Little Green

by Tish Cohen

  Matt studied him.

  “Hey.” Garth tossed his empty cup in the trash as they got up to leave. “I look, I but never touch.”

  By the time Garth had climbed into his Porsche and roared off to meet a pair of young newlyweds whose parents were funding an eight-thousand-square-foot ski chalet, the morning air had cooled. The sky had gone steely gray and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  He shouldn’t have picked this spot to meet Elise, Matt realized right away. They’d passed it once with Gracie the summer before Nate died. She’d been enchanted by the lichen-covered stone rabbit peeking out from beneath the bushes near an old gate and dropped to the sidewalk to pet it. She wanted to go through the gate and into the bunny’s secret garden. It was such a small request, but they’d been late for a movie and he’d said no. Matt stared at the rabbit. This was what life was like now. Every little thing Gracie had noticed, touched, treasured—even for a moment—made it impossible to breathe. There was a sign on the gate that hadn’t been there before.

  FOR LEASE. OFFICE SPACE WITH LAKE VIEW.

  AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY. INQUIRE AT 555-9223.

  The gate squawked when he pushed it open. A wobbly brick path led him through ferns and hostas along an ivy-covered wall. The trellis on the right did double duty, disguising a tiny parking lot and directing the eye out to the real view: the fingers of mist forming over Mirror Lake in the dropping temperature. At the back of the building, a metal staircase led to the second story. Matt climbed up to a locked door, a sign upon which said:

  DR. JANET DUENES, MD

  PLEASE REMOVE BOOTS IN INCLEMENT WEATHER.

  Through the window he could see a large paneled space with a back wall of glass, lake and mountains beyond. Dr. Duenes had already moved out. The space was empty.

  Matt’s phone rang. Elise. He could see her down on the sidewalk, the bag full of flyers slung from her shoulder. After one last look at the office, he jogged back down to meet his wife. In the mounting wind, her face was lined. Sharply angled. Gone was her usual tidy hair. It was greasy. Darker, somehow, in her pain.

  A shot of rage surged through him. Her agony struck him as intolerable today. If you drove across a bridge with no hands on the wheel, did you really have a right to be shocked when you landed in the river?

  She looked toward the office staircase and pulled her hair back, twisting the ends and tucking it down the back of her cotton sweater. “What were you doing up there?”

  He noticed her irises for the first time in ages. The kaleidoscope of glassy shards that pulled you in forever. God, how he used to love those eyes. Now they seemed more like an omen he hadn’t recognized until it was too late.

  “Nothing.” Before following her to where they’d left the car, he turned to snap a photo of the agent’s phone number.

  As they navigated through the crowds of tourists on the sidewalk, the bookstore’s window display caught his eye and they both stopped. Another bear poster. And a sign that said MEET THE AUTHOR, with a gorgeous photo of Cass in a white tank, her hair flipped over and wild on one side. Next to that, a poster of her book cover with her dancing Woodstock photo. Just beneath the title, American Dreamer, was a quote from Cass: I dream of a world in which every little child is safe.

  Elise stared, openmouthed. “I do not believe it.”

  “Wow. Beautiful,” Matt said.

  “‘Every little child is safe?’ Matt. She’s using our daughter’s disappearance to sell books.”

  “That’s not what she’s doing. It’s a nod to Gracie.”

  “Yeah. With bestseller lists in mind.”

  “Seriously? That is so fucking beneath you, Elise.”

  An overburdened couple with a dog on a leash and kids balanced on their hips came bumping awkwardly out of the bookstore and Elise stepped aside to let them pass. “You don’t see how she’s been . . . inserting herself into our problem in a way that is . . . self-serving?”

  “Cass is like family. She’s done nothing but try to help us.”

  “Well, she’s creeping me out.”

  “She’s a good soul. A single parent. River’s father is a total deadbeat. Her boyfriend is a noncommittal asshole, and she watches her buyers get rich from reselling her work. She helps other people because she knows what it’s like to struggle. She’s had no one to make life easy for her . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Elise looked at him sideways. “Unlike me? Is that where you were headed?”

