Learning to Fall

by Anne Clermont

  “It’s a pretty low one.”

  I whistled quietly. “Still . . .”

  “They like to start them young now, you know? Most of them over in Europe are showing at this age. They don’t wait around for them to get old.”

  The conversation made me think of Dad’s question before he died. What about Jett? What was his future? He was eleven, and he still hadn’t gone into a real Grand Prix. I might have been showing him in Grand Prix last year if I wasn’t in vet school.

  “Are you headin’ up to watch?” Ruth asked.

  I shook my head. “Just walking to my car.”

  “Next time,” she said, nodding a goodbye, getting out of her cart.

  “Next time.” I moved closer to the entrance of the warm-up arena, studying Devil’s Slide. What a name. He wasn’t tall, but taller than Jett. I put him at 16.3 hands. He had four white socks, a large white crooked blaze down his face, and a heavy, long body. He knocked a rail in the warm-up round, then immediately bucked. Roman took control of him, pulling firmly on his reins. Obviously Devil’s Slide didn’t like hitting rails, and would probably jump better the next time around. I watched, and sure enough, as Roman took him around to the jump again, he cleared it by six inches. He didn’t show any sign of strain, and looked more like a cat pouncing than a horse making a five-foot jump.

  Vivian walked out of the Grand Prix arena atop a bay mare, Love’s First Trip. It had won many Grand Prix for Vivian. Vivian breathed heavily, her face scrunched. She hopped off the mare like a puma, throwing the reins at her groom. The groom flinched, then grabbed them.

  Vivian stretched tall and pulled off her helmet, her hair net along with it. She tossed both at her groom, who struggled to catch them while trying to keep the wired horse under control. Vivian’s dark long hair spilled out toward the small of her back, her gold belt flashing above her white britches. Her breath steadied, and she appeared like she hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “Vivian. Great round!” A pimple-faced teenager with braces jogged past me toward her.

  Vivian eyed the teenager who stood with her hands clasped together, as if she were praying to an idol, her eyes round, full of eagerness.

  “I just love watching you ride!” the girl said.

  “Thank you,” Vivian said and walked toward the in-gate.

  “I ride at Oak Hill Riding Academy in Napa, but my parents said that if I continue to keep up my grades they might let me take lessons with you!” The girl jabbered on, following Vivian. Vivian paused, and the girl almost ran into her back. “Oh! I’m soo sorry!”

  Vivian turned around to eye the girl up and down. “So you think you might come train with me?” She propped her sunglasses on top of her head and squinted at the girl. “That’s really nice. But I’m only taking on clients in full training.”

  “I’m not sure that we would be able to do that right away—”

  “And I need to be frank with you. I’m fully booked, so if you’re interested in riding with my barn, we require you purchase a horse worth at minimum, forty thousand. Is that in your parents’ budget?”

  The girl’s shoulders sagged, her eyes filling with tears. Vivian had taken complete account of the girl, deducing she had no money. The girl wore cheap cotton breeches. Her boots were muddy, probably an off-the-shelf brand unlike the custom leather ones Vivian wore. The polo shirt was crumpled and untucked, the girl’s pudgy belly spilling out over her breeches like a Winnie the Pooh bear. No belt. The girl’s lips made a round circle, but no sound came out.

  “I suggest you stay where you’re at, or move to a less expensive barn. But, I’m sure you’ll do perfectly fine with your current trainer.” Vivian turned her back on the girl, and stood at the entrance of the VIP tent filled with dinner tables.

  My heart went out to the girl. I debated whether I should go say something, but instead I hovered next to the warm-up ring. This was the harsh reality of the show world. The part I despised. The part I wished I could change somehow. But it had always been like that. Ever since I was a child, and no doubt since my dad was a child.

  I’d always known it had been a stretch for both Dad and me to show. Now, I knew by how much: Dad had been willing to go into immense debt. We never splurged on fancy show gear. My saddles were always hand-me-downs, but they’d taught me how to keep a good seat, and stay modest. Still, when I was younger, I’d resented Dad for the cheap tack, the cheap boots.

