by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
He was also going to spend time with his daughters, even though the prospect terrified him. Why did Annie have to die and leave him with two girls? When he really thought about it—and he tried not to—he loved his daughters, but he didn’t always like them. But he was going to take care of that this summer.
And, he hoped, his lawyers would soon take care of the paternity suit he’d been fighting. He knew he was in the clear, and a DNA test would prove it, but that hadn’t stopped the woman from dragging him through expensive legal hoops. She was obviously a career celebrity trapper, since this was her third paternity suit aimed at a famous man. It was another reason he’d come to Aspen Creek, to escape both the publicity and the woman, who’d started showing up at Hollywood restaurants he frequented or at red-carpet events he had to attend.
Coming here felt like having a film green-lighted at every step. He’d always wanted a mountain home, and his real estate agent thought Aspen would be perfect for an actor from the California suburbs who didn’t want to be too far from a good restaurant, but didn’t want to fight paparazzi or starstruck locals at every turn. The house had popped up quickly, and he’d loved it the moment he’d seen it. He’d thrilled the girls when he’d told them he’d build a barn and buy horses. This Brunswick Family Summer of Love was meant to be.
In the meantime, he had this riding instructor to consider. She fascinated him. She had caught him off guard, and that’s why he had called her a muskrat. Yes, that was it, or at least what he was going to tell himself. She’d been so flustered, he’d wanted to mitigate the tension by making her laugh, but instead had insulted her. He was good at putting people at ease—what had happened?
She was pretty; that’s what had happened. Beautiful, actually. And earnest. And nervous. And his manners-averse daughter had behaved badly and drenched the poor thing. He’d had an urge to wrap the woman in a towel and hold her, which astounded him. Women came on to him, not the other way around. Even weirder, the feeling wasn’t sexual—although his hormones had certainly taken note when he’d seen her. He wanted to take care of this woman who had been injured in his home because of his poorly raised daughter.
And something about the riding instructor’s face was unusual, but what?
“Aha!” he said, and whoever was talking stopped.
“What is it, Grady?”
“Nothing.” The conversation continued.
But he had figured it out—no makeup. Unusual for women in his circle, but Amanda easily got away with it, and it went with her outdoorsy job. She had this smooth skin, and there was something about her eyes. And before she knew he was in the doorway, he’d had a chance to view her from behind. A nicely rounded bottom. Trim little waist. Tanned, toned arms. Long wavy hair that he wanted to wind his fingers through while he kissed her. Where had that come from?
He shook his head to erase the unwelcome thoughts. But if she taught riding as well as she looked, he had two lucky little girls on his hands.
And he had three months to make up for “muskrat.” Besides, if she was like the other women on Jacqueline’s staff, he’d see her again, and often. She’d make excuses to pass by his office and peer in while he was reading scripts, stroll through the kitchen while he ate breakfast, or even—as one bold au pair had done—march to the pool where he was doing laps, drop her towel, and jump in naked.
But he sensed she wasn’t at all like those women. She was another creature entirely.
Amanda and Jacqueline took the stone path to the paved driveway, a strip of colorful flowers lining both sides of the drive. The house and the scenery wowed Amanda, as did the dry air, scented with pine, soil, and green plants. Though the sun was strong, unlike Florida’s, Aspen air wasn’t chewable with humidity.
Jacqueline looked at the blossoms fondly. “These are mine.”
“They’re beautiful.” Blooms, mostly petunias, filled every inch of soil. “I don’t garden, but I know it’s a lot of work.”
“Yes, but I love it. Please see that the horses stay out of my flower beds.”
Jacqueline’s gaze shifted to a black SUV near the house. A blond pixie of seven or eight stood in front of the car and stared at the hood. “This cannot be good,” Jacqueline said, and strode toward the girl. Amanda limped after Jacqueline as fast as she could. As far as she could tell, at least this Brunswick wasn’t armed.
