At dawn, the rain was still coming down and the toilet in our bedroom overflowed for no apparent reason; we packed quickly and went downstairs to use the lobby restroom. The restaurant had posted a sign that said it could not serve breakfast due to an equipment breakdown. Even I was beginning to see the signs. Tornados, people with Norwegian elkhound stories, vibrating beds, stopped-up toilets, and no breakfast meant someone wanted us to move along quickly. We packed the car and headed for our next horse farm in Kentucky.
The darkened old tobacco barns and rich green pastures of Kentucky began to line each side of the highway and soon gave way to mile upon mile of carefully tended three-rail horse fencing and gorgeous steeds befitting bluegrass country. The angle of the morning sun sent beams of light bouncing across the front seat of the car, making the journey seem celestial.
“Why do you suppose you dreamed of raping a woman?” Liz asked, startling me with the word and her directness.
In the light of day, the thought was even more horrible and embarrassing. “I think in those days, it wasn’t rape exactly. It was more like…acquisition. Men simply acquired what they wanted and what they could afford, including women.”
“Rape as acquisition? I think not!” she said, and I shot her a look that said “Let up.”
“Maybe you have pent-up sexual energy.”
“Look, it was a dream. I would never do that. I think you can attest to the fact that I’m pretty safe.”
“Too safe, actually.” She smiled.
“And what does that mean, Dr. Freud?”
“I shouldn’t have said safe. I meant—”
“I’m just working out my relationship issues in my head so I don’t keep repeating the same mistake. I want to have a thousand experiences once, instead of one experience a thousand times. It has nothing to do with you or your attractiveness or desirability—”
“Good,” she said. Apparently picking up on my perplexed look she added, “Good that you find me attractive.”
I cut my eyes at her, refusing to take the bait. She’s damned attractive and she knows it. I glanced over at her as she put on a very racy pair of sunglasses, then leaned her head back on the seat, arching her neck and making me want to put my lips there. I turned the radio to XM and listened to Ray Stevens sing about a camel…anything to avoid thinking about Liz.
*
We spent the night at the Marriott Griffin Gate in Lexington, a hotel that oozed old Southern charm. The lobby gift shop was filled with horse-abilia from countless Derby championships. The restaurant, in a separate colonial mansion, would have made Tara proud; the massive pillars disappeared up into the sky and framed a front porch that begged for a rocking chair and a mint julep. It was still relatively early, but we skipped dinner and fell into our soft beds, tired and happy, as if the entire trip was merely about this moment—these intimate conversations in the near dark, in beds separated by five feet of longing.
“So of the people you’ve lived with—the four—who made you wild with desire?” Liz asked, grinning like a teenager at a sleepover.
“That’s a very odd question. Why would you want to know that?”
“I guess I was just wondering what an always-in-control, buttoned-up corporate executive likes in bed. Can’t be that glued together all the time. You have to come loose somewhere.”
Her tone was playful but I refused to play.
She filled the silence. “It’s merely research on my part. I might meet someone in the corporate world one day and—”
“Cut it out,” I said good-naturedly.
“True. Enough about you. I’ll tell you what I like.” She gave the topic a matter-of-fact tone. “I love kissing. Deep, sensual kissing. I could kiss—well, far longer than the average bear,” she said, and I sucked the interior of my cheeks in until I was nearly biting them to avoid grinning at her and thus encouraging her.
She continued. “When I think about it I guess I’m very oral in all respects, but that makes perfect sense because I make my living with my mouth, as a broadcaster. Now, you make your living strategically with your mind, so maybe sex is all in your head—you think?”
“I think you’re thinking all the time. Good night,” I said and rolled over, turning my back to her to avoid temptation. I pretended the thick luxurious bedding and the silky pillow were Liz’s body next to mine. Hearing her breathe across from me was sensual and disconcerting.
*
At dawn, I bounced out of bed, energetic for no apparent reason, and commanded that we get into our riding gear and head for the small horse farm Liz had arranged for us to visit. My pants were black stretch, and after pulling them on, I was convinced I had bought a size too small, because every bulge and crease in my lower torso was visible. My new, shiny black boots seemed gigantic and had more laces and hooks than a corset.
Eying my huge black feet in the mirror, I sighed. “I look like Ronald McDonald at a clown funeral.”
Liz giggled, and I was aware how much I liked hearing her laugh and how I liked being the one who evoked that laughter.
“There are no clown funerals, darling,” Liz said. “Old clowns are recycled into crayons.”
And this time I laughed.
We were headed for the door, bound for our big adventure, when my cell phone rang. Liz plopped down on the bed, turned on the TV, and kept it muted as I picked up to hear Walter Puckett’s voice.
