Flying Changes (15 page)

I decide to test the issue and wait to see how long it takes for Dan to contact me if I stop calling him. Three days later, when he has neither called nor shown up, I decide that enough is enough. Mutti is right—I’ll be forty years old in nine days. If I can’t take control of my life now, what hope is there?

After the last of my students has left, I climb into my Camry and head to Day Break. As I bump my way down the drive, I pass Squire in one of the front pastures.

Appaloosa, indeed. There’s not a spot anywhere on his body, unless you count mud flecks. He’s still stick-rib skinny—even thinner than before because his bloating is going down, but his ears perk when I drive past. He lifts his proud pony head and sniffs the wind, almost as though he recognizes me.

I can’t find Dan anywhere, even though his truck is in its usual place. I check the barns, the office, and finally even his trailer. I’m just about to climb back into my car when he appears from the tree line on Mayflower. She’s the only horse on his property who is not a rescue, a beautiful palomino quarter horse mare that belonged to
Jill. And although it fills me with crippling, withering shame, I realize I’m jealous of Dan’s dead wife.

Dan is wearing blue jeans, a cowboy hat, leather gloves, and a lumberjack shirt. He rides Western—I never could get him interested in English—and he sits tall in the saddle, his long legs stretched low. Dan makes riding Western look so good I even tried it once, but English is so ingrained in me that I wouldn’t let him lengthen the stirrups enough and when we cantered my legs got chewed up by the leather.

When he catches sight of me, he steers Mayflower over.

“Hi, babe,” he says, resting both hands on the saddle horn. “Wasn’t expecting you. Not that I’m not happy to see you. What’s up?”

“Well,” I say coolly, “let me see. My daughter left home on Monday, and I got so distracted in a lesson a few nights ago that one of the horses spooked and threw a student.”

“Jesus—is she all right?”

“Yes. But no thanks to me. I got distracted and left them cantering for ten minutes. And I haven’t seen or heard from you in four days.”

Dan watches me for a moment and then dismounts, swinging his right leg over the saddle. He steps down, adjusts his hat, and turns to pull the reins over Mayflower’s head. I watch his broad back, waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his elbows jerking as he loosens Mayflower’s girth. “I’ve been meaning to call, but we’ve been working fourteen-hour days trying to gentle this latest load of horses. This is the first human contact some of them have had, other than being forced onto
the trailers and getting poked with needles. And for the babies, this was their first time away from their mothers. We’ve got some of them leading now, but we’ve still got a long way to go before we can send them to their new homes. But I
am
sorry. I should have called. Why don’t you wait for me back at the house? I’ll be along in a sec.”

A wave of something gathers inside me, surging upward, and before I know it words are rolling off my tongue. “No. I don’t want to wait back at the house. I want to go out. Dan, we never go out. In fact, we never do anything but go to bed.”

He turns slowly to face me. “Is this about the talk we had the other night?”

“Uh…kind of,” I say.

“I thought we sorted that out.”

I press my lips into a thin line and stare at the ground, because as far as I’m concerned we didn’t sort out anything.

“Okay. We’ll do something,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m just tired of staying in all the time,” I say, once again completely miserable.

“Well, okay. Let me ask you something. What’s your favorite restaurant?”

I blink in surprise. Then I glance down at my stable clothes. “Sorrento’s. But I’m hardly dressed for that.”

“No,” he says, taking my shoulders in his hands and staring deep into my eyes, “but someone has a birthday coming up in nine days, and I’d like it to be very special.”

Very special.
The phrase shoots through me like a comet, trailing sparks of luminescent joy.

“Oh,” I say, leaving my mouth open. I daren’t hope—and yet what else could that mean?

“So is Sorrento’s that place in Lincoln?”

“Yes.”

“And what makes it your favorite restaurant?”

“Oh, they make the best Lobster Newburg in the world—plus a killer chocolate soufflé,” I say, considerably more animated now. “In fact, everything on the menu’s good. Pappa loved it, although he said he only went there because there wasn’t a restaurant with Austrian cuisine within driving distance. That’s where he took Mutti for their fortieth anniversary.”

“Chocolate soufflé, huh?” Dan rubs his chin, looking past me. “So where do you want to go tonight?”

