Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “Did you meet him?” her best friend asked without saying hello.

  “You won’t believe how.” Amanda recounted her day.

  “So he’s nice?”

  “Considering I broke his Emmy, he’s very nice.”

  “What are you going to do about the kids?”

  “Meditate. Say a novena. Drink. Why did I take this job again? I don’t even like teaching kids.”

  Beth laughed, and Amanda imagined her sitting in the tired leather recliner in their apartment in Ocala, still in riding breeches and sipping a beer after a day of training horses and teaching students.

  “You wanted someplace cushy where you could get over Courtney. You’re not showing. No driving a trailer all night. No grief from owners who think their horses should always win. Relax, smell the roses. You’ll have those kids, what, an hour or two a day? Why don’t you learn to fly fish? I hear that’s big up there, and it’s supposed to be relaxing.”

  “How old am I, eighty? But you’re right. I’ll feel better once I get into a routine.”

  Beth’s voice dropped an octave. “So? Is he hot?”

  Amanda laughed. “I wondered when you were going to ask. Yes, he’s totally hot. And he’s got that voice. But supposedly I won’t see him much, and that’s probably for the best. God knows what else I’d break.”

  The next morning Amanda escorted Jacqueline to the barn. “I want you to see for yourself that these horses are too much for the children.” She tried to sound confident, knowing the woman was annoyed.

  Jacqueline sat at one of the ornate metal tables and chairs alongside the ring. Amanda mounted a striking chestnut and rode him like a beginner, clumsily. After prancing and tossing his head for long minutes, the poor confused animal finally bucked and took off at a gallop.

  The other horse, who had been trotting and whinnying nonstop in a nearby enclosure, jumped the fence, galloped up the hill, and decimated a flower bed. Petals flew like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  “Stop!” Jacqueline cried, and sprinted toward her flowers. The equine athlete turned, barreled down to the pasture, and soared over the fence. Amanda, limping, finally made it to Jacqueline. The perfect assistant no longer appeared perfect as she panted and pieces of her shoulder-length, professionally straightened hair fell across her face. Amanda said nothing, just raised her brows in question.

  “Get rid of them.”

  Exactly thirty minutes after the wild-horse roundup and petunia massacre, Amanda stood in the doorway of Jacqueline’s office for an impromptu meeting.

  “Hello, Amanda. Nice to see you again.” Grady rose from his chair. Amanda thought she saw amusement scamper across his face and settle into the shallow lines at the corners of his eyes.

  “Nice to see you.” She picked up a tiny iPod with hot-pink earphones from a chair, placed it on the edge of Jacqueline’s desk, and sat.

  “Oh,” Jacqueline said, “that belongs to Wave; she is always losing it.”

  Grady settled into one of Jacqueline’s two midcentury chairs, while Jacqueline sat behind her sleek midcentury desk. The furniture was out of place in the rustic log mansion with its hewn-from-the-forest furniture, but it suited Grady’s personal assistant perfectly. Grady looked too big for the chair, like a teenager riding a Big Wheel. It was his legs—stretched out in front of him, they looked entirely too long.

  Amanda noted the woman’s wrists below her long-sleeved, blindingly white blouse, searching for a hint of tattoo, but she only saw smooth mocha skin.

  Amanda wanted to get this over with, since few clients loved spending money. She focused on Jacqueline and avoided looking at Grady because it would take precious little to embarrass her again.

  “So we bought duds?” Grady asked.

  Amanda gulped a breath. “No, just not suitable for beginners.”

  “But we need new ones?”

  “Only if you don’t want to kill your children.”

  Grady’s lips curved up. “How’d we end up with these . . . child killers . . . in the first place?”

  “If I may,” Amanda said, “sometimes when novice owners—no offense—go shopping, horse sellers think they want the cream of the crop. You didn’t get taken, you just got more than you needed. You needed a burger, they sold you”—she waved her hand as she searched for the words—“lobster thermidor.”

  He looked at her, his fingers steepled, glee suffusing his blue eyes. “Lobster thermidor?”

