Seven Books for Seven Lovers

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

  Luke looked at her, distress darkening his usually soft green eyes. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. The pills—you tried—”

  “To kill myself. Luckily I didn’t take enough and I called someone before I passed out.” She tightened her lips into a small smile. “I haven’t told anyone here about any of this. I’d appreciate it—”

  “I won’t tell a soul.” He put his arm around her and drew her to him so that her head rested on his chest. He stroked her hair for a time, then said, “You poor thing. Maybe the silver lining is you can see what it’s like to take a break. You could get hurt jumping.”

  “But I love jumping! It’s what I do. After I get to the Olympics, maybe . . .”

  “How many people are on the Olympic team?”

  “Four, plus an alternate.”

  He nodded toward the photographs. “I can see you’re a great rider, honey, but those are long odds.”

  “That’s what makes it special.”

  “What about other special things? Marriage, family? What about those?”

  A warning beep sounded in Amanda’s head. She sat up and faced him. “Maybe. After the Olympics.”

  “The Olympics may never happen. Family is its own reward. It’s like winning the Olympics every day.”

  She kept her voice steady. “You don’t think I can do it?”

  Luke flinched as though a fly had landed on his cheek. “’Course I do, but it’s a hard road.” He took both of her hands in his. “Some women put off getting married and having babies and then when they want to, it’s too late. You don’t need the Olympics. You’re an accomplished, amazing woman already. I’d hate to see you pass up a happy life with a man who loves you because you’re chasing a pipe dream.”

  Chasing a pipe dream? She knew he was trying to be helpful, but if his goal was to flatter her with a veiled suggestion of marriage, he had made a miscalculation of . . . Olympic proportions.

  She smiled. “Will you excuse me? I have to use the ladies’ room.” She had to leave so she wouldn’t throw her coffee at him.

  In her small bathroom, Amanda stood in front of the mirror. He was right, the Games were a crapshoot, but they were her crapshoot. He was trying to protect her from disappointment—as though she didn’t know the staggering odds better than anyone. He didn’t know how close she and Edelweiss had come. But most of all, he didn’t understand what made her tick, not one bit.

  How could she expect him to understand? Most people wanted marriage and family. But, as Harris had pointed out, she wasn’t most people. Luke was a good, kind man, and she liked him. She was going to sleep with him, by God. Tonight. She had to shake this off and get her head in the game. And have sex.

  Newly determined, Amanda returned to the couch. Their conversation stayed on neutral topics as they sipped their coffee.

  When her coffee was gone, she mentally prepared for a definitive make-out session, leading to all-out, unbridled, hell’s-a-poppin’ sex. She snuggled into Luke, then pressed her lips to his. She wondered if she should brush her teeth. Would he mind her coffee breath? Apparently not. He kissed her softly at first, then harder and more urgently. She kissed him back and thought about how she hadn’t seen his dog Lena since he had come out to shoe the horses and boy wouldn’t it be nice to have a dog. She could find one that got along with Nikolai and Tatalina. The shelter had plenty. And weren’t those kittens working out well?

  Stop it! She had to pay attention! And BE SEXY!

  She channeled the horror-movie slutty teen—the one in the skimpy tank top who gets hacked to death early on—and got more adventurous with her tongue. As Luke responded, her brain again substituted images of Grady. The damn actor was like a green grass stain on a white horse—hard to remove and impossible to ignore. She thought of their kiss at the front door that night, and suddenly kissing Luke became effortless. What the hell. She gave her mind free rein. She’d win an award for necking and Luke would be none the wiser.

  After twenty minutes they were both shirtless, breathless, and Luke lay on top of her. He smoothed his palm up the outside of her thigh and under her skirt, and she flinched, then smiled apologetically. The evening had been progressing nicely, except for one niggling, growing thought. Luke didn’t understand about her Olympic dream. How could she sleep with him?

  “Sorry,” he said, and withdrew his hand.

