Page 19 of Rainshadow

Flora looked down at her scuffed boots. “I don’t think Sylvia would like that very much.”

Ethan lifted her chin with a gentle finger, so gentle that Flora winced. “It’s wrong of her to treat you like that,” he said. “Join us for dinner. I’ll talk to her. Trust me, please?”

10

Inside 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 thedining 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.”

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