  Jacqueline’s office sure was warm. “You know. Lobster . . . that’s been . . . thermidored.”

  She fought the blush she knew was gathering steam—she usually sounded more professional. Stupid movie star, flustering her! “You get the point.”

  Grady pressed his lips together and she knew he was squelching a laugh. The amusement made his eyes sparkle.

  “I think it would be best if Amanda handled the sale of the current horses and the purchase of the new ones,” Jacqueline said. Coolly.

  “Definitely,” he said. “She’ll know lobster thermidor when she sees it.” He paused, then tilted his head. “Can you get two more? For guests? Also non-thermidor?”

  “I’ll—I’ll get as many as you want.”

  Jacqueline stepped in. “Shall I arrange for the girls to go to spy camp while Amanda acquires horses?”

  “Sure. They’ll love that.” He looked at Amanda, his eyes an irrepressible blue. “Glad to see you dried off. How’s the foot?” He glanced at her swollen foot in the paddock boot with the laces loosened.

  “Not bad. Getting better. Thanks.”

  He looked at her like he was really listening, which surprised her. When she finished, he nodded.

  “Do you need anything else for it? Anything at all?”

  Again, surprising. Why was he asking this? “No. Thank you.” She held her breath for a moment, considering. “Yes, there is one more thing. Not for me. It’s the floor. The barn floor. It’s . . . problematic.”

  “How so? Wait, let me guess. It’s lobster thermidor, too?”

  “It’s slippery.” Amanda felt Jacqueline’s disapproving gaze but refused to look at her so she wouldn’t lose her nerve. “It has to be fixed.”

  Grady looked at Jacqueline in mock exasperation and said, “What should we do with her, Jacqueline? She doesn’t like the horses. She doesn’t like the floor.” He turned to Amanda. “That place is brand-new. I hired experts.”

  “Yes, I know,” Amanda said. “But they made a mistake. With that floor, somebody could get hurt.”

  He looked at her with gentle eyes and said, “Let’s get the horses sorted out first, then we’ll worry about the floor, okay?”

  Amanda wanted to insist but sensed she was already pushing the envelope. It was like training a horse—knowing when to back off was just as important as knowing when to persist. She bit her lip to stop herself from talking, then nodded.

  Grady’s tone softened as he asked, “Do you need anything for your apartment? You settled in okay?”

  “Yes, thanks. I mean, no, I don’t need anything. It’s great.” How did he keep flustering her?

  He nodded again, looked at her for a beat longer than necessary, and left. Somewhere near the kitchen Amanda heard him call out, “Hey, Harris, we got any lobster thermidor?”

  Grady was pleased with his first round of “muskrat” atonement. He’d asked about her well-being, her foot, her apartment, and if he’d thought of it, he would’ve asked about her lung function or her truck’s carburetor—anything to show concern. It wasn’t as effortless as usual, though. He realized he wanted her to like him. Which was ridiculous—he was Grady Brunswick; women loved him. He’d been fending off females of all ages since he was fourteen. The only women who had affected him this way were his mother, his fifth-grade teacher, and Annie. He might not know what to do with his children, but women? Women, he could handle. And Amanda Vogel was just a woman.

  A woman who’d just convinced him to buy four new horses before his kids had even sat o
n one.

  3

  Four days and four hundred miles later, Amanda had sold the two high-octane purebreds and replaced them with four equine good eggs. For Wave, she chose an eleven-year-old, sixteen-three-hand half-draft dun gelding named Bramble. Despite his size, he was sweet and gentle. Solstice’s horse was a delicately pretty sixteen-year-old copper-colored mare and former show hunter named Rainbow Dancer—Rainy for her barn name. She was quiet, and could do more advanced work when and if necessary.

  As for what Amanda had dubbed the spare horses, she found two people-loving quarter horses, each with haunches broad enough to support a small town. The palomino’s name was Smooch, a derivative of his registered name, Skippa Kiss-n-Tell. His golden coat and cream mane and tail provided a nice contrast to the black-and-white paint horse, Vern. Amanda drove south of Denver to pick up Rainy, and while there she bought grooming equipment, fly sheets, and tack, including English saddles for the girls’ horses, and couchlike western saddles for the spares.

