Seven Books for Seven Lovers

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

  She approached the piano from the side. “Hey,” she said. He kept playing. “Hey!” she said, louder. He looked up at her abruptly, his hands pausing.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I tried to get your attention.”

  “I lose track of time.”

  “You’re very good. Where’d you learn to play?”

  “Lessons when I was little. Kept at it. I miss it, so I bought a piano for here. It relaxes me.”

  “Ah, so that was the truck this morning.”

  “Yes. Where would you like to talk?”

  “Somewhere the girls won’t hear.”

  “They’re asleep. But if you insist, we’ll stay far, far from their rooms. How about Toledo?”

  She made a face.

  “You’re mighty picky, Ms. Vogel. Okay, then, my office? The kitchen? Sun porch?”

  A treacherous voice in her head piped up: What about your bedroom? She mentally slapped a hand over her mouth and said, “Sun porch.” The office was his territory. The kitchen contained knives. The sun porch was the safest option, and it was off to the side of the house for even more privacy.

  He rose. “Done. Want a drink? I’m getting a beer.”

  “No thanks.”

  They stopped in the kitchen, where he got a beer from the giant, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and walked the short distance to the sun porch in silence.

  The sun porch was bright and cheery by day and cozy and inviting at night. Amanda wanted to curl up in a wicker chair with a fat hardcover and a cup of tea. Since that was about as likely as solving world hunger in the next hour, she sat in the middle of a couch, behind a glass-topped coffee table. Grady sat diagonally across from her on an ottoman. Two lamps gave the room a warm glow and, unfortunately, made Grady’s face look entirely too handsome. All those shadows deepened his cheekbones and turned his eyes the deep, dangerous blue of the North Atlantic.

  “So. What fresh hell have I caused, Ms. Vogel?”

  She perched on the edge of the cushion, leaned forward, and blew out a breath. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m going to be blunt. You need to spend more time with your daughters. I know you’re busy, but you need to find the time.”

  “I’m here with them all the time.”

  “But you’re not with them. You’re doing other things.”

  She watched as his jaw tightened. “They’re doing other things. Half the time they’re with you, especially now.”

  She wanted to say, “And why do you think that is?” but she simply said, “I’m the last resort if you’re not available.”

  “Come on. How can I compete with you and horses and freakin’ kittens? They love going down there. They’d sleep there if they could.”

  He was partially right, they loved the animals and had asked to sleep over, but she had to keep going. She felt like the girls were her clients. “It doesn’t matter what they’re doing when they’re not with you. The point is, they’re not with you.”

  “Right. Because they’re with you. And who died and made you Dr. Spock?”

  He was so not happy with her. But she refused to take the bait, and again thought of him as the unruly horse she was riding at his first show. She would stay serene in the face of his accusations and defensiveness. And he got annoyed so quickly! “Just make time for them. An hour, even. That’s all they want.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I just know,” she said quietly. He got up from the ottoman and crossed the room. This wasn’t going well.

  “Oh really? How could you possibly know?”

  “They told me.” She stood, her arms ramrod straight at her sides, her hands in fists. He looked at her. She folded her arms. He took a huge swig of his beer as if to wash down her words.

  She said in a low voice, “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t asked me to talk to you. Do you think this is fun for me?” With a sigh, she sunk down onto the couch, leaned against the cushions, and looked up at him.

  To her surprise, he sat next to her and said, “How do I do this? I tried to make Wave eat asparagus, and it was a disaster. Solstice wants a stylist and I don’t know what to tell her. I’m not good at this.”

  She scooted forward to the edge of the cushions. “This is easier. You just . . . do stuff with them. Have breakfast with them. I don’t know.”

  “You do it.”

  “I teach them, then I tell them what I’m doing that day, and if they want to hang around and help, they will. Usually they do. It’s not rocket surgery.”

  He smiled and breathed a laugh. “Maybe not for you, rocket surgeon.” She felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was serious—he didn’t know how to just be with his girls.

  “You understand that when they were being little hellions for all those nannies, it was to get your attention?”

  “I thought the nannies were incompetent.”

  “It’s Child Psychology one-oh-one. You’re kind of clueless, huh?” She softened her words with a smile.

  “Guilty as charged. I’ve played a few dads, but they were Disney films with Stepford children. No help at all.”

  She chewed on her lip. He drained his beer and set the empty bottle on the glass table in front of him with a clink.

  “Schedule them into your day, like a meeting,” she said. “Start there . . . or . . . ” She bit her lip again and squinted. “I’ve got it!” She hit his thigh with her palm. “Come watch their lessons. For real, so they know you’re there, not like you did from the patio that time.”

  Their eyes met, and she realized she had hit him. She needed to say something else.

  “Start there and do something with them after, maybe. Like, I took them to lunch at the Ajax Tavern and went on the gondola. And talk to them.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Do you absolutely have to be in all those meetings?”