“Who is this Megan Stanford?” Walter Puckett boomed. My mind shifted into quick overdrive. Walter asking about a person three levels down meant, more than likely, he’d heard that Megan was Anselm’s girlfriend.
“She’s heading up a new area for us, strategic development,” I replied calmly.
“She’s a microbiologist! I think we might just be bringing our chicks into the nest.” He laughed unpleasantly.
I didn’t like his sneaking up on Anselm’s flank; he was Anselm’s peer. If he had a problem, he should confront Anselm. Furthermore, Megan now belonged to me, and although I hadn’t asked for her, she was in my corporate care and would not be ambushed by CEOs with ulterior motives.
“Actually, the skill set she brings—an analytical, organizational approach to problem solving—is applicable across any business genre. And like any new hire, she’s on the standard ninety-day probationary period.” I spoke casually.
“So Anselm didn’t hire her. You did?”
“No one hires for me,” I answered obliquely.
“Well, she’s cute. Maybe I should become her mentor.”
“No dipping your pen in company ink,” I kidded him.
“Oh, so strict. I like strict women. Enjoy your horse hunting. Maybe you’ll find a stallion yet.” I could hear him snickering. I wasn’t about to let him get away with an insinuating reference to my sexuality without lifting the covers on his own.
“Did you hear the rumor that one of our high-level execs got a penile implant in exchange for A-Media’s handling the doctor’s brother’s career?” That stopped him from hanging up. “How hard up does a guy have to be, so to speak?” I said, enjoying hearing him squirm.
“Ridiculous.” He snorted, then quickly said good-bye.
“Fucking asshole. Maybe I’ll find a stallion yet? Maybe I’ll turn him into a gelding!” I said, hanging up the phone.
“You are the consummate corporate warrior.” Liz smiled. “You like the battle: the sparring, the strategy, the kill.”
“I don’t like that,” I defended myself.
She studied me. “A part of you does. Come on. Let’s get out of here before someone else calls.”
“You’re wrong. I feel owned, like a leader in someone else’s army, fighting someone else’s war. They control where I go, what I do, how I behave. I’m tired of fighting these senseless corporate battles. That’s how I feel!”
Liz dropped the subject since I was on a rant.
We drove west through richly rolling countryside to Aaron Harold’s small horse farm. The moment we pulled onto the property I felt as if I’d stepped into a centuries-old fantasy—Icelandic horses and lush green hills. All it needed was a fortress in the background. We saw a gorgeous blond mare with golden mane, a silver dapple, a liver-colored with silver mane, a snowy white one, and I knew we’d come to the right place. This felt like the land of the fairies, and if very small people suddenly pirouetted into the pasture I wouldn’t have been surprised.
We strode across the open field toward the liver-colored horse, staring in amazement at the sheer beauty of her. “I wish I owned one of these horses,” I told Liz.
“They’re all beautiful, aren’t they?” Aaron appeared out of nowhere, a young, lanky horse trainer befitting the intense beauty of the land and the beasts. He had a sweet, kind manner that put us immediately at ease. “Most of this herd belongs to a man in New York who sent them down for training. In fact, we’re shipping several back tomorrow so it’s good you arrived today.”
And I couldn’t help but think maybe that’s why our hotel had seemed to be hurrying us on to our next destination.
Aaron led the way down the hill and suggested we saddle up. I followed him like a child chasing the Pied Piper, peppering him with questions about the horses. Aaron had two chestnuts saddled, one for himself and one for Liz, and a large brown and white pinto for me. My pinto’s name was completely unpronounceable, while Liz’s horse was Hlatur—a name that sounded like “louder” and meant “laughter” in Icelandic. Aaron said the man in New York had authorized the use of these particular horses for riding lessons.
Hlatur had a huge head, a massive mane of hair, and gorgeous big round eyes that peeked out from under his long, thick forelock. He stood quietly with his legs together and hooves aligned, his small, compact body so physically perfect that he could easily have been an artist’s drawing on the side of a child’s lunchbox. Liz immediately stroked his forehead and began whispering to him. Then she leaned over and gave him a slow, sweet kiss on his soft muzzle, and for a second I envied Hlatur. I wanted to ask him how those lips felt.
My horse was not at all interested in kissing me. In fact, he stomped and swished his tail and threw his head to let me know that this entire event bored the hell out of him. Unlike Liz’s mount, my horse had not been trimmed for the warm weather and still sported his five inches of jaw hair, making him appear even more primitive than Hlatur. He had a look about him that said he knew a great deal more than he intended to waste time trying to communicate to me.
Aaron completed a final tack check on the three saddled horses just in time for rain to start trickling down from the sky. We insisted we could get a quick ride in before it really let loose, and we walked the horses away from the barn, then mounted. Liz’s horse fell behind and refused to go with us until she leaned over and whispered to him, and suddenly, he caught up with us.
