Deeper Than Secrets

CHAPTER 3 | Holly

CHAPTER 3 | Holly

––––––––

We get back to Twelve Oaks in time to see Ellie finish exercising Beckon. The pretty, dark mare gallops around the arena like the huge jumps are nothing and Ellie’s grin is practically wrapped around her head.

“They look good,” I say to Beau.

He doesn’t respond, and I can’t tell if it’s because he isn’t speaking to me or if he’s worried because they do look good. Ellie won her first Grand Prix two months ago. The mare jumped like she had wings, and people are already whispering about how the pair will win championships and Olympic gold—all the things they used to whisper about Beau.

Thanks to his accident, he’s been stuck on the sideline for a year now. He hasn’t been able to ride, hasn’t been able to compete. It flamed his international standing. He was number one in the world. I think he’s around the sixty-something mark now and with every passing competition, he falls further and further down.

I angle the Bronco into a parking spot between two of the Twelve Oaks work trucks and Beau gets out, walking off toward the paddocks. Part of me wonders if I should follow him. He’s not right. I don’t think he’s totally wasted, but he isn’t himself either.

The rest of me remembers that I have a metric ton of work now, thanks to him. That last call I took for him was from the farm vet. He didn’t process her invoices and now we’re behind. Plus, Beau was supposed to review the client schedules today, but I clearly that’s not happening—which means I’ll have to do it.

My cell buzzes, and I glance at the screen, part of me hoping it’s my other best friend, Parker, finally calling me back, but it isn’t. It’s Scott. Again. We’ve been arguing for months now about whether I’m going to return to New York to find another job. I say I can’t return until I have something firm lined up. He says I should just come anyway because everything will work out. We’ve been arguing about it ever since.

Scott was my first nightmare boss. Thrust onto the international fashion scene after being discovered in a reality television show, he burned up runways, reviews, and assistants. Scott would describe himself as exacting. Everyone else describes him as a pain in the ass. Technically, both descriptions are correct.

After design school, I went to work for him, learning everything I could about the fashion industry. I wanted to start my own dress line—I still do—but life had other plans and the company we worked for went bankrupt. Scott had savings to fall back on, but I had to come home.

I send him to voicemail and hop out of the Bronco, my heels sinking into the finely ground gravel. A smarter move would’ve been to wear boots, but I was running late this morning and forgot my change of clothes.

“Holly?” a voice calls. “Can we talk?”

I freeze. Mrs. Mar. She doesn’t sound angry, but I’m sure Dell Landers has already called. I shoulder my bag and plaster on a smile. “Sure thing!”

She’s waiting for me just inside the arched stable entrance. It might be October, but we’re in the south and that means temps are still hovering in the low eighties. I’m actually a little sweaty, but Mrs. Mar looks pristine in her white collared shirt and dove gray breeches.

“Office?” she asks, tilting her head. Sunlight catches on her high cheekbones and almost black hair, and briefly, I see a glimpse of the beautiful young woman she must’ve been behind the stately woman she is now.

“Sure,” I say, following her past rows of stained wood and brass horse stalls. The Twelve Oaks office is just off the tack room, a sunny, whitewashed space that always smells like high end leather and Chanel perfume since Mrs. Mar spends so much time in here. She reviews the farm’s accounting herself, and often takes work calls here, watching her horses play in their paddocks through the huge picture window.

As I close the door, Mrs. Mar takes a seat at the antique desk, glancing over some paperwork while I get settled. I drop into the closest armchair—a fluffy, overstuffed thing by the window—and curl my legs under me.

“How’s Beau doing?” Mrs. Mar asks.

I take a moment to consider my response. There’s a lot I could say here: He’s not doing well at all. He’s drunk. He’s an ass. Honestly, any of those answers would be accurate, but I hold back. “He’s having another bad day,” I say finally.

She nods, biting her lower lip and looking out the office window. A breeze brushes through the flowers and they wave, tapping the glass. “I heard. Emily called.”

I swallow. Emily is the head of Etoile Saddlery, one of the premiere saddleries in the world. Beau’s been one of their sponsored riders for years. He’s photographed all the time with their saddles and bridles—or he used to be.

“She’s not going to renew his contract,” Mrs. Mar continues. “She doesn’t approve of his behavior outside the show ring. That will make the third sponsor he’s lost this year. At the rate he’s going...” She trails off, refusing to say what we both know: at the rate Beau’s going, Mrs. Mar is going to be the only person still by his side. “I don’t know what to do,” she says.

