Golden Filly Collection Two (87 page)

Rhonda stayed overnight at Trish’s that Friday since she didn’t have a jumping event until Sunday. After devouring two large, thick-crust supreme pizzas with the help of Brad, Marge, and Patrick, the two girls lay across Trish’s bed.

“I think I’m going to explode,” Rhonda groaned.

“I was fine until we made hot fudge sundaes. Somehow pepperoni and hot fudge don’t mix too well.” Trish propped one hand under the side of her face. “We’re supposed to like, you know, study?”

Rhonda groaned again—louder.

Trish reached down and snagged Rhonda’s blue book bag off the floor. “Here.” She dumped it on Rhonda’s stomach. “Go to it. I have to work on my term paper.” The rustle of papers and the scratch of pencils were the only sounds for a while, except for the occasional groan.

“I’ve had it.” Rhonda stuffed her notebook back in her bag an hour and a half later. “You want something to drink?” Trish shook her head. “Care if I get one?” Trish shook her head again. She nibbled on the end of her pencil, trying to think of just the right word.

When Rhonda ambled back, Diet Coke in hand, Trish looked up from her scribblings. “Where’s mine?”

Rhonda stopped in midstride and gave her a you-gotta-be-kidding look. “You said you didn’t want one.”

Trish flipped her pencil at her friend. “You know me better than that. Would I ever turn down a Diet Coke?” Rhonda started to hand her the can. Trish pushed herself to her feet. “No, I wouldn’t want to deprive my best friend of the drink she’s been dying for. I’ll get my own.” In the best tradition of old-time actress Sarah Bernhardt, Trish laid the back of her hand to her forehead and limped out of the room.

The pillow Rhonda threw just missed Trish’s back.

In bed a bit later, the room dark except for the reflection of the mercury yard light, the two lay talking.

“I have a question, O mighty man killer.” Trish turned on her side so she could look over the edge of the bed at her friend lying on the blow-up mattress on the floor.

“What?”

“Can you—I—be in love with two guys at the same time?”

“What makes you think you’re in love?”

“Okay, in ‘like,’ then?”

“Of course, you nut. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing now—liking all kinds of different guys, trying new things.”

“But at the same time? I mean I like Red, I
really
like him. When I’m with him, I think there’s nobody else. But when I’m home again and he’s off on another continent…”

“So?”

“I felt sorta the same way the other night with Doug.” Trish mumbled the words in a rush.

“Told ya he likes you.”

“But does that make me a—a cheater or something?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not like you’re going with Red or anything.”

Trish flopped over on her back. “Life sure is complicated.”

But it didn’t feel complicated the next afternoon when she rode Diego’s five-year-old into the winner’s circle of the McLoughlin one-mile stakes race. Handshakes, cameras flashing, reporters asking questions—she felt fantastic. Curt Donovan gave her a thumbs-up sign and tapped his notebook.

“After the program?”

She nodded and turned to sign an extended program. Halfway to the jockey room, she heard her name being called again. When she looked past the program offered her, her gaze traveled up a leather-jacketed arm, to broad shoulders, a square jaw, and those to-die-for fudge eyes. The smile that stretched those perfectly sculpted male lips made her grin back.

“Congratulations. That was some race.” Taylor Winthrop spoke in a way that made it seem as if they were the only people around, in spite of the hundreds of spectators passing by.

“Thanks. Good to see you again.” Trish finished signing her name and handed the program back. Her hand touched his in the transfer. Whoa, another tingle. She snatched it back as if she’d been burned.

“I hope you mean that.” His voice felt as warm as his eyes looked.

“I—ah, gotta get ready for the next race. Bye.” She refused to let herself look over her shoulder to see if he was still there. Her back, however, felt branded by his gaze.

“Who was that?” Genie Stokes waited for her on the other side of the gate. “What a—there aren’t words good enough to describe him.”

“I know. Name’s Taylor Winthrop. A student at University of Portland. Says he loves racing.”

“Well, I’ll sign his program any time.” Genie held the door to the women’s jockey room open for Trish. “He sure had the eyes for you.”

“Just ’cause I won, that’s all.” Trish dumped her helmet on the bench and pulled off the rubber bands that kept the sleeves on her silks the right length and too snug for drafts to creep up her arms. “You up in this last one?”

Just before Trish leaped to the ground in the winner’s circle again, she caught a glimpse of fudge eyes, a sexy smile, and a waving hand. She waved back and concentrated on the festivities. When she walked off afterward, talking with Curt Donovan, Taylor was nowhere in sight.

Was she glad or disappointed? Trish didn’t take time to puzzle it out.

What with morning works, church, riding twice in the afternoon, and trying to study, Trish found herself with her head on her desk by nine o’clock. A glance at the clock informed her, if her neck hadn’t already, that she’d been sleeping for half an hour. With eyes half closed she undressed and hit the bed. Remembering the touch of Taylor’s hand made her smile. Could she like three guys?
Rhonda’ll have a cow.

Tuesday after school, she returned to the teen grief group at the Methodist church. She’d attended off and on before her trip to Kentucky to get help with all the feelings caused by her father’s death.

