Fear Of Falling. Catherine Lanigan
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some kind of empathetic sentence. Nothing happened. Her stomach roiled. The fear she’d felt earlier gripped her. She knew she wouldn’t escape this time.
Gina wiped the tears from her eyes and kept staring at the soup. “Sorry. They won’t be doing that this year. I don’t know what Rafe will do.”
Anger and fear rooted Olivia to the spot. It had been years since she’d been confronted by the demons of her past. Those dark, sinewy fingers of dread that crippled her mind and soul had returned. She felt as if she were tumbling backward through the years. Through a tunnel of black terror.
Olivia’s father had been addicted to gambling. Horse races, in particular. Any horse race: those he listened to on the radio, those he watched on television. But the ones he loved most were live action. His thrill meter soared the highest when he was in the crowd, cheering and stomping for his horse to cross the finish line.
She choked back the sour taste in her mouth.
When she was very young, her father drove her to Arlington International Racecourse near Chicago and showed her how to place bets. He went into great detail about the strategy he used, the amount of money he would win and all the wonderful things he would do for her and her mother once he “hit the jackpot.” Olivia hadn’t cared about the betting, but she had been mesmerized by the horses: their gait, the way the sun glinted off their shiny coats as their muscles strained with each gallop. She admired their majesty and the tilt of their heads in the winner’s circle, as if they knew they were the stars. They were the real trophies.
She’d revisited the memory of her first encounter with horses often in her life. She only wished it had not been juxtaposed with the disappointment and betrayal of her father’s disease.
When Olivia was twelve, her father had drained the family savings account, surreptitiously taken out a second mortgage on their home and run up a mountain of credit-card debt by taking cash advances. All the rehabilitation meetings and counseling sessions that Julia had dragged him to hadn’t made a dent. He continued to borrow from friends, claiming the money was for Olivia or some other lie he’d concocted. Finally, one night during a screaming match between her parents, Julia had asked for a divorce.
Olivia’s father left the next morning and never contacted them again. Julia had no formal education, but she was an excellent cook. With the help of Ann Marie Jensen, who co-signed the lease for the space that would become the Indian Lake Deli, Julia began her catering business. It took every last cent Julia had hidden for Olivia’s college fund to pay off her father’s debts and to keep the deli open in those early years, but together Olivia and her mother had survived.
The shameful years. That was what Olivia had called them when she was younger. Kids often whispered behind her back or bullied her. But her real friends, like Sarah, Maddie and Isabelle, had stuck by her and got her through. It had been Sarah’s idea to help Olivia get over her fears by forcing Olivia to accompany her to dressage classes.
She couldn’t afford the lessons, of course, but Sarah had insisted she just come along and watch, maybe take photos of her. And it had been fun. Sarah had helped Olivia realize that horses were not just beautiful, but also intelligent and not to be feared. Eventually, Olivia realized that it was her father’s addiction that terrified her, not the horses. In fact, Olivia believed she understood not just horses but all animals, too, more than she understood humans. What she wished for horses was freedom to run unencumbered by a rider, especially a jockey, whose sole purpose and drive was to win a race.
Olivia had never forgiven her father. She blamed him for all the difficulties she’d faced, and for having to stay home and work when almost all her friends went off to college. She’d developed an abhorrence for horse racing and anything associated with the sport. She despised gambling and though several casinos had opened nearby, she hadn’t even driven past them.
As she stood in Gina’s kitchen, Olivia was astounded that the Barzonni family was in league with what she considered the pond scum of all sports. But she was here for a job, and she had to stay professional.
“Gina, what can I do?”
Gina tapped the spoon on the edge of the soup pot then gently laid it in a blue-and-white spoon rest. “We should get on with it.”
Olivia knew Gina’s thoughts were just as much in the past as hers were. She could only hope the older woman’s memories were not as bitter.
“The bartenders are serving the wine. Would you mind putting out more canapés?”
“Absolutely. I brought spinach dip in a round of rye bread. Boiled finger potatoes filled with sour cream and salmon, and stuffed cherry tomatoes with herbed cream cheese.”
“Lovely. I got out some silver trays for you to use. Over there on the counter.” Gina nodded toward the far side of the kitchen near the butler’s pantry.
Just then Rafe walked in, wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest like a second skin. His cowboy boots were scuffed. His black hair was windblown and ragged, but apparently, he didn’t notice or care because he didn’t make the first effort to smooth it.
“Hi,” he said, going to the refrigerator and taking out a protein shake. He popped the top and slugged it, tilting his head back as he drank.
Olivia watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Beads of sweat trickled down from his temples, past his strong jaw. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his tanned forearm. Rafe was arrestingly handsome, yes, but there was also something dangerous and wild in his expression. He must be hurting so much right now, Olivia thought, remembering what Katia and Maddie had said about his relationship with Angelo.
“Raphael, did you wipe those boots outside?” Gina scolded him. Olivia got the impression her comment was out of habit more than necessity.
“I did,” he replied flatly.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. How was your ride?”
“Good. Rowan really poured it on. It was as if he was running to show Pop how he could measure up, you know?”
“I do,” Gina replied, walking over to Rafe and putting her hand gently on his cheek. “He loved you a great deal.”
Olivia felt like an intruder as Rafe’s eyes filled with tears. She winced at the pain she both saw and felt. Gina seemed to have forgotten she was there, and she wasn’t sure Rafe had noticed her at all.
Rafe squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’ll go change. I’m sure Aunt Bianca wouldn’t think too highly of me in these clothes so soon after Dad’s funeral.”
“She always was a stickler for decorum. Probably another reason I was so anxious to leave home and travel halfway around the world to get away from her.” Gina laughed softly at her joke.
“You shower,” she said, pointing to the back kitchen door. “And then you can get Nate and Mica to help you with the tables and chairs for dinner.”
“Will do.” Rafe crossed the kitchen. As he stepped out through the back door, he glanced at Olivia. “See you later.”
“Sure,” she managed. She empathized with Rafe; he was obviously grief-stricken, and Olivia knew what it was like to lose a father. Yet Gina had just told her that Rafe was involved with horse racing, the evil of all evils. She should dismiss him. Dissolve the imaginary freeze-frame of him in his worn jeans and T-shirt, vulnerable yet masculine. But she couldn’t. Then again, it made sense that his presence would affect her so strongly. She’d been thinking about her dad, and here was Rafe, suffering a similar loss. But at the same time, Rafe represented everything Olivia loathed in this world.
Death always made people think, muddled them up. Olivia struggled to clear the fog from her brain and get back to her work. “I’ll get those appetizers for you, Mrs. Barzonni.”
“I have a table set up near the bar in the den.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Olivia assured her.
On her way