Winter Circuit (The Show Circuit -- Book 2) (11 page)

I woke up at nine to find Chris had already gotten out of bed. So much for lingering together under the covers, half-asleep. So much for waking up and finding him watching me sleep or something incredibly romantic like that. Nope. He was at the kitchen counter with his laptop, watching videos of horses. I came out of the bedroom, stretching and yawning.

“How long have you been up?” I asked.

“I don’t know. A few hours. Long enough to watch every animal that might have a future as a grand prix horse and figure out they don’t have a future as a grand prix horse.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m making pancakes,” I declared cheerfully. This was part of my carefully constructed plan. I’d bought the ingredients and some fresh fruit and brought them over to Chris’s last night with the rest of the stuff I’d said I would pick up for him to make us dinner, which he had done.

Chris kept his eyes glued to the screen as I took out the strawberries, blueberries, milk, butter and eggs from the fridge. I selected the dry ingredients from the cabinet and whisked together the proper amounts of flour, sugar, baking powder and salt that the recipe I’d gotten off Rachel Ray’s website called for. I combined the necessary wet ingredients and then added them together with the dry. After they were whisked, leaving the few small lumps that Rachel said were fine, I heated up a skillet. The whole time I was working, I’m not sure Chris even looked up once. I’m not sure he registered I
was
cooking. He’d been distracted during our dinner last night too, intermittently answering texts. I’d been so concerned he might be texting with MB that while he was in the bathroom later I’d taken another look at his phone. I felt terrible that I’d done it—and I hadn’t turned up anything except texts with his clients—but I had needed to know if something was going on.

I sliced up the berries and put them in a bowl on the table. My first pancake came out a little underdone so I threw it away and made a second, which was perfect. I wasn’t sure if Chris liked blueberry pancakes so I’d left the blueberries out of the mix. I scurried around setting the small table in the open living-room-dining-room between flipping the pancakes. Chris’s condo wasn’t fancy but it was satisfactorily equipped. He didn’t own it; he rented. When I had a good stack of pancakes ready and the table was set, I announced proudly that breakfast was served.

Chris looked up like he was surprised to even find me there and had no idea I’d just cooked a full breakfast in his presence. “Oh, okay,” he said. “Wow.”

We sat down at the table and I put a pancake on his plate and mine. “I hope you like pancakes.”

He reached for the butter and set about spreading a thin layer on his pancake. “Definitely.”

I slid the maple syrup toward him. “Do you cut yours first and then put on the maple syrup or the other way around?”

“I put on the maple syrup first.”

“I cut mine first.”

“I didn’t know it mattered.”

“It doesn’t. It’s just something I’ve noticed when people have pancakes. My dad likes to make pancakes. It’s like his one thing that he likes to do for people close to him. And Ryan and I have this theory about putting on your maple syrup first versus after you cut them.”

Chris took a bite of his. “What’s the theory?”

“If you cut them first like me,” I said, slicing my pancake into neat squares. “It basically means you have to do things the traditional way people are supposed to do things, like everything in the perfect order, and then because of that you don’t get the big payoffs in life. But if you do it like you—” I motioned with my fork to his plate. “See how you’re cutting them now with your fork since they’re all soft and gooey from the maple syrup? That means you go for things you want and you don’t care if you’re not following certain procedures. In the end, according to Ryan, you get the better bit of pancake and by translation, more out of life.”

“So Ryan puts his syrup on first?” Chris said.

I nodded, my mouth full. When I’d swallowed, I added, “My dad does too.”

“I guess I’m in good company,” Chris said.

He had finished his first pancake and I served him another. I smiled as he spread a little butter on it, smothered it in syrup, and carved out a piece with his fork.

“I feel like I passed some test,” he said.

I laughed. “Not really. But I guess I’m not surprised you cut it after.”

“Why? What about me screams that I don’t do things by procedure?”

“Well, you do certain things by procedure but you don’t let what other people think, or what you’re supposed to do, stop you. Like even the way you started teaching me in Vermont.”

