Every Second Counts (11 page)

They began walking the width of the shallow end against the gentle resistance of the water. Ryder was careful to stay within reach in case Jessica slipped or faltered.

“So, how did you meet Sky?”

Jessica’s smile was brilliant at the mention of Skyler. “You know, it’s weird that we didn’t meet years ago. Kate Parker and my mother were lovers when I was young, and, even when they split up, I still spent summers here with Kate. I stopped coming when I was about twelve and seriously training in Atlanta, where Mom and I lived. That’s about the time Kate took Skyler under her wing.”

“But I thought Kate and your mom were still together. Skyler said something about them being in Greece right now.”

“Mom’s paranoia split them up. When I got old enough to start school, she was afraid having two moms would make me a target for bullies. She also thought it might influence me to be gay. She was wrong on both counts. Since having me in the picture split them up, I was happy to be the catalyst to get them back together. Sky and I were training six days a week, so Mom had to come here to visit with me.” Jessica chuckled. “I only needed to get them in the same room. After all those years apart, they were still in love.”

Ryder tried to imagine the kind of love that could last for years. Only two people hadn’t walked away from her. “Sky and Tory taught me how to ride.”

“Sky’s great with the kids. She’ll be a wonderful parent.” Jessica absently ran her hand over the child she and Skyler would raise together.

“Boy or girl?” Ryder asked.

“It’s a girl, but we’d be happy with either.”

“Oh, yeah. You guys mentioned that when I first got here. Is it rude to ask how you, uh, you know, did it?” Much to her consternation, she felt her cheeks heat. “I mean, did you go to a sperm bank?”

“I wanted our child to have something of Sky in her, so we convinced Douglas to make a contribution.”

“Sky’s twin?”

“Yes.”

She laughed. “But he’s a—”

“A very sweet, very accomplished math genius.” Jessica’s pointed glare made her feel like a reprimanded kid. She was going to be a great mom, too. “He’s a professor at Princeton, you know.”

“Really? Good for Douglas.”

They completed their route and began again.

“But back to my story. My leg was barely healed when I showed up here with a new horse and Kate paired me with Skyler as a trainer.”

“It was love at first sight, right?”

Jessica laughed. “Hardly. We butted heads a lot at first. Sky knew I wasn’t ready, physically or emotionally, that soon after the accident. But I was determined. So determined that when the ACL graft began to fail, I started injecting it with numbing agent to keep jumping.”

“I can’t believe Skyler would let you do that.”

“She didn’t know. Anyway, I kept pushing until I completely ripped the graft and ruined the knee joint. I’m glad they could repair it enough with an artificial joint so I can still walk. I’m even more grateful that Skyler didn’t hate me when she found out I’d been keeping it from her.”

“So, the moral of your story is—”

“There are things—your quality of life, people who care about you—much more important than another trophy.”

“Not for me. Riding is everything in my life. No girlfriend to tie me down. No family in the States since my grandmother died. According to the annual Christmas card, my parents are living somewhere in South Africa now. Hell, I don’t even have a dog.”

“You have Skyler and Tory. You’re the sister their parents didn’t give them.” Jessica slipped a little on the slick pool bottom and Ryder caught her hand to steady her. When they continued, Jessica didn’t let go. “And that makes you family to me and Leah, too.”

She shrugged, unsure how to respond. She didn’t know if she wanted friends who were like family. The family thing hadn’t exactly worked out for her in the past. She held Jessica’s arm tight as they exited the pool, then helped her slip back into her robe.

“Thanks. It may not seem like much, but that little bit of exercise really makes my back feel better. Seems like this little girl spends half her day kicking me in the kidneys,” she said.

Jessica gave her a long look, her eyes kind. “We love having you here. Relax and give yourself time to fully heal.”

She nodded, even though she knew she’d never have enough time for that to happen. A lot more than her leg needed healing.

*

Ryder stared up at the two-story brick mansion, unsure why she was standing here.

