Nacho Figueras Presents (17 page)

G
eorgia lay in her bed, listening to the wind blowing through the trees outside, her mind churning miserably over the entire disastrous evening. Image after embarrassing image flew through her brain. She flipped over and violently buried her face in her pillow, screwing her eyes shut.
Just stop.
She wasn't going to do this anymore. Maybe she'd messed up, maybe she'd made a fool of herself—and she'd definitely realized that even if Alejandro and Cricket were not yet together, it was absolutely inevitable that they would be—but the whole thing was over now, and there was nothing she could do about any of it.

This was actually good, she told herself. This was exactly what she needed. A reminder that she was not here to socialize. Not here to make friends. Certainly not here to have a romance. She was here to work. She had her issues with Gustavo, she had an entire barn full of ponies to watch out for, she had Sugar's foaling coming up, she had things to take care of. And so far, she'd been weak and distracted and not half the vet she knew she could be. This was her chance to renew her commitment, figure out her problems, and get back on track. And she wasn't going to let anyone stand in her way. Not Gustavo, not Alejandro—not anyone. Nothing but work from here on out, she told herself, nothing but the ponies and the barn.

Alejandro lay in his own bed, watching the shadows of the oak tree outside his window chase across the ceiling. Jesus, what a night. He'd spent the evening in absolute agony, wanting nothing so much as to be alone with Georgia. Having her in his home was even worse than the barn. He'd spent most of his time trying to pretend he was listening to Cricket's incessant chatter while fantasizing about pulling Georgia aside, taking her to the library, to the sunroom, to his bed—anywhere he could have her alone—but between his mother, his daughter, and Cricket all demanding his attention in their various ways, he'd hardly had a chance to even speak to Georgia.

She'd looked so beautiful. First in the red dress, sexy and delicious and wild. It had been a whole new side of her—one that took all his will to resist—and then in her demure little peach-colored dress, her lips wiped clean of the lipstick, her curls pinned up—which had driven him even wilder. His fingers itching to take her hair down, he had forgotten to eat his soup, imagining how he would slide his hands up under that little dress, finding all the pleasures she was hiding underneath.

He twisted under the sheets, unable to settle.  She unleashed feelings in him he'd never had before. He wanted her in a way that he didn't understand. He'd disappointed Olivia so much during their marriage, never quite loving her in the way she wanted and then losing her before he could make amends, he had sworn that he would never put another woman through that. But when it came to Georgia, he was selfish. He knew what the right thing to do was, he knew that he should keep away for both of their sakes, but his desire burned so fever bright that it all felt squarely out of his hands.

What a mess of things he'd made. How much less complicated it would have been to just let her return to New York, go back to her own life, cut all this off before it took hold of him. But now, the thought of her leaving—of returning to the north—made him clench in torment. What to do with a woman whom he wanted so badly, but knew that he could not have?

A
ll that next week, Georgia kept to her new plan and threw herself into her work. She arrived early and left late. She asked Enzo and Noni as many questions as she thought they could tolerate. She changed her strategy with Gustavo, no longer waiting to work with him or giving him the chance to tell her what to do. Instead, she flat-out avoided him, spending time in whatever stalls he was not occupying. She gave each pony her steady, hovering attention, scanning them for conditions and getting to know their different personalities: the shy and studious pony, the high-strung, the adolescent hotshot, trusty old-timers, impossible neurotics, and all.

She learned to zig when Gustavo zagged. If he wouldn't let her do any medical work, she'd think of other ways to help in the barn. She got to know the students and grooms better. She pitched in on all sorts of work—grooming, mucking stalls, leading the ponies out for exercise. She refused to listen when anyone told her that she wasn't needed. She made plans, big and small. When she saw Alejandro, she made it a point to stand at least an arm's length away, never look him in the eye, and talk about nothing but work. She was the consummate professional, and soon enough, almost everyone in the barn (excluding Gustavo, of course) began to show signs of developing a healthy respect for her.

Still, even if work was better, most days she went home and sat in her house alone, reading and trying to ignore the fact that she was flat-out lonely. It was nice that she was building up some measure of respect, of course, but respect was not companionship. So, she was not entirely surprised by just how happy she felt late one Friday afternoon when she heard Cricket's husky voice making her way down the stalls.

As always, Cricket made an entrance—simultaneously on the phone, drinking a large iced coffee, petting a barn dog, and calling in a familiar way to Enzo and all the crew.

“Where have you buried Georgia?” she asked, and Georgia came to the door of the stall.

“Hey, Cricket,” Georgia said, a little dismayed to realize she hadn't looked in a mirror all day, while Cricket looked as if she'd spent the hours at the spa and salon.

“Darling,” came the husky drawl, “I've been hoping you'd get in touch.”

“I've just been so busy,” Georgia lied.

“How's now for hitting the mall?” Cricket asked, snapping shut her phone with the air of a woman who was never refused.

“Oh, I'm not off for another couple of hours,” said Georgia.