“Wave, what do you think you are doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Wave! You are to clean this up immediately.”
Amanda finally arrived at the SUV, a BMW that looked new except for the neon-yellow squiggles of acrylic paint sitting on the hood, baking into permanent—though terribly designed—spoilers.
“You are to clean this up immediately,” Jacqueline repeated.
“Screw you,” Wave said.
Amanda felt her mouth gape. If she didn’t have to teach these kids, she would have been fascinated by their language. Pure sewer. She wondered if they smoked cigars and drank tequila in their off-hours, when they weren’t blasting strangers with water guns or damaging expensive vehicles.
“You’re not the boss of me when my daddy’s home.”
“We shall see about that, young lady. Say hello to Miss Vogel, your new riding instructor.”
Amanda smiled and extended her hand. “Hi, Wave. Nice to meet you.”
The slight girl regarded her with her father’s blue eyes from under a thicket of blond lashes. “I hate horses! They’re stupid! And you’re ugly!”
What a charmer. “Then you don’t have to ride,” Amanda said mildly and dropped her hand to her side.
“You broke my daddy’s favorite reward.”
More charm. “I hope you’ll change your mind about riding.” She smiled sweetly. “I bet you’d be good at it. You have rider’s legs.”
Amanda saw a flicker of interest on the delicate, lightly freckled face. “I do?” Then the glower returned as she said, “If I wanted to, I’d be good.”
“You think so?” Amanda threw down a gauntlet.
“Inside,” Jacqueline said. “Now.”
Demon Seed Number Two stared at Jacqueline, squinted and slid her eyes to the side, picked up the paint tube, and squirted a yellow worm in a perfect arc that landed on the thigh of Amanda’s jeans.
“Score!” screeched the girl, then ran into the house, laughing.
Amanda scraped the glob as best she could with her fingers. Jacqueline turned to her. “They are not usually this bad. I believe they are—how do you call it?—acting out because you are new.” She sighed. “But I would not be telling the truth if I told you they were angels at other times. I will show you the barn. There are paper towels there. I will find some paint solvent for you.”
The log barn was set on a slight hill from the house, as though it had once been attached but had succumbed to gravity. Echoing the architecture of the mansion, it was easily one of the most stunning barns Amanda had ever seen. Bright and cheery, it had ten roomy box stalls, skylights, a large tack room, flower boxes brimming with red geraniums, and a weather vane shaped like a clapperboard used in film, a nod to the industry that had paid for every board and nail.
Stalls opened into runs, which opened to a small enclosure, which opened to a huge irrigated pasture. Standing in the wide aisle, Amanda listened to Jacqueline and breathed the smells she loved—horses, hay, droppings, and, in this barn, new wood.
Despite the aesthetics, Amanda spotted problems. The wrought-iron chandeliers would have been harmlessly superfluous if they weren’t so low—they would clobber a rearing horse. Elaborate, rustic sconces between the stalls waited to claim an eye. There was no grooming stall or wash stall—not dangerous, but inconvenient.
But the worst sin by far was the ice-slick varnished cement floor. It belonged in a Manhattan loft, not a working barn.
“This floor is terrible.”
Jacqueline looked at her sharply.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda said when she realized how she must sound during
her first day. “I don’t mean to be a pain, but glazed concrete is slippery. I’m not comfortable letting the girls handle horses in here.”
“This barn was carefully designed.”
“And much of it is perfect. But the floor . . .”
They passed through the big sliding door at the far end of the barn and down the short path to the large rectangular riding ring. It had white fencing and expensive, high-tech footing. The place was a curious combination of the best and the worst, with no middle ground. Gorgeous footing in the ring, a horrific floor in the barn.
“Where are the horses?”
“In the pasture. The binder in the tack room has all the details and their pedigree papers.”