Maybe it was Jessica’s talk about family and other things in life. Maybe it was her preoccupation with another artist that she couldn’t seem to shake. Regardless of what had brought her to the doorstep of her grandmother’s—now Ryder’s—mansion, it was time to buck up and deal with it.

Eleanor White had been dead for nearly five years. Ryder was the only child of Eleanor’s only child. But Eleanor never got along with her daughter, and Ryder’s parents hadn’t lived in the United States since they dropped her off like a stray kitten for Eleanor to rear. She guessed that was why Eleanor had designated her as the sole heiress to the multi-million-dollar estate.

But in the years since her grandmother’s death, she’d hardly spent any of the money or set foot in the house and stables. She’d instructed her lawyer to continue contributing to the charities Eleanor had and to make sure the house and grounds were secure and tended as if someone still lived there.

Flowers bloomed in neat beds that surrounded the house and immaculate lawn. The long brick drive was well maintained and clear of any debris. Inside, the furniture was draped in white sheets, ghostly figures in the dim light. The hum of the central air-conditioning and the recent vacuum tracks on the carpets explained why the house smelled fresh despite being closed up.

She wandered from room to room, pulling out memories she had packed away and forgotten: Eleanor entertaining art patrons in the huge dining room and formal living room, Eleanor mixing colors in her cavernous studio, and her childhood bedroom suite that was both refuge and prison.

It seemed smaller than it had when she was eight years old. Still, how many children had a three-room suite? It wasn’t like she brought friends home from school to play with her.

She couldn’t really fault Eleanor. She had never intended to be a mother, much less a grandmother. She wasn’t cruel, just severely bipolar.

Art was her lifeline. When she was depressed, she hid in her dark bedroom for weeks and painted tortured canvases by candlelight. When she was manic, she moved to her sun-filled studio and painted around the clock.

Ryder lived for the manic periods. At least Eleanor talked to her then and encouraged her to paint, too. She tried, but Eleanor was never satisfied with her own work, much less that of a child. Ryder’s last attempt still sat on the easel in her playroom, surrounded by posters of the US Equestrian Team and shelves that held dozens of model horses.

Riding had been her lifeline. When she began to get into trouble at school, a concerned teacher convinced Eleanor that her granddaughter would get the attention she craved at the Cherokee Falls Equestrian Center. She wasn’t one of the juveniles referred by social workers to Leigh Parker’s program. Eleanor was wealthy enough to buy horses and pay for lessons. But Ryder was just as emotionally bruised as those other kids. She found friends there every day after school and on Saturdays, and Eleanor found the solitude she needed.

She wandered back into the studio, which reminded her of Bridgette’s loft with tall, uncovered windows that flooded the room with natural light. Would Bridgette like this studio, too? She imagined her, blond curls falling across her shoulders, standing in the center, brush poised to transfer her emotions onto the canvas.

She closed her eyes. She could almost taste Bridgette, feel the softness of her breast against her cheek, and hear Bridgette’s heart beating wildly.

Ryder shuddered. She’d rarely had a second thought about a woman after the tryst was over. Why now? Maybe it wasn’t Bridgette she really wanted. Maybe it was all the other people who had walked out of her life, walked out of this mansion.

She would call the lawyer tomorrow and tell him to sell everything—the house, the furniture, and her grandmother’s art.

Her life was simple now. She leased a furnished condo and kept few personal items other than her clothes and riding equipment. She could pack up in an hour and hop a plane to her next adventure when the mood hit.

No house to sell, no furniture to ship, no relationship to anchor her.

Bridgette hurried across the campus, barely noticing the October chill. Another red light and she would have been late to the evening class. It took longer than she had expected to find a new set of silk sheets. She bought deep blue to replace the red ones she had thrown out.

Hopefully, her teaching assistant had arrived early and was prepping the model Bridgette had suggested she enlist for tonight’s class. His physique wouldn’t offer the same lesson she’d planned to teach, but an androgynous model like Ryder was a rare find.

“Bridgette, a moment, please.”