  He paused for a long moment, staring at the table. Then he looked at her. “No. I was afraid I’d be bored this summer, stuck in this house for three months. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but I’ve never taken this much time off, ever. So I made sure to schedule meetings, mostly about producing some projects and investment opportunities, and I got more involved in the Deadly Horizon opening than I have for any of my other films. I’m sure I’m driving the PR people nuts. I had my agent send me tons of scripts to read, too.” He paused, rubbed his forehead with his fingers, pinched the bridge of his nose, then let his hand fall into his lap. He looked directly at her. “I think I was afraid of spending too much time with my own daughters. Can you imagine that?” He bit his thumbnail and stared at the table. “What if they didn’t like me?”

  Amanda felt a pain curl in her chest. “They wouldn’t not like you,” she said, reflexively putting her hand on his knee. “Besides—and don’t kill the messenger—but remember, your job isn’t to be their friend; it’s to be their parent. My job is to teach them to ride—I don’t care if they like me or not. Your job is to prepare them for the world.”

  “What if I screw up?”

  She ached for him, this man who was lashing out one moment, crumbling the next. She realized she was still touching his knee, so she put her hand in her lap. “Everyone screws up. Our parents screwed up. You love your kids. You’ll do fine.”

  “My mother screwed up. I vowed I’d never be like her.”

  “You won’t be like your mom. And, hey, you seem to have turned out okay.”

  He ignored her attempt at levity. “Then Annie died. Hell, I was petrified of being a single parent.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I was off making movies, trying to get to where I wouldn’t worry about money all the time. She was home with them. When I lost her, I felt like I wasn’t enough.”

  “Grady, you’ll be a great dad. They love you so much.” She paused and took a breath, felt his eyes on her. “I know Annie . . . I know it was a car accident, but what happened?” she began. “Never mind; it’s none of my business.”

 
; He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s okay. It was late and the roads were wet. She ran a red light and another car hit her. She died instantly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Harris hasn’t told you any of this?”

  “No, and you don’t have to—”

  “I don’t mind.” He sighed. “She told me she wanted a divorce. We argued, and she went for a drive.”

  Amanda hugged her waist hard and stared at her knees as she absorbed this. “Oh,” she breathed.

  “She was tired of me being gone so much, and I couldn’t blame her. Wave was a year old, Solstice was three, and I was missing all of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “I ran from everything for an entire year after that. My Year of Living Stupidly. I turned into Keith Richards, without the drugs. But parties, women, drinking—I did all of it.”

  Amanda heard the self-loathing in his voice and wanted to comfort him, but she anchored her hands between her knees. “You’re in a lot better shape than Keith Richards.”

  “There are cadavers in better shape than Keith Richards. But the press loved it. I drank, but never drove. I, uh, slept around pretty hard. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did. I never fathered a child—I always was careful . . . no matter what the woman said. Everything was always consensual, of course.” He sounded like he needed to make sure she knew he wasn’t as bad as the tabloids had made him out to be.

  A silent eon passed.

  “So you don’t think I’m a pathetic father?” He was asking this, the famous actor who had just figuratively put his insecurities on the big screen. She wanted him to stop, because it was like watching someone cut himself.

  “Maybe a little slow sometimes. But pathetic? Nah.” She gave him a slight smile. He took one of her hands and held it in both of his. His hands were warm, and damned if a few tiny thrills didn’t somersault up her arm.

  “Thank you.”

  At first she thought he might be acting—it was second nature and he probably couldn’t help himself—but she felt his gratitude in the marrow of her bones. She could only nod a brisk you’re welcome. He was so vulnerable right now, it was killing her. He was still looking at her, which made her head feel as though she had a fever. She commanded her eyes to look elsewhere, but they were stuck. He was holding her hand now and little electrical currents zipped through the small bones. Should she kiss him? She could hear her own breathing in the dim room that had way too much movie star in it.

  With a gargantuan act of will, she slipped her hand from his grasp and stood. “I should go.” She headed for the doorway.

  He joined her, cleared his throat, and asked, “What time is their lesson tomorrow?” Side by side, they glided together toward the front door, careful not to touch, as though they each were in their own private bubble.

  “Nine and ten. They take private lessons now.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  They made it to the foyer without incident. Amanda put her hand on the doorknob, but Grady put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.

  “Hey.” His voice was so soft and gentle, it made her insides gooey. Good thing she hadn’t had anything to drink—he could have asked her to shave her head and she would have obliged. She had to look at him, but somehow her brain steadied her. Platonic thoughts! Colonoscopies! Rotting garbage!

  One notch above a whisper, he said, “Thank you. I mean it.” He was staring at her. His warm palm curled around her neck behind her ear. Then he leaned down and kissed her.

  Just like that.

  All conscious thought ceased. She felt like she was jumping the final fence in a perfect round—weightless, floating, yet sublimely connected. Everything was in slow motion. Every sensation was magnified and she could communicate with her horse almost telepathically. The only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.

  She closed her eyes and kissed him back. He tasted faintly of beer. He tasted really good. And his lips were soft. Was she leaning toward him, or was he pressing into her? His fingers massaged the little hollow at the top of her spine. She parted her lips, and he swept the very tip of his warm tongue across her lower one. She rose up on her toes, wanting to get closer. Wanting more of this kiss. Wanting more of this man who confused her, annoyed her, and bamboozled her with a sweetness and depth he’d only revealed a few minutes earlier. She leaned against the door so she wouldn’t fall over. He must’ve felt the shift and thought she wanted him to stop, because he did.