That makes two of us, I think. I don’t know what to say so I decide to go for bracing honesty: “He believes Mr. Landers killed Arch. “He admits he doesn’t have proof, but he still believes it happened.”

Mrs. Mar swallows and glances away again. I don’t blame her. Mr. Landers and Mrs. Mar grew up together. Although Mr. Landers found Arch in the beginning, Mrs. Mar was also a part owner with him and, of course, it was her rider, Beau, who competed the horse.

I can’t imagine what she thinks of the allegations. When Arch died, they both collected insurance money, which means Beau’s accusations reflect on her as well.

She sighs. “I’ve told him again and again Dell had nothing to do with it. Parish works for Dell. He just happened to be walking by when Arch started thrashing, and he went into the stall to check on him. It’s what any good horseman would do—but that’s not to say I haven’t heard the rumors. Everyone has. Dell’s been in financial difficulties for some time. Then again, that doesn’t make him an animal torturer.”

I nod. I totally agree and she’s completely right, but worry still clouds her expression and for a half a heartbeat, I wonder if she knows something more than she’s saying.

“I’m going to have to keep them apart for a while longer, I guess,” Mrs. Mar says.

“Probably for the best.” The way Beau looked at Dell...I shudder. I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there. Maisy and I thought Beau was just drinking and blowing off steam, but he wasn’t. He was lying in wait for the other man.

“Well,” Mrs. Mar says brightly, bringing both hands together. It makes her gold bracelets wink in the sunlight. “I think we need to focus on what we can do. How are we going to fix this?”

I blink. “Mrs. Mar...no one can fix him because he doesn’t want to be fixed.” I pause. “Maybe he needs rehab. Maybe he just needs a wakeup call, but you need to find another rider. I know how this ends.”

“Really?” She arches a manicured brow. “I thought this was going rather well. You’ve lasted longer than any of his other assistants.”

I try for a non-committal nod. I bet none of his other assistants ever talked to him like I do either. Beau has pretty much been an equestrian phenom since he was seventeen or eighteen, and he’s ridden for Mrs. Mar since he was fourteen because she spotted his talent so early. From what I understand, Beau’s taste in personal assistants ran to starry-eyed fangirls.

Which I am certainly not.

“Holly,” she begins, leaning a little forward. “I know you’re not seeing Beau in his best light, but I promise you he’s going to come through this.”

I give her another non-committal nod. Mrs. Mar’s commitment to Beau borders on fanatic. She’s said in several interviews he’s like a son to her, but I think it runs deeper than that—they share a passion for horses and show jumping. Mrs. Mar will never ride like Beau rides, but by sponsoring him, she can experience it through him.

“Furthermore,” Mrs. Mar continues, “I need him to keep it together until my company’s board meeting. My new charity organizations are on the line, and I need them approved.”

I wince. That’s not good. One of those charities happens to be an equestrian outreach program. It’s designed to bring in kids from impoverished areas and let them experience horses and the outdoors. I’d hate to see it get torpedoed because Beau can’t get his crap together.

Mrs. Mar levels me a grim look. “I need you to make it happen.”

I consider her for a moment, comments like “And people in hell want ice water” flitting through my head.

She smiles like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I know it’s easy to think this is simply a hobby for me, but it’s more complicated than that. I run my farms like businesses. They may be a labor of love, but they’re still businesses—and moreover, they reflect my family’s real business. I can’t have Beau melting down in public. It’s bad for him and it’s bad for the farm’s image—my family’s image.”

I nod. I get it. In fact, I’ve seen the articles on Noelle Floyd’s website and in the Chronicle of the Horse magazine. It wasn’t pretty before I came on and it hasn’t been much better since. Beau’s imploding and it feels like the whole world is watching and judging.

She studies me. “Moreover, the company’s board won’t approve additional charity funding if they don’t think I’m on top of things. We need to look in control. We need to be in control.” She pauses. “So what do you recommend?”

“He’s not going to get better until he decides to get better. You should find another rider.”

“You mean I should fire him.”

I squirm. It’s exactly what I mean, but saying it out loud is awful.

Mrs. Mar skims one hand over her smooth chignon. “I have another idea. If you can get him through the board meeting and the charity program announcements, I’ll bonus you twenty thousand dollars.”

My heart double thumps. That would be enough to start my dress line.

That would be enough to start my life.

“What do you think?”

“I think you have a deal.”