The welcome she received made her more than glad she’d taken the time. By the questions they asked, she knew the group had kept up on what was happening to her.

“Okay, let’s get started.” The advisor waved everyone to the chairs formed in a slipshod circle. When all were seated, she smiled at each person—a warm, welcoming smile that made Trish feel as if she hadn’t really been gone at all. “Trish, how would you like to start?”

“Things have been pretty good—about thinking of my dad, I mean. Sometimes it’s like, if I turn my head real quick, I’ll see him standing there, smiling at me.” She could feel the burning start behind her eyes. “But he’s never there.” She paused. And sighed. “I guess, I’m kinda thinking about Thanksgiving—and then Christmas.” Again a pause.

The advisor handed Trish a tissue. “The first holidays are the hardest. But you get through. Each day is still only twenty-four hours long.”

“Yeah, but you can cry an awful lot of tears in twenty-four hours.” A member across the circle leaned forward. “It’s been two years since my mother died, and still I cry sometimes.”

“It helps if you do something totally different than what you used to do,” someone else added.

“Yeah, like don’t try to keep everything the same as before—‘cause it ain’t.” A younger boy with owly glasses tried to smile at her, but his mouth quivered.

Trish could feel her chin wobble. “Like what?”

After they tossed out a list of suggestions, she wiped her eyes again. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Being here every week will help, and you have my number if you feel like calling.” The advisor nodded to the girl next to Trish. “Melissa, how’re you doing?”

Trish left with ideas climbing on top of each other to be first. She and her mother were due for a long talk.

Trish approached Ms. Wainwright before class the next day. “You have a few minutes to talk after school?”

“Sure. See you then.”

Trish dragged herself out of weight-training class. This was the first time she’d tried arm weights since the accident. Now she hurt—everywhere.

“How come it’s so easy to get out of shape and so hard to get back in?” She leaned her forehead against the cool of the metal locker door.

“Like it’s not fair, I know.” Rhonda dug through her stack of books. “Jason’s taking me home, okay?”

Trish nodded. “See you in the morning.”

Her face still felt flushed by the time she took a chair in front of Ms. Wainwright’s desk. “I have something I’d like to add to the B&C project.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “If you don’t mind and won’t tell anyone where it came from.”

Ms. Wainwright stuck her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt and leaned against the back of her chair. “What’s up?”

“I was thinking—and I checked with my mother first—what if we cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless?”

“We?”

“All of us. Mom and I—we’d like to buy the turkeys and fxings—then if all of us cooked—at a church or something over in Portland—and served it. We could give away the blankets and coats at the same time.” Trish leaned forward, her elbows on her desk top. “What do you think? Would it work?”

“I don’t see why not. We’ll have to ask the class.”

“But I don’t want anyone to know we bought the groceries.”

“No problem. I’ll just say it’s been donated.” Mrs. Wainwright tipped her pencil from one end to the other. “You sure this is what you’d like to do?”

“Uh-huh. I—we need to do something different this year at our house, and maybe this way we could do some good for a lot of people.”

“No maybe about it, Trish. This is a fine idea. I’ll bring it up tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

The next afternoon the government class voted their overwhelming approval. Rhonda gave Trish a questioning look and then an I-know-what-you’re-doing grin.

“That means all of you have to check with your parents to see if you can help. If your folks would like to join us, they could do that too. We won’t just cook and serve, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving with a huge family.” The teacher posted a clipboard on the cork wallboard. “Here’s the sign-up sheet. If we don’t get enough from this class, we’ll open it up to the rest of the school.”

Trish tried to act like she always did, but still Doug and Rhonda grabbed her arms after class and marched her to a quiet corner.

“All right, when do we go shopping?” Rhonda’s grin made the Cheshire cat look like a failure in the smiling department.

“You mean…” Doug looked from Rhonda’s grin to Trish’s shrug. “Awesome. We can use my truck to haul stuff.”

“Don’t tell anyone, please?” Trish looked from one to the other. She checked her watch. “We’re going to be late.” The three charged off to their separate classes.

But that night at home, things weren’t quite so smooth. David called, and as ordered, Trish didn’t pick up the phone until she heard his voice on the recorder.

“What took you so long?” David sounded pushed.

“Um…” Trish knew she’d better tell the truth. “Officer Parks said not to answer until we knew who was calling.”

“You mean that…” David used a name that made Trish glad her mother wasn’t on the other line yet.

“Jerk?” Trish added with a smile.

“Whatever. He’s called again?”

“Yep. And sent the most gorgeous roses. At least he has good taste.”

“Trish, this isn’t a joke.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you guys didn’t tell me what was going on. I thought maybe it was all over.”

Marge had picked up the phone. “If we were more concerned, we would have told you.”

Trish held the phone away from her ear while David went off on a tirade. When he calmed down again, she rejoined the conversation. “I got other news for you,” she said after catching him up on what happened at the track. “We’re donating the food to serve the homeless for Thanksgiving. Isn’t that super?”

“We’re
what
?”

She could tell by the tone of his voice that David didn’t think the idea was super at all.