After Aaron was sure we wouldn’t fall off, he led us through a narrow gulley and out into a much larger area of open land. We picked up speed and suddenly there it was, off and on for brief moments—the tolt. I felt the thrill, that smooth, effortless, bounceless moment of easy riding. Suddenly the skies opened up, and it began to pour a drenching, steady Kentucky rain that had us wet through to our underwear in a matter of minutes.
“Should we take cover?” Aaron called.
“Why? We can’t get any wetter.” I laughed.
“Ahhh, spoken like a true horseman,” he said, and we rode on laughing and tolting, and trotting and squishing.
Liz and Aaron lagged behind. I was suddenly out in front with nothing but rolling hills in the distance. It was pure joy! But I had no connection to my horse, only the sensation of the ride. It wasn’t the horse’s temperament I cared about, only his ability to carry me forward. I mentally noted that this attitude wasn’t at all like me. I also found myself inexplicably on guard and watchful, my eyes searching far out on the horizon. I was looking up ahead—men were already engaged in battle. Was I losing my mind? The images were so real. Then, in a split second, my conscious mind gave way.
The attack today on a massive castle compound, high on a promontory, its northern walls built into the rocky hills at its back and overlooking the fields below, is little different than any other raid, save the opportunity for more valuable chattel. The young aide to the redheaded warrior has already been instructed to be on the lookout for items belonging to the king that his superior might want, weaponry in particular. Inside the walls, the warriors ride across everything in their path, murdering and pillaging.
The elderly king, whose realm this was until only minutes ago, is decades older than the red-haired warrior, and he cannot personally protect his queen, who is younger and small of stature. Defying anyone to come near her, she stands her ground shouting orders as a sword- wielding invader runs her king through to the hilt. The queen is now fair game and can be slaughtered, raped, or claimed by any warrior who will have her; her outcome is not the red-haired warrior’s affair.
His horse wheels in the air, and she glares up at the warrior for only a split second, to determine his advantage over her. The look in her eye is more piercing than any weapon he has ever encountered. She does not run like the other women. She stands her ground and defies him to take her life. She is both beautiful and deadly.
A soldier lunges for her, holding his sword aloft, preparing to behead her; she holds her ground and aims her sword at his groin. The red-haired warrior makes his split-second decision, leans from his horse, grasping her by the upper arm, near her barely concealed breast, and hoists her off the ground to safety.
The picture freezes there and fades, forever frozen in time—the red-haired warrior and the golden-haired queen.
Lightning strikes loudly in the distance.
Aaron shouted for us to halt. The crash, followed by the crisp tone of his voice, snapped me back to the present. I shook my head slightly and patted the neck of my horse, grateful one of us had stayed on course, and we headed back to the barn.
Since we really had no earthly idea what putting up a horse entailed, Aaron untacked them. We thanked him and paid him for allowing us to ride, then headed for our car, but the sound of thundering hooves made us turn back. Liz’s small chestnut gelding careened toward us and slalomed to a halt across the fence from us, spraying turf and dirt in all directions, his head cocked quizzically as if to say, “Where are you going?” The wind blew his thick red forelock to one side, revealing a tiny starburst of white on his forehead. With those big eyes, he looked so vulnerable.
“My God, he’s looking at you with so much love in those giant brown eyes. He really doesn’t want you to go.”
Liz walked over and spoke to him softly. “He knows he belongs to someone else.” The horse leaned in and pressed his muzzle to her neck and made her giggle, living up to his name of Laughter. She kissed him and whispered to him.
“What are you telling him?”
“That I know how he feels to have to let go of someone and that I will always love him and remember him.” As Liz looked at me, her voice softened. “Are you teary? You’re a big softie, aren’t you?”
“I think anyone would be teary who witnessed a horse crying over a lady.”
*
An hour later, out of our wet clothes and into our sweatpants, we flopped onto the big, soft hotel-room beds. Our room sported hunt décor, a bit stiff but luxurious, reminding me of the world in which hounds chased foxes and horses leapt over stone walls and banjos played. It had been the most exhilarating day of the trip: walking through a field of fabulous Icelandic horses, riding an Icelandic horse in open fields in the pouring rain, saying good-bye to an Icelandic horse who seemed to communicate with us. What a marvelously wonderful experience. Yet the images the horses evoked were hypnotic and disturbing.
“When I was riding out there I felt that I had stepped into a dream. I guess being on the descendant of a Viking horse triggered it.” I tried to be offhanded about my confession, but Liz seemed to have connected to my troubling dreams and flashbacks without my having to explain myself.
“Maybe it’s bringing up a past life for you. I imagine you rode the countryside lopping off heads. Fits your temperament.”