  At eight o’clock that evening Amanda and Harris sat at the butcher block in the kitchen. He had poured them each a glass of pinot noir. It felt good to sit down after trailering horses all day. Although meals weren’t included in her employment agreement, Harris always had appetizers out, so she hardly ever had to provide her own dinner. When she protested, he said, “What kind of gay would I be if I didn’t Martha Stewart you a little?”

  “Tomorrow’s the day. First lesson at nine. New horses, new students,” she said.

  “I’ll order more liquor. You may want to consider morning martinis for the remainder of your tenure.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  Suddenly the front door slammed, followed by what sounded like an NFL team stampeding through the house.

  “They’re ba-ack.” Harris did his Poltergeist imitation.

  Next Harris and Amanda heard a shrill, “Daddy!” and Amanda thought it was sweet that the girls were happy to see their father after almost a week at spy camp. That innocent, naive, dipped-in-honey thought was stabbed to death by the next utterance, delivered in a tone not unlike a dentist’s drill.

  “Daddy, those stupid horses are ugly! I hate them!” Amanda didn’t know which sugarplum was speaking, but then the other angel piped up.

  “Yeah, they’re not even good enough for dog food.”

  Amanda looked at Harris. “However much liquor you were planning to order, double it.” She heard Grady but couldn’t make out his words, then heard four sneakered feet pound up the stairs.

  Less than a minute later Grady entered the kitchen. “Hey, Harris,” he said. Then, before Harris could reply, he added, “Amanda. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but my kids say the horses are ugly.”

  “We heard,” Harris said with attitude. Amanda faced Grady and was the teeniest bit wowed by how handsome he was. Tonight he wore a faded Stanford T-shirt that had been red once, probably when he was an underclassman there. Khaki cargo shorts meant she could see his legs, which she glanced at. Briefly. Very briefly.

  “They’re not fashion models, but they’re safe,” she said.

  He had awfully nice calves.

  “I’m not trying to make your job harder, but aren’t there pretty horses that are safe, too?”

  “I promise, these horses are great. They’re bombproof, they have good manners, and they’re honest.”

  “Bombproof? I didn’t realize that was possible. Does the FBI know?” Grady asked.

  “That means they don’t spook and they won’t bolt or spin if something startles them.”

  “You said they’re honest?”

  “I jumped them and they went straight over the fences, didn’t stop or try to duck out. Not that your daughters are going to jump anytime soon, but that attitude carries over into other things.”

  “And what’d you say about good manners? Did you take them to a cotillion?” Harris asked.

  Amanda smiled. “They’re easy to work with on the ground and when you’re leading and grooming them. They don’t pull or kick or nip. Those are good ground manners.” It had been a while since she’d dealt with beginner horse owners.

  “Can you make them look better?” Grady asked.

  “Excuse me?” Amanda asked back.

  The movie star looked down and away before making eye contact again. Harris was grinning, his arms folded across his chest. Grady continued, “They’re the girls’ first horses. I wanted it to be like . . . like . . . My Little Pony.”

  Harris guffawed.

  Amanda stared and forgot entirely that Grady Brunswick was Galactic Special Agent Matt Braxton, star of the Galaxy Ops movies and frequently one of People magazine’s most beautiful people. At that moment he was one of those parents. “My Little Pony?” She blinked at him. “You want me to trick out their horses? Pimp their rides? I can clean them up, neaten their manes—but honestly, they’re nice horses; your girls are going to love them.”

  “My girls are picky. I don’t know that they’re going to want to ride them since they’ve got it in their heads they’re ugly.”

  “You leave that to me,” she said with false confidence. Who knew what those little horrors would do? And what did he expect her to do, dye the horses pink and dip them in glitter?

  One side of Grady’s mouth lifted as he tilted his head and regarded her. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  “It’s my job.” She forced herself to look into his eyes. She hoped to make him leave by sheer will.

  “Do you think two weeks is fair?” he asked.

  “For what?”

  “For this to work out?”

