Tell Me When It Hurts Page 2

  She laid down her book and stood up. “Hadley, go for a walk?”

  The lab lifted her head, then lumbered off the couch and shook herself. Archer grabbed her cell phone and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, hesitated a moment, then stepped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of carrots, and headed out, bag swinging.

  As Archer rounded the bend near her neighbor’s camp, she saw no one except Millie, the paint horse.

  “Hello?” she called. “Anyone home?” No answer. She called again and advanced a few more cautious steps. Silence. Satisfied that no one was around, Archer slowly approached Millie.

  The horse, munching lazily on a lush patch of grass and timothy, raised her head. Ears twitching, tail swishing, she eyed the newcomer for a second, then went back to her grazing. Archer moved closer until she could just touch the horse, then reached into the bag and held out a carrot.

  The black and white head lifted. Downy lips trembled, then grasped the carrot. The mare began to munch and immediately stretched out her neck for more.

  Archer felt warm, moist breath on her hand. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, girl?” She ran her palm down the horse’s muzzle and stepped closer, offering another carrot.

  When the carrots were gone, Archer turned to leave, giving Millie’s rump a pat. A little cloud of dust rose. “You need a grooming, girl. You’d shine with a little work.”

  Before she left, Archer leaned into the mare’s neck, inhaling deeply. Then she looked at her watch and pulled away. “Come on, Hadley. Gotta go.” She hesitated. “Maybe . . . maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Millie.” And she headed down the path toward home, humming softly.

  * * *

  The next morning at about the same time, Archer found herself back at the camp. Again finding no one around, she plied the mare with molasses treats and three peppermint candies. Then she unrolled an old towel on the ground and started pulling things from a tan canvas bag: a hoof pick, three brushes, a tail comb with wide teeth, and a spray bottle of detangler.

  “Here we go, Millie,” she murmured. “I’ll make you the talk of the mountain.”

  Then she grabbed the hoof pick and began to work.

  For the next hour, Archer cleaned and combed and groomed, talking steadily while she worked. This was the first time since she was thirteen that she didn’t have her own horse—unless you counted Allegra, which she didn’t.

  It had happened quickly, her falling in love with the horses that jumped. When she was eight, at her first horse show, she’d stood, fingers curled around the boards of a rough-hewn fence, and peered through the gaps, watching every move the thoroughbreds made. By the time she went home, she had a goal: to ride open jumpers where only the best rode, wherever that was.

  Taittinger’s Clique, known outside the show ring as just Clique, was Archer’s first horse. At only 16.1 hands, he was small to be a world-class jumper, but he had all the other right stuff: perfect jumping conformation, superb athletic ability, and a “just point me at it” love of taking fences. It was enough; he made it work. While Archer loved him for being a stand-out athlete, she loved him even more for being her best friend at a time when she needed one.

  Smiling at the memory, she moved behind Millie and went to work on her tail. She separated a small clump of hair from the rest of the tail, sprayed it, and began teasing out the tangles with the comb tines. Working a small section at a time, she combed through the knots patiently, and within twenty minutes, Millie’s tail was silky and loose, floating behind her when the breeze caught it.

  Moving in close for the final touches, Archer slid the soft bristles of the finishing brush down the mare’s face, whisking away small hairs and debris with long, loving strokes. Millie’s ears relaxed and her eyes half closed, as if she were savoring the last minutes of a really heavenly facial.

  Millie gleamed, the dapples shining on her dark flanks. Archer stepped back to admire her work and grinned, then scooped the brushes up and put them in the canvas bag. Leaning her head against Millie’s neck for a second, she gave the horse a final pat, called Hadley, and headed home.

  * * *

  The next day was raining, but Archer trotted toward the camp at nine o’clock anyway, leaving Hadley home. She approached cautiously, though she was pretty sure that her neighbor—Connor McCall, was it?—was away daily until ten thirty, performing his morning ablutions at the Motel 6. She slowed as the tent came into view. Millie greeted her with a nicker and was rewarded with a few slices of apple. Archer gave her a pat, then looked around.

