Night Mares in the Hamptons (39 page)

“An apple?”

No again.

“How about a kiss from my favorite girl?”

She dropped the hat, skipped closer and pressed her lips to his cheek with a smacking sound heard through Ty's microphone. The audience went wild. I wiped away a tear.

After that, Paloma Blanca pirouetted, rose on her back legs, counted by tapping her hoof, and performed a dozen other circus tricks.

While they were performing in the center of the field, the two clowns placed colored flags along the sidelines. Ty would tell Paloma Blanca to find the red one, and she picked it up and carried it back to him. Then he asked her for the hat. She grabbed his Stetson again, but dropped it when he shook his head. The mare trotted up the line, looking at the pictures on the flags. She brought him the one with the hat. Whatever he called for, she brought back to him, even when the clowns mixed up the placement.

“One more question, Pal. Who is the prettiest female in the place?”

She shook her mane, crow-hopped, and kissed him again.

“Yes, of course you are. But who is the second prettiest?”

This time she danced over to the row of flags still left, all colors, all different pictures. She looked at each, shook her head, then picked up a green one and brought it back to Ty.

“A tree? The second prettiest female here is a tree?”

The Lipizzan nodded. Ty turned the flag to the audience. “What kind of tree do you suppose this is?”

The picture was projected onto the big screens so everyone could see. “A weeping willow tree,” thousands of voices shouted. “Willow. Willow. Willow.”

I'd kill him. If I didn't die of embarrassment first.

“Stand up and bow, you idiot,” Grandma Eve said, giving me a shove.

So I did, trying not to notice Grant's scowl.

Everyone applauded, Ty and Paloma Blanca both bowed, then they walked off the field to cheers and whistles.

The clowns did some tumbling, then set up barrels for the cutting horses to race around in timed matches, then in a row. Not one barrel got tipped, not one clown got stepped on. The announcer told us that each of these horses had been a wild pony, considered excess by the US government but rescued by the Farraday Foundation and trained at his ranch in Texas.

More applause.

The Native Americans performed next: chants, drumming, and dances that impressed everyone with their stately beauty and reminded everyone there of their ancient heritage and culture.

Then it was Connor's turn. Still wearing buckskin with fringes and turquoise beads, he and Lady Sparrow flew around the barrels, then the flags put back in the field, with Conner leaning over to grab them, his fingers almost touching the ground.

He did flying dismounts, remounts, leaps from one side of the horse to the other, with only one hand on the pommel of Lady Sparrow's saddle. While she galloped, he stood on her back, turned to ride backward, did handstands, and finally stood in the saddle, arms up and open, like the condor he was named for. They completed an entire circuit of the field in that position, at that speed. Spectacular.

The dogs came next. The shepherd had the three border collies by his side until a flock of sheep, some black, some white, some gray, were sent down the entrance chute, scattering in every direction. The people on the ground got ready to jump away, but the fence protected them. And the dogs got to work. In about five seconds they had the flock herded into a tight circle in the center of the ring.

At a signal from the handler, the dogs separated the flock into three separate circles, by color. Then they moved them into rows of alternating colors. Finally they formed an odd, hard-to-recognize pattern, until I looked up at the screen. An overhead camera on the high scaffolding was projecting the view. The sheep formed a perfect bowlegged cowboy in gray pants, white shirt and head, and black hat and boots.

The crowd went wild. No one had ever seen such a thing or knew it was possible.

The dogs took the sheep off in an orderly run toward the exit, then came back for their bows.

The emcee announced an intermission, during which a crew cleaned the field and repaired any uneven spots in the grass from the flags or the racing horses. The officials spoke, showed the tape the students had made, and reminded people of the location of the food tents and the restrooms.

I handed K2 money and he brought back a tray filled with stuff I am sure Grandma Eve would never eat, nor would Mrs. Froeler let Letty, who couldn't seem to wipe the grin from her face. K2 reported that most of the T-shirts were sold, and all of the signed posters and the alphabet books. All that was left were a few Stetson hats and a couple of my books.

“My books? What are they doing here?”

“Mrs. Terwilliger thought the library ought to help raise money, so she got your publisher to donate a box of your books. Now that everyone knows who you are, they're buying them as fast as they can. You're famous, Willow.”

Yeah, as Ty Farraday's girlfriend. Before I could mull that over, Susan brought food from the VIP tent, and Grant took K2 to fetch drinks.

According to the program, which I knew by heart, only three acts remained, the clowns, then Connor and Ty again. Letty was already sad that the night would end. Her mother started to look nervous that they'd be caught out when they got home. They weren't the only ones to wish the show could last forever. Me, too, except I had to pee. No way in hell was I using a port-a-pottie, not after a thousand little boys. I set my water bottle aside.

The clowns did rope tricks. I swear they could make the ropes sit up and sway, like cobras in a basket. They lassoed each other, a chair, a girl from the audience, and one of the uniformed policemen stationed near the fence. The crowd loved that.

Then Connor rode out again, this time in pure cowboy duds, if a cowboy was headlining in Vegas. His shirt was red-and-white striped-and-sequined satin, and his britches were silver. His long braid was caught up under a silver Western hat. He and Lady Sparrow trotted to the center of the grass and waited. Soon the flock of sheep was sent down the chute, chased by the clowns waving red, white, and blue banners. The clowns set the banners in front of three wooden gates and pointed. One of the white sheep had a red stripe on its rump. A gray one wore a blue star, while a black sheep had a white stripe. It was Connor and Lady Sparrow's job to get the right color sheep behind the right colored gate.