  Two kids raced away from their father to yank open the bookstore door as Matt pushed a hand through his hair and turned away. “Jesus Christ. Can we not go there?”

  “I always had horses to ride. I wasn’t as desperate as your grandfather thought I was.”

  A crowd of tourists in baggy pastel clothing nudged them farther from the store. Matt took Elise’s elbow, led her along the sidewalk to a garden overlooking the water, and spun her around. “Believe me when I say this is really not the time to insult my grandfather.”

  She nodded slowly. “And believe me when I say this is really not the time to side with everyone but the mother of your child.”

  The wind whipped up for a moment, sending collars flapping and bits of stinging dust and trash skittering up their legs like tiny electrical shocks. They each turned away from the swirl. By the time Matt cleared his eyes of dust, Elise was marching back to the sidewalk, to vanish into the crowd.

  The year before she and Matt married, Elise was riding and showing a jet-black Dutch Warmblood gelding named Jordie, who belonged to a wealthy couple from Boston. Jordie was flighty and distractible, and Elise worried the DeWitts would take him away to have someone more advanced in their career train their expensive horse.

  One afternoon, still in breeches and boots, Elise had been cleaning her saddle in the tack room and looked up to see Nate standing in the doorway, out of place in every way, from his navy blazer and gray trousers, his crisp shirt and tie, to his presence there at all.

  “Nice stable. Your coach must have money,” Nate said.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “There might be.” He walked in, pulled out a linen handkerchief, wiped a chair seat, and sat. “So, you compete nationally, do you?”

  “I do.”

  “And next is CDI; I looked it up. Concours de Dressage International. The big shows. World Games, the Olympics.”

  “Correct.”

  “To get to the Olympics, you need a very expensive horse, true?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you don’t currently own such a horse.”

  Tattoo, one of the barn dogs, a fat Jack Russell terrier, waddled in. Elise pulled a horse treat from her pocket and let him stand on hind legs to take it from her hand.

  “No.”

  “I’d like to make that happen.”

  Sue, Ronnie’s stable manager at the time, a short and sturdy brunette with an Australian shepherd always at her heels, passed by with a saddle and shot Elise a curious look, then mouthed, “Alcatraz?” Elise widened her eyes in confirmation.

  “You’re saying you want to buy me a horse?”

  He nodded, noticed dust on the arm of his blazer, and wiped at it with a thumb. “That’s right.”

  The man couldn’t stand her. There was no way this offer came without conditions. “Why would you do that?”

  “My grandson means everything to me. And you’re not what he needs.”

  Elise pulled her boots off at the wooden boot jack in the corner and stuffed her feet into clogs, aware how ridiculous she would look to Nate, breeches tucked into striped knee socks. “I’m what he wants.”

  He stood and motioned toward the parking lot. “Two very different things. Come with me.”

  She followed him out into the blinding sunshine to a black horse trailer she’d never seen before. Nate motioned to someone inside and, in a clatter of hooves, two men carefully backed out a dappled gray stallion with a black mane and tail. Black socks and muzzle. Nearly eighteen hands
of supple, well-toned muscle. “His name is December. Bavarian Warmblood stallion of impeccable lineage. Nearly six years old, and if you do a good job with him, he’ll make sure you reach your goals and provide you with a steady income from stud fees.”

  Elise touched the horse’s warm and velvety-soft muzzle. He was the most majestic horse she’d ever seen up close. With kind eyes, he was calm for a stallion, already nudging her pockets, looking for treats. Groomed to perfection with a glossy tail that dusted the ground. She squinted at Nate. “You’re taking an awfully big risk, aren’t you? That I won’t tell your grandson?”

  “Not in my opinion.” A knowing smile spread across his lips. “I think I understand your type.”

  December had a low-set hip joint perfect for the highly collected movements. The angles of his croup and pelvis were parallel, which would allow for the pelvis to tilt forward and engage the hind limbs. All the power in dressage comes from the hind. She would love to see this horse move, see if he had big movements and balance. Gauge his ability to collect. He was exactly the sort of animal she’d dreamed of.