  The tent flap had blown open. She walked over and bent to pull it closed. As she did, she spotted a loose-leaf notebook, lying open on the sleeping bag. She glanced back over her shoulder, then stepped in. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  The tent was big, perhaps fourteen by seven feet. It had a mesh vent along the back wall, a skylight, a gear loft for storage, two pockets for more storage, and a mesh window to let the air in but keep the bugs out. Steel poles at the corners held it firm and sturdy. The sleeping bag along the back wall had a patchwork quilt pulled over it, and a portable CD player sat within easy reach. In the front right corner, next to a director’s chair, were a radio, a gas lantern, and a big flashlight. On a blanket in the far left corner were piles of books and papers, and a separate pile of folded jeans and T-shirts.

  She took another step in, then back out, then in. Gazing to her left, she eyed the tidy pile of books. She knelt down and glanced at some titles. Fathers and Daughters: In their own words; The Long-Distance Parent: How to Parent from Afar, by George L. Thoreau; The Business of Sheep Ranching, by Duncan Walsh; The World According to Garp, by John Irving; Passages, by Gail Sheehey.

  She then moved to the sleeping bag and flipped through the CDs piled near the portable player: Sinatra, Coltrane, Enya. . . Enya? He likes Enya? Brooks and Dunn—eclectic tastes.

  Then her eye fell back on the notebook. She sat down on the sleeping bag and glanced at the open page.

  Lauren’s birthday is coming up soon. October 1. She’ll be nine. I wonder if she’ll have a party. . . .

  Archer flipped back to the beginning of the notebook: pages of script, pasted tickets, some photos, a few postcards, more script. On one page she saw a photo of a woman standing in front of a fruit stand, smiling. The sign on the stand read “Rose’s Berry Farm.” On the opposite page, a teenage boy was beaming at the camera, holding a gray horse on a lead rope. On the bottom, a caption was scrawled in ballpoint: “Sabrina and Me.” Turning the page again, she saw a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, with a note under it: Maybe Lauren would like to see this someday. Is she taking French this year?

  About to turn another page, Archer looked away, feeling guilty. Had she really sunk this low? She closed the notebook with a snap, then, remembering it had been open when she arrived, reopened it. She went outside, and Millie looked up.

  “Till tomorrow, Millie,” she said, and headed home.

  * * *

  In a fitful Maker’s Mark sleep that night, Archer remembered it all again: Clique standing alert, practically on tiptoes, ears pricked forward, shifting his weight from side to side, waiting at the entrance gate for his turn, the glint of bit at the edges of his mouth, the sound of him champing it between his teeth, the scent of lanolin and saddle soap on soft oiled leather. Madison Square Garden on a June night. The Garden—the place she had dreamed of long ago, not even knowing its name. The place where only the best rode.

  It was all there, clear as yesterday, from the quick pat on Clique’s neck to her own little shiver as she squeezed him lightly. The horse moving under her, gaining momentum, the customary canter in a perfect circle before starting the course . . . Some murmuring in the background as horse and rider set off at a steady pace . . . the acceleration as she pressed him forward into the bit . . . the building impulsion . . .

  As Archer took her first jump, the Garden quieted. The crowd watched the girl and her beautiful horse move in unison over jumps taller than she
was. They went over with no hesitation. Now, she thought, squeezing with her calves just behind the girth . . . now . . . The coiled spring released in an upward sweep of energy as they jumped the five-and-a-half-foot wall. Jump, stride, stride, jump, jump, stride, stride, jump, stride, jump, jump, and jump. When they completed the last jump with no faults at breakneck speed, the moment was captured, distilled—timeless.

  It was all there. In that dreamy softness between sleep and almost sleep, Archer summoned the exquisite triumph again. At twenty-one, a senior at Smith College, she had lived her one spectacular moment, the moment that would carry her through a lifetime of ordinary, the one that would be retrieved for sustenance when life fell short. The floating canter around the outer edge of the arena; her gloved hand caressing Clique’s neck; Adam’s cheers, identifiable above all others; her father, catching her eye, wiping away a tear as he sat anonymous and proud in the stands, tweed jacket across his lap, felt hat resting on one knee; her own wide smile; and the feel of the horse beneath her making her strong.

