One Silver Summer Read online

  Sass went to bed early. Knees drawn up, she sat alone in the loft, for even Harry had stayed with the others. She listened to the wind kicking up outside, trashing the waves, and felt a familiar rising dread. If there wasn’t room for her here, where would she go?

  The funeral had been a blur. She’d been a black cloud waiting to break. They kept telling her she was in shock but not what that meant. Did it mean it was okay not to be choked up like everyone else? Could pain be measured in gulps? And why was it that when someone died, everyone wanted to bring you food when the recipe for Misery Pie was easy enough to make, just hard to swallow?

  Take fifty bittersweet grown-ups. Mix them in your kitchen with a sprinkling of sugar and a handful of memories. Let the emotion whip up, beating in cream and vanilla hugs. Then when it’s puffed up enough, stick the dish in the refrigerator, testing it with a knife every few hours. When everyone’s left, it will be ready. Eat it on your own. Stone cold.

  Turned out, the only family she had was Uncle David. He didn’t know anyone either; he’d been away too long. But it was odd—all those people who loved her mother were happy for a stranger to take her daughter away.

  At some point, Sass lay down, but it was a weird kind of sleep. She was by herself in a little boat lost at sea, being tossed in a mountainous ocean. Then at first light, when she couldn’t hang on any longer, three white-foam horses with silver manes of crested waves rose up from the deep to rescue her and carry her home.

  Alex leaned against the old range, eating his fourth piece of buttered toast and marmalade. At his feet lay Susan with her chin on her paws, half blind now. The Labrador’s legs were not what they once were, though her nose was as good as ever. She wasn’t really his; she belonged to his grandmother. He hoped Grandma had understood why he’d escaped here. She hated the stuff in the press as much as he did. Besides, Trist was home; none of the others came close.

  Predictably, his unexpected arrival hadn’t impressed her, the staying out all night epically bad. His excuse about needing head space had been met with the frostiest glare.

  “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t clever. And it isn’t done.”

  Two more police cars had been waiting at the house when they’d swept in, neon yellow against old stone. Over the top, in Alex’s opinion. Grandma had dealt with it in her clipped voice that commanded attention. There had been mutterings behind closed doors and then that had been it. After the hundredth apology. He hadn’t spoken to his father yet, and wasn’t going to, and who knew where Mother was. They were both keeping their heads down. Separately.

  Alex shoved his chair back and got up. He couldn’t sit inside, not on his first day at home. Grabbing his coat, he went out. He needed air. He needed to ride.

  He strode down to the yard, leaning into a wind blowing straight off the sea. Amy, his grandmother’s groom, was sweeping out Dancer’s stable. She was pink-cheeked from mucking out.

  “Weather’s wild, sir, isn’t it?”

  She spoke so softly that Alex had to lean in to hear her.

  “Err … It’s just Alex, Amy.” He felt himself redden. She knew that.

  “You’re not riding Dancer out in this? It’s blowing a gale.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

  “Well, if you do, and I’m not saying you should, I can keep it secret. Promise.” Her eyes were playful and she ran a finger across her lips, except they weren’t zipped; they were slightly parted.

  All right, then, he would. He might be in the doghouse, but he could do something useful.

  “If you get Dancer ready, I’ll take him for a gallop. He’ll need his martingale.” He paused, not quite up to catching her eye, and murmured, “Thank you for looking after him while I’ve been away.”

  She half smiled and bit her mouth, and went off to get his tack. Amy was older than him, not by much, but she was the first girl he’d ever liked … like that. They’d never done anything and, knowing his luck, never would.

  Dancer was on his toes. No way was he standing at the mounting block. He was practically cantering on the spot.

  Amy held his stirrup while Alex swung himself up. “Be careful, won’t you? He’s pretty fresh.” She looked slightly anxious now.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. It’s what we both need.”