“And the way I kissed you that time in the tent?”

I broke out in a huge smile, remembering our first kiss in Vermont. We’d both been so uncertain about our feelings but we also knew that there was something between us. Chris had finally been the one to act on it. “Yeah, that too.”

This was so perfect right now. This was what our Mondays were supposed to be like. The breakfast I’d made was delicious. We were talking again. His mood, away from the endless horse videos, seemed to have lifted.

“Do you know about this site, HorseShowDrama?” I asked him.

“Vaguely. Why?”

“It’s just got all this stuff about so many people. Dakota reads it religiously.”

“I wouldn’t get drawn into it,” Chris said. “There are a lot of haters out there.”

I wondered whether I should tell him about what it said about him and Mary Beth. I decided not to. Instead I said cheerfully, “So what are we going to do today?”

I would have been fine with him saying, absolutely nothing. That we’d stay home all day and go back to bed, binge-watch some episodes on HBO. Or propose something fun like going out to lunch at a new place, going into Miami, or going to the beach. I’d heard people at the show saying those were some of the things people did on Mondays, besides sleep.

“I have to get to Athlete’s Advantage,” Chris said. “And then to the barn.”

“On Monday?” I asked.

“I can’t work out as much during circuit so it’s really important that I at least do it when I can.”

I knew Chris had personal training sessions at the place every grand prix rider who cared about their physical strength and longevity went to. He had told me about all the other professional athletes that worked out there—some major league baseball player I couldn’t remember, a former NFL player, lots of collegiate athletes and wealthy people who wanted to feel like real athletes. The sessions were tailored to the sport you did. Chris worked on exercises of short bursts of intensity like you’d get in the ring, and building his core. Athlete’s Advantage I could handle. But couldn’t he take a day off from the barn? Wasn’t that what Monday was for?

“Can’t you come back after working out?” I envisioned him in his workout clothes and all sweaty. That could be nice or we could shower together.

“No, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on with Dale. We have to send out bills. The farrier’s coming.”

“On Monday?”

“Yeah, on Monday.”

I must have looked pouty because Chris said, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I just thought that in Vermont Mondays were like our day to do whatever. Remember when we went to the quarry?”

“Yeah, and I’d love to just hang out but I can’t. Back then I had one client. Bills were easy—just send them to Harris. Ordering supplies? Just charge them to Harris. It’s completely different now. I’m running a business.”

I looked down at my half-eaten pancake, trying to get myself together. Intellectually I totally understood how things were different for Chris now. I got it. But emotionally, it still hurt. I wanted to hang out with my boyfriend, to get to know him more outside of the horse show, to play house a little. “What time do you have to go?”

“I’m working out at eleven, meeting Dale at twelve-thirty.”

“Maybe I could bring lunch over for you guys?” I asked.

Chris offered me a smile. “That would be great.”

“Okay, cool. Do you want another pancake?” I was being so mature. I wasn’t letting my disappointment ruin this.

“One more,” he said.

Chapter 15

Each ring was like its own country. It had its own in-gate guy, often its own announcer, its own schooling area, and its own subset of people who showed there, based on the type of classes held. The pony ring was filled with fluttering hair ribbons and absurdly expensive, but often still recalcitrant, ponies. The trainers there acted half like trainers and half like mothers, and kids burst into either smiles when they rode well or won a class, or tears when they forgot the course or missed a distance.

There was the grand hunter ring where riders who made their living from dealing horses tried to make a sale in huddled talks with other trainers at the in-gate.

There was the International Arena where one could hear several different languages and accents and the riders looked serious because they knew they were the gods of the horse show.

The in-gate person became the unofficial leader of each ring, setting the tone. There were the professional in-gate guys who ran their ring like they were running a small company. There were the diplomatic in-gate guys who ran their ring like they were a politician trying to represent every person’s interests, even the disenfranchised. There were the cowboy in-gate guys who ran their rings like the old west with back-door-deal making and vigilante justice.