Jacqueline showed Amanda the one-bedroom apartment in the barn, atop a stairway about halfway down the aisle. It was small, but after two nights of sleeping in her truck on the drive from Ocala, it felt palatial. Plus, she liked falling asleep to the sounds of a barn and being close by if something went wrong.
Because with horses, something always went wrong.
2
At three thirty, Amanda lured the two beautifully proportioned geldings from the pasture to the barn, fed them, and checked the automatic waterers. Everything was in order, so she showered, changed, and went to the house.
Harris Stembridge, the Brunswicks’ model-handsome chef, made Amanda a lobster quesadilla. She sat at the island in the efficiently designed kitchen, loaded with counter space and professional appliances, propped her injured foot on a stool, and draped her new friend, the bag of frozen peas, over it. Harris stood facing her, his tanned face relaxed as he chopped red peppers with precise, metronome-steady strokes. A single strand of wheat-colored hair fell across his smooth brow.
Sipping a crisp Riesling that complemented the quesadilla, she asked, “How did you end up with this job?”
He looked at her with mischievous, tropical-ocean-blue eyes. “You mean, besides Grady’s extraordinary good luck?” He smiled, deepening his dimples. “Weeeell . . .”—he drew out the word—“about twelve years ago, right after we graduated from Stanford—Grady with honors—Captain Hollywood and I were roommates in LA, trying to be actors. He made it in a disgustingly short amount of time; I kept waiting tables and hanging out in the kitchens. But if I had to choose between making a soufflé and auditioning, the eggs won every time. I went to cooking school and became a chef to the stars. That boy begged me to come here for the summer. I think he was afraid he’d be bored, since God forbid he ever take a day off. Our little Adonis is a workaholic.”
“That’s nice for you both.”
“He is getting such the better deal. I am a fabulous cook.”
“You are.” She waved her fork, the last bite of quesadilla impaled on its tines. “This is amazing.”
“Thanks.” He tilted his head and examined her face. “You have beautiful skin. What do you use? Laura Mercier? Prescriptives? Chanel?”
“Uh . . . soap?”
“Oh, honey. We need to talk. You’ll dry out like beef jerky in this mountain air.”
“I welcome your advice.” She was more at ease now that she knew for sure he was gay—no straight man could list skin-care lines that effortlessly. And the only concern a straight man would have about her skin would be how to see more of it.
“What about the daughters?” she asked.
“They can’t cook. They don’t even have an Easy Bake Oven.”
“What I meant was, they’re not exactly . . . ”
“Housebroken? They were in rare form today. Consider yourself lucky, Bo Peep—sometimes Solstice loads that gun with gravy. From a jar.” He shuddered on the last word, as though store-bought gravy was the real crime.
“Do they even like horses?”
“They begged for horses for months. Grady caved, as usual.” Harris moved on to onions.
“Caved?”
“The poor lamb chop has been on a major guilt trip since his wife died. He works so much, he barely sees them, so when he does, he tries to make it Christmas morning, Disney World, and a box of baby bunnies all in one. So they’re the teensiest bit spoiled, as you saw today. In fact, if I were you,” he said as he leaned toward her, “I wouldn’t let them near the whips.” He looked at her with a demonic gleam in his sea-blue eyes. “But if you have an extra pair of chaps, I might be interested.”
“You know . . . some people wear them over jeans.”
“Savages!” He grinned, and so did she.
Sobering, she said, “How sad that their mother died.”
“Brunzy keeps hiring nannies, but none of them take.”
He pursed his lips and looked at her. “So how was Jacqueline?” He turned his attention to a laptop open on the counter. “Damn!”
“What?”
“Giants are blowing this game. Sorry.”
“You like football?”
“Honey, it’s May, it’s baseball.”
“Why don’t you watch the game?” She indicated the small flat screen in the kitchen.
“I almost lost a finger a few weeks ago. I keep up online. Safer. Especially since my fall-back career is hand model.”
She laughed.
“So . . . Jacqueline?”
