Golden Filly Collection Two (15 page)

“Wow!” Trish walked across the plush cream carpet to stand in front of the window. She could see the blinking lights of two planes on their slanting approach to San Francisco International Airport. “What a view!”

“We like it.” Martha stood beside her. “Being up high like this makes city living bearable. We’d both rather be at the ranch, but this is where the tracks are. If you look off to the left, you can see the San Francisco skyline. I hope you like it here.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure, dear. Adam teases me about needing someone to fuss over. Come on, I’ll show you to your room. It’s upstairs; I thought you’d like the view.” She pointed to pictures of their three sons and families as they climbed the stairs.

Trish’s room faced south. Martha opened the teal-blue drapes to show her the private deck.

Trish dropped her bag on the pile carpet of blues and greens. “What a beautiful room, Martha.”

“It did turn out rather nicely, didn’t it?”

“Is it new?”

“Yes. This was one of the boys’ rooms. When I thought you might be coming to visit us, I redecorated it. You have your own bathroom; there are fresh towels. Now, is there anything else you need out of your car tonight? Are you hungry or thirsty?”

Trish shook her head. “No, I have all I need. And thanks, I’m just fine.”

“Good night then, Trish. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Trish sank down onto the queen-sized bed and stifled a huge yawn. Morning would be here soon.…

“Yes?” she answered a tap on the door.

“You can sleep in tomorrow if you’d like.” It was Adam. “I know you’re beat from that long trip.”

“I’ll be ready when you are. What time do you leave?”

“Four-thirty.” He chuckled.

Trish glanced at the clock. It was midnight. “See you then.”

Trish slept well and awoke surprisingly refreshed. Her car was blanketed in fog when she stepped into it. She was mounted on Firefly and out on the track just as a tinge of pink cracked the eastern sky. One of Finley’s regular exercise riders rode beside her.

“This is the training track; they’re working on the main track behind us.” Sam clucked her horse into a trot.

Trish did the same. Firefly settled into her easy gait, alert to every sight and sound on the new track.

“How’s it feel to be a Triple Crown winner?” Sam pulled her mount to a walk.

“I don’t know. It’s like it all happened a long time ago—to someone else.” Trish smoothed the filly’s mane to one side. “So much has gone on since then.”

“Yeah, I heard about your dad. What a bummer.” She looked over at Trish. “We were all real sorry to hear it.”

“Thanks.” Trish didn’t know what else to say. “Ahhh…you been riding long?”

“This is my third year. Adam says he’ll let me race this season. I had some mounts on the fair circuit last year.…Well, I gotta gallop once around.” She waved to Trish. “See ya.”

By the end of morning works, Trish had ridden her own three, Diego’s one, and three for Adam. Gatesby had given her a real ride—even her arms felt sore.

“How’s it feel to be back in harness?” Adam asked as they headed for the track kitchen.

“Sore.” Trish rubbed her right shoulder. A gift from Gatesby.

“A love bite?” David tapped her on the same spot.

“Owww.”
Trish flinched away. “Knock it off, David.”

Patrick held the door open for all of them.

After breakfast David and Patrick prepared to head back.

“Did you call Mom last night?” David asked Trish.

“No, I thought you were going to.”

David glared at her. “You said you’d call. I heard you tell Mom you would. You’d better start taking some responsibility.”

Stung by her brother’s criticism, Trish felt hurt. She’d have to do better, she knew that. They walked to where they’d parked the silver-and-blue van the night before. “Drive safely now,” Trish echoed her mother.

David swung up into the driver’s seat. “You sound like Mom. Call her once in a while. She still worries even if she won’t admit it.”

“Yes, boss.” Trish touched a finger to her forehead. She waved to Patrick. “You guys coming down for some of the races?”

“We’ll see.”

“Bring Mom…” Trish could hear a note of pleading in her voice. “To the winner’s circle.”

David tooted the horn as he turned the van around and drove out the entrance toward Highway 101.

Trish felt like another part of her was being torn away—piece by piece. Soon there wouldn’t be anything left of her. She kicked the gravel with the toe of her boot, and headed back to the barns. She’d wanted to come to California, and now she was here. What next?

Back at the condo she moved the rest of her things into her room and got settled. The next afternoon, Martha insisted on driving Trish over to the nearby college to register for the chemistry class. She would have classes four evenings a week from six to nine. One of those nights was a lab.

Trish purchased her books in the bookstore and glanced through them on the way back to the Finleys’. “Yuck.”

“Not your favorite class?”

“No. They let me drop it because of all the pressure of racing and training, and then my dad being sick. But I’ll tell you, I wasn’t getting it. David tried tutoring me, but I just don’t like chemistry.”

“Why are you taking it?”

“I promised my mom. It’s one of the requirements for college.” Trish shut the book and slipped it back into the plastic bag. “You know any good tutors?”