  Alex headed for the beach, keeping Dancer collected all the way down, knowing the slightest easing of the rein would lose him. The wind seemed to howl through the trees and the waves pounded the rocks, the bay the weather’s stage. When they reached the sand dunes, Dancer was on the edge of exploding. Energy surged through him. He shied and spooked, shaking his head and cantering sideways. Standing in his stirrups, Alex nudged the horse forward, a straight line of wet sand ahead. The horse leapt full tilt into a gallop, snatching the reins from his hands, foam flying from his bit as they raced ahead. And Alex felt his spirits soar.

  Sass woke late to find Jessie and David in the studio with her, kneeling on the floor, unwrapping the painting from its gauzy layers.

  “Sorry, my love, we didn’t mean to wake you, but I”—Jessie smiled ruefully—“I couldn’t wait.”

  The downside of a shared space. Sass sighed. Maybe she should pretend she was still half asleep, but Jessie was beckoning her to look. Sass yawned and sat up. Weirdly, this morning, things didn’t seem as bad. They’d brought hot coffee and a breath of life, and Sass’s night fears had faded with the flying tails of the dream horses. Today, Jessie was okay, and David too. He looked younger with his morning stubble. Cool, even, in paint-smeared overalls. He didn’t seem to own anything that wasn’t covered in paint.

  The picture itself was turned away from her, its plain splintered back revealing nothing of what was on the other side. David hefted it up and turned it around on the easel, his body obscuring her view from the bed. Hugging the bedding to her, Sass scooched a little closer, rubbing her eyes when she saw it. It couldn’t be? It was from her sea horses dream. Not exactly, of course, but close. She reached out and touched the farthest creature: the paint strokes were uncanny. In another time and another place, and perhaps someone else’s scared imagination, was a silver horse like hers. She traced a date and the artist’s name with her finger: Lucy Irving-Welch, 1896.

  Should she tell Jessie or David about her dream? No. Better to keep crazy thoughts to herself. She thought of the leather head collar with its brass name tag, and it was then that she remembered where she’d heard, or rather seen, the name Trist before. Trist House: it had been stamped on the old sign, nailed to the field gate. The one that had said KEEP OUT.

  After Jessie and David left, Sass dressed quickly. Back at home, she might have waited in bed until Mom told her to get up. Now, as she pulled on her same old jeans, splitting at the knee, and a plaid shirt she’d found on a peg, she was aware that she had to think for herself. Jessie had picked up her laundry from the floor when Sass could have done it herself. She wasn’t too fragile to help; it was just knowing how to.

  David had taken Harry to the gallery, so Sass walked up the headland. She stood at the cliff edge looking out to sea, her hair whipping past her face.

  Pier 11. The East River Ferry with Manhattan towering behind. Mom pointing and telling her that it wasn’t far to the ocean. This ocean. Below her, Sass could see whitecapped breakers buffeting the rocks, but before she could even blink, another memory tugged at her heart. They played out in her head until it hurt. The stab going to the core of her like a worm to an apple.

  She closed her eyes and leaned forward, with only the gusting wind to keep her upright. A click of her heels and she’d be back there. There’s no place like home. Sass had seen The Wizard of Oz on her eighth birthday. It was a really old movie but she’d loved it, especially Dorothy’s sparkly red shoes—and Toto, who could forget him?

  Mom had promised that a tornado couldn’t really suck up an entire home and spit it out like a seed in another place. But that wasn’t true. She was here now, wasn’t she? She spun around, dizzy w
ith the pain, the full force of the salty air making it hard to breathe or open her eyes, and when she did, they were streaming. Everything led to the same ocean but the world hadn’t shifted; just the people had changed.

  Sass flew down the coast path, head down in the wind, farther than she’d ever gone before. After a mile or two, she came to a bay, a sweep of dark wet sand watched over by rocky cliffs on either side. And below her, galloping through the water, was a horse and rider. A flash of red and blue like something from a legend. So mesmerizing that Sass had to stop and watch.