“Nonsense,” said Cricket. “Jandro said you could leave any time.”

“I'd feel a little guilty, knocking off early,” Georgia said, passing the grooms still mucking out. “I'm usually the last to leave.”

“Really?” Cricket drawled, handing off her empty paper coffee cup to a passing groom with a mouthed “Thanks.” “How very industrious. But you need a swimsuit and I don't think anyone will miss you. Don't you think it's all right?” she said to Enzo as he passed by.

“Of course,” said Enzo, smiling at Georgia. “We're fine here. Go.”

Cricket linked arms with Georgia and walked her back to the pool house, where she'd loudly insisted she'd wait while Georgia changed out of her work clothes.

“You hop in the shower, and I'll just sit tight.”

Georgia showered and dressed as fast as she could and came out of the bedroom to find Cricket flicking through her pathetically small collection of clothes.

“Oh, honey, it's worse than I thought.” Cricket laughed. “Let's go get you Wellied Out.”

With her sunglasses perched on her head and snappy chatter and running commentary on everything they passed, Cricket reminded Georgia a bit of Billy. Despite some lurking misgivings, she told herself that she could use a friend down here. She couldn't go on just talking to horses, after all.

They drove past panoramic shopping centers and condo blocks, gated communities and mini-malls.

“Everything is absolutely perfect,” Georgia marveled.

“Oh my God,” Cricket said. “You have no idea. They'll fine you for having a dirty car here.”

“No!” Georgia exclaimed.

“Oh yes,” Cricket said. “And for failing to whitewash your mailbox. You're not in the Catskills anymore, Georgia.”

Georgia laughed. “No kidding,” she said. “Where do the people in all the service industries live?” None of the homes they'd passed could be attainable by anyone earning under a million a year.

“I have no idea,” Cricket said vaguely. Clearly the notion had never occurred to her. “Not Palm Beach anyway.”

They buzzed down the five-lane highway, looping between endless top-of-the-line pickups, passing feed supply trucks and loaded horse trailers.

The enormous mall was full of pristine people and piped music. Hurrying to match Cricket's brisk pace, Georgia tried not to stare at the repeating theme of plastic surgery and pearls.

“You can buy anything you need for horseback riding here,” Cricket told her over her shoulder. “Kentucky and Pikeur britches are the best, of course. Oh, and Super International.”

Georgia tried discreetly to turn a price tag.

“It's not worth skimping,” Cricket said. “The point here is fitting in. Even middle-class people wear these britches.”

Georgia's eyes widened. “Maybe later,” she said. “I really just need a swimsuit right now.”

“Quick stop at Sephora?” Cricket asked as they passed.

Georgia shook her head. “I don't really wear much makeup. And what I really need are some work boots.”

Cricket pretended to yawn. “Work boots? Boring. You can get those online when you're on your own. Makeup is priority number one and much more fun. Everyone wears a full face here, even when riding. It's expected.”

“But that's ridiculous. It must all melt off, riding in this heat.”

Cricket shrugged. “Well, they reapply after, of course.”

Georgia eyed a trio of women who marched by them. They all wore the same riding breeches and boots, their hair pulled back into elaborate braids. To Georgia's eye, the only difference among them was the color of their polo shirts.

“What do they do all day, these women?” Georgia marveled.

“Oh, well,” said Cricket airily, “the usual. Get up, head to the gym, and then over to Starbucks, grab a latte. Change into your riding clothes, take your riding lesson with the trainer, then go out for lunch—get a little sloshed. Maybe head over to the Pool House and Spa—nails, massages, facials—or visit with another woman's husband, whatever works. And then get dressed up to the nines and go out for dinner and clubbing. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

Georgia shook her head as she looked around at the endless displays of creams and powders and potions. She felt out of her depth in every way. “I really don't need anything,” she tried again.

Cricket rolled her eyes. “Oh, cut it out. Let's get you a makeover.” She dragged Georgia over to one of the sales reps and plunked her at the counter. “Go all out,” she told the woman. “Beginning with her brows.”

The woman nodded and quickly picked up a pair of tweezers and started plucking away.

“Ow!” said Georgia. “I don't think I want—”

“It's not a question of want as much as need, darling,” said Cricket. “Trust me on this.”

Georgia tried to relax as the woman continued to groom her face with microscopic scrutiny, but Cricket was peppering her with questions about where she came from and how big the house was and she started to feel like she ought to just hand over a family tree and a bank statement and call it a day.

“There,” said Cricket, a look of satisfaction on her face as the shop girl tilted the mirror in Georgia's direction and gave her a peek.

Georgia tried to stifle a gasp. She looked ridiculous. Not at all herself. Admittedly, the brows were better. Even she had noticed that they were getting a bit untamed. But the base and the concealer and the blush and contouring…She felt as if she were wearing a thousand-layer mask. She blinked, and the fringe of auxiliary lashes the shop girl had so carefully applied at Cricket's insistence tickled against her cheek.

“Do you like it?” asked the sales clerk, and Georgia did her best to look pleased.

