Page 4 of Rainshadow

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.”

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