  She followed the cliff path, until she saw a skinny shortcut down. It wasn’t much more than a parting in the bracken, most likely made by sheep, not people. Sitting down, she edged forward on her butt, feeling the rocky way with her toes. From the top of a steep outcrop, she could see that the horse had wheeled around and was now racing away from her, spooking at the wind and the waves. The rider, unaware of her watching from above, was crouched over his horse’s neck. With a sudden whoop, he dropped his reins and stood in his stirrups, his arms outstretched, his horse straining forward, its mane and tail flying.

  The animal was fine and lean, the color of blackened steel. It moved with the lightness and speed of a racehorse—a charcoal slash across a creamy white page. When the rider reached the end of the shore, he sat down, half circled smoothly, and brought the horse back to a trot. Sass could see that the flash of blue was the striped silk cover on a helmet with red stars and a bobble on top.

  She peered over the edge, still ten feet or more above the beach, but instead of climbing back, she dropped down like a cat onto the soft sand beneath.

  With a shock of recognition, she realized her mistake. A big one. The rider coming toward her was him: the boy from the meadow. She didn’t have time to climb back. The beach was deep, but not especially wide, and as they were the only people on it, it was impossible to ignore each other. Sass half raised her hand, her elbow clamped by her side and her stomach flipping. He’d think she was stalking him or something.

  He stared, then gave her a curt nod and reined in his horse, which sidled to a halt. He corrected it with an impatient tap of his heels, and it overreacted, skittering backward in a cold splash of spray.

  “You’re wearing my flag!” she called out, hoping to sound casual, like she watched boys on horses all the time.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He bent forward to hear her better.

  “Um. Stars and stripes.” She tapped her head to indicate his helmet, letting her hand drop at his raised eyebrow.

  “Actually, they’re my colors as well.” He patted his sweating animal and the reins slipped through his fingers to the buckle-end. The horse stretched forward, his nose butting Sass, who, grateful for the distraction, put a hand out to stroke the animal’s neck, which was warm and damp, and sleek like a seal’s.

  “I guess he’s not yours either?”

  The boy studied her as if she was a crab who’d crawled out from under a rock. Sass glanced down just in time to see one scuttle across the sand.

  “If only. He’s going to be sold.”

  “So how come you’re still riding him?”

  “He has to be kept fit.” The boy jumped down, looking more at home in worn breeches and long boots than Sass had ever felt in anything in her life, the silk on his helmet set back like a jockey’s. Sass felt suddenly self-conscious in her ragged jeans and man’s shirt. She stuck her hands in her pockets and dug a small hole with her toe that she wished she could disappear into.

  “You know you’re trespassing again.”

  Her discomfort turned to indignation. “Oh, I’m sorry! Is this your beach? I better go, then.”

  He gave her a strange look, took off his helmet, and ran a hand through his tousled hair. She noticed his taut forearm. His pushed-back hair was kind of sweaty, which made her feel better. He loosened the belt around his horse’s belly.

  “What were you doing up there?” he asked. “Were you watching me?”

  Get over yourself, Sass said in her head. “I didn’t know it was you. I was sort of watching you both. He’s a very beautiful horse.”

  “I see.” He didn’t say anything else, just sort of rocked on his heels, frowning.

  The wind got louder in her ears. Sass couldn’t tell if he was waiting for her to speak, or to leave. “So this is your summer job? Exercising horses?”

  “Yes.” He glanced away. “And you’re on holiday, I suppose?”

  He meant vacation … it was hardly that, and Mom wasn’t for sharing. Sass struggled for an answer until he spoke again.

  “What do you think of Cornwall, then?”

  Relieved to change the subject, Sass said, “It’s wild. It’s kind of lonely … but I’m really into horses. It’s a great … horse place.”

  “Ah, I agree.” He gave her a hard look, as if uncertain if she was serious. “I never want to be anywhere else.”

  Like it was a confession, said with a forcefulness that surprised her. He kicked a rock by his feet. The horse jumped, making Sass jump too. It was a big horse. She took a step back.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” Was he was talking to her, or the animal? Or both? “You’re from the States?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yeah. Brooklyn, New York, but I … I’m staying with my uncle in the village.”