“Check with your teacher the night of your first class. Maybe he or she will know of a student from last semester.”

Trish nodded. “Good idea. Thanks.”

Class started the following Monday, and Trish found a tutor right away. Finding a regular time to meet wasn’t as easy. They finally settled on Saturday night, because Bay Meadows had late racing on Fridays.

Training was hard enough, and then racing would begin. There were the morning works, time for meals, afternoon study, and classes in the evenings. Then it was to bed and up again to start over.

Trish’s agent, Jonathan Smith, met her at the kitchen on the morning of opening day. “I have two mounts for you.”

“Okay.”

“Second and fourth. You need to be in the jockey room by noon.” He went on to tell her about the trainers and the horses. “I have only one for you tomorrow, in the seventh.”

Trish waited for the thrill of excitement to bubble up. There was nothing there. “Thanks,” she managed. After draining her orange juice glass, she took her tray back to the window.

At the barn she was met by two people. One of them sported an expensive camera. She could recognize reporters a mile away by now.

“You have a couple of minutes?” The young woman swept a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear and offered her hand. “I’m Amanda Suther-lin from
San Mateo Express,
and this is Greg Barton, our photographer.”

“Hi.” Trish shook his hand too. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. What can I do for you?”

Amanda dug a notebook out of a cavernous black bag. “Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

Trish nodded.

“What brought you to Bay Meadows?”

“Adam Finley. He insisted this would be a good place for me this summer.”

“Couldn’t you race anywhere in the country after winning the Triple Crown?”

“Possibly. But we’ve had some personal problems.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Amanda glanced down at her notes. “How has that…your father’s death…affected your riding?”

“It hasn’t, as far as I know.” Trish looked around to see Adam standing beside her.

“Did you bring horses down here to race?”

All the usual questions were asked, and Trish answered as best she could, backed up by Adam. She wasn’t sure which was better—to talk about her father, or not. Pastor Mort had said talking about him would make it easier. But it seemed as if it made everyone uncomfortable, and brought back the pain.

Trish mulled the question over in her mind on the way to the jockey dressing rooms near the grandstands. Tall palm trees enhanced the visitor’s entrance to the track, but offered little shade. Buses were already delivering loads of senior citizens. The stands were filling up for opening-day ceremonies.

Trish settled into a chair with her chemistry book and notebook. So far she was keeping up, but much of what they’d covered she’d already had. Reviewing it made her realize how quickly she forgot the stuff.

She chewed on a pencil while working out the equations. The women’s jockey room, while clean and freshly painted, had none of the amenities of the men’s. And none of the bustle. Two other female jockeys sat talking in a corner. They’d greeted Trish when they came in and then left her to her homework.

When the second race was called, Trish put her books away and began her pre-race routine. She polished her boots, cleaned and waxed her layers of goggles. At least a dry track surface meant no mud. She did her normal stretching, then finally put on green silks with a yellow diamond pattern. She snapped the cover over her helmet and waited for the call to the weighing room.

When she stepped outside to walk to the scale, her butterflies came alive and flipped a couple of aerial loops and spins.

“One-o-one,” the man running the scale intoned, then grinned at her. “Welcome to Bay Meadows, Trish. And good luck.”

Back to the weight training,
Trish thought, realizing she’d lost four pounds. She knew most of it was muscle. Where would she find the time to work out in the schedule she’d set for herself?

She followed the parade of jockeys through the side entrance of the grandstands and into the saddling paddock. The stands were full and spectators lined both sides of the walkway. It almost felt like home.

Restless feet and a slashing tail told Trish that her mount in position six was unhappy about something. The tall, rangy dark bay rolled his eyes when she entered the stall.

“This is his first out since he got cut up in a fall last winter,” the trainer said. “Take him to the outside where he can run without being bumped around.”

Trish nodded and lifted her knee for the mount. The horse laid his ears back when he felt her weight in the saddle.

He fought her all the way to the starting gates. It took three tries to get him in. Trish tried to settle him down and get him thinking about racing, but when the gates flew open he hung back. They were already a stride behind when he finally lunged through the gate.

Trish swung him to the outside, and by the end of the first turn she had the gelding running like he should. The field ran six lengths ahead of them. She went to the whip and brought him even with the next runner, then moved him up as they rounded the next curve. But no matter how much she used the whip, he quit on her down the stretch. They finished dead last.

The next race wasn’t much better. They finished off the pace by four.

“Tough luck,” Adam consoled Trish that night when she returned from her chemistry class.

“Yeah. I just couldn’t get them to run. I don’t know, I didn’t—” She paused, trying to put words to her feelings. “I just didn’t seem to communicate with them; not like usual.”

She went to bed that night feeling depressed. Where had the fun of racing gone?