  Vivian had come from a broken home, but somehow she’d managed to get to the top—now she had the clients with fancy gear, the fancy barn. But my dad had been her first instructor, giving her free lessons in exchange for work around the barn. How could she treat this girl like this? I was reminded again of Dad, telling me he didn’t like the choices he saw her make.

  I turned and glanced over at my group of clients. They were a good gang. They weren’t focused on image or money, not as much as some anyway, otherwise they wouldn’t be riding with my dad and—let’s face it—now me. Vivian stopped at the entrance of the Grand Prix arena, wishing Roman good luck as he walked in. Roman smiled and she blew him a kiss.

  As I was about to walk away, I noticed her wave, then smile, at my group of clients.

  Suddenly, my yoga pants could wait; I needed to talk to Corinne, Helena, and Mai. By the time I walked up to the Grand Prix arena stands, Vivian was already laughing with them. I put on what I thought was my warmest smile. “Are you ladies ready for a glass of wine?”

  “Brynn! You decided to stay!” Helena beamed, reminding me how important these functions were. It wasn’t just about teaching an exceptional lesson or riding to the best of my ability. I had to socialize afterward too.

  “I wouldn’t want to miss hanging out with all of you!” I put my hand on Corinne’s shoulder.

  “Brynn!” Vivian smiled and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek. “So nice to see you! I was surprised to hear you were at the show after all.”

  A silence fell over the group. Helena called to the kids to come closer.

  Corinne gestured toward the arena. “We were just chatting about Roman’s skill at taking that young stallion over the jumps.” Roman atop Devil’s Slide jumped on the far side of the Grand Prix arena.

  “Vivian had some great observations. She thinks he should be sending that horse higher. He’s only seven! Can you believe it?” Helena added. I was grateful for their steering the topic away from my dad, but my cheeks still burned. It wasn’t Vivian’s place to talk to my clients about riding.

  “Brynn, did you know that Vivian’s trained with George Morris?” Corinne asked. All eyes turned toward me to see what I thought of this revelation. Kennedy, who’d been playing with the other girls, came to stand next to me. George Morris had been the Chef d’Equipe for the US Equestrian Show jumping team since 2005. A gold medal winner at the Pan American Games in 1959 and a silver medal winner at the 1960 Olympic Games. He was one of the most celebrated and respected trainers in the country.

  I wished I had kept walking to my car and had never stopped in to say hello. I felt as young and inexperienced as little Kennedy next to me. “Oh, I didn’t realize you’d trained with him. Wasn’t that just a clinic?”

  “It was held over a long weekend . . .” Vivian twirled the crop she still carried from her ride. “Well, I better get to the VIP tent. Best not to keep my clients waiting.” Then she leaned in toward me and lowered her voice. “We got the table for the week at a steal. Twenty-five hundred for the eight of us.” Mai’s and Corinne’s eyes widened, either in envy or shock, I couldn’t tell. Vivian straightened, speaking louder now. “Are you ladies going to have dinner inside?”

  “Um, well we don’t have a table,” Helena said, flushing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Vivian said, then turned and mouthed, “Sorry” toward me. “What a pleasure meeting you all!” Vivian smiled, the whiteness of her teeth contrasting against her red lipstick. “Brynn, let’s catch up at the next show. I’d love to discuss the possibility of us working togeth
er again.”

  “Sure.” I had to sound convincing in front of my clients to save face, but after her performance, there was no way in hell I’d ever work with this woman.

  “It was wonderful to meet you too,” Corinne said, shaking Vivian’s hand. “It really is a pleasure to meet the undefeated champion”—Corinne paused, tapping her chin for a moment—“of two years, right?”

  “Two and a half, actually, but who’s counting?” Vivian said, then laughed. The group joined in. “Have a nice evening, ladies!”

  We couldn’t help but watch Vivian’s lithe frame retreat.

  “She’s surprisingly nice. Isn’t she? I don’t know what I expected, but she’s always come across as standoffish. Goes to show, don’t judge a book—” Helena said.

  “She’s so talented!” Mai said.