  But not at this price. Never at this price.

  “Your grandson adores you. Truly. Worships you.”

  “As I do him.”

  “I think he’d be pretty interested to know about your offer.” Elise pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and tapped Matt’s name. She smiled at Nate as she put the call on speaker and waited. Matt picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, babe,” Matt said. “I was just going to call you. I was thinking Indian for dinner. But let’s do takeout. I want to watch the Mets game.”

  Nate crossed his arms in front of his chest, widened his stance as if about to stop a moving train. His stare never left Elise’s.

  “Sounds good,” Elise said.

  “Great. Listen, I’m about to go into a meeting. Was that what you called about—dinner?”

  Elise watched a lazy wasp drop down to inspect Nate’s gold watch, land on the face, and crawl around looking for sweetness. It found none and flew away.

  “E?”

  She smiled. Let her eyes close for a moment. She loved when Matt called her “E.” Tattoo returned to put his paws on her leg. Somewhere in a faraway paddock a horse squealed. “Yes, babe. That was it.”

  She slid the phone back into her pocket and looked at Nate. “You don’t deserve what I just did for your grandson. Get the horse off the property before I change my mind.”

  She’d called ahead to let Pammy Stanton know she was coming to the showgrounds that afternoon, with no further plan than to get onto her horse’s back and walk around the perimeter of the action—just to allow Indie a bit of a stretch after being cooped up in the stall for so long and give herself a cooling-off period before she saw her husband again.

  There is more to being atop a horse than loving the sport or cherishing the animal. Every horse person knows it. Once you achieve a secure seat, horse and rider move as one. The horse becomes an extension of your body. You’re conjoined. It was similar to the experience of being pregnant, she thought now. She wondered if that was why women and girls loved horses so much.

  She’d arrived in the midst of a busy show day, the grounds alive with snapping flags and scores being announced over the PA system. Spectators, riders, and barn staff with dogs and children gathered around the jumping rings and milled about the outdoor exhibitors peddling books, food, breeches, jewelry, and saddles. Moving through the crowds were horses in various stages of preparedness, from show-ready horses taking practice jumps in warm-up rings, to sleek wet equines being led from the wash area back to their stalls, where sweet flakes of hay awaited, to those with a hoof between the farrier’s knees waiting for a shoe to be adjusted.

  Elise found Indie already clipped into the crossties and partially tacked up in a dressage saddle, with a bright white pad underneath. He tossed his head and snorted when he saw her, the vaguely wild look in his eyes saying he wasn’t quite sure what was going on.

  A shiny pink face appeared from around his hind, tail comb in her grasp. “You must be Elise. Pammy Stanton.” Pillowy and not much taller than five feet, Pammy came forward with a big smile and an outstretched hand. “I wish we’d have met under different circumstances, but let me just say I am honored to meet such a talented lady. I’ve seen you in all the online interviews and in the magazines. People have no idea how tough dressage is. You, especially, make it look completely effortless.”

  “You’re kind.”

  Poppins, just slightly too short for the stall door, rested her whiskered muzzle on the edge. As Elise gave her the stub of a carrot, her long ears flicked with outrage. She was clearly not being brought along on this outing. Was she not part of the family?

  “I’d seen you around town over the years, but I’m not one to just walk straight up to someone I don’t know. Seems a bit presumptuous. Especially you—such a big rider and then, wasn’t Nate Sorenson your . . . what would it be? Grandfather-in-law, I suppose.”

  Elise took Indie’s bridle from a hook on the wall, unclipped the crossties to remove his halter, and wiggled a thumb in the corner of his mouth. After pulling away to stretch his neck down toward the ground and yawn, he nudged Elise in the shins and consented to the bridle.

  “You knew him?”

  “Everyone knew him—he was larger than life. Sometimes I wondered what it would’ve been like to marry into his world.”

  Somewhere outside, a motorcycle roared by.

  “Wasn’t easy, that much I’ll say.”