  She opened her eyes. “Uh,” she heard herself sigh. All she could do was stare at him and look dopey, because for the life of her she couldn’t recall how to close her mouth.

  His hand still cupped her neck. He caressed her cheekbone with his thumb, then lowered his hand to his side. He smiled a slow, contemplative smile. He whispered, “Good night, Amanda.” And opened the door for her.

  “Okay,” was what came out of her mouth. He grinned at this. She edged around the door and into the cool darkness. She hoped she could find the barn. She glanced at the starry sky and expected to see entirely new constellations because surely the universe had just shifted.

  The next morning Grady was ringside at nine, at one of the tables, Oakley sunglasses in place, holding a steaming cup of coffee. Thank God for the coffee. Amanda gave him a broad smile—a very pretty smile—and he nodded and raised his cup in salute. Wave told him she was excited for him to see her ride her big horse. Solstice was cooler in her reaction, but Grady knew she was happy to see him.

  His kids blew him away, especially Solstice, who looked like a little professional up there on her chestnut mare. Although her ankle was practically healed, Amanda still had her ride without stirrups, and she looked perfectly secure and poised as she trotted, cantered, and jumped some low jumps.

  As he sat there, bathed in the morning sun, his thoughts wandered to the last horse show he had been to, some big international competition in England. And then he had an idea.

  10

  England!” Amanda said. She was in Jacqueline’s office the next morning. “Why? When?”

  “Grady wants to spend more time with Solstice and Wave, and he thought they would enjoy a holiday overseas. Since they saw National Velvet with you, they have been talking about England. They will be abroad for one week.”

  She had to hand it to Grady—he said he was going to spend more time with his kids, and now he was about to be virtually attached to their little hips.

  A week without students left Amanda feeling alternately free and discombobulated. In some ways she had more work, since she had to ride two more horses, and she missed having Solstice and Wave around. The upside was she got to train Rainy and Bramble so they’d be even better for their young riders when they returned.

  She dined with Harris almost every night, and sometimes Jacqueline joined them. Every time the three of them had dinner, Amanda had the giddy, slightly guilty feeling she was a teenager throwing a party in her parents’ house while they were out of town. Sometimes Jacqueline would even show up for cocktail hour, and proved to be—astonishingly—funny after a glass or two of wine. Amanda resisted the urge to ask about her tattoo. She was determined to keep her discovery process “pure.”

  While he was away, Grady called Jacqueline, and Amanda hoped he’d ask to speak to her. He didn’t, which helped Amanda put her feelings for Grady in perspective. Slight infatuation. Emphasis on slight.

  And why not? He was a movie star, gorgeous, with a killer body, and when he wasn’t maddening, he was a nice guy. Cared about his kids. Good sense of humor. Played the piano. She was spending a summer on his property, so an infatuation was practically required. And, she was proud to admit, his absence had not made her heart grow fonder, but had made her focus on his faults and like him less.

  Yes indeedy, she liked him less. Less less less.

  Which didn’t explain why she felt like she’d mainlined a gallon or so of espresso the morning they were due back. S
he was jittery because she was so eager to see Solstice and Wave. Yes, that had to be it. Well, she’d just go about her day. She wouldn’t go to the house, or listen for a car, or call Jacqueline every four minutes. She’d do her job. When the girls were ready to see her, they’d come to the barn. As for Grady . . . there was no reason for him to want to see her or for her to seek him out. There.

  That same morning, his first back in the Colonies, Grady wandered down to the barn. He was still on United Kingdom time, so six thirty in Aspen was midafternoon in his brain. Amanda was cleaning Titanium’s stall and singing the old standard, “I Won’t Dance.” Grady heard her first, then saw her. She was a siren. He stood at the end of the aisle, not wanting to disturb her, but unable to turn away. While in England, he’d not only gotten closer to his children, he’d realized how much he yearned to get closer to Amanda Vogel.

  She sang about a man being charming and how it had no effect on her. Except, of course, it did. She pet the big Friesian and pushed him out of the way. She was so engrossed, she didn’t hear Grady clear his throat.

  She continued to sing about music leading the way to romance and how she still wouldn’t dance.

  He said loudly, “Good morning, Ella Fitzgerald.”

  He stood in the aisle and looked at her through the bars. She stared, wide-eyed, shovel in hand. Her face turned an interesting shade of fuchsia.

  “Morning. Welcome home.” She turned away and resumed smoothing shavings with her shovel.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. You have a beautiful voice.”

  “I don’t like for people to hear me.” She kept shoveling.

  “Like I said, I didn’t mean to. But it was nice.” He didn’t like making her uncomfortable—well, unless it was entertaining, such as when he teased her about the farrier.

  She kept moving those shavings, leveling them out like the stall was a giant Zen sand garden. She stopped suddenly and propped the shovel against the wall, hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?” She quickly added, “Not that you don’t have every right.”