Amanda widened her eyes and took in a breath, considering what to say. She hardly knew him and, technically, Jacqueline held the reins to her paycheck.
Harris said, “Oh come on, she can’t hear you. I love Jacqueline to smithereens, but when you first meet her, she’s as cuddly as a cactus.”
“She was . . . formal.”
He laughed. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s like a pit bull, the way she protects Brunzy. She takes her job very seriously. She’s half German, for pity’s sake, she can’t help herself. She’s been his assistant for six years, and she’s seen him go from minor TV-show character to mega movie star and she’s determined to keep him safe from stalkers, the general public, and his staff.”
“I’m not allowed to speak to him. I’m only allowed in the kitchen because you told me to come up for meals.”
“Ah, so you got The Speech. Once she sees you’re not going to establish a base camp under his bed—like one Swedish nanny—she’ll loosen up. She’s totally cool once you get to know her, but don’t expect anything to happen in a mere three months. You’ll know you’re in when she shows you her tattoo.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“As a heart attack. She also loves extreme cage fighting, but don’t tell her I told you.” He cocked his head. “So . . . I showed you mine—show me yours. Why are you here? From Florida, was it? Home of alligators and Anita Bryant—or are they one and the same? And yum, yum, those pretty South Beach boys.”
Amanda sipped her Riesling. Ran the palm of her hand along her hair. Adjusted the bag of peas. “Um.” Blew out a breath. “Ocala in the summer is unbearable.” She waved her hand. “Inland. No ocean breeze.”
Harris stopped chopping to look at her. “So you get a job elsewhere every summer? Were you permanently scarred by a bad hair day? Not that I’d blame you.”
“I wasn’t going to do any horse showing this summer, so I took this job. I couldn’t afford to take a whole summer off.”
“Why aren’t you . . . horse showing?” He resumed chopping.
She chewed on her lip. Took another sip of Riesling. Let it sit in her mouth as though she were at a wine tasting. Swallowed. Took a breath. Let it out. “I sold my horse.” It was true, just not the whole entire complete reason.
“Why? You seem to like the smelly things.”
“I couldn’t afford to keep her.”
He stopped chopping and looked at her. “Hm,” he said quietly, and with empathy.
She mentally begged him to stop. She liked him, but she wasn’t ready to tell him about the panic attacks or the accident.
“What kind of horse shows are you in? Are you a rodeo queen? Then there’ll be two queens on campus.”
Amanda snorted a laugh. “I ride jumpers.”
“Damn, girl! I’ve seen those in Griffith Park. You’re the shit. Is there a bobblehead of you?” He deftly scooped a pile of chopped onion and deposited the perfect white squares into a bowl. The pungent smell reminded Amanda of hot dogs at baseball games with her father.
Her face got hot. “There are plenty of grand prix riders better than me.”
“Those jumps are huge—over twenty feet, aren’t they?”
“Try five.”
“What was your horse’s name? Your best horse?”
“My horse is—was—Edelweiss. She’s the one I had to sell. She was the first horse I trained entirely by myself. I brought her up through the ranks to grand prix.”
“Like I said, you’re the shit.”
“Either that or crazy. The general consensus is, you have to be a little touched or brain damaged to ride in the big jumper classes. Not as crazy as eventers, but close.”
“No shortage of crazy around here—the place is owned by an actor.”
Clad in gray sweatpants and a worn pink sweatshirt with “Boss Mare” across the chest in faded blue letters, Amanda sat on the new couch in her apartment that night, reveling in the sense of accomplishment now that everything was in its place. The apartment was comfortable, bright, and modestly furnished with a couch, coffee table, small dining table for two, and a TV. The bedroom held smallish versions of the expected furniture, including a double bed. A now-ubiquitous bag of frozen peas draped over her foot—she was not going to have a painful, swollen foot if she could help it—Amanda leaned back into the cushions and called Beth Fanelli on the cordless phone because she couldn’t get a cell-phone signal in the barn.