  “Anyway, none of my business.” A Siamese cat wandered along the aisle and wound around Pammy’s legs before leaping onto a stack of hay bales to have her ears scratched. Pammy picked up the cat. “You know, I have a second cousin living in Nevada whose son went missing. Very different situation—this was a divorce and it was the father who took the boy. Christian was only eight months old. The story has a happy ending: Karen did get her boy back. But it took thirteen months. Just, you know, being so close to her that year, I saw how the case gets so much attention for a while, but then things just go quiet.” The cat saw something down the aisle and struggled out of Pammy’s arms to stalk it. “The most important bit of advice I can offer you is this: don’t give up hope. Because the moment the parents do, the public loses hope and the media loses hope. Then the police lose hope. And the worst that can happen is that the coverage stops and the headlines disappear.”

  The advice was good. And well-intentioned. But the thought of thirteen months without Gracie nearly took away Elise’s ability to stand upright. She thanked Pammy, relieved when the woman hurried down the aisle to get back to her chores.

  Chapter 25

  Matt woke up sweaty and disoriented from a late afternoon nap, expecting to find that Elise had come back. He called out to her from upstairs, but the place was silent. In the bathroom, he pulled off his shorts and T-shirt and stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to heat up. Rinsed himself off and turned off the taps so emphatically the whole house shuddered.

  Cass was home, he could see through the window as he reached for a towel and stepped onto the bathmat. Out in her yard, picking up River’s various action figures and balls and beach towels. Still on the line, the same River socks and T-shirts, little boy briefs, Cass’s suede bikini. It all hung limp and heavy now, mildewed from the rain.

  The towel slipped from his grasp and, in his lunge to catch it, Matt knocked over the wastebasket and sent the contents skittering across the room.

  Swearing, he wrapped the towel around his waist and began stuffing trash back into the receptacle, pausing when what looked like a digital thermometer dropped from a wad of tissue and clattered to the floor. He reached for it, realizing as he turned it over that this little wand was no thermometer.

  Elise was pregnant.

  Fate must have intervened the day Gracie was born, because not only was Nate up at the cabin, but he had a sinus infection and wasn’t allowed anywhere near Mountain View H
ospital in New Jersey.

  After the bedlam had died down and Elise was sleeping off the anesthetic, Matt had visited Gracie’s Isolette in the NICU. At thirty-one weeks and two days, she was deemed to be moderately premature, with nasal cannulas offering respiratory support and a peripheral IV providing nutrition her digestive system might be too immature to handle. The equipment was more intimidating than the preemie herself. Gracie wasn’t thin-skinned or sharp-featured, as a very premature baby would’ve been. She wasn’t expected to face long-term consequences from the earliness of the birth; the concern lay solely in its traumatic nature. In her pink cotton hat and matching oversized sleeper, his daughter already had the same plucky, long-suffering look on her elfin face that she would have years later when he picked her up from Funducational.

  Gracie had been a force from the start.

  He’d called Nate to give him the news. Elise had gone into early labor. It was a scary birth, but mother and baby were doing fine. Nate asked where Elise had been when she went into labor. Matt hadn’t prepared himself for that question. His mind raced with possibilities: knitting caps for preemies (too close for comfort), wallpapering the nursery (toxic adhesive), getting her nails done (again with the carcinogens). Ultimately, he settled on a nap. But even that set off alarms. “Was she lying on her back?” Nate asked. “They show it on the TV, but it’s not safe to lie flat on your back that far into term. Puts the baby at risk. The doctors don’t always talk about it. You have to lie on your side . . .”

  Matt hadn’t been able to shoulder the guilt. Eventually, he told his grandfather the truth. Nate handled the news with dignity. Class. In spite of his early reservations about Elise as a mother, he never once said, “I told you so.” He went silent on the topic of the accident.

  Matt stepped out onto the back porch and looked toward the lake, completely baffled as to why his wife would keep this new pregnancy from him. Was she unwilling to add another bit of drama in the midst of their devastation? He thought back to her mounting neediness with a modicum of guilt. No wonder she wanted reassurance: they were barely surviving Gracie being gone . . . and now to add a new baby to it all.