New York, Summer, 1921 . Your new neighbor across the lake is the mysterious bachelor , Dutch. His reputation for excess and extravagant parties precede him in the prohibition era. But after an invitation to one of his soirees, you discover your...
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"Lovely to meet you...Dutch," you said coolly after a pause. Your eyes held Tom's as you maintained an icy stare. It took every effort for you to feign that frosty exterior. Inside you were screaming for answers. How could Tom be standing in front of you? Where has he been all these years? But mostly, you wondered if he still loved you or was that all an act too.
Tom let go of your hand quickly. A flash of something reflected in his eyes. It wasn't quite sadness, there was more to it than that. It was disappointment.
Tom turned to Richard and cleared his throat.
"Richard, Harrison tells me you play polo," Tom shoved his hands in his pockets and diverted his attention away from you. It was a calculated move, you thought. He wouldn't dare let anything slip in front of your fiancé. Not if he wanted to keep this facade in tact. Neither the old Tom or the new was an imbecile. Anyone could see the fierce hold Richard had on you. No matter how good you may have gotten at excusing his aggressive behavior in public, or brushing off the occasional swollen lip, people still knew. They only nodded politely at your, "Oh that's just Richard!" refrain that became automatic anytime you were on the receiving end of those looks. It would be impolite for them to pry any further.
"We'll have to get together for a match," Tom smiled at Richard, but beneath those dazzling chops was a challenge. It rang loud and clear, but Richard enjoyed this evening's libations too much to pick up on any of the subtext.
"Violet has a filly that can outmatch any competitor," Richard boasted turning to you, "Isn't that right, Vi?"
Tom turned to you as well with an interested smile. He raised his eyebrows at you, waiting for you to expand on the conversation. His demeanor bothered you so. He seemed so comfortable in this skin of wealth and decadence. Could he not see just how much you were faltering? It took everything inside of you to continue this charade of ignorance, yet he carried on without a care.
You looked straight at Tom and arched an eyebrow at him.
"Yes, she's quite the champion. She was sired by our stallion, Lucifer's Fire, who was notorious for his temper," you smirked knowingly, "Perhaps you've heard of him?"
Tom swallowed and shook his head, subconsciously scratching the scar above his left eyebrow. Your eyes drifted to his finger then back down at his eyes. He held your gaze for a moment before looking away.
You remembered how he got that scar. He was showing off, fancying himself a proper rider...
********
"Tom, you ignoramus, you'll get yourself killed!" you shouted at the boy as he kicked his heels into the stallion's side. The horse took off down the track in a cloud of dust. You ran after but felt yourself winded after several yards and had to stop. You held your hand up to block the sun, squinting at the speck of boy and colt in the distance. What a fool, you thought to yourself. Lucifer's Fire was no steed to be trifled with. His fury on the racetrack was infamous and earned him several trophies, as well as a reputation of being the most hot headed of steeds. Even the most experienced jockeys hesitated to ride him. Tom was simply showing off and that kind of arrogance would surely end him one day.