Horse and rider spun around, dashed into the milling flock and singled out each of the marked sheep. Then the mare almost sat on her haunches to keep the chosen sheep from doubling back to its friends. Horse and rider dashed and darted to and fro, with Connor leaning to one side or the other, Lady Sparrow at a flat-out gallop or a careful trot until the right animal was in the right place. It took about two minutes and a lot of cheering.

After that, Connor herded the rest of the flock out the entry chute, then he herded the clowns out, too. For his finale, he leaned over the horse to pick up the flags, then leaped into a standing position on Lady Sparrow's back again. He held up the flags and twirled them as the pinto raced around the ringed area.

“Con-dor,” the chant started. “Con-dor.” Letty and K2 shouted the loudest.

When the shouting died down, so did the lights. For a minute the field was in blackness while the announcer introduced the crowd to the art of high dressage and described some of what they would see: tempe changes, extended trots, caprioles. He asked for quiet during the performance because of the concentration required. Then he reintroduced Ty Farraday and the Lipizzan mare, Paloma Blanca, the white dove. A single spotlight suddenly flared down from the high scaffolding. Horse and rider were framed in the circle of light.

I heard gasps from the audience, or was that from me? Ty was in formal dressage apparel, according to the whispered information from the PA system, skintight white breeches tucked into gleaming black, high boots, a short black jacket, yellow vest, and black silk top hat. He looked like the cover hero of a historical romance.

“Shite,” Grant muttered beside me. “He's gorgeous.”

He was. “But I hope you remember that I ended our nonengagement before I ever met him or heard about him.”

Grant squeezed my shoulder. “I know, Willy. But this is easier on my pride.”

I smiled, relieved. He'd forgiven me. Then I forgot about everything except Ty. The announcer whispered to the audience that Ty and Paloma Blanca were going to perform a musical kur. “That's k-u-r, a medley of songs, with a change in gait with every change in music.”

Then he was silent. The audience was silent. Flamenco guitars thrummed through the speakers, and Paloma Blanca danced. She was gleaming, rippling muscle and the most graceful creature on earth. She swayed and she skipped and she pranced as the music changed, and never missed a beat.

Ty's mouth never moved, or his hands, or that absurdly elegant top hat. I'd always understood the rider guided the horse by subtle shifts in his weight, or pressure from his thighs. I knew the strength in those thigh muscles. They'd made me dance, too.

The pair waltzed from one end of the field to the other, then did figure eights across the grass and on diagonals, then sashayed sideways across the short side of the ring, always moving to the music, never repeating a classical gait.

Everyone held their breath as Paloma Blanca skipped to the center of the field, changing her lead at every step. They all knew what was coming for the finale, the signature movement of the Lipizzan stallions.

But no one knew what was coming first, not even Ty. I was watching him, so never looked at anything else until I heard the gasps and a shout or two, then footsteps on the wooden bleachers.

“Behind you,” the announcer whispered in Ty's earpiece.

“I know. Key the chant tape. Get Doc to keep the crowd calm. No lights, no flashbulbs.”

Ty put Paloma Blanca into an extended trot, her legs far forward, as he rode toward the bandstand.

And twenty gleaming white mares trotted behind her in a row across the field, their legs extended and pounding in unison with hers, to the beat of Ty chanting.

Of course there were twenty. Mrs. Merriwether had given me the number. And of course they'd come back for H'tah. Only this time with reinforcements. They were incredible, like the finest pearls, glowing with a light all their own.

“Friends, please stay seated,” Doc's soothing voice came over the chant. “There is nothing to fear. Take your neighbors' hands.” He reached out to Grandma Eve on one side, Mr. Scowcroft on the other, who each took another's hand. I found mine in Grant's and Letty's. “Now think about welcoming these beautiful creatures who come in peace and love.”

I could feel the tension easing. Until Uncle Henry got on the microphone. “This is Chief Haversmith. Anyone who uses a flashbulb, your cell phone, camera, or video recorder will be shot.”

So much for love and peace. But no one fled their seats or fainted. Or had night terrors.

When Ty and Paloma Blanca reached the bandstand, they turned to face the mares, still in a straight line across the width of the grass. The mares stopped. Paloma Blanca bowed to them. All twenty mares bowed back simultaneously.

Ty nodded, told the sound man to key the final music. He set his horse into a canter through the exact center of the mares, who turned and followed them, at a canter. With the spotlight on Ty, and the mares giving off their own translucent light, he had Paloma Blanca change gaits again, then gather herself, raise up on her hind legs, then kick those legs out behind her until she was suspended in air.

The mares followed suit in perfect precision.

Paloma Blanca hung there—I sensed Ty was surprised at how long she stayed above the ground—like the white dove she was named for while, one by one, the night mares blinked out of sight.

Ty and his horse bowed to every corner of the stadium, then rode out the exit to a thunderous, standing ovation. Only we could hear him say, “Clear the arena. They are coming back.”

“T
HEY WANT TO TALK,” WAS ALL TY SAID on his private mike as he rode out the performers' exit.

The chief got on the PA system and started having his expanded police force herd everyone out in as orderly a fashion as the collies herded the sheep. All the lights were on now to guide the way to the extra buses hired from all the school districts and private companies to shuttle people back to the parking areas. Hundreds more cops kept the traffic moving.

During the fast-paced emptying, Mayor Applebaum took the microphone and thanked everyone for coming, then said how tonight provided one of the most amazing bits of magic most of us would ever see, so we should forget that it was totally, absolutely, irrevocably impossible. Of course, if they ever wanted to have such an event in town again, they should send in their donations.