Fear of Falling (4 page)

Death always made people think, muddled them up. Olivia struggled to clear the fog from her brain and get back to her work. “I'll get those appetizers for you, Mrs. Barzonni.”

“I have a table set up near the bar in the den.”

“I'll take care of it,” Olivia assured her.

On her way to the van, Olivia suddenly wondered why Rafe would be going outside to take his shower. She looked over at the carriage house and saw that the door to the upstairs apartment was slightly ajar. That explained it.

Olivia had moved to her own one-bedroom apartment a few years ago, needing to get some space and independence from her mom, especially as they continued to work at the deli together. Now she lived on the first floor of one of the Victorian mansions on Maple Boulevard. It was a small space, but the twelve-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling windows filled her little kitchen and living area with light. There was a back entrance that was hers alone, and she'd lined the steps with pots of daffodil and tulip bulbs. The gardens in back were not as spectacular as Mrs. Beabots's, but the yard was ringed with blue spruce, maples and oaks, and it provided a secluded respite from the world. She could understand why Rafe had wanted a place of his own, even if it was only a few steps from where his parents lived.

* * *

O
LIVIA
SPENT
THE
rest of the afternoon putting out food and helping her mother clean up in the kitchen, stealing whatever moments she could to give her condolences to Nate, Gabe and Mica. Twice, she approached the table where Rafe sat with his mother, her sister, Bianca, and the priest who had performed the funeral service, and twice, she backed away, unable to talk to him.

After her second attempt, Olivia felt as if the walls were closing in on her. The room had grown stifling. She remembered these reactions from those years right after her father left. Her aunt and some of her mother's friends had told her she was being dramatic, but Olivia's symptoms were very real. Her words would be cut off midsentence, or she wouldn't be able to speak at all. She would sweat and her hands would shake—just like they were doing now. The cure was to simply avoid the triggers. In this case: Rafe. She had to stay away from him at all costs.

There were more chores waiting for her in the kitchen, and she needed to take photos of the elegant pastry display she'd created. But when she reached the kitchen, she noticed Gina had come in behind her.

“I want to serve the dessert and coffee now,” Gina said. “Come help me fill the coffeepots. Olivia, you'll pour the left side of the room, and Julia, will you take the right?”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “What about the ice creams?”

Gina nodded briskly. “I'll serve them after we've put them together.”

Olivia went to the island and opened the containers. “I got the ice cream from Louise.” She took out a silver dish, scooped a perfect ball of ice cream into it, stuck a ginger star cookie in the middle and then sprinkled spun sugar “glitter” on top. “It was my idea to add the stars,” Olivia said hesitantly. “I like to think of Mr. Barzonni being in heaven, walking among the stars.”

Gina flung her arms around Olivia. “My sweet girl. That is the loveliest thing anyone has said to me all week. I'll remember it forever. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Olivia fought back tears as she glanced at her mother and saw pride and love shining in her eyes.

Gina took a deep breath and swept her fingers under her eyes. “I'll announce dessert. Oh, Olivia, don't forget the cream and sugar. I put it over there on that silver tray.”

Olivia smiled. “I got it.”

She watched from the kitchen as Rafe and Mica stacked their plates with her pastries. She wished she could take their photos; their smiles were the first she'd seen all day, and it warmed her to know that her creations brought them this little joy on such a sorrowful day. Once everyone had visited the dessert table, Gina began serving the ice cream, and Olivia followed her out with a china pot of hot coffee.

As she rounded Rafe's table, pouring coffee, Rafe reached out and clutched her hand.

“Is it true you made these macaroons?” he asked, holding up the colorful cookie with chocolate mousse filling between the layers.

“I did. Do you like them?”

“They're great,” he said sourly. “But these aren't macaroons. There's no coconut in these.”

“I didn't want to correct you, but yes, these are French
macarons
. Macaroons do have coconut.” She leaned down to pick up his cup and saucer. Her arm passed very close to his shoulder, but he didn't move to give her more space. “Would you like cream or sugar?”

“Black. There's enough sugar in the cookies. I could eat a dozen of these. You're very talented.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling a rush of warmth through her body. As she poured the coffee, she could smell his spicy cologne over the fresh scents of soap and shampoo.

He put his hand on her sleeve and she felt the strength of his fingers as they curled around her wrist. She turned her head slightly to meet his blazing eyes. “Thanks for helping my mom. You've been very kind to her. She told me what you said about my father walking among the stars. Thank you.”

Olivia was tongue-tied. “I...I believe what I said.”

Rafe nodded. “Well, it was what she needed to hear. I know Mom's still planning a baby shower for Gabe and Liz. We've all decided that from now on, we want you and your mother to cater her parties so she doesn't have to work so hard.”

