”
“Roan, I’m going to ask you a question, and you need to answer it honestly. Has a boy kissed you down there?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Let me rephrase that. Has anyone kissed you down there?”
“No, ma’am.”
She swerved into the overlook and braked so hard that I was slung forward against my seat belt.
“Who was it?” Her voice was almost a growl.
Crying never made Daddy sympathetic to my cause, but it might work on Mama.
She struck the dashboard with her palm. “Goddammit, tell me who it was.”
My tears became genuine. If I told her, he’d find out I hadn’t kept our secret. He’d be mad. My horses would be sold.
She grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me. My head snapped back and forth. Fierce pains shot up my neck into my brain. Daddy never touched me in anger.
“Tell me!”
My tears turned into big gulping heaves, and I was about to throw up my breakfast, and my eyes rolled around in my head like marbles.
“Daddy,” I gasped.
She released me.
Only my sobbing and snuffling broke the silence. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my jacket and waited for all the terrible things to happen, starting with Mama right here, right now.
She was breathing funny. “What else has he done?”
I edged closer to my door. “Nothing.”
Dark Horses Page 8