“Oh,
psssssh,
we don’t have to go out,” I say cheerfully. “I’ll wait for you back at the house. Say—you got any food? The last time I was here, the cupboard was pretty bare.”

“Have a look around. But try not to set anything on fire before I get there.”

I whack him on the shoulder, and then, because he’s just announced his intention to propose to me, immediately stand on tiptoe to kiss his beautiful, split-plum lips.

I stand in front of Dan’s open fridge, bent at the waist and scanning its contents. As its emptiness sinks in, I lean further, peering under, around, and through the wire shelves in the hope of finding some secret food-bearing compartment at the back.

It’s even emptier than it was last time, and in more important ways—this time he doesn’t even have beer. I
pick up the jar of Kim Chee, more out of curiosity than anything else, and find that the
Best Before
date was more than a year ago. I pick up the Klaas pickle jar and gaze at its label, feeling suddenly blue about Eva.

After I’ve entirely given up on the idea of finding anything I could possibly transform into a dinner—even a bad one—I close the fridge and head to the living room area.

As I pass the phone, a yellow Post-it note catches my eye.

I pluck it from the vinyl wallpaper. My name is written above an unfamiliar phone number. I frown at it for a moment, then pick up the phone and dial.

After four rings, someone picks up.

“Hello?” says a female voice.

“Hello,” I say, twisting the phone cord in one hand. “This is Annemarie Zimmer. Someone from this number left a message for me. I’m afraid I don’t know who.”

“It was me. I’m surprised you called back.”

“I beg your pardon?” I say.

“I said I’m surprised you called back. Considering you stole my horse and all.”

“Stole your…?” Understanding dawns on me. “Eugenie? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I didn’t steal Squire. You called me to take him.”

“Yeah? Well, where’s my money?”

Oh God. She’s right. I left without paying. Obviously Squire would have been confiscated anyway, but I did agree to pay for him. A vision of her little girl flashes through my head, sitting on the dilapidated porch with no socks on, playing with her bald naked Barbie.

“How are you? How’s your little girl?”

“We’re fine. So you gonna pay, or what?”

“Uh, yes, of course,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to leave without paying. I got distracted by…er…” I let that particular train of thought fade out, since I have no idea whether she’s still with her husband. “So when do you want to meet?”

“Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. Do you know the Dunkin’ Donuts outside Groveton?”

“Of course,” I say. “Nine o’clock. I’ll be there. Listen, are you really doing okay?”

There’s a slight pause. “I already said we’re fine,” she says. “You ain’t gonna back out, are you?”

“No, no, of course not,” I say.

“Good,” she says, and then there’s a click.

I gawk in disbelief at the receiver in my hand. She hung up on me.

Dan enters just as I set the receiver back in its cradle. I still have the Post-it note stuck to my fingertips.

“I see you found your message,” says Dan.

“Yup,” I say.

“Anything important?”

“Nope,” I say.

He stares at me, clearly expecting some kind of explanation.

“So, anyway, unless you want to eat radioactive Kim Chee with a side of Klaas pickle, we’re going out,” I say, breezing by him into the living room area. As I pass, I run my hand across his lower stomach. It’s meant both as a hint of how we’re going to end the evening, and as a way of purging the phone message from his mind. I don’t want him to know I messed up the rescue.

“Did you see Fricassee?” he says.

“Frica-what? Isn’t that a chicken dish?” I say, grabbing my purse from the coffee table.

“Yes it is, Oh Great and Mighty Chef,” he says, bowing solemnly.

“Then no,” I say. “I already told you, all you have is glow-in-the-dark Kim Chee.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “No, silly, that horse you rescued. Since someone finally began feeding him he’s been getting friskier and friskier.”

I shake my head, trying to make the connection.

“Frisky. Fricassee,” he says.

“Oh. You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You can blame Judy for that one,” he says.

“I sort of figured.”

After years of lobbying by Judy, Day Break has adopted the “new home, new name” policy. On my insistence, the horses who were already here got to keep their own names; and a good thing it is, too, because so far we have a Rover, a Heartful Promise, a Pookie, and now—apparently—a Fricassee.

