Racehorses.
I grew up with horses, riding them on the weekends and during the holidays we spent with my grandparents. Ever since my grandfather died ten years ago, my grandma has gradually been scaling back, so now all that’s left in the stables of Serenity Farm are several former racers in their retirement years.
On the following Tuesday afternoon, after driving out to my grandmother’s place and unpacking in the pretty room with the window bower that’s been mine since I was a girl, the first thing I do is go for a ride on Winnie.
She’s always been my favorite. A funny-looking dappled horse with a dark spot over her left eye that looks like an eye patch. She’s gotten fat and lazy lately, and she refuses to go any faster than a slow walk, so we have a leisurely stroll around the expansive grounds and both of us have a very good time.
I’m in a particularly good mood because I have a full week of freedom from Rafe.
Not that I’ve seen him at all since our chase after Powder Puff on the Sunday before last. Just as I resolved, I made a point of avoiding him—getting up much earlier than usual and timing my returns to when I could be fairly certain he wouldn’t be there. I also didn’t go even once to anywhere he likes to hang out.
Avoiding him has been a lot of work, and I’m exhausted. I’ve also felt weirdly restless. Antsy. Things haven’t seemed right and normal for more than a week, and several times I almost gave up on my avoidance plan because it’s been such a disturbance to my peace of mind.
But that moment in the basement on Sunday when I almost kissed him really freaked me out, and I need time and space to regain my perspective before I come face-to-face with him again.
I have a full week now. I can relax and hang out with my family and enjoy the holiday and not have to worry every time I step out into the hallway that I might run smack into Rafe.
It will be good.
It’s what I need.
By the end of next week, I’ll have gotten over whatever weird mood overtook me with him.
I’ve gotten Winnie back into her stall, giving her a rubdown and a couple of apples, when someone comes into the stables.
I’ve clearly got Rafe on the brain because my first instinct is a panic that it’s actually him walking toward me, but it’s not.
Of course it’s not. It’s my brother, Carlton. He’s scowling as he approaches, but that’s a typical expression for him now.
He’s four years older than me, but we’ve always been fairly close. He used to be a sweet, sunny-natured boy who liked everyone and everyone liked. He was good at school and good at sports and had enough friends to fill a small town. He was always smiling or laughing. That’s how I remember him growing up, but he might as well be a different person in my memory.
In his early twenties, he fell in love—hard—with the wrong woman. He adored her and was planning a life with her, but she was just using him. The heartbreak and bitter disillusionment changed him.
Transformed him.
He went from that happy, trusting boy to the cynical, antisocial man he is now. He’s still close to his family and a few friends, but he doesn’t want anything to do with anyone else. I assume he still probably has some casual sex—he’s my brother and we don’t talk about such things—but he refuses to even consider the possibility of falling in love again. None of our interventions over the years have penetrated the bitter shell he’s constructed around himself.
Sometimes it makes me sad, but I love him and will take him as he is—even if the man he’s pretending to be isn’t the man he truly is.
“Hey,” I say, recovering from my brief, irrational panic over thinking he was Rafe. “I just took Winnie out.” He’s never ridden Winnie, but it seems only reasonable to let him know since the poor horse would refuse to budge if anyone tried to make her do more exercise today.
“I’m going out on Rolling Stone.”
“You won’t have very long until dinner, will you?” A glance at my watch proves it’s only forty minutes before my grandmother’s announced dinnertime.
“I’m skipping dinner. Way too many people here already.” He scowls beneath his dark growth of beard. He’s got darker brown hair than me but the same brown eyes and clean-cut features. I’ve always been faintly annoyed by the fact that they look better on him than on me. He’s still as good-looking now as he was in high school although he clearly spends no extra time on his appearance. Most of the time he doesn’t even shave.
“Did Mom and Dad get here?”
“Yeah. Plus way too many other people.” His scowl intensifies, as if he’s recalling the affront of being forced to socialize. “Why did she invite so many guests?”
“How many are there? She said only a few friends were coming. I assumed it would just be Mrs. Foster and Valerie Batterson.”
“It’s not just them.” His eyes narrow as he gives me a particular look, like he has something in mind and it amuses him.
“Who is it?”
“Way too many people. I think she’s got every single room filled.”
I frown at that piece of information. My room is in a little wing off to the side, and usually the room across from me is empty. I like the privacy. “Oh well. I’m sure it will be fine. It’s a big house, and most of the time we can do our own thing.”
Carlton doesn’t answer. He’s still looking like he might want to laugh. Not his old warm laughter but the dry, sardonic one that’s all he allows anymore.
He knows something, and he thinks it’s funny. But he’s not telling.
I shrug. If Carlton doesn’t feel like talking, he won’t. And he won’t budge any more than a tired Winnie will.
“Okay,” I say. “But don’t hurt Grandma’s feelings by skipping dinner too often.”
“Wait till you see who she invited and then talk to me about wanting to skip.”
I’d pursue this topic since it’s clearly what’s making him laugh, but he’s already walking away as he mutters.
There’s probably someone obnoxious on the guest list. I go through my mental list of the people in our grandmother’s social circle who annoy me, and I come up with a few possibilities.
None of them I dislike enough to ruin my holiday, so Carlton is probably trying to goad me into a bad mood.
It’s not going to work.
I have a week’s vacation and freedom from Rafe. Everything is going to be good.
I return to my room and take a quick shower before I change for dinner into a decent pair of dark gray pants and a green sweater.
We don’t actually dress up for dinner here, despite the old-fashioned feel of the estate, but generally people try to make more of an effort than jeans. Besides, the clothes I was wearing earlier now smell like horses.
I don’t spend much time primping. Partly because there’s no one I need to impress here this week and partly because I’m fairly low-maintenance about my appearance. My hair is long and cut straight across the bottom with no color or highlights. I seldom wear more makeup than powder and mascara. Not because I don’t like it—I do and have always wished I had a knack for lip and eye makeup—but because whenever I try to put some on, it looks weird and wrong and unnatural on me. I like nice clothes, but I’m not any better at picking out stylish outfits than I am with hair and makeup.