Some trainers bobbed and weaved between rings. Others spent the majority of their time at only one or two rings. What went on at the other rings was of no concern to them. Put together, all of these individual countries that were the rings made up the planet of WEF. And it did indeed feel like a busy, spinning planet—a blur of colors, and sounds. Somewhere out there in this spinning planet was Mary Beth but I hadn’t met her yet. I kept looking for her. I thought I would recognize her. I’d had a few false sightings—someone who I thought might be her, my heart beating fast and my palms growing sweaty.

Chris took Arkos and Logan over to the Turf Tour during Week 1 of WEF instead of competing at the show grounds. Arkos hadn’t shown since the summer and Chris wanted a low-pressure situation to start him out. The Turf Tour was run by a grand prix rider and her course designer husband out of their farm in Grand Prix Village. Sometimes it alternated locations between other really nice farms with grand prix fields. The idea was to offer an alternative to WEF and to give riders a chance to show on grass. The in-gate was open all day; you could come and show whenever it suited your schedule.

Dakota lessoned in the morning so I had a break in the afternoon and I took the golf cart over to The Ridge, the farm where the Turf Tour was happening that day, to watch Logan go. Chris had texted me he was heading over. So far Linda seemed really cool about letting me take time to go watch Chris if she didn’t need me.

I pulled the golf cart up to the field. I spotted Chris on Arkos in the schooling ring. Arkos was such an impressive-looking horse that it was hard to believe he hadn’t lived up to his potential. There were some grand prix horses that didn’t look the part. They were small or wormy-looking but somehow they jumped the moon. Maybe they jumped in unorthodox fashion but they cleared the top rails. Arkos looked like he was meant to be a grand prix horse, especially with Chris on him. But all last summer he’d have four or even eight faults each time out in the grand prix classes. Nothing would ever go overtly wrong—he just seemed like he wasn’t careful enough. Like he didn’t care enough. Chris couldn’t understand it because when he’d picked him out in Europe it was
because
he was so careful. It was like Arkos had become a different horse. Chris had all the possible tests done on Arkos and nothing had come up. There was no reason besides a truth Chris didn’t want to face—that he had misjudged the horse’s potential.

Chris schooled him and then rode over to the in-gate. The Turf Tour was the anti-WEF. No crowds, no announcer, no vendors. It was a horse show on the DL.

I watched Chris go over the course and then enter the ring. It wasn’t that warm out today and I wished I’d brought my fleece. I was getting goose bumps. The sun had permanently disappeared behind the clouds. At home fifty degrees would have felt balmy but I guess my blood had already thinned out.

Arkos looked great over the first few jumps. He had room to spare. Of course, this was only a 1.35 meter class, but still. It was good to see. He looked happy and rested and he breezed over the course without any rails down. Chris did the jump-off, not going all out, but pushing Arkos a little here and there. Again, he was clean.

I got out of the golf cart and headed to meet him at the in-gate. Of course I’d let him debrief with Dale first. Even before Dale’s stern warning of the week before, I knew not to intrude.

When Dale and Chris had finished talking, Chris hopped off and gave Arkos a hearty pat. Dale led Arkos off and I met Chris. “That was awesome!”

“It’s a start,” he replied, reminding me with those few words that one simple course at the Turf Tour did not equal grand prix greatness.

“He looked really good. Really rested.”

Before Chris could answer, a girl pulled up in a golf cart. It took me a split second and then I recognized her from the photos on Facebook, Instagram, and
The Chronicle
. After all the this time I’d spent thinking about her, it was Mary Beth in the flesh. I had expected to see her on the horse show grounds—for some silly reason I hadn’t expected to see her here.

“He looked good,” she said, her voice perky. “Maybe the time off fixed him.”

“Maybe,” Chris said.

I tried to make out whether he was feeling awkward. I couldn’t tell. It was inevitable that I was going to have to meet her. And now the moment was here. Why did she act like she knew everything about Arkos’s story, when she’d been in Europe most of the summer? How did she even know Chris had rested him? She wasn’t looking at me. Maybe she had no idea I was his new girlfriend. She had to know he
had
a new girlfriend.