“Don’t worry,” says Dan, reading my mind. “I’d put my foot down if she tried to name anyone Ratatouille.”

“How about Goulash?” I say, pulling the door open.

“Nope. Won’t allow Goulash either.”

“Schnitzel? Rumaki? Cookie?” I say, leading the way to his truck.

He pauses before answering. “On the fence about Rumaki,” he says. “Would have to allow Cookie.”

An hour later, we’re sitting at a wooden picnic table eating deep-fried clams out of a cardboard box. Gil’s Crab Shack is one of my favorite restaurants, although it’s
definitely on the opposite end of the spectrum from Sorrento’s. The concrete floors are splattered with paint, the walls lined with fishing nets and artifacts rescued from flea markets. It’s the kind of place where you can show up in your stable clothes with your stable hair and your stable fingernails and nobody gives you a second glance.

“Speaking of ratatouille…” I say, dipping a clam in tartar sauce and then popping it in my mouth.

“Were we?” says Dan, sipping boxed wine from a clear plastic cup.

“Fricassee, ratatouille,” I explain, using my hands.

“Oh, right,” he says.

“Anyway, I need a barn cat.”

Dan looks at me strangely.

“Ratatouille, rats. Cats eat rats, right?” I say to bring him up to speed.

Dan stares at me for a moment longer and then bursts out laughing.

“What?” I say.

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Your mind. I love the way it works.”

He reaches across the table and takes my left hand. As I tell him about my near miss with Bubonic plague, he caresses my fingers. I can’t help but notice that he spends a great deal of time on my ring finger, almost as though he were trying to judge its size.

Although I show up ten minutes early, Eugenie is already at the Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m relieved to see she’s alone.
Her frizzy hair is pulled up into a silver plastic hair clip. She’s in tight jeans, a T-shirt, and makeup; lipstick that’s too red, blush that’s too severe, and blue eye shadow. She looks like a little girl who has gotten into her mother’s cosmetics bag. That, or a cheap hooker.

“Hi there,” I say, coming to a stop beside her. “Do you want a coffee or something?” I ask, taking note of the empty table.

“No,” she says, her eyes darting up to my face.

I slip into the plastic seat, which is bolted to the floor.

Eugenie leans forward, her eyes slightly narrowed. “I could sue you, you know.”

“For what?” I exclaim, sitting back.

“You stole my horse.”

“You called me to come get him!”

“Yeah, and then you left without paying.”

“For Christ’s sake, Eugenie—I already explained that. I was a little distracted. Your husband showed up acting like he was going to kill all of us.”

“That don’t give you the right to steal my horse.”

“Okay. Fine,” I say, taking a deep breath because my heart’s already pounding. “Let’s just get on with it. I have errands to run.”

I pull a handwritten bill of sale from my purse, unfold it, and hand it to Eugenie. Then I find a pen, uncap it, and lay it on the table in front of her.

Eugenie stares at the paper. “This says four hundred.”

“That’s right. That’s what we agreed on.”

“That was before you stole him. Now I want eight hundred.”

“What? No way. Are you crazy?”

“Eight hundred or I take him back. Or maybe I’ll get my lawyer to sue, seeing as how you stole him.”

I’m so furious it takes me a moment to respond. When I finally speak, my voice is quiet, steady, flat. “You do realize I don’t have to pay a cent, don’t you?”

“He’s my rightful property.”

“He would have been confiscated anyway—no question about it. In fact, last I heard the police were going to charge you with animal neglect. I’ve never seen such terrible conditions as that poor horse was living in. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

She throws me a hateful glance.

I continue. “What’s really awful is I’m not at all convinced you treat your kid any better.”

Eugenie sits up straight. “My kid is just fine! You leave her out of this!”

“Yeah, I’ll bet she’s fine. She’s fine like Squire is a fifteen-hand athletic Appy.”

We stare at each other, the air between us buzzing with rage.

A male voice interjects: “Excuse me.”

I jerk around in my seat. The counter clerk and four customers are staring at us.

“You can’t sit here if you’re not going to order something,” says the clerk. He’s in his mid-twenties, with greasy hair and deeply pitted face. His voice is high and nervous.