Dot stood at a distance, waiting for everyone else as they hovered along the buffet table, plucking perplexingly small foods from their artfully arrayed positions, silently competing with the person next to them as to who could and should take the last pretty little canapé left on the platter. Dot had only recently learned that the tiny foods were called canapés, a piece of information she'd acquired from a discreetly located placard in her time waiting her turn. She had read the entire thing, figuring it might make her look less weird if she were absorbed in reading.

She had not understood much of it.



Crostata? Consommé? Charcuterie? Dot was not an epicurean. She did not watch those dramatic reality TV cooking shows everyone loved so much and she did not eat at the kind of restaurant that liked to serve weird things mixed together and act like it was cutting edge. When she and Bart wanted to eat fancy food, they'd squirt hot-sauce in lopsided shapes on top of a heat-and-eat barbecue chicken pizza before eating it off the tray, in the kitchen, with their bare hands. As gourmet as they come.
        Deciding on a bagel with cheese and a selection taken from among the leftovers, Dot set out to find herself a seat. Majority of the people present seemed happy to sit in groups of people they already knew and hadn't bothered to branch out, while the handful of people she recognised as hunt staff were scattered about, attempting conversation with their charges for the weekend. Archie had vanished. Following their dismissal, he'd disappeared behind the reception doors and was yet to return. Guilty as she felt for thinking it, she was glad. He'd no doubt take pity and feel obliged to sit with her, and the thought of them sitting alone over lunch brought that frightening warmth back to her cheeks. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t spent time together before, it was that someone else had always been present to take the edge off, to take his eyes off her from time to time, to give her an excuse to look elsewhere, to commandeer the conversation should it turn awry. With someone with Archie, it was fine. Alone, it was different. She was a stammering mess when they were alone, no matter how hard she tried not to be. In fact, the harder she tried not to be, the worse it seemed to get.
        Locating herself a distant and unoccupied table, Dot sat and took a dainty bite from her bagel. She wondered if it would be better or worse if he knew, if he’d make it better by avoiding her or worse by not, by carrying on as normal. He'd probably be incredibly kind and apologetic about it, like he always was when something wasn't his fault. Dot had once witnessed one his clients take it out on him because it rained on competition day and her horse slipped. Another, when he'd told a woman her daughter wasn't qualified to enter the St. Claire Classic that year, and another, when another girl had been eliminated for falling. He'd stand there and take it and be nothing but kind. Add to that the countless times he'd gently and patiently dealt with Agatha in one of her moods, though Cecilia said he was only like that because he was smitten with her. Smitten. Or after her money. Or afraid. Maybe all three. She had smiled knowingly when Dot had expressed her doubts. Dot, trust me. You can see it. If you knew what guys looked like when they're under a spell, you'd see it, too. Micah had then interjected with another of his witch jokes about Agatha ("spell") so Dot never did get to find out exactly why Cecilia was so confident. She'd witnessed many of their arguments, and he certainly hadn't looked spellbound to her- unless that spell was tested patience.
        The remainder of the lunch was blessedly uneventful. Dot remained at her distant corner table, semi-hunched to make herself less visible, mulling over horses (Jim Baker's new jumper was gorgeous) and coworkers (why did Cecilia wear so much lipstick at the barn?) and whether coconuts were fruits or nuts (nuts?) and quietly eating her lunch while watching the ever-present rain dribble silver down the windows until the ballroom chatter died down to a murmur, one voice at a time, and the waitress approaching to collect her plate startled her into making an exit herself.


The air smacked her the minute she stepped onto the porch. The fire in the ballroom had made her too comfortable. Dripping water fringed the eaves and glimmered on the porch stairs. Coughing, she drew the strings on her hood and started squelching her way across the parking lot, up the drive to the main road, the rain pattering on her shoulders. It was two-and-a-bit miles to the stable from the clubhouse, if you followed the roads, which she would. Dot was not gutsy enough to cut across the field and risk the disdainful glares and censure of a disgruntled club official. Dot was not gutsy, full stop. Not like Agatha, who stood up to famous and influential people on the circuit and didn't care what they thought, or Caleb, who pointed his galloping eventers down six-foot drops without batting an eyelid, or Kendall, who wore her failed test scores like badges of high honour, without shame. No guts, no glory. It was true, she thought. There was something to respect and admire about each of them, but there was nothing glorious about Dot.
        To distract herself from the cold, Dot turned to her thoughts. Her eyes skirted along the tracings of distant hills and searched empty branches for birds, followed the east-bound road as far as they could, tried to pinpoint the exact moment she planted her foot in the mushy leaves and the resulting sound was made. She wondered if she should wear thermals for the hunt tomorrow. She wondered if she would get lost or fall off. Would it be as fun as it had sounded? She'd been excited when Archie had invited her. The club said he could bring a guest, as thanks for his volunteering to help out. It had not bothered her that she was not his first choice. He'd invited his daughter first, but her mom had said no, and then he invited Agatha, as a joke. Agatha had not said yes to pay the joke back, because Agatha did not joke.

She steered herself from the road's edge to allow an SUV to pass. A spray of sullied droplets followed it on its way through. The people inside did not look back.

Climbing from the ditch back to the roadside, Dot wormed her damp and freezing fingers into her coat pockets and looked up at the sky. Branch-bordered, dove-coloured. Cracking. Leaking rain. She thought of the people in the clubhouse, looking away when she caught their eye, knitting tighter their social circles, drawing them too tight for anyone new.

She sighed, and she kept walking.