It was sweet that Rafe and his brothers were looking out for Gina, and Olivia tried to ignore the jab of disappointment: Rafe saw her as an employee. A hired hand.

But why should she care, and why should he think of her any other way? She was the hired professional for their dinner party. Period. Olivia tried to move on from the moment, but she couldn't. She was rooted to the spot. His intense eyes, his fresh, clean smell, the pressure of his hand on her arm were all causing sensual overload.

“I'm more than happy to help anytime,” Olivia struggled to say.

He dropped his hand and looked at the coffee Olivia was still holding. “Thanks.” She still didn't move. “I've got it,” he said, taking the cup and saucer from her when she didn't put it down. His fingers bumped hers, and Olivia retracted her hand as if she'd been burned. Rafe was immersed in the world of horse racing. The one sphere in the universe she'd vowed never to enter again. Too many shadows and whispers of her father's addiction to overwhelm her. She didn't trust this man or his magnetism, and she knew that if she wavered at all, she would be lost.

“Cream? Sugar?” She heard herself ask perfunctorily. He glanced up at her with eyes that cut right to her core. She read honesty, friendliness, gratitude, sadness...and loneliness. Was that right? His eyes searched her face in expectation, but of what? She got the distinct impression that he wanted to ask her something, though she was unsure of his reasons or needs. What she did know was that he was making himself unforgettable.

“No. Like I said, I take it straight.”

“Right. Gotcha,” she said and backed away from his table. Gina asked Rafe a question and he turned to her. “I'm sorry, Mom. What were you saying?”

Olivia could hear the shutter snapping in her mind, taking dozens of mental images of Rafe as she walked from table to table. Normally, she liked the way she saw the world in photographs. But right now she wanted to focus on anything
but
Rafe. Besides, he wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her.

As she took a load of dishes to the kitchen, she reminded herself that Rafe Barzonni was a gambler. Like her father.

Actually, he was worse than her father, because Rafe was the horse owner. The kind of man whose pastime fueled the flames of spiritual and financial demise for others.

This night had unleashed a battalion of emotions for Olivia, and if she was smart, she would lock them up for good. Nights like this were dangerous because they tapped into what her mother called the “dark side of the soul.” Too much introspection could be a bad thing.

Olivia should have expected this kind of inner turmoil at a funeral, yet it had caught her off guard. The only way she could put an end to her consternation was to forget Rafe. She relaxed a little. That would be easy; after tonight, she probably wouldn't see Rafe again for months. If ever.

CHAPTER FOUR

R
AFE
SLIPPED
OUT
of the
house as soon as he could, knowing that most of the guests would hang around after dinner, devouring the remains of the desserts or sipping brandy with Nate, Gabe and Mica. The air in the house was claustrophobic. The walls pressed in on him as if he were the one in the coffin. It was all he could do to make it through dinner. He'd barely registered what had been served, except for those cookies the caterer had explained to him.

Macarons.
He had to remember that. She had been nice. Pretty, too. Soft brown eyes. A guy could lose himself in eyes like that. He'd liked how genuine she seemed. He didn't actually recall much else about her—she'd been dressed in her chef's coat and black leggings. She looked official, he supposed, for a caterer.

His mother seemed to know her fairly well, he thought, trying to rattle his thoughts into place.

Rafe rotated his neck from left to right. Everything seemed surreal. He knew people had been talking to him, but their voices seemed so far away. Words floated around him like kelp in the ocean. He felt as if he was half-conscious. Or going crazy.

Pulling the collar of his jacket up to ward off the early-spring chill, he made his way toward the stable. The sun was down and the warmth he'd felt earlier was gone. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and held his arms close to his sides to keep warm. The cold was more than physical. It bored into his psyche and sat upon his soul. Suddenly, he felt alone. Abandoned. Adrift.

He supposed these feelings were to be expected when death came around. Rafe hadn't experienced death personally before, except when his chocolate Lab, Moosie, had died ten years ago. His father had been orphaned as a child, and his maternal grandparents had never come to America. He remembered talking to them on the telephone a few times, but all he'd ever said was
buongiorno
, since they didn't speak English. When they passed on, he and his brothers all stayed home. He didn't have any aunts, uncles or cousins in America—even Aunt Bianca had been a stranger to him before this visit.

He hadn't really missed having relatives around. Today, the house was filled with friends who had become like family. Austin McCreary was nearly a brother to him. He liked old Mrs. Beabots. But when he got down to it, his life had been wrapped up in his father, his mother and his brothers, this farm and his horses.