“Thanks, darling,” I said archly. “If that’s true, why am I seeing it now, when it’s over?”
“Maybe it’s never over.” She smiled enigmatically at me. “Speaking of never over…” she added slyly, waggling all five of her fingers, each with a small yellow sticky note attached to it.
I examined them more closely. The first read, I will always love you. The second, Don’t leave me! The third She is nothing; you are everything. I stripped the notes off her fingers, recognizing the handwriting as Clare’s.
“Where did you get these?”
“When I was putting our stuff in the closet one fell off your pants, another was on a shirt, and one was in the ice chest.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“So where are you living now?” Liz asked, pretending to change the subject.
“I really don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget the whole Clare debacle.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who posted your panties.” She held up the most humiliating piece, my underwear with a note stuck to the crotch. Yanking off the note, she rubbed the cotton as if removing glue. “Wow, that’s gonna hurt,” she said, managing to maintain a straight face.
I snatched the note and my underwear from her. The note read, I love the way you smell.
Liz made an exaggerated display of keeping her lips pressed tightly together in a no-comment mode.
“Oh, fuck her,” I said, exasperated.
“Yes, I think that’s the lead story.” Liz winked.
*
It was our last night on the road together, and being in the same bedroom with Liz had taken an emotional toll on me. I was nervous and couldn’t sleep. Why can’t I just have sex with her, the way guys have relationships? I thought. It’s healthier, actually, because it wouldn’t tie me up for four goddamned years! I clenched my thighs together as I thought about that. If I were totally honest with myself, I would love to throw her down on the bed and go down on her! Yes, just take what I want! Case closed. God, I’m uncivilized, I thought and went in and took a cold shower as punitive damages for base thoughts.
*
At breakfast in the hotel dining room, I caught Liz staring out the window admiring the green lawns and blue skies. She looked beautiful and serene, but melancholy. I was pretty sure I knew what she was thinking.
“You love that chestnut horse, don’t you?” I said. “The one that belongs to the man in New York.”
“You know…” She started to deny it, then gave in like someone talking about a lover. “I do love that old horse.” She smiled and her face held a softness that nearly melted me. “But I’ll get over it. He belongs to someone else.”
“I don’t recall that ever standing in your way,” I said gently, and Liz blushed for the first time since I’d known her.
“The trainer said he’s inseparable from the blond mare that was out in the pasture. Even if I could have him to love, it wouldn’t be good to break them up. At least they get to go back to New York together,” she said wistfully.
In that instant, I made my decision—as quickly as I’d purchased the toy horse in the antique store. “I’ll talk the owner into selling them to us. You’ll take lover boy and I’ll take the mare.”
Liz looked at me, apparently stunned by my suggestion. “You haven’t even looked at the mare or ridden her.”
“Every horse out there was gorgeous, and what good would riding her do? It would just show her that she’s about to be bought by someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing, and what woman wants that!”
“You’re doing this just because of me, when you don’t even—”
“I’m doing it for Hlatur so he can live every man’s fantasy—being adored by two blondes, you and his mare. Besides, I’ll have someone to ride with. I’m single now, remember? Maybe I can make a relationship with this mare last longer than I have with a woman.”
Liz just looked at me as if she were trying to decide what to make of me, as if for the first time since she’d met me, she didn’t have me figured out.
“Look, if you believe in signs, we were literally blown down the highway and shaken out of that hotel to get us here much quicker than planned, because any later and we might never have met Hlatur. But we did, and the silly horse falls in love with you and you with him. So it’s meant to be. Well, aren’t you excited?”
“You haven’t even talked to the man in New York. He probably won’t sell them,” Liz said, trying perhaps to keep herself from ultimate disappointment.
“He’ll sell them. Negotiations are what I do for a living. When I go after something, it’s mine. Do you want the horse?”
“Yes!” She swooned. “My God, will it cost a fortune?”
“Why is it we’ll pay forty-five thousand dollars for a piece of steel to drive around, knowing it falls apart in three years, but we’re worried about the cost of a furry friend for life?”
“Okay, make the deal and I’ll get a loan.”
“I’ll take care of the money.”
“No. I take care of my own business. I’ll have the money…just keep it reasonable, okay?”
We shook hands. Only this time, her grip was softer, clasping me in the way she might hold a lover. I had to keep myself from sighing in public and happily contemplated long afternoon rides with Liz on our wonderfully kind Icelandic horses.
I would not have believed, even if someone had told me, that an Icelandic horse would mirror my mind and reflect my very soul. Or that what I brought to the horse would be upon me in seconds. Or that the Icelandic horse would be a vortex into an ancient past. Nor had I come upon that perplexing instruction in the Icelandic Horse Training Manual that said, “The best way to stop an Icelandic horse from running away with you is never to let it happen.”