Chapter 2
2
F lora walked downtown to look for a job, but the tourist season was ending and the most positive response she got was a few shopkeepers who told her to come back in the spring, when tourists returned to the island. There were no postings on the community boards, and no notices in the paper.
She stopped last at a gift shop that sold things like fancy soap, greeting cards, and houseplants. The owner, Blythe, looked at her kindly when she handed over her handwritten resume. Blythe had known Flora for most of her life, and had been, at one time, a friend of her mother’s. She did not think of Blythe as an old friend, nor was she a stranger.
“Didn’t you work at King’s? What happened?” Blythe had fine silver eyebrows that stitched together as she spoke, and a cascade of silver-white hair that she wore loose around her delicately featured face.
“It just didn’t work out,” Flora said. “I guess I didn’t get along with the owner’s son.”
“I know him,” Blythe said sympathetically, putting her soft hand on Flora’s, who stood holding her resume. “He has a bit of a reputation.”
Flora didn’t know what to say, so she just looked down at her shoes, then out the window.
Blythe spoke again. “I want to help you, Flora, but I’m only open three days a week in the winter, and I can’t afford an employee. I barely get through to March as it is.”
“I understand.”
“Flora,” Blythe sighed. “You have to leave. There’s nothing here for a girl your age. You have to know that. And the island… something is changing. I don’t understand it yet, but… I have this feeling.”
Flora looked at her, then out the window again. Blythe obviously didn’t understand her situation. Blythe was looking out of the window too, for a moment, and seemed to be contemplating something, or going into a trance.
“Sorry,” Blythe said, catching herself and shaking her head as though trying to wake herself up. “I’m not trying to scare you or make you feel bad.”
“It’s fine,” Flora said. “I’m trying to save up.”
“Your mom won’t help you?”
“She tried to help. She charges me really low rent.”
Blythe looked positively stunned by this information. “She charges you rent? To live in that school bus?” There was a flinty edge in Blythe’s voice, and her soft features sharpened. Flora’s mother had always called Blythe a judgmental bitch.
Flora’s face felt hot. She wanted to defend her mother even though a part of her hated Maureen, too. “I have to go,” she managed to say, then left.
Blythe didn’t try to stop her.
Three days later she saw it.
Neatly printed, as though with a typewriter, on a 3×5 card and pinned to a downtown corkboard was a job posting, and not just any job posting.
Help needed at Rainshadow Abbey.
Experience with dressage horses required.
Excellent pay for the right candidate.
Flora tore it down without a moment of hesitation. She knew the job was hers, so there was no use in letting anyone else see it. She walked, nearly jogged, to a nearby pay phone and called the number on the card.
“Yes, hello?” There was a cool, almost smoky voice on the other line.
“Hi, yeah, uh, I’m calling about the job?”
“Job…? Oh, the horse help?”
“Yeah, uh, yes, I actually used to work there, at Lavender— ah—Rainshadow. It used to be called Lavender Acres.”
“I thought it used to be called Rainshadow Abbey. We’re just changing the name back to what it was historically.”
“I guess,” said Flora. “It’s been Lavender Acres my whole life.”
A silence. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
More silence. Then a sigh. “Come out tomorrow at one.”
“Ok, one!” said Flora a little too eagerly. “See you then.”
Lavender Acres, or Rainshadow Abbey, was familiar and changed.
The lavender fields were weedy and unkempt. The siding on the barn building was in need of paint, and perhaps a new roof. There were weeds growing in the gravel of the driveway. Flora had to stop herself from reaching down to pull them up. She walked up the long driveway toward the house, though it didn’t look like anyone was home. In front of the house, in the driveway turnaround, sat a gleaming black Corvette.
It was still, the motor quiet, waiting, like a crouching predator ready to strike.
Flora went to the front door and knocked. The house sounded dead and silent, no rustling, no barking dogs, no stairs creaking. The only sound was the crashing of the waves against the cliffside. She waited for a minute, then two, but she had the distinct feeling that she was alone, that there was no life in the house at all.
Then she heard a noise, a whistling sound, and turned. There were lights on in the arena.