  Harris’s golden eyebrows shot up. Panic fluttered in Amanda’s stomach at the thought of trying to find another job with horses, since that was all she knew. She envisioned working at the track for a pittance, getting up in the middle of the night to groom thoroughbreds for their morning workouts. She thought of her bank balance: twenty-four dollars and twenty-seven cents. She wanted to yell, “I thought your bratty kids wanted to ride! Otherwise why the hell did you hire me?” Instead, she said, “Mr. Brunswick—”

  “Grady.”

  “Grady. Do you mean that if your daughters don’t like riding in two weeks, I need to find new horses? Or a new job?”

  He spoke softly, but his words were like little slaps. “Jacqueline said you’re a top instructor and we were lucky to get you. If you can’t get them to like riding, I doubt anyone can. But if you can’t, I’m sorry. . . . Your severance will cover the entire three months.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he went on. “Jacqueline has the night off, so I told her I’d tell you: there’s one more horse coming. Titanium. I rode it in a movie and bought it. It’s coming from LA, arriving tonight sometime. I’m sorry for the short notice, but the driver’s supposed to call the barn when he gets close.”

  It irked Amanda when people called a horse “it.” And she would have appreciated some advance notice, but she stifled her irritation. “Of course.”

  “It’ll be like waiting for the cable guy,” Harris said. “In hell.”

  “How’s the foot?” Grady asked, throwing Amanda with the insta-compassion, particularly on the heels of a veiled threat to fire her.

  “My foot?” She blinked. “Much better. Thanks.”

  Grady nodded, then said, “Good night, Harris.” He glanced at Amanda. “Good night.” He left without waiting for a reply.

  Grady fell into the impossible-to-leave couch in the entertainment room and clicked on the TV without looking at the giant screen. A swarm of bees flew amok in his veins. He pushed himself up, got a beer from the fridge at the bar, and took a long swallow. He didn’t usually declare ultimatums, but he also knew his daughters could be unreasonable and he didn’t know how to change that, or if he could. So it was pointless to have a riding instructor if the girls didn’t like riding.

  He swallowed more beer. He was squeamish about the deadline. What did he know about riding? Maybe it takes longer than two
weeks. From the look on Amanda’s face, he wasn’t at all sure two weeks was fair.

  And what about her face? It was her eyes. They were such an intriguing mix of milk-chocolate brown and gold, brought out tonight by the halogens hanging from the kitchen ceiling. Only good manners had kept him from staring.

  He would see how it went. If he had to alter his two-week time limit, he would—he wasn’t too proud to backpedal. Satisfied that he hadn’t painted himself into a corner, he drained the bottle, rested his head against the couch cushion, and hoped that horse van would come before Amanda went to bed.

  Titanium arrived a little after midnight. He was a Friesian, solidly built and black, with a huge neck and a luxuriously long, wavy mane and tail. Amanda walked the docile, friendly gelding to let him stretch his legs, then settled him into his stall. He sniffed at his neighbor, Vern, then buried his nose in the flake of hay in the corner. Satisfied, Amanda turned off the light and headed to bed.

  During Solstice and Wave’s first riding lesson, nobody got killed or maimed, but neither were the girls the eager, dedicated students Amanda was used to.

  They complained about the ugly horses. Wave kept stopping to adjust the chinstrap on her helmet and whined that it was itchy. Then she demanded to ride Vern because he was prettier than Bramble.

  Amanda smiled, lowered the brim of her frayed beige Devon Horse Show baseball cap, and told her unwilling students the names of the parts of the bridle and saddle. She showed them how to check their girths, adjust their stirrups, and mount. She showed them how to hold the reins and how to sit. She had them do suppling exercises. She taught them how to fall off safely.

  Even so, as Amanda explained how to post the trot, Solstice wanted to know when they were going to do something fun. Solstice lectured Amanda, with many exasperated sighs, that she had once been on a four-hour trail ride and didn’t want a “baby” lesson. Amanda resisted the urge to crack a whip at poor Rainy, who would have dutifully galloped off and dumped Solstice on the expensive footing.