Golden Filly Collection Two (31 page)

“You idiot.” Rhonda thumped Trish on the shoulder. “You can’t do that. You already bought my plane ticket.”

“Rhonda, think it through. I have more money than you and I can picture, so if I want to spend some on my best friend, I will. You’d do the same, wouldn’t you?”

“What did we use to say? ‘All for one and one for all.’ You, me, David, and Brad. Remember?”

“Yeah, back in the good old days…before my dad…” Trish choked on the words. She turned the ignition and her car roared to life. “You can sleep in, you know. I’ll go over for morning works, then come back for you before the race. Or Martha said she could bring you over.”

“They sure are nice, the Finleys.” The two girls were sprawled on Trish’s bed after visiting downstairs for a while. “I can get up with you. I haven’t been at a track so early since last summer, I guess.”

“Okay, but bring a book along or something. You can’t go up in the jockey room with me, so you’ll have quite a wait until the afternoon program starts.”

“Fine, you know me. I always have a book or two along.” She indicated her bag, the corners of books poking out the canvas fabric.

“Or you could stay here and catch some rays out on the deck.”

“The sun doesn’t shine at the track?”

“Most people don’t walk around at Bay Meadows in a swimsuit, you nut.”

Trish fell asleep with a smile curving her lips. Her last thought winged heavenward.
Thank you, God, for Rhonda.

“Hey, I think she remembers me,” Rhonda exclaimed as Firefly greeted her with a whicker in the morning.

“She should. You helped train her.” Trish rubbed behind the filly’s ears and down her neck. “And of course, you remember Gatesby.”

“How could I forget?” Rhonda held on to the gelding’s halter as she stroked his neck. “Still up to your old tricks, I hear.” Gatesby twitched his upper lip to the side, as if reaching for her hand. “Oh, no you don’t!”

“You never give up, do you, fella.” Trish slipped the bit in his mouth and the headstall over his ears. “Now we just warm up so you can save all your energy for this afternoon.” She led him out so Carlos could cinch the saddle.

Adam handed her a helmet. “Now watch him. He’s primed, fit to bust.”

Trish touched her whip to her helmet. “Yes, sir. He’s not gonna dump me again. I still have a bruise from the last one.”

“What happened?” Rhonda looked up at Trish seated on the rangy gelding.

“Ask Adam. He loves to tell tales on me.” Trish nudged her mount forward. “See you soon.”

Gatesby was indeed ready to run. He snorted and danced to the side, but when Trish lightly thwacked him with the whip, he jumped forward, then settled down.

Anytime he started to jig, Trish pulled him back to a flat-footed walk. About halfway around the track, she let him extend to a gentle jog, as long as he behaved. Even Gatesby realized she meant business after she thwacked him the second time.

They returned to the barn with both of them tuned up for the coming race.

Trish walked Firefly around the entire track for the first time since the filly had strained her leg. After hassling with Gatesby, the filly was pure joy.

“Come on back to the track with me,” Adam said after Trish finished with a couple more horses. “I want to show you something.”

Trish looked at Rhonda and shrugged. They walked with Adam out to the platform overlooking the smaller track.

“See that chestnut on the far side, the one with blinkers?”

“Sure.” Trish took the binoculars he offered and studied the horse trotting nearer the freeway. “What about him?”

“Tell me what you see.”

“Filly? Colt? What is it?”

“Gelding. Three-year-old.”

“I don’t know. He moves well, kinda leggy and rangy like Gatesby; too far to see his eyes, and with the blinkers you can’t really tell about his head. Looks to be in pretty good condition. Why?”

“That’s the claimer you said you didn’t like.”

“Oh.” Trish handed back the binoculars. “Maybe we—I should look again, huh?”

“I talked to Patrick and your mother about him; faxed them the information. They said if we think so, that’s good enough for them.”

Trish watched the horse carefully as he galloped by them. What hadn’t she liked about him? She thought back. She hadn’t liked much of anything right then.
You’d have turned down Spitfire that day,
her nagger whispered in her ear.

“You really think he would pay off for us?”

“With an old pro like Patrick training him, I think you’d see some real wins with him.” Adam turned back to the barns. “You want me to start the paper work?”

Trish nodded. “I guess.”

Gatesby was raring to go when Trish mounted him in the saddling paddock. He pranced and danced his way past the stands and out to the starting gates. Trish felt him quiver as the last gate slammed shut. A moment of hushed silence and they were racing. Gatesby surged from stall number four and headed for the first turn in the mile-long race. Into the backstretch, Trish held him three paces off the leader and right even with two others. Around the far turn, and the horse on their right made his move.

The jockeys went to the whip. Trish gave Gatesby more rein and crouched tighter into his neck. Gatesby lengthened out, left the one he paced behind, and passed the second-place horse. Trish swung her whip once and the gelding laid back his ears. They edged up on the front runner, each stride bringing them closer to the lead.

The other jockey whipped his horse again. Gatesby drove for the finish line. The two dueled, neck and neck.

Trish asked Gatesby for more. He gave it, and the other horse matched him. Thundering down the track, locked together, they crossed the finish line.

Trish had no idea who won. She rose in her stirrups and let Gatesby slow of his own accord.
Photo finish
was flashing on the scoreboard when she trotted back to the front of the winner’s circle. She walked him in a tight circle, her mind pleading,
Let us win, let us win.

