Читать книгу Heathcliff Redux - Lily Tuck - Страница 10

I first saw Cliff—everyone called him that—in April, at a steeplechase race. Charlie, my husband, and I and Meryl and Frank, our neighbors, had driven over there together. The back of our truck was loaded with hampers filled with food, wine, and bottles of bourbon. The race was a popular annual event, attended by people (mostly gentry) from all over the county. Originally a single race with gentlemen riders, the event had grown to include several races and the riders were no longer necessarily gentlemen. The course was four miles long and the fences were tall and timber. Charlie and I were both riders and we owned a couple of Thoroughbred hunters. We knew a lot of the horse people at the race—after all, we had been going there for several years—and before one of the races, Charlie and I walked over to the paddock where the horses and their riders were getting ready, tightening girths, adjusting stirrups, and mounting their horses, and it was there that I first saw—no, stared at—Cliff. My husband saw him, too, because he made some comment—I don’t remember exactly what he said. Something like “Jeez, look at how that guy gets on his horse.” That was it exactly. Instead of getting “a leg up” the way most of the riders did, Cliff just jumped into the saddle. Like he was a Cossack or something. A leap, I would call it. And his horse was at least sixteen hands tall. It was impressive. I remember how it looked to this day—to my dying day, probably.