  No, no, have sex! You’ll feel better if you have sex. Sex is good. Sex is fun. So what about the Olympics? Get over it! “I’m the one who’s sorry. Don’t stop—”

  “I don’t want to pressure you.”

  See how nice he is? Go to bed with him! Sleep with this man! “How about we go to my room? I know it’s far.” She smiled.

  He pushed himself up. “You weren’t too keen on what I was doing just now.”

  I’m not too keen about you wanting me to give up my dream. Crap. Sex or no, she couldn’t let it go. She knew herself well enough to be sure of this. She could tolerate a lot, but he had pooh-poohed the dream of her heart. It was no use. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry; I can’t do this.” She picked up her blouse from the floor and shrugged it on, talking as she buttoned. “I like you, you’re a great guy, but I . . . ”

  He sat up straight. “How ’bout we call it a night,” he said kindly. “You’ve been through hell, what with your friend an’ all. We’ll do this when you’re ready and not a moment before.”

  She had to come clean. “The thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’t think I’m your soul mate. I’m not what you want.”

  “Honey, you’re exactly what I want.”

  “See, that’s the thing. You want a wife. I want a gold medal. We want different things. I know I’m jumping the gun here—I didn’t assume you’re about to pop the question or anything—but I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “I enjoy your company. I care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt. What if you never go to the Olympics? What if you spend your whole life trying and have nothing to show for it? That’s why I said what I said.”

  She smiled and tried to explain. “Don’t you see? If I spend my whole life trying, that’s plenty. That’s what I’ll have to show for it. That I did my best and went for it, all out.”

  “But we’re good together. Don’t you want to see where this goes, with us?”

  He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get me. “I can’t. I’m sorry; I just can’t.”

  Luke sighed and met her eyes. “I enjoyed every minute with you. Lemme know if you change your mind. You want names of other farriers?”

  “No!” she said, and he laughed. At least he laughed. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Be glad to shoe these horses. Maybe we can have lunch sometime?”

  “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like to stay friends.”

  A few minutes later in the driveway, Luke hugged Amanda good-bye. She watched the red taillights recede as the truck grumbled down the hill. The smell of diesel exhaust seemed stronger tonight. It made her sneeze. She gazed up at the house and replayed Grady’s kiss for the umpteenth time. “Good night, Grady. Maybe we’ll have a round two someday.”

  From the window of his dark office, Grady watched Luke and Amanda under the light above the barn door. The tall cowboy hugged her, but never went in for the kill. No kiss. Maybe he’d kissed her enough earlier. Maybe she was tired of him. Just go home, cowboy. Keep that gun holstered and skedaddle.

  Grady was running out of time; soon Amanda would go back to Florida and he would have only kissed her once. Something had to change. And there, in the dark, he started to form a plan.

  11

  Grady looked out the same window the next morning as a black Escalade stopped in front of the house and discharged Estelle Brunswick. “Let the games begin,” he said, sighed, trudged to the foyer, and worked up a smile.

  “Hellooo? Anybody home?” Estelle trilled as she burst through the front door like a gust of wind. “Grady? Where are my grandbabies?”

  Estelle
looked around expectantly. Tall and thin, she wore a silvery-gray silk tank with flowing pants and jacket. She had pulled her silver hair back in a chignon and had artfully applied expensive makeup to a face that had seen several plastic surgeries. She was a human Chrysler Building, a stunning older woman who embraced the stunning and loathed the older.

  “Here, Mom.” Grady went to his mother and hugged her, smelling her signature Chanel perfume. No matter how strained their relationship became, that scent would always send him back to his four-year-old self, the little boy who adored her. He kissed her firmly on the cheek, thwarting her attempt to air-kiss him, which he hated—she was his mother, not some damn Italian countess. “How was your flight?”

  “Cramped. They must be making first-class seats smaller.”

  “I’ll call the airlines.”

  The driver struggled with Estelle’s two large suitcases. Grady set them to the side of the door and, knowing his mother wouldn’t be able to find her wallet, gave the poor man a fifty.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brunswick,” the man said, bowing slightly.