He'd never needed much else. Naively, he'd thought it would all go on forever. He'd never once thought about his father dying. Angelo had been the essence of good health and had always had a strong body. Sure, they'd been worried about his heart condition in recent months, but Rafe had chalked it up to a bit of aging. He couldn't believe there was anything seriously wrong with his dad. He was Angelo. The invincible Italian.

Rafe looked down as he neared the stables. His father had hand-laid the drive and pathways when Rafe was just a baby. Angelo had built half the house with his own hands and as the boys got older, they were expected to do the same. They'd all worked on the barns and the horse stable. Rafe had painted every board, shutter, gate, fence post and board in and around the paddock. He'd hauled dirt, raked loam and planted grass to make the horse arena the finest in the area.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and looked at them. Rafe had believed he could build a dream with his hands, just as his father had. But they couldn't stop death. He'd pressed on his father's chest with all his might, and it hadn't made a difference. He felt incompetent and inadequate. In the days since Angelo's collapse, Rafe had wished over and over again that he'd been Nate instead. A heart surgeon. A man who could have saved his father. But he was just Rafe. A farmer. A guy who loved horses and horse racing.

Rafe went into the stable and closed the door behind him. To his left was the tack room and next to it was the office, complete with a sofa and television that Curt used. There were six wide horse stalls to his right. Years ago they'd installed heaters to keep the horses warm during the bitter Indiana winters. Warm, dry air blasted into the hallway between the stalls. It felt good on Rafe's back as he went over to see Rowan.

Curt must have just cleaned the stall because the concrete floor was strewn with fresh hay. Rowan's feeder was filled with food, and the plastic water bottle that fed into the trough had been replenished.

Rowan, hearing Rafe's approach, turned from the back of the stall where he'd been taking a drink and walked to the white half door. The horse raised his neck and bowed his head as he always did when he saw Rafe. It was their greeting. Rowan held his head still for a long moment, as if assessing his owner. Then he put his head on Rafe's shoulder.

Rafe curled his arms around Rowan's neck and wept. For three days Rafe had felt a burning inside him that cut off his breath and strangled his heart. Yet even as tears slid down his cheeks and soaked the horse's mane, the pressure didn't subside. It grew worse. He nearly fell to his knees but he clung tight to Rowan.

“Sorry, boy.” Rafe didn't recognize his own voice, raspy and filled with a pain he'd never known. Rafe struggled just to open his eyes. But feeling Rowan's heartbeat surging through his chest and the warmth of his breath cascading over his shoulder, Rafe suddenly felt safe in a way he hadn't in a very long time. Rafe had loved his father, but Angelo had rarely shown him physical affection. He hadn't cradled Rafe in his arms when he fell off a horse, spraining his ankle; or when he nearly drowned in the swimming pool attempting a swan dive when he was eight; or when he'd broken his collarbone during the rival football game his junior year as quarterback.

Every time he'd needed comforting, it was his mother's arms that held him. Her hands that smoothed his sweaty hair from his face, and her lips that kissed his cheek, giving him the courage to try again.

He'd tried to prove himself to his father, but nothing he'd done had ever been good enough.

Except for Rowan.

This horse had saved Rafe in his father's eyes. By the time they'd bought Rowan, Rafe had learned how to ride like a jockey, though he was much too tall and at a hundred and seventy-five pounds, far too heavy; but he had the skills. Angelo had seen that and admired it.

But now Rafe's chance to show his father just what he could do with Rowan was gone.

There was nothing left to prove. Rafe's dreams were dust in his hands.

Rowan snorted and jerked out of Rafe's embrace. He backed up and stomped his foot.

“What is it, boy?”

Rowan whinnied. He cocked his head, and Rafe read challenge and chastisement in his eyes.

“You can't know what I'm thinking,” Rafe said.

Rowan walked back to the door, lowered his nose and pushed Rafe. Hard.

Rafe stumbled backward and nearly slipped on the cement. Extending his arms out to his sides, he caught his balance and righted himself. He stared at his horse. “I get it. You think I'm feeling sorry for myself. Well, I was. I have a right to. Everything has changed.” Rafe's voice rose as his emotions battled between grief and anger. “I don't know what's going to happen. There's just me and Mica now to run things. That leaves no time for you or for training. Maybe it would be best if I sold you to someone who could do you justice.”

Rowan stood stock-still and leveled his eyes at Rafe.

Rafe rubbed his forehead. “I must be losing it. I wouldn't do that. I promise. In the long run, you may not like staying with me, but I won't abandon you.” He put his arm around Rowan and then placed his face against the horse's neck. Rafe exhaled so deeply he thought he might have expunged all the sorrow and guilt inside him. But when he inhaled again, he felt the same painful barbs clinging to his ribs. Maybe he deserved it.

It was his fault his father was dead.

