Chapter 10
10
I nside the house, something was cooking, something decadent.
“Robinson,” Ethan said, his voice upbeat as they walked into the dining room, set for two. Flora saw the wine-colored tablecloth, half a dozen flickering candles, and a bottle of red. She felt embarrassed. They were going to have an intimate dinner, and she was crashing, a third wheel.
The chef poked his head out from the kitchen. He was an older man, and looked more like a cook at a diner than a chef at a rich person’s house. Not that she would know what a high-end chef would really look like.
“Flora will be joining us for dinner,” Ethan said. “You can accommodate?”
The man, Robinson, gave Flora a look and seemed to calculate for a moment. “Of course.”
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” Ethan asked.
“Uh, yes, actually, that would be wonderful.”
“Here,” Ethan said, indicating a seat at the dining table laid out for two. “Have a seat and relax. I’ll get it for you.”
Ethan disappeared into the kitchen and Flora eased herself into the chair, letting out a long, slow breath. She hadn’t really broken anything, but she was bruised. She looked around at the dining table, at the fine, expensive-looking white china, at the long, tapered beeswax candles with their light honey scent, at the chandelier, different than the one that hung cheerfully in Lisa’s house. This chandelier was crystal and threw off light from the candles in all directions, creating an elegant feeling, like time had slowed.
“What are you doing in my house?” Sylvia stood in the doorway, wearing an elegant black satin dressing gown. She still looked older, she still looked tired, but she had a proud elegance that was only enhanced by the flickering firelight. Her silky hair, worn down, was long and black, and her waxy, pale face now looked golden and haughty.
“Ethan invited me for dinner,” Flora said. “I didn’t know if I could walk home.” She didn’t say “because you made me fall off the horse over and over again,” but she didn’t need to.
Ethan emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. Sylvia took hers and gave him an accusing look that he didn’t seem to register. He only smiled at her.
“We’ll have dinner,” he said. “And then I’ll take Flora home.”
Flora was very uncomfortable, questioning whether she should have stayed. It was obvious Sylvia didn’t want her there, but the thought of walking home gave her an ache. And, she admitted to herself, she liked getting to know Ethan. It was his house, too, wasn’t it?
“Did you get a little education in dressage today?” Ethan asked Flora, who nodded and took a sip of wine.
“I did,” she said. “Thank you, Sylvia.”
Sylvia only looked at her.
“Sylvia has always loved horses. When we first met, she was working at an English manor house, training hunter/jumpers for horrible English snobs like me.”
“You’re English too?” Flora asked, realizing how little she knew about Sylvia.
“No,” she said.
“Sylvia went to school at Oxford, studying on scholarship, and found the job while she was there. She’s originally from Athens, Georgia, if you can believe that.”
Flora was, indeed, surprised by this.
“She was training horses, or apprenticing, I don’t remember. I lived nearby, in my own manor house. Sylvia came to one of my parties, late night affairs… I was terribly drawn to her beauty, her passion, the way she talked about horses. She wanted them so terribly, but they were out of her reach.”
There was nothing passionate about Sylvia now. She looked miserable and bitter sitting there, watching Ethan, completely unmoved by his complimentary description. It almost seemed like she hated him. Flora wondered if she hated him because he was still young and attractive, might even be getting more attractive, while she, Sylvia, was looking tired, pallid.
Dinner was served, the chef coming out to set two plates in front of the two women, nothing in front of Ethan.
“You’re not eating?” Flora asked, remembering he hadn’t eaten when they’d had dinner out.
“I fast in the evenings. It’s not something I care to talk about.”
Flora smiled at him, shrugged, then dug into a very well-prepared chicken breast with roasted vegetables and a creamy sauce.
“Sylvia, you’re not eating,” Ethan said.
“I’m not hungry,” Sylvia said, pushing the plate away.
“Please, Sylvia, stop punishing me for… for what? Being nice?”
She glared at him.
“You know what. I’m going to bed.”
“Come now, Sylvia,” he said, standing, as she swept from the room. Her black satin dress billowed dramatically around her lithe body.
When she was gone, Ethan sat down again. “Finish up,” he said, weary and defeated. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m sorry,” Flora said. “I really don’t want to cause problems.”
“I don’t think she could live without you,” Ethan said. “There’s no one else who will work here. I’m trying to save her.”
“Why does she hate me?”
Ethan shrugged, shook his head, closed his eyes, and put his face in his hands. “The oldest reason in the world,” he said. “You’re beautiful, young, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” He sighed. “We have been chasing her happiness since the day I met her. Cutting out my friends, my family. Buying an apartment in Paris, a chateau in Vienna…”
“Sounds… expensive.”