  “What’s this about you two working together?” Corinne asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Corinne said.

  “I’d love to work with her,” Helena added. “I’m sure she’d have some great tips for me.”

  A murmur of agreement went through the group.

  “Hey, let’s get that drink, ladies. I’m sure we could find a bottle and have a drink back at the tent.”

  A silence greeted me. “I don’t mind paying to get in tonight,” Corinne said.

  “Me neither. Let’s go!” Helena added.

  “I don’t think we can get in, but sure. If you all want to,” I said, though my insides churned, knowing we’d likely be turned away.

  The VIP tent was the place to be, where all the best riders sat and ate in between their classes, where all the beautifully dressed ladies sat when they watched the big events. All the laughter that filtered from the tent seemed louder, and the people always appeared to have more fun.

  My dad would have never spent our customers’ money on glitz and glamour, so VIP tents were always out of the question, though I had eyed them longingly as a little girl. Now that I was older, I wasn’t as drawn in, knowing that the laughter and joy was brought on by the free-flowing champagne.

  A hostess greeted us at the entrance to the tent. “Names, please.”

  “Brynn Seymour. Redwood Grove Stables.”

  She scanned a paper in front of her. “I don’t have you on the list.”

  “We’d like a table just for this evening.”

  “I’m sorry. We’re all sold out.” The woman went back to scribbling something on a pad.

  “I see an empty table right there.” Corinne gestured toward a table, front and center, facing the ring.

  “It’s booked,” the woman said, barely glancing up from her ledger.

  I leaned in toward her. “I understand, but you see”—I peered directly into her eyes—“my family’s been supporting these shows for years, and it would be such a shame if we weren’t able to make the show a little more money by spending some here tonight.” I gave her a big smile, wishing I had better skills at charming people. “I’m sure that Erika would be ever so grateful!” I hated to drop names, but Erika knew our family well, so why not use it to my advantage? I needed to keep the clients happy.

  As I thought she would, the woman softened at the sound of Erika’s name. Erika was all about making a profit. Any potential revenue lost had to be accounted for at the end of the show meetings. Erika wanted her VIP tent to be renowned in the show-jumping world.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman’s pale blue eyes darted toward the empty table. “I just can’t break the rules.”

  I turned toward my group of riders. “I’m so sorry, ladies, but I promise to make it up to you. Let’s go someplace after the Grand Prix.” I wanted to crawl behind the tent.

  “What’s wrong, Brynn?” Vivian stood in front of us.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “They won’t let us in,” Kennedy replied. “Brynn can’t convince them and we don’t have a table.”

  I knew she was a brat, I thought.

  “Seriously? Come on, Lesley. They’re with me!”

  The lady, whose name apparently was Lesley, looked between Vivian and our group. “I don’t have them on the list,” she said, but with a lot less conviction than before.

  “You don’t? How strange!” Vivian grabbed the papers from Lesley’s hands, scanning them with her finger, a look of shock on her face. “I went to talk to Erika about this earlier today. This list must not be updated.” A bit of hostility entered her tone. “I’ll call her right now—and hopefully this doesn’t happen again. I’d hate for someone else to be embarrassed like this.”

  She turned toward us, beaming. She looped her arm through mine and turned me toward the entrance of the tent. “Let’s go, ladies. The best riders are still to come.”

  A breeze picked up; the white tent billowed on three sides. The long side of the tent faced the Grand Prix arena. Twenty or so round tables, seating about a dozen people each, filled the tent. Once seated, I rested my hands in my lap, my fingers clenched and sweaty. Why had I ever walked up to this tent? We could have easily popped a bottle of wine back at our barn’s tent, drinking out of plastic cups the way we’d always done it with Dad. And now here we were at Vivian’s table, getting the VIP treatment because of her. I should have felt grateful, but instead my stomach was in knots.

  Strangely, not one of Vivian’s clients was in the tent. Had she been sitting here alone? Though the way she yelled at them earlier, maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

  The enthusiastic voice of the announcer boomed through the speakers. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a longtime local favorite, Chriiiis Peterson!” The small crowd cheered, while music blared. Shit. I had done so well avoiding him, and now he’d be showing right in front of me. I used to love nothing more than watching his smooth and elegant riding skills. For a moment I imagined being in his bedroom, between soft sheets, his hips pressing against mine.