Just as his dark thoughts were about to overwhelm him, Curt Wheeling came through the door carrying a bucket of feed and a plastic jug of water on his right shoulder. Curt was wearing his familiar plaid wool jacket, faded jeans, Western boots and brown work gloves. He had a horse brush sticking out of his jacket pocket and a red bandanna hanging out of his back pocket like a warning flag.

“Hi, Curt,” Rafe said, releasing Rowan's neck and swiping his hands over his face to clear any evidence of tears.

“Rafe. Thought you'd be up at the main house.” He put the bucket down and squinted. His bushy gray eyebrows crept together until they were almost a single shelf across Curt's forehead. “Why aren't you with your friends and brothers?”

“I needed to get away in the worst way,” Rafe said. Clearly, it was a night for confession.

Pursing his lips, Curt replied, “I understand.” He lowered his head and picked up the tin bucket. “Gotta feed Pegasus. Your mom said she wants to ride in the morning.”

Rafe looked at Rowan. “Yeah?”

“Capital idea if you ask me. Nothing gets the cobwebs out like a ride.”

“Cobwebs?”

“Yeah. Those sticky echoes of all the ‘should haves' and ‘would haves' that death brings around.”

“You sound like you know about this kind of...feeling.”

Curt walked to the next stall where Gina's purebred gray Arabian mare stood. Pegasus was only fourteen point three hands high, just barely making it past the cutoff that distinguished a pony from a horse, but she was regal and strong-boned.

There were three other Arabian horses on the farm: Rocky, the black stallion his father rode, Gabe's chestnut, Merlot, and Mica's bay, Misty. Angelo preferred Arabians because they could carry a heavier ride, possessed great endurance and were suited to many types of riding. Thanks to centuries of domestication, Arabians were willing to please, good-natured and quick to learn.

Rafe opened the stall door for Curt and helped him with the water. Curt filled Pegasus's feed sack while Rafe snatched the brush from the trainer's jacket pocket.

Running his hands over the mare's smooth white coat, he cooed and spoke softly. Rafe wasn't aware of what he said exactly, but Pegasus stretched her neck and laid her head across Rafe's shoulders.

Curt stood up and laughed. “I gotta say, Rafe, you have a way with the ladies.”

“Aw, Pegasus was my first girlfriend. Weren't you, girl? She'll always be my number one.”

Pegasus raised her top lip in a grin.

“See?” Rafe turned to Curt. “She knows I'm her guy.”

Curt slapped Rafe on the back. “She's a good friend to you, Rafe. She wants to make you happy. Ease your pain. That's what friends are for.”

Rafe put his hand on Curt's shoulder. “Like you're doing for me now. That about it?”

“Trying,” Curt admitted. “So, besides missing your pappy, there's something else eatin' at you. What is it?”

Rafe looked up at Pegasus. “The horses. Rowan, specifically. With Dad gone, I won't have time to train him, and he still needs work before we can even think about the Blue Grass Stakes.”

“That's weeks from now. I'll double my time with him. We'll run him at night.”

“Without lights? He could injure himself.”

Curt scratched his head. “I thought of that. Know that old generator your Pappy bought several years back? We never did hook it up to the house. What say I get some light bars, set them on a couple tractors and position them around the track? I could light it up like a carnival.”

“It might work.” Rafe rubbed his chin with the back of his hand.

“I was thinking, too, that maybe we should lower our sights a bit. Try to get Rowan used to running real races. Maybe something a little more...small-town.”

“What are you getting at, Curt?”

“In a few weeks there's a charity horse race here in Indian Lake. Only a five-hundred-dollar purse. Most winners give the money back.”

“Money's not the issue. Running Rowan is.”

Curt snapped his finger. “Just what I was thinking!” He smiled broadly at Rafe.

For the first time since Rafe had held his dying father in his arms, unable to save him, he felt release. A lightening of the guilt that had weighed him down like a lead vest. It was only a local horse race, probably thought up by some bored socialite who wanted her name at the top of a brochure. But whatever the reasons, it was happening, and it was happening here. They had an opportunity to run Rowan and see what he could do.

Rafe couldn't get his father back, but if he could train Rowan well enough to enter him in the Blue Grass Stakes, there was a chance, small as it was, that Rafe could fulfill the dream Angelo had held most dear.

The Kentucky Derby. It was a long shot, but weren't all dreams supposed to be impossible?

Rafe opened the door to Pegasus's stall and held it for Curt. “Tell me more about this Indian Lake race, Curt.”

“I've got a brochure over in the bunkhouse.”

“Let's check it out together.” Rafe approached Rowan one last time for the night. He hugged his horse.

“Don't give up on me, boy. We just might make it yet.”