“Oh,” Ethan said. “I have a substantial trust, money is not…” He shook his head. “We don’t worry about money. But I would give every penny to make her happy. She seemed so sad when I met her. Lost. She wanted one thing—to train and ride beautiful horses, but it’s a hard world for the penniless. I thought if I could only make her happy, that could be my whole purpose in life. When she wanted to return to the states, we looked all over at fine, state-of-the-art equestrian estates, good enough for her, for her precious horses.”
“Why here? This island?”
“It’s far up north and I need long nights. I’m a night owl.”
“The night is long here,” Flora said, gazing into his hypnotic eyes. No wonder he was so beautifully pale.
He was so perfect, she thought, unlike any man she had ever, would ever meet on the island. She once again reflected on the unfairness that Sylvia should have the opportunity for things liked going to Oxford, where she would meet a man like this. It was all so achingly unfair.
For a moment, they looked at each other, and it felt to Flora like he was asking her for something. To see him, perhaps, the way Sylvia never had. To see his needs, so long ignored, to see his pain. He looked into her eyes and let her see it, to see all of him.
“I should get you home,” he said, interrupting their moment.
“Yeah, probably,” she whispered, setting down her empty glass of wine.
They barely spoke on the ride home, but Ethan let his hand rest in the center, next to the stick shift, and Flora could swear it inched closer and closer to her leg. Or, maybe, she was letting her thigh slide over, right until they just about touched, though neither looked at the other, and the only sound in the car was Flora’s breathing.
After that night, Sylvia refused to speak to Flora, and had not let her back on a horse. She had, it seemed, strengthened enough to get back into the saddle herself, and Flora caught glimpses of her trotting and cantering around her arena on Bane’s back. The only thing she said to her was, “It’s time for you to go,” uttered the minute the sun shimmered over the tops of the fir trees, beginning its descent into the darkness.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone at night,” her mother said to her, upon her return one evening.
“Since when have you ever cared?” she snarled, hating her mother.
“A man was found dead. A server from that restaurant, Deer Harbor.”
Flora blinked. Whatever she had expected her mother to say, it wasn’t that.
“Behind the restaurant, hidden in an unused freezer. He didn’t come to work on Saturday, but they didn’t find him until yesterday.”
She had gone with Ethan to the restaurant on Friday. She might have been one of the last people to see the man alive. She had no emotion at the thought. It didn’t seem meaningful. Still, it was strange.
“I’m sure he got into a fight or something,” Flora said. “Something personal.”
Maureen shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe there is something dangerous on the island, like Blythe says.”
“Why are you talking to Blythe? You hate Blythe,” Flora snipped, reminding her mother of her long-standing dislike of the gift shop owner since the end of their friendship.
“I don’t like her,” Maureen admitted. “She’s a weirdo. But she came to me, told me there is evil on the island, and you’re in danger. At that house.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“Because I don’t believe her, so there was no point in scaring you. And we need the money.”
Flora stared at her. “You would let me stay there even if you thought it was dangerous, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course not,” Maureen said, but they both knew that it was a lie.
Flora came in to work late the next day, in the early afternoon, and found Mars looking unwell in his stall. He was leaning, breathing heavily, dripping foam from the mouth, and his eyes looked dull.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Flora asked, stepping into his stall and running her hands over his neck and flank. She felt a raised welt on his chest, near his slow-thudding heart. She picked at it for a moment, and found fresh-dried blood. She found no other signs of injury.
“What are you doing?” Sylvia’s voice shocked her.
“Oh my god.” Flora gasped and her hand shot to her chest. Her heart was thumping. “Sylvia.”
Sylvia looked at her, looked at Mars. “Get out of there.”
“He’s sick.” Flora drew closer to the horse.
“He was unwell. I’ve already had a vet come look at him this morning. He was injured, and he’s in pain, but he will be alright.”
“When did a vet come out here?” Flora asked, thinking there wasn’t an equine vet that could come to Anderson Island without at least a day’s notice.
“Early this morning.”
“He still seems sick, maybe you should?—”
“What right do you have to question my care of my own animal?”
“I just?—”
“You are such an infuriatingly typical horse girl, so sure you have some special connection with horses, even other people’s horses! It’s all in your imagination, Flora! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Sylvia, I just?—”
“You just think you know better than me about something I’ve devoted my entire life to? I know that he is not well. I have already involved professionals. I don’t need some teenager?—”
“I’m actually twenty?—”
“Shut up! Oh my god!”
