Golden Filly Collection Two (39 page)

Trish let her mind fly north to Portland and the problems at Portland Meadows. Somebody had to do something, but what? And who? Was there really something going on that shouldn’t be?

She tucked those thoughts away when she parked her car in the parking lot and got out to walk with Adam to the stalls. If she allowed her mind to really wander, it would head back home for a few more snoozes.

The morning passed without a hitch. Gatesby even acted like a gentleman, rubbing his forehead against her chest rather than sneaking in a nip or three. Trish followed Adam’s instructions and warmed up Sarah’s Pride before letting her out at the half-mile pole to breeze her. She mentally ticked off the seconds as the poles blurred by and pulled the excited filly down again at the mile. They trotted back to the exit gate, the filly pulling at the bit all the while.

“You’ve come a long way, girl,” Trish sang to the twitching ears as the filly kept track of everything going on around her. “You behave real well now. Wait till Patrick sees you.” Sarah’s Pride snorted and tossed her head, sending bits of foamy spit flying into Trish’s face.

Trish wiped off a glob with a gloved hand and settled back into the saddle as Adam fell into step with them.

“Well, what do you think?” His blue eyes twinkled when he looked up at the girl on the horse.

“Fourteen and seven tenths.” Trish named the time she estimated they’d used.

Adam shook his head. “You amaze me. For one so young…” He held up the stopwatch. “You were only five tenths of a second off. That’s about your best time.” He patted the filly on the shoulder. “And you did right well, young lady. Nice to see you mind your manners.”

“You’ve a stakes race for her this time, right?” Trish kept a firm hand on the reins. She wanted no surprises this morning.

“Umm-humm.” Adam nodded and smiled greetings to everyone who walked past. Whether he admitted it or not, he was a popular person, not to mention a respected trainer at Bay Meadows. “I thought she was ready, and this breeze proves me right. She’s well conditioned, and I think we’ve broken her bad habits. We’ll see if Patrick knows his stuff, won’t we?”

Patrick O’Hern, the ex-jockey/trainer her father had hired and who was now helping Runnin’ On Farm build a larger string, had recommended they put an offer on Sarah’s Pride in a claiming race at Pimlico. He saw the potential, and her father had agreed.

“She’s lookin’ good,” Carlos, the head groom, said when Trish jumped to the ground. “Your agent came by…said for you to call him.”

“Gracias, Carlos.” Trish ducked under the filly’s neck and headed for the office. She only had Gimmeyourheart to work and she’d be finished. Hopefully her agent had plenty of mounts for her this week.

She felt like spinning round and round, like a top flashing reds and golds in its humming dance. Friday evening they’d be flying to Kentucky to see Spitfire.

Her imaginary top wobbled and toppled over. After Friday she wouldn’t be racing for—for who knew how long. Here she’d been nearly ready to quit, and now the thought of it made her throat tighten. Would she ever understand herself?

She finished marking the four mounts her agent had for her in her calendar and stuffed it back into her pack. That gave her nine mounts in four days. Things were looking up.

After riding Gimmeyourheart, Trish forced him to walk back to the stables. “He acts like he has no idea what he’s supposed to do out there,” she said as she kicked her right foot out of the irons and slid to the ground. “No wonder he didn’t do well.”

“Maybe he was just testing you.” Carlos stripped off the saddle and cloth while Juan, Trish’s favorite stableboy, prepared a soapy, warm water bucket. “What about that hoof?”

“Feels like he favors it. You sure it’s all healed?”

“Maybe we should send him out to the farm and let him loose for a while. Since you don’t know whether Portland will start or not in a couple of months, let’s give him another rest.” Adam checked each hoof and felt for any heat in the fetlocks. “Seems fine, but…” He shook his head. “You watch…when he comes back, he’ll be a sizzler.”

Trish hoped the doubt didn’t show on her face.

When she got back in her car, the first thing she saw was PTL! written in huge letters on a Post-it she’d stuck to her dash earlier. Praise the Lord. She’d promised to do just that—in everything—as the Bible said and her father had done. Her nagger seemed to stretch and uncurl on her shoulder to chuckle in her ear.
What’s it been? Two days? Three? And no praise. I told you you couldn’t do it. Or wouldn’t.

Trish wished she could brush him away like a pesky fly. She studied the slip of pink paper. Good reminder. She turned the ignition and put the car into gear. “I will praise the Lord. Thank you for the sunshine.” That one was easy. “Thank you for taking care of David as he travels.” That one was hard. “I praise you for helping me win again.” Super easy.

Streets and stores, cars and pedestrians, flashed past in her peripheral vision as she struggled to find ten things to be grateful for. She had only promised to do three a day, but she had several days to make up for. “Thank you, Jesus, that Mom is here and we are going shopping.” easy. She pushed her black sunglasses up on her nose with one finger. Portland. How could she praise God for the mess in Portland? She tried the words out several ways. Nothing felt right. She sucked in a deep breath as if she were preparing to dive. “Thank you that you know what is happening up there and you can…” She paused. Yes, God
could
take care of things. But would He?