  CHAPTER 4

  Adam MacKenzie sat on his front porch, watching the rain pour down in sheets. He liked Colorado; it was where he had met Allison. The evening was cool, but Adam was comfortable with just a sweatshirt. He propped one foot up on the railing and struck a wooden match to light his pipe, puffing until the coal glowed evenly. He thought about Archer—and Annie, of course. Archer’s birthday was yesterday, September 5, though he doubted that she had bothered to acknowledge it even to herself.

  Archer . . . From the day he met her, he’d known she was something. She’d been so sassy then, always teasing, always tossing that head of dark hair—and laughing. His best memories were of Archer doubled over laughing.

  “Hey, Minnehaha, this is a serious legal issue,” he’d say after describing to her one of his new criminal cases only to find her limp with laughter.

  “But it is funny,” she had insisted, gasping for breath. “I mean, they steal a police car and then stop for coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts—the quintessential cop hangout—and are picked up with lattes in hand.” He started to laugh, too.

  From their first meeting, on a bus heading back to college, to their wedding four years later, he’d never once doubted their cosmic rightness for each other. But for one twist of fate—his Karmann Ghia being in the shop that week—he would never have been on the lumbering behemoth, grinding north to Dartmouth and passing through Northampton, Massachusetts, home of Smith College. The thought of the near miss still made him wince, decades later.

  It came back to him easily, that first glimpse of Archer. He’d been engrossed in Sports Illustrated as the bus clunked to a stop in Hartford, Connecticut. Glancing out the grimy window, he saw a gamine girl with a book bag slung over her shoulder come bouncing up the steps of the bus after turning to wave to a stylish blond woman in a black Mercedes. His gaze followed the wave and he caught sight of the woman waving back wanly.

  As his eyes turned back to the girl, Adam lost interest in the magazine. She had thick auburn hair falling straight to her shoulders, green or maybe blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, pale skin. Neither tall nor short, she had a slight figure and was wearing gray riding pants, paddock boots, and a deep-green parka. Audrey Hepburn, in place of Elizabeth Taylor, as National Velvet, he thought as the girl grinned at the bus driver, her book bag falling forward. She shifted it back, tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, and headed for a seat. As she sat down, he glimpsed “Smith Equestrian Team” in white block letters on the back of her parka.

  Adam felt as if he were on a Ferris wheel that had just crested the top and dropped. He knew, with the fervor and certainty of a born-again Baptist, that he was meant to be hers.

  The girl took a seat across the aisle, two rows in front of him, plopped her book bag on the seat next to her, and pulled out The Sun Also Rises. Then she reached back in the bag and fished out a leather case to put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

  Adam flipped through the mental Rolodex of the great loves of his life—well, more like a list of three: Jackie the rower, Joan the artist, Kate the scientist. Or was it Kate the rower, Jackie the artist, and Joan the scientist? He glanced at the girl across the aisle—no chance of ever mixing her up with anyone else. Watching her read, he yearned to slip into the seat behind her and lean forward just enough to read over her shoulder and breathe in the scent of her hair.

  Adam nudged his duffel forward with his foot and slid into the seat in front of him. Taking a deep breath and wishing his long suit were a James Dean devilish charm instead of a Jimmy Stewart nervous sincerity, Adam leaned across the aisle and cleared his throat. “Um . . . is that seat taken?”

  She looked up from her book, eyes wide, and gave a slight smile and a shake of her head. She moved her bag to the floor and went back to her book. Adam kicked his duffel the few feet to her seat and hopped in beside her.

  He glanced over at her open book, maintaining a respectful distance but stealing occasional peeks, happy to be sharing this slight familiarity. He glanced left and read:

  “Isn’t it rotten? There isn’t any use my telling you I love you.”

  “You know I love you.”

  “Let’s not talk. Talking’s all bilge. I’m going away from you, and then Michael’s coming back.”

  “Why are you going away?”

  “Better for you. Better for me.”