She knew the way, knew every inch of the estate, could navigate it blind. She followed the gravel path from the house, set on each side with gray, dormant lavender shrubs. She walked past the stables to the arena, where she heard the familiar drum of horse hooves on hard-packed earth. It was the only part of the estate that seemed alive, awake. There were huge lights, and even heaters, installed over the seating area and the arena itself.
Around the perimeter, a spirited, dazzling dapple gray horse cantered in circles. He was on a long lead held by a figure in the center. Flora blinked, and had the vivid sense that she was seeing someone unreal, like a model in a magazine.
She looked so extraordinary. She was tall, with long legs, satin black pants and knee-high riding boots so shiny they reflected the overhead lights. Her top, a crisp white button-up, was tucked in as if to further dramatize her figure, a womanly hourglass, her full breasts and wide hips accentuated by clothes that were so expensive, Flora wasn’t sure she’d seen anything quite like them, even at the shops on Whitby Island where she and her mom went to shop every two years. The woman’s long, dark hair was parted down the middle and pinned to the nape of her neck. Maybe, Flora thought, she was French.
“Hello,” said Flora, so quietly that the woman evidently didn’t hear her. “Um.” She cleared her throat. “Hi, hello.”
The woman turned, slow, not startled, and didn’t react. Her gray eyes were cool and appraising. Flora couldn’t get any closer because of the lead line, so she just stood and watched. The horse had a high step with flashy, gorgeous feathering at its ankles. Its neck was arched so dramatically it seemed like something from a painting of Napoleon, its mane lifting as it tossed its magnificent head.
“Woah,” the woman murmured to the horse, who only sped up and kicked its back legs in a spirited hop and cantered, defiant.
“Woah, come now,” the woman said again, tugging lightly on the lead rope, her touch so light the horse seemed to be responding to her voice alone.
Flora walked out to her. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “The most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen.”
The woman did not look at Flora when she spoke. “His name is Bane, because he is the bane of my existence.” Flora did not detect a European accent. If anything, it sounded like the woman might be from the American South.
“Oh,” Flora said, laughing quietly. “He seems to respond to you so well.”
The woman looked at her horse appraisingly, as though she wasn’t sure. “I had him brought from the Netherlands four years ago to my house when I lived in England.” She handed Flora the lead rope. “He is a very difficult horse. I’m not looking for someone to train him. I do that myself. But there are days I can’t work with him and he still needs exercise.”
“How many horses do you have?”
The woman sighed. “Only three. Bane, Zeta, who is perfect, and Mars, who is young, still training.”
Flora nodded and clicked her tongue. Bane began to circle them slowly, and the two women turned together so as not to get wrapped in the lead rope.
“How long have you worked with horses?” the woman asked.
“A few years. I took lessons here, then I helped out.”
“So,” the woman said. “Not a professional. A horse girl.”
“I guess,” Flora said, her cheeks burning a little.
“How many hours a week can you work?” Bane started trotting now, faster than Flora wanted him to. She tried to tighten the lead, but it only made him toss his lovely head and kick his back legs.
“Slow him,” the woman said, her voice tightening.
“I’m trying,” Flora said, tugging on the lead like she’d seen the woman do. “Woah, boy. Woah!”
The woman sighed and took the lead just as Bane began to leap and kick, exuberant in his freedom and threatening to jerk Flora down with the lead.
“Slow,” she said, and the horse’s ears perked visibly at the sound of his master’s voice. The woman gathered the lead line into a coil around her arm. “To be perfectly honest, I knew I couldn’t give you the job when you said you were twenty, but I thought it would be… polite, I guess, to give you a chance.”
“Are you saying I’m not getting the job?”
The woman began to lead Bane back toward the stables.
“It’s not personal. This isn’t a good environment for a twenty-year-old girl.”
“But I love it here! It’s the perfect environment for me!” Flora realized her voice was a whine. She hadn’t wanted to sound desperate.
“Whatever you loved isn’t here anymore.”
Flora felt like crying. “I just love horses,” she said pathetically.
The woman sighed and closed her eyes, more out of irritation than sympathy. “I’m sorry you drove out here.”
“I walked,” Flora said, feeling very sorry for herself.
“Well then,” the woman said coldly, “I’m sorry you walked.”
On the walk home, Flora could feel a blister swelling between her toes. She had never felt so much anger and self-pity in her life.