  “Thank you,” Grady said sincerely, knowing all too well what the man probably had to endure while driving his mother the short distance from the Aspen/Pitkin County Airport. The driver left and Estelle faced Grady, looking him over from head to toe as though evaluating him for purchase.

  “Have you gained weight?”

  “No, Mom, I haven’t gained weight.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Terrific. Beautiful. Spectacular.”

  “Must you be so sarcastic?”

  “Mom, you look great.”

  “Is someone going to take my bags?”

  “Harris!” Grady shouted.

  “Estelle!” Harris said as he came from the kitchen. “As I live and breathe.” He approached with arms outstretched, hugged her, and got the full double-cheek air-kiss. “You look magnificent.”

  “Why, thank you, Harris,” she said, shooting Grady a look.

  “Grab a bag, buddy, we’re the bellhops.”

  Harris said, “I love bellhops. Especially at the Four Seasons.”

  “Spare us,” Grady said as the two of them rolled suitcases the size of garden sheds to a guest room.

  As Estelle unpacked, Grady wondered if it was too early to ask Harris for a cocktail.

  At the same time, in the barn’s bathroom, Solstice looked miserable as she held a bundle of sheets up for Amanda to see. “It started,” whispered the girl. Amanda looked at her, confused.

  “What?”

  “It!” Solstice shook the sheets. The light dawned as Amanda saw a rust-colored stain.

  “Your period?”

  Solstice nodded, eyes round. She looked like she might cry.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. You want me to wash those?”

  Solstice nodded again.

  “Do you need anything? Do you have pads?”

  “Yeah. School emailed the parents when they told us all about this. Like we didn’t already know. Jacqueline or the nanny or someone put a box in my bathroom.”

  “Do you feel okay? Any cramps?”

  “No. I woke up and there were spots on the sheets.”

  “Do you have any questions? You can ask me anything, absolutely anything.”

  “No. I looked online. Plus we learned stuff in school.”

  “Have you told your dad?”

  “No! I can’t tell him!”

  “He kind of has to know, sweetie. It’s a health thing.” Amanda wondered if the girl’s face could get any redder.

  “I can’t.”

  “Want me to?” Solstice looked so relieved, Amanda thought the girl might collapse. Amanda remembered how it felt to confront the weirdness of puberty and wished she could reassure Solstice that her period would become mundane.

  “Thanks. I can still ride, right?”

  “Of course. And you can ask me anything.” Just to be sure, Amanda went over the basics.

  “I’ll be outside when you’re ready. We’ll take a trail ride today.”

  “Cool!” Solstice said.

  As Solstice ran to tack up, Amanda thought how she’d rather eat a bale of moldy hay than talk about this with Grady. Why did she have to like these damn kids so much?

  Grady sat at the round table in his office with Tammy Tavares, his personal publicist, and Mark Rivers, a PR exec with the studio that produced Deadly Horizon. As usual, Mark wore a custom-made suit. Priscilla Mason’s smoky voice came out of the phone console in the middle of the table. She was calling in from the chartered plane on her way from LA to Aspen. For some reason Grady couldn’t remember, they couldn’t postpone this meeting until Priscilla arrived, but he knew she liked calling from planes, playing the celebrity. He didn’t care one way or another. He was sick of the movie and they hadn’t even gone on the media tour yet. Maybe that’s why he’d never gotten so involved in the publicity side of things. But he would be a good trained chimp and charm all the talk-show hosts whenever the studio wanted.

  “What we’d love to do,” Mark Rivers said in his crisp, formal British accent as he gestured with manicured hands, “is to have a big media-heavy party here this Saturday.”

  Whenever he heard Mark speak, Grady felt like he was watching a Merchant Ivory film. He half expected to see a butler in a gray morning suit enter the room and hand him a cup of tea.