Number five flashed on the scoreboard as the announcer boomed the same over the loudspeaker. Number four to place. She clamped her teeth on her bottom lip to stop the trembling. They didn’t win. He should have won.

“You rode a fine race, girl.” Adam held the bridle while she slipped to the ground. “Now, you have nothing to feel bad about. You—he—you both did your best, hear me?”

Trish unhooked her saddle and slung it over one arm. “Yeah, sure.” She strode off to the scale.

As soon as she could get away, Trish and Rhonda walked back to the car. “See, I told you,” Trish said. I can’t win anymore. What do I think I’m doing out there?” She slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel of her car. “A
real
jockey would have brought Gatesby in first.”

“Trish.”

“It’s not fair to a good horse…to put me up on him.”

“Trish.” Rhonda raised her voice.

“This was his last race down here and he shoulda won it.”

“Trish!” Rhonda pounded her hand on the dashboard.

“What? I’m not deaf. I heard you.”

“Coulda fooled me. You quit tearing yourself down like that. That race could have gone either way and you know it.”

“All I know is that I didn’t win.” Trish drove toward the condominium. “I need to shower and change clothes before we go.”

“Go where?”

“To the Stanford Mall, remember?” Her tone cut the air like a whip.

“We don’t have to go.”

“No, no, I want to. Maybe it’ll make me feel better.”

Trish tried to drive out the drummers in her head with the shower spray but it didn’t help much. And when she saw another card from Red on the hall table as she left, she felt lower. The pit yawned before her.

Shopping with Rhonda seemed to drag her back from the edge. They tried on clunky jewelry, funky hats, and outrageous boots. They cruised the aisles of Saks, I. Magnin, and Macy’s.

They both bought shoes at Nordstrom.

“Look.” Rhonda grabbed Trish’s arm and pointed at a window across the courtyard. “That’s it.”

They walked into the store. Half an hour later, each was richer by one brocade vest, a long-sleeved silk shirt in hues to match the vest, a blue denim skirt, and wide belt with silver conch buckle. While their outfits matched in style, the colors fit each girl.

“Will your boots go with this?” Trish asked as they left the store.

Rhonda crinkled her face. “They should.”

“Want new ones?”

“Trish, no. This is enough.”

“No it isn’t. Come on.” When they left the boot store, they each had new boots and leather purses to match.

“Are you hungry?” Trish asked.

“More thirsty.”

“Come on.” They tucked their packages under the table in a sidewalk cafe and ordered iced tea while they studied the menus.

After the waitress brought their drinks and took their orders, Rhonda leaned her elbows on the table and looked directly at her friend. “Trish, I can’t believe we just did that…you did that.”

“What?” Trish took a long swig of her drink.

“Bought all that stuff.” Rhonda toyed with her straw.

“Listen, my friend. Remember all the time you spent helping David and me in the last year?”

“Yeah, but your dad paid me for that.”

“He could never pay you enough. You helped keep me…” Trish sniffed and took another drink of tea. “You helped me feel better today too.”

Rhonda blinked a couple of times and sniffed also. “Okay. Thank you.”

They both blew their noses in the paper napkins and asked for replacements when the waitress returned with their croissant sandwiches.

On Sunday they crammed three days’ sightseeing into one. They hung from the sides of the cable car past Chinatown, up Knob Hill, then down the hills again to the turntable between Fisherman’s Wharf and Ghirardelli Square.

“Come on, we have to share a sundae at Ghirardelli. Besides, there’re neat shops there.” Trish started up the sidewalk lined with vendors of T-shirts, sweat shirts, jewelry, and artwork of every kind. “Come on, we’ll never see it all if you insist on looking at every pair of earrings here.” Trish dragged Rhonda, protesting, onward.

They placed their order at the counter of the world-famous ice cream and candy shop in Ghirardelli Square, then walked through the display showing how cocoa turned from beans, that looked like coffee beans, into real chocolate.

“Creamy, dark chocolate.” Rhonda drooled at the sight of the rich brown river streaming between two stones.

“Let’s find a table before you faint.” Trish grabbed her friend’s arm. “I should have known better than to bring a chocoholic like you in here.” She plunked their packages down at a round table and went up to get their order when the young man behind the counter called their number.

“I can’t believe that,” Rhonda whispered, her eyes as big as her mouth. The scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream dripped over the sides of the tulip glass and down onto the plate.

“eat fast before it melts.” Trish dug in with a long-handled spoon. “Ummm.” She let the ice cream slip down her throat and licked the fudge from the back of the spoon.

“Good thing we didn’t order two.”

Afterward, they laughed at the antics of the street clowns and mimes, accepting funny balloon hats from one clown. They bought San Francisco sweat shirts and watched the sun go down over the Golden Gate Bridge from the deck above the sea lions on Pier 39.

“There’s another neat chocolate store here,” Trish said as they turned away from the barking sea lions spread over the boat docks below.

“Oh-h.” Rhonda groaned. “I’m still full from the sourdough bread and shrimp cocktails. And our sundae.”

“You don’t have to eat any, just look. Everything in the store is made of chocolate.”

Rhonda bought chocolate cable cars to take home for souvenirs. She handed Trish a piece of fudge as they strolled the wooden pier.

Back home that night, they showed Martha all their purchases from the past two days.

“You about bought out the town.” Martha fingered the brocade stitching on the vests. “These are beautiful. You’ll knock ’em dead when you walk into school wearing these outfits.”

“I’ve never had a silk shirt before.” Rhonda held her cream-colored one up in front of her.