  “Oh right, that’s good …” He cast around him. “Well, I suppose I should show you the way out so the tide doesn’t get you.” He glanced back at her, and for a second, a shadow of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

  “Thank you. I didn’t want to have to swim for it.”

  They walked up the beach, the horse jogging between them. Sass matched his stride, conscious of her hair blowing about her face. Hair a seabird might like to make a nest in. He took a shortcut between some sand dunes to where the ground leveled out, and the coastal paths on either side of the cliffs came down to the beach, like two loose wires needing to be fused. This was where they would split. She would go right and he would head back to wherever.

  “I’m Sass,” she said, surprising herself. Blue eyes met brown with thick brows that knitted slightly.

  “I’m … Alex,” he replied carefully, as if not sure of his own name. “And this,” he said, turning to rub his horse’s forehead, “is the best horse in all of England. Bo’s his mother. Remember the mare from the meadow?”

  “Sure I do.” Like she could forget. She reached out a hand to the animal’s nose. “What’s his name?”

  “Sky Dancer.”

  Their fingers almost touched.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “Dave, for short.”

  “No way. You’re kidding?”

  He laughed out loud. Sass felt her cheeks go pink, but inside she was smiling. Two could play at that.

  “What’s so funny about Dave? My uncle’s a David.”

  “God,” he said, looking mortified. “Is it really? I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “It’s okay. It’s fine, really! What’s with you Brits? You’re always apologizing.”

  “Perhaps we’ve a lot to apologize for.” He looked at her meaningfully and Sass wondered if he was thinking of their fight yesterday at the trailer. She flushed. “No, really, you were right. I was … I admit it, most definitely trespassing.”

  Together, they walked as far as the footpath sign: a yellow arrow etched in wood. The boy … Alex, turned to her.

  “Will you be all right from here? I mean walking back by yourself?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” Sass laughed, but it had come out sounding sharper than she meant. He was just being polite. She lifted her eyes to his. “I’ll do my best not to trespass again. Although, it seems I can’t help it.” She smiled at him then. For real.

  Alex bit back a small grin and shuffled his feet. “I’ll consider myself warned.” He clicked to his horse and strode off, leaving Sass unsure whether or not she was relieved to be on her own again
.

  Helena, Countess of Tremayne, stood in the tack room at Trist, cleaning saddles with her bucket and sponge. She leaned against the old wooden saddle horse and inhaled deeply. She adored the smell of saddle soap. She was wearing her favorite Hermès head scarf tied firmly under her chin, a woolly cardigan, and a pair of her grandson’s tracksuit bottoms. Appearances and practicalities dealt with in one. She’d poached them from the washing; they were so extraordinarily comfortable. Abercrombie and Fish, the label had said.

  Still sprightly at nearly ninety, Helena had bred horses all her life with an energy that mocked her age. Despite dozens of successful foals, she’d failed with her only child, Seraphina, Alexander’s mother. It was all over the news. Nothing she loathed more than dirty linen aired in public. Her daughter was beautiful, but as flimsy as the designer frocks she wore. She’d made a marvelous match and produced Alexander, but the marriage had been a disaster. Now hounded by the press, she was looking at a divorce that would possibly cost her everything. And what of Alex? Pulled in all directions. Fresh air and exercise, that was what the boy needed. She just hoped this wasn’t his last summer at Trist.

  On cue, he wandered in.

  “Hello, Grandma.”

  “Dear boy, did you enjoy your ride?” She knew, of course, he had. He was brighter. It had bucked him up no end.

  “Dancer’s amazing. Figgy and Amy have kept him up to the mark.”

  Her grooms had done well; stable work was hard, even with fewer horses.

  “He is rather marvelous, but then his mother was a winner.”

  “You wouldn’t really sell him?” Alex’s eyes rested heavily on hers.

  “Darling, we’ll see. I want you to keep him, but it’s not my decision, it’s your mother’s, and she’s not a country girl, is she? You really ought to talk to your father.”

  Alex’s eyes slid away. So he hadn’t apologized to his son yet.

  “But, Grandma, Dancer’s yours and so is Trist. You should decide.”