  Mark continued, “Priscilla, darling, that’s why you’re on this call, we wanted you to know. Caterers, heavy hors d’oeuvres, live band, local celebs, plus we fly in some more. It’ll be the event of the year in Aspen. It’s a targeted guest list, one hundred tops, so all anybody’s going to chat about is who got an invite and who didn’t. We have it all arranged—but if you hate it, Grady, we cancel the lot.” Mark described more party particulars.

  Grady sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. But I want locals invited.”

  “Done,” Mark said, smiling. “You’re going to love it, Grady. Finest party Aspen’s ever seen.”

  An hour later Carlos the massage therapist was working his magic on Grady’s upper back when Grady heard Harris cooing over Priscilla. Grady assumed he’d have this hour of peace, but a tentative knock at the door disabused him of this fantasy.

  “Grady?” Priscilla asked in her unmistakable whiskey voice. “Can I come in?”

  “Hey, Priscilla. I’m getting a massage.” He hoped to dissuade her.

  “I’ll just say hi.” She opened the door.

  Grady was on his stomach and raised up onto his elbows to look at Priscilla. She wore a pink tracksuit and carried a pink designer bag. Her long golden hair fell in perfect waves. Her eyes were the same dazzling blue he remembered, set in a face with smooth skin. She had an adorable turned-up nose and full, pouty lips that always wore lipstick. Her body was petite but proportioned like a 1940s pinup. It was as though she had been airbrushed in real life. She was exquisite, and what’s more, he genuinely liked her.

  “Hi!” she said and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

  “Welcome to Aspen Creek. Have Harris get you something to eat. He can tell you which rooms you’ll like—take your pick.”

  “Hmm, I might just stay here and enjoy the view,” she purred, staring at his naked back.

  “Oh honey, I couldn’t deprive Harris of your company.”

  “Don’t take too long—I want a tour. And I’ve missed you.”

  “You got it. Soon as I’m done.”

  Priscilla smiled, displaying white teeth, and blew a kiss as she closed the door.

  Grady groaned and settled his face back into the padded doughnut headrest. He was going to have to juggle Priscilla and his mother because they both required a steady stream of attention and compliments. Priscilla wasn’t bad, but his mother . . . sometimes he felt like he was eight years old again, struggling to please her. She had required a perfect son for her perfect family, and perfect sons didn’t spill their drinks or run in the house or leave their toys out. When he was a kid, Grady had fe
lt as though he was always screwing up, and despite a healthy self-image and an excellent therapist after Annie had died, once in a while those childhood tapes played in his head. For the next days he would have to walk the fine line between keeping the peace by doing his mother’s bidding and asserting himself when she was unreasonable. He would have to ride herd on her with Wave and Solstice, but he was more than willing to stand up to his mother to protect his daughters. He didn’t want them to have the kind of childhood he’d had. Hell, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  Fifteen minutes later Jacqueline popped her head into the room to ask if Grady wanted a riding lesson that afternoon. “God, yes.” After a light lunch with the girls, his mother, Priscilla, and Harris, he changed to go to the barn. Priscilla asked if she could watch.

  “Sure,” he said, with more enthusiasm than he felt. He had wanted to have this last oasis of calm and normalcy—and Amanda—before having to play the good son, the good host and the good movie marketer. He opened the front door for Priscilla.

  She looked at his whip. “Kinky,” she said. “Where was that when we were together?”

  “My current partner wears leather.”

  She laughed, but she had always laughed heartily when he made a joke, even if the joke was lame. It was like his own personal laugh track.

  Amanda was saddling Vern in the grooming stall when Grady and Priscilla walked into the barn. She stepped into the aisle.

  “Amanda,” Grady said, “I’d like you to meet someone. Priscilla Mason, this is our riding instructor extraordinaire, Amanda Vogel.” Amanda extended her hand and shook Priscilla’s tiny, pristine, manicured one. Amanda felt big, dirty, and smelly next to the cool, blond, lightly scented starlet. The woman was like a sublimely ripe, flawless specimen of some rare tropical fruit.