She gritted her teeth but stopped and forced a smile before she turned. “Dean Blanchard. What can I do for you?”

“I may have a good prospect for a donation to the auction.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ve put out some feelers myself and should have some results to report to the committee in a few days.”

“Excellent. I knew you were the right person for the job.”

“So who is your prospective donor?”

He gave her a smug look. “I’ve heard that Eleanor White’s granddaughter is in town for the first time in years. She’s the sole heir to that estate, and the old mansion is still filled with art.”

“Eleanor White! She died almost five years ago. Her collection is intact?”

“Yes. The lawyer overseeing the estate is a friend, and he said the granddaughter apparently isn’t interested in Eleanor’s collection. He’s sure we could probably convince her to donate several pieces as a tax write-off.”

“You haven’t spoken with her yet?”

“No. He couldn’t give me her cell number without her permission, but I have a number for the friends she’s visiting. It’s in my office. If you have a moment, I can get it for you. ”

“You want
me
to call her?”

He frowned and pushed his hands into his pockets, obviously trying to decide how to phrase what he wanted to say. “My friend said, uh, she would be more readily agreeable if a woman made the proposal.”

“A woman.”

“Yes.” He raised his chin and looked her in the eye, as if daring her to object to his honesty. “It seems that, like you, she prefers the company of women. And I understand that she’s considered quite attractive to, uh, other women who prefer women.”

“Dean Blanchard, you old dog. Are you proposing that—”

“I’m only suggesting that she would be more receptive to listening to a beautiful, passionate artist than a stuffy, old department head.” He huffed. “For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to date her. Just talk her out of some of her grandmother’s paintings.”

She chuckled at his consternation. “Okay, but I’m late to my evening class. I’ll stop by tomorrow and get that number.”

“Very well. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

*

Bridgette closed the door of the darkened classroom and waited for her eyes to adjust. She had only six students in this advanced sketch tutorial, and each sat before an easel positioned in focused pools of the track lighting. The only other lights in the room illuminated the small stage where the model’s back was turned to the students.

She nodded to her assistant, Karen, who signaled that she was going to step out of the classroom for a few minutes. After she quietly laid her bag on the desk in the back of the room, she slipped a Bach CD into the small stereo on the shelf behind her. The music and the lowered lights relaxed and isolated the students from the hallway noise. These small touches, as well as her expertise, made Bridgette a favorite among the serious art students.

Her assistant had done well. The model was nude, except for a Greek-style helmet that covered the face turned toward the left. Feet shoulder-width apart, the model gripped a long spear planted parallel to the body, accentuating the well-developed bicep. The right hand rested on the model’s hip, bulging the muscle at the top of the shoulder.

Bridgette frowned and narrowed her eyes. She had used this model before and insisted that he shave down for the job, but he’d never been this smooth before.

The timer went off and the stage went dark.

“Five-minute breather for the model. Students, you may continue sketching or take a break,” she announced.

Karen returned to the classroom. “Great model, huh? I set up easels for us, too, if you want to sketch. I don’t know where you found her, but that’s an amazing body.”

“Her? I thought I told you to call Jason because Ms. Ryder wouldn’t be here.”

“He couldn’t do it. I was just about to call the agency to see if they could send someone but found a message in my mailbox that said Ms. Ryder had called to confirm she would be here after all. I thought the message was from you.”

“No. She must have called the department secretary.”

“Lucky for us, huh? It’ll be fun to see who picks up on her gender before we switch to a frontal view next week.”

“I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to envision Ryder naked, facing her whole class. Sure, her students were artists and they’d drawn nude models before. But not a body she knew so personally. Not this body that she’d slept with. Fucked. Touched. Tasted. Drooled over.

“Don’t think what?” Karen looked confused.

“Uh, I don’t think she’ll be back next week. I should have explained better. I had told her not to come tonight because she can’t be here next week.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her at the hour break.”

The buzzer sounded again and the stage lights came on. The students worked frantically.