She had never seen Sylvia so exasperated. Her cheeks were pink, and she seemed genuinely furious, even though Flora just wanted to help.
“Why are you so upset? I just?—”
“Why am I upset? One of my horses is sick and you’re here, always here, questioning me!” Sylvia’s neck was flushing, she was so angry. Flora thought she looked older and uglier than usual.
“I’ll go,” Flora said.
“Take Bane with you,” she said, composing herself. “Let him into the yard.”
Flora nodded, then slipped out of Mars’s stall and into the tack room, where she grabbed a lead.
Inside Bane’s stall, the horse was wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth, but didn’t seem lethargic or ill like Mars did. He tossed his head when she reached for him, looking down at her with mistrust.
“Come on, boy,” Flora said, clipping the lead to his halter with some difficulty, steadying him with a hand on his muzzle.
At first he didn’t seem to want to leave the stall, but once she had tugged him out, he nearly dragged her to the paddock. The winds had picked up and the sky was already dark, like the day had already given up. The sea, below the rocky cliffside, was breaking with explosive force. Flora could hear it, a noise that combined cacophonously with Bane’s labored, anxious breath.
She released him into the grazing paddock and, right away, he cantered, tossing his regal head, so that tendrils of his mane fluttered in the wind like gray silk ribbons. The rain slicked his hide, and he glistened, glittered, in the low light. He ran, shimmering in the mist, whipping his tail, his hooves pounding, thundering. He looked so beautiful, and somehow defiant, like he was making a protest. He circled the paddock over and over, three, four, five times. Flora watched him, astonished, as he took one more turn around, then another, then started galloping as fast as he could and, right as she thought he would crash over it, launched himself over the fence. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight, and it took a moment for Flora to understand what was happening. Then, she ran. She had never run so fast in her life.
“No,” Flora screamed. “No!” She chased him, breathless, knowing each step was more futile than the last. Still, she ran, screaming, “Bane! Bane! No! Bane!” She heard Sylvia behind her, but didn’t understand what she was saying.
He ran straight for the cliff, for the crashing sea. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow as he reached the edge, didn’t make a sound as he leaped, looking like something from myth, and for a moment, Flora half-expected, vainly hoped, that he might fly.
He didn’t, though.
He disappeared, dropping silently, over the edge of the cliff.
Flora turned for a moment and saw Sylvia on Zeta, horse and rider both black in the swirling gray. She must have already mounted Zeta when she heard Flora scream. She rode bareback, and only had one light hand on the rein. Even without a saddle and stirrups, she had perfect form, her heels angled down, her back as straight as a rod. She would overtake Flora quickly, though not quickly enough. Flora kept running hoping that somehow, maybe…
Bane, the most beautiful horse Flora had ever seen, was a wet, crumpled stuffed toy at the bottom of the cliff face, his elegant legs bent into unnatural angles that increased the feeling of unreality. Flora could not, would not, comprehend what she had just seen, and a part of her still expected him to get up and shake himself off, just as she had expected him to fly.
Sylvia, for a moment, looked like she would follow him, urging Zeta toward the edge, but she pulled up at the last moment and rode the edge of the cliff so deftly that it made Flora’s chest tighten, like any moment the horse and rider would go tumbling over the cliff. For a moment, Sylvia stopped Zeta, who danced beneath her, still agitated. It looked like she might be crying, but it was impossible to tell in the wind and the rain. Then, she trotted back toward the barn. Flora walked in a few moments later, and saw Sylvia putting Zeta back into her stall. The two women looked at each other.
“Animals would rather die than live with evil. People will adjust, accept. That’s the difference between us.”
“Evil?” Flora scoffed. “Who’s evil, Sylvia? What’s evil? What is everybody talking about?”
Sylvia didn’t look at Flora. She didn’t speak. Flora felt exasperated, flushed, and furious.
“All I’ve ever wanted to do was help you, Sylvia.”
“Oh?” Sylvia asked, scoffing. “I think there are a few other things that you want.”
Sylvia turned, then, and walked back toward the house. Flora couldn’t believe her complete lack of emotion. No, she had emotion. She was actually laughing! It was like Sylvia didn’t even care that her beautiful horse was dead. It made Flora furious.
The rain was coming down, by then, in sheets. Flora didn’t care. She went back to the barn, grabbed her bag, and started the walk home. She wouldn’t come back. How could she?
Sylvia had finally won.