“Oh yes, thank you,” she said, longing to grab a jar of makeup remover and make her escape.

“She'll take the foundation, and the Nars blush, and the eyeshadow collection, oh, and that moisturizer. She needs it on the neck,” said Cricket.

“Cricket,” admonished Georgia.

“What?” said Cricket. “Listen, darling, I am merely taking Pilar's instructions and getting you properly kitted out. This is Wellington, not Poughkeepsie, for Pete's sake. You have to blend in.”

Georgia flinched as the numbers added up at the register, but after a sidelong look from Cricket, she reluctantly handed over her credit card.

“Good,” said Cricket. “Now let's go get a swimsuit.”

Shopping for a suit was another tug-of-war, with Cricket picking out skimpy and impractical micro bikinis. (“Can you even get this wet?” said Georgia when she was handed something made of leather and velvet. “Well, no,” said Cricket, “but it will look spectacular poolside.”) And Georgia casting longing gazes at the simple maillots and boy-cut tankinis.

Cricket filled Georgia's arms with a random selection of swimwear, shoved her into a dressing room, and then established herself in a heavily upholstered armchair just outside, insisting that Georgia model every last thing for her.

Georgia gasped to see how expensive three tiny triangles could be and felt more than a little exposed letting Cricket's critical gaze rake over her barely dressed figure—but she managed to find at least one thing she liked in the pile—a simple red two-piece, not too daringly cut, with the minimum diamanté—just one tiny heart on the rear.

As she changed and then paid, Cricket kept up a constant stream of questions about how it was going at the barn.

Georgia answered freely about some of the little changes she'd made: the swap shop for riding gear, the sponsorship brainstorming session, and the initiative to bring local kids in to work in the barns to do something to break down the divide between town and riders.

“Oh my. And here I thought you were just brought on to write scripts and check for bug bites. You must be ruffling some feathers,” Cricket said. “I hope you know what you're contending with.”

“Do you think I'm overstepping?”

“Oh, who knows?” Cricket said. “I'm sure they're thrilled. Come on now, let's get some lunch.”

The restaurant, the “crab shack” which Cricket had described, was no simple shellfish hut, and even in early evening, it hosted an amazingly elegant crowd. Rider casual, but the jeans, the fitted polo shirts, the thousand-dollar accessories, the blowouts, the perfect skin, with diamond studs and tennis bracelets glittering in the bright Florida sun…

Well, at least I'm properly made up
, thought Georgia ruefully.

They settled in, and Cricket ordered a bottle for the table. They scanned the menu (
Forty-five dollars for a salad!
thought Georgia.
Holy shit!
), and Georgia thought it might be good to ask a few questions of her own. Cricket had applied makeup close enough to look up her nose, seen her in a bikini, and managed to extract the entire financial circumstances of her family without revealing a thing about herself. Georgia put down her menu.

“So, obviously you know Wellington from top to bottom. Have you been coming here long?”

“What can I tell you? The family's had horses forever. I was on horseback from the day I was born. Pony and trap at seven. Jumped competitively since I was eleven. I get colds in winter so it really suits me to come to the sun. But enough of all that—the subject of myself is boring—what I really want to know is how are you finding Alejandro?”

Georgia blinked at the sudden non sequitur.

“What do you mean by ‘finding' him?”

“I meant how does he seem to you, his stress level? He's been under so much pressure, poor darling.”

“I'm not sure I really know him well enough to—”

“He's just gone through so much, you know. Olivia and his father—and then the whole craziness with Noni, of course.”

Georgia cocked her head. “I'm sorry, what craziness?”

“Oh, surely you've heard, darling. Noni is the bastard daughter of Carlos. Nobody knew a thing about her until after he died, and then suddenly, there she was—in the will. Alejandro had to go hunt her down. She was living in Germany and had some rather messy history with some terrible man. It's all very sordid and mysterious. Anyway, not surprising, she was a horsey person—that Del Campo blood will out, of course—and so Jandro brought her back here to work. Pilar almost shit a brick.”

Georgia opened her mouth, trying to wrap her mind around all this information.

“Anyway, Jandro's been to hell and back, but a little tragedy can sometimes season a man, I think. He's still awfully attractive, no? But then, so is Sebastian. Which brother does it for you?”

Though Cricket had already emptied half the bottle while Georgia merely sipped at her wine, she felt her head spin. These rapid changes in conversation—she couldn't help feeling that she was being led into a trap.

“Um, they're both very handsome, of course. And Sebastian is fun—” She blushed.

“Right?” Cricket smiled. “Oh, and Jandro, he's your boss, so you really can't think of him that way, right? I mean, even though you're working in such close quarters?”

“He's so busy, I hardly see him,” Georgia said carefully. She took a sip of her drink, trying to turn the conversation. “What about you two? Have you been close awhile?”

“Friends forever. And the benefits as well,” Cricket said, looking at her with those lovely, languid eyes. “I was Olivia's great friend. I always felt she would have wanted me with him.”