She saluted the guard at the gate to the condominiums and drove on up the hill. Marge waved at her from the front door. Trish grabbed her bag and leaped up the steps.
Thank you for my mother.
That was certainly a lot easier now than it used to be.

Marge was as totally overwhelmed by the Stanford Mall as Trish and Rhonda had been.

“You ever think that you can afford to buy from any of these stores now?” Trish asked as they looked from Neiman Marcus to I. Magnin and over to Saks.

Marge turned, shaking her head as she answered. “But why would I want to? I don’t really
need
anything.”

“I know. But you could if you wanted to.” Trish took her mother by the arm. “I guess it’s just that all these years you’ve made do, bought stuff for us kids when we needed it and not something you needed because we couldn’t afford both. Now I want to buy
you
something for a change. I can afford it.”

“So can I.”

“Too bad. It’s not the same. You want to hit the fancy stores or see where Rhonda and I found our cool outfits?”

Marge squeezed Trish’s hand against her side. “Both.”

By three o’clock the number of packages had grown to fill all four of their arms. “You know that phrase ‘Shop till you drop’?” Marge set her shopping bags down on the sidewalk.

Trish nodded as she followed her mother’s actions.

“I dropped…about an hour ago.” Marge shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her hand where the bags’ skinny handles had dug a groove. “And I’m starved.”

“Me too. Let’s take this stuff to the car, and then I know of a super-good deli. Their dessert tray is to die for.”

“Sounds good to me.” They wended their way across the palm-tree-studded parking lot to the red convertible. Marge helped Trish put the packages in the trunk and then sank down on the car seat. “How come shopping makes me more tired than cleaning house all day, even doing the windows?”

“Yeah, I’d rather muck stalls for four hours.” Trish leaned against the front fender. She clasped her hands above her head and twisted from side to side. “That rust suit and hat will be a standout in the winner’s circle at Churchill Downs. You’re movie-star material in it.” Trish turned to look—really look—at her mother. “You know, Mom, if you wanted to, you could—”

Marge held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I am not going to color my hair or fuss with my makeup or wear the latest style. That’s just not me.”

“That rust suit is pretty stylish.” Trish rolled her lips to keep from laughing. “Come on, Mom, ya gotta go with the flow.”

Marge heaved herself to her feet. “Just flow me to food before I flow right down the drain from hunger.” She stopped when they started back across the asphalt. “You think maybe I better take that suit along so we can find some shoes to match?”

Trish locked her arm in her mother’s. “It’s right here in the bag.” She swung the shopping bag she carried in her other hand. “And you need boots too.”

“We’re going to have to buy another suitcase for me to take all this home,” Marge pretended to grumble.

“That’s okay. I know where the luggage store is. I had to find one for Rhonda, remember?”

Later that night, after showing all their treasures to Margaret, Trish and her mother sat out on the deck watching the moon come up over the eastbay hills. The evening breeze rustled in the palm fronds as birds twerped and tweeted in the branches, settling in for the night.

Trish lifted her face to catch the scent of jasmine drifting from the ground cover on the hill beyond them.

“You have time to take me to the airport on Wednesday?” Marge lay back on the green and white padded chaise lounge. “Oh, this smells so good.”

“Wednesday. Why don’t you just fly out of here with me on Friday? There’s no sense making two flights if you don’t have to.”

“But I have so much to do at home.”

“It’ll wait. Besides, Patrick can handle everything with the horses. Consider this your vacation.” Trish closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. When a yawn caught her unaware, she patted her mouth and yawned again.

“Sounds like you’re about ready for bed.”

“I know. So what do you think?”

“I’m too comfortable to think. I’ll play Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow.” Marge stretched full length, like a kitten awaking from a deep sleep. “I’ll stay. Now that I even have clothes to wear, who needs to go home?”

“Great!” Trish swung her feet to the deck. “If you want my car in the morning to go shopping…”

Marge groaned.

“…or anything, I can ride with Adam.” Trish stood up. “And if you stay out here much longer, the mosquitoes will get you.” She slapped at one on her arm. “Good night.”

Finding three things to be thankful for was easy when Trish said her prayers: shopping, the peaceful look on her mother’s face, and the call from David saying he’d made it safely. “Thank you that I get to see Spitfire on Friday.” She paused. “And you are taking care of the mess in Portland, aren’t you? Amen.” She heard her mother return from the bathroom. “Night, Mom.”

“Night, Trish.” Marge stopped at her daughter’s bed and bent down for a good-night kiss. “God loves you and so do I.”

Trish felt the immediate rush of tears to the back of her eyes. Her father had always said that to her along with a good-night hug. “Me too.” She swallowed the quiver in her voice and turned on her side. Margaret Finley had said the tears came unbidden for years after losing someone you love. And for Trish it had been only months. But at least they stopped now and the pain was more like an ache.

The week flew by with Trish winning one race, placing in two, coming up with a show, and at least getting paid for running the others around the track. The day she won she found tons to be grateful for…and the others? Well, as the psalmist David said, praise sometimes was a sacrifice.