  Chris stopped in front of the tent, directly below our table. “Brynn.” He circled De Salle, his bay, the color of a boulder opal. “You haven’t called!”

  I wanted to crawl under the table. Everyone in the tent and stands was watching now.

  “Chris, just ride.” My face was on fire. This was ridiculous, but just so . . . Chris.

  His eyes met mine until I looked away, nodding my head at the clock tower. Chris didn’t seem fazed. “Call me,” he finally said. He and De Salle galloped off and made the first jump with under a second to spare.

  I leaned back, sucking in a breath.

  “Well, well. Looks like you two have something going on.” Vivian gave a half smile. Helena rolled her eyes at me, knowing not to prod.

  “He’s so cute!” Kennedy giggled and Corinne gave her a sharp look.

  Gratefully, a waiter came over. Helena ordered a bottle of red to go with the food. “A nice one,” she whispered in my ear. “We deserve a celebration!”

  I sat forward in my chair, analyzing each jump Chris and De Salle took. Countless times watching Grand Prix with Dad flashed through my mind. The best were the ones in which he had competed. Dad would always explain what was going on, telling me how many strides each horse should have taken, analyzing the strategies the riders took, spelling out what he agreed with and with what he didn’t. Now, the horse’s hooves pounded past us, De Salle’s breath loud, his nostrils wide, flaring for air. A pang went through me, not just from seeing Chris.

  A small part of me thought I should be out there. I’d ridden at higher heights than this when I competed at Young Riders at Spruce Meadows. My dad had stood at the gate, calling instructions out to me, and the team coach had let him. And our team had done it. We’d won silver. During that victory, as I’d stood on the podium with the other three riders on our team, just for a moment I thought I could achieve anything, that I could actually ride with my Dad at the World Cup—damn, even at the Olympics. But that feeling soon faded and I went back to my day-to-day life, thinking it was all a fluke. I worried that I’d fail
Dad, and in some ways, I’d fail Mom too. She didn’t want me to ride. She wanted me to be a vet. She wanted me to make an independent life for myself. So I never allowed myself to imagine I’d compete at that level again.

  And now, even if I wanted to, I had lost my best trainer.

  I sensed eyes on me and turned. Vivian was sipping her wine. She nodded and smiled, raising her glass to me. I raised my glass in return, thankful she’d stepped in to help us get into the VIP tent, but wondering how she expected me to repay her. In my experience, nothing ever came for free. As I turned back to the arena, Chris and De Salle took the lead.

  The next night, after getting home and helping Derek put the tack and show supplies away, I double-checked on the horses. Seraphim’s head hung out of the stall into the barn, her ears pricked toward me down the dim aisle. The other horses were busy eating. Only the occasional tail swish or foot stomp resounded in the barn. The light was already off and the sunset had brought with it the evening wind. Seraphim and I stared at each other; she seemed to beckon me, as if she wanted to speak to me through those deep brown eyes.

  I walked toward her, my stomach twisting with each step, my breath slowing. She remained still. As I neared, she gave a little nicker and swung her head up and down.

  “Hey Sera,” I whispered so as not to disturb the silence. She stopped nodding her head, her eye staring deep into mine. “Derek said your leg is all better.”

  Hot air from her nostril tickled my arm.

  “I saw you in turnout the other day.”

  She nickered again, a throaty sound, then moved her head up and down like a pendulum. I brought my trembling hand up to her muzzle and she searched my open palm with her strong lips, her trimmed lip hairs prickling my hand.

  “I don’t have a treat for you.” I smiled, my hand moving to her forehead, rubbing in between her ears. She lowered her head, her lids half closed.

  She was eight years old, ready for jumping higher this year. The breeders in Belgium had already shown her in a decent-height Grand Prix.

  “She’s ready for you,” Derek said from behind. Seraphim’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice, then relaxed, realizing it was only Derek.