  Adam looked away. Fascinating stuff, that Lady Brett Ashley and her cohorts, he supposed. Better than striking up a conversation with the dull shlub sitting next to her.

  For the better part of an hour, he silently rehearsed his best conversation starters until he realized Northampton was fast approaching.

  He blurted out his sentence. “So, you go to Smith?”

  She looked up, eying him curiously as if for the first time. “Yes.”

  “What year are you in?”

  “Junior.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if this were a most revealing bit of information. “I go to Dartmouth—junior, too.”

  “Oh, do you like it?”

  “Yes, I love it.”

  “Hmm, I always thought the guys from Dartmouth were smart jocks who drank too much on weekends.”

  Adam thought fast. “Oh, not me. Well, I mean I am kind of a jock, but at least I’m not smart, and I’m always the designated driver. . . . Oh, right, I’m the exception that proves the rule,” he rushed on.

  She broke into a grin. She had straight, white teeth. “I was just teasing you. Everyone I know from Dartmouth is great.” She seemed about to comment further when the bus slowed. She glanced out the window.

  “Northampton,” called the bus driver.

  “That’s me,” she said, rising and gathering up her things.

  “Hey,” said Adam, “I’m Adam Mackenzie.” He held out his hand.

  “Oh, I’m Archer Loh. Nice to meet you,” she said, grasping his hand firmly. Hers was slim and cool. She turned and began moving down the aisle toward the door.

  “Well, maybe I can call you sometime, do you think?” Adam called out.

  Stepping down from the bus, she turned and called over her right shoulder, “Oh, sure! Gillette House—” The rest was drowned out as the wind swept in and her words swirled up and away.

  Needless to say, he’d found her. They were married right after both graduated from Columbia Law School several years later. Adam had proposed six months earlier, on a snowy day just after Christmas, as he and Archer strolled arm in arm along Fifth Avenue, the Christmas lights haloed in a van Gogh blur in the icy air. They had just had the least expensive dinner in town: tacos and beer at Margaritaville on Forty-first and Fifth Avenue.

  “Hey, MacKenzie, you think I’m some cheap date you can get into bed after just a chintzy taco?” she teased, looking up at him.

  “Well, if the riding boot fits . . .” She punched him on the arm.

  In front of Tiffany’s, Adam stopped and turned Archer toward him, both hands on her shoulders.
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  “Arch, I may not be able to come up with a Tiffany ring right now, but I can offer you a lifetime of love, law, and laughter,” he said nervously. And alliteration, he might have added. “I really, truly love you, and I can’t imagine going through life without you. Will you marry me, Arch? I’ll never make you regret it.”

  Grinning, she pulled her ski cap down tighter over her ears and gave him a mittened thumbs-up, then stood on tiptoes and squeezed him with all her strength. “Yes, yes, yes, I will marry you, Adam. Anywhere, anytime.”

  Adam stood still, then threw back his head and laughed at the gods, returning the hug for all he was worth. He had planned this uncountable times. It was to be a grand gesture their grandchildren would beg to hear retold again and again—perhaps on bended knee some April morning among the lilacs in the Cloisters. Or on ice skates in Rockefeller Center on a February afternoon. Or at the top of the Empire State Building some sultry July evening, just like in An Affair to Remember, one of Archer’s all-time favorite flicks. Still, the unchoreographed proposal couldn’t have been more perfect.

  Now, more than twenty years later, on this porch outside Denver, mountains in the distance, Adam puffed on his pipe and felt again the heartbreak of a dream gone wrong. Archer. She was the love of his life, and he had lost her, and he had lost Annie. Yes, he had Allison and the boys, and he loved them. He was luckier than Archer in that way. He’d taken a second chance. But there can only ever be one first love, the one love that makes you ache with the knowledge that you can never survive its loss and still be who you are meant to be.

  In his own dreams that night, Adam could still see her victory lap at Madison Square Garden, the reins in one hand while the other stroked Clique’s neck; her endless smile, and the cocky confidence that comes from being twenty-one and feeling as though you had the world in your pocket.