“No, of course not. Nothing happened. I have just been upset lately.”
“You must join them for breakfast then. You don’t have a choice, Maizie.”
“Why?”
“When Mary Glidewell says you are to come for breakfast, I think you better hightail it to the table, girl.” Maizie looked at Corky with a long, telling face, and after thinking it over in silence did as Corky had insisted.
In the dining room, she found Mary, Sugar, and Rye Fulton enjoying a bowl of canned fruit, toast slathered in nut butter, and coffee. She felt her stomach turn and nervously sat down next to Sugar. “Guess I slept in,” Maizie said to Mrs. Glidewell. “Corky said you wanted me here.”
“Yes, that’s true. Do you feel all right, Maizie? Your eyes are a bit puffy. Did you sleep well?” asked Mary, showing concern.
“I slept fine. It’s just… well, I slept fine.”
“Good. Maizie, this is Rye Fulton. He’s the photographer that took pictures during the opening to match season.
“Yes, I have met Mr. Fulton,” Maizie said, looking into her cup.
Maizie could feel Fulton’s eyes upon her. Her hands began to shake so visibly that she folded them on her lap.
“Maizie, we are going to see Rye’s proofs after breakfast. You can help me pick the best ones.”
“Proofs?” asked Maizie.
“Picture samples from the match races. I for one am quite excited to see them. Will you join us, Sugar?”
“Oh, I’s afraid I got to get to workin’ this mornin’,” said Sugar. “Me and the girls are into deep cleaning. Takes a bit of time.”
“Me too. I need to get to work. I am behind already,” said Maizie, hoping to be released from this difficult situation.
“You will stay here, Maizie, and help me choose the photos. As my assistant I consider this part of your job.” Maizie picked up her spoon and took a bite of the canned fruit despite the horrible ache in her stomach. Rye Fulton remained quiet, eating little of his breakfast.
Mary made an effort to engage her breakfast guests in a conversation, but it was difficult. “Maizie, will you clear the table and return to wipe it clean?” Maizie stood and did as Mary had requested. After wiping the table clean in deliberate interlocking circles, she asked, “Mary, may I go and start my work in the office?”
“No, no, don’t be silly, Maizie. You will stay. Rye, please, the proofs.”
Rye laid down his proof sheets to share them with Mary. Maizie hesitated but took the seat next to Mary and Rye quickly placed a page of proofs in front of her. The pictures were good, even intriguing. It was obvious that Fulton had a talent for his chosen profession. The way he framed each shot made his work stand out. Every picture told a story of a family of individuals working together to put on an event for the good of not just Glidewell Ranch, but also nearby communities.
Rye Fulton had captured it all: James sitting straight and proud on Lightning, waiting in the saddling paddock for others to get mounted and ready; the viewing knoll full of people, blankets, and sun umbrellas; the spectators on their feet cheering and waving. There was Corky on Devil Doll, rearing in front of the crowd, with his trusty bugle in hand. There were pictures of the Castle quarry, the artesian well, the grazing fields with mothers and calves enjoying the sunshine. Pictures of Corky and Billy, laughing and preparing food in the mess hall, were full of movement. There were pictures of horses and riders such as Tommy O’Rourke, the Irishman; Ernesto and Alvaro from Juarez; Chief Jack, the Osage Indian, and others. A picture of Jeb in the wagon, handling the draft team, waving at the camera and smiling, was slightly out of focus, the effect ethereal. There was an interesting photo of all the women who provided domestic service to the ranch. They posed like a chorus line, arm in arm, kicking their right legs in the air, laughing. Ol’ Jon, the Cajun from Louisiana, was delicately picking fresh herbs to hang in his drying closet, his beautiful garden behind him. The fresh lavender hair bouquets were neatly placed on his gardener’s bench. There were pictures of the ranch house’s interior: the grand hall, the kitchen with Philippe and Leon working on delicate pastries. A photo of the piano with Meadowlark and Maizie singing “Up the Lazy River,” the two performers looking at each other as they harmonized, was entrancing. On and on they went—pages of proofs relating a narrative about a very special and diverse place, a place very different from what lay beyond the Osage orange-tree fence.
Making her selections, Mary came upon a picture that took her by surprise. It was a photo of Maizie looking into the camera with reserved warmth. Mary was shocked to see Maizie’s image. There was a deepness, a stillness, a sadness in the expression on her face. The photo was breathtaking, mysterious. Maizie wasn’t a girl in this picture, she was a beautiful woman. The picture was so powerful that Mary couldn’t quit looking at it.
“This is a nice shot of Maizie, Rye. Where did you take it?”
“Maizie was passing out hair bouquets on the veranda. She looked beautiful in the evening light. I have an eye.”
Curious, Maizie stood and walked behind Mary to catch a view.
“She looked beautiful to you?” asked Mary, turning her full attention to Rye.
“In an artistic sense, yes,” he replied, not looking at either Mary or Maizie.
“You do have an eye, Rye. Will this be in the magazine layout?”
“I don’t think so. The subject doesn’t fit the story we are trying to tell, but it’s a great portrait. You should see it enlarged. It is compelling. I look at it all the time.” Bringing his napkin to his mouth he coughed slightly.
“That doesn’t look like me,” Maizie said with certainty and returned to her seat.
Mary turned to Maizie and said, “It is you, Maizie. He has caught you in a moment. He has captured your thoughts. I do wonder what you are thinking.” Mary looked at Rye. He coughed again into his napkin. Mary picked up the photo and studied it even closer. She put the proof sheet down and turned to Maizie: “Have you marked the ones you like?”
“Yes. Some.”
“You may go to the office now, Maizie.” Maizie, feeling a sense of relief, stood to go, pushed her chair in and left the room.
Mary turned her attention back to Rye and asked, “What do you intend to do with this picture of Maizie, Rye?”
“I was going to keep it and sell prints commercially.”
“How much do you want for the negative? I want to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale. Not now.”
“Is there an amount that would change your mind?” questioned Mary.
“Well, I don’t know. It would be a lot. I see this photograph making money. Selling photographs is my livelihood and the economy has nearly put me out of business. I’m a good photographer, as you can see, and I can barely make enough to pay my rent.” Gesturing at the photo of Maizie, Rye continued: “This little girl here can help me out.”
“Then the sale of the negative should sound good to you. I’m uncomfortable with Maizie’s picture being part of any commercial use. She isn’t a model, after all.”
Rye Fulton put his hands in his pockets and said, “I am sorry you saw that proof. Should have left them at home.”
“How much, Rye?”
“Two thousand dollars. That is what it would cost to purchase the negative. The negative is my property and I have the right to use it. The magazine hired me to do the shoot, but the negatives are mine.”
“That’s a lot of money. Seems you think you have all the bargaining chips here. Seems you may be taking advantage of us and not understanding why a young girl should preserve her anonymity. Your interest in this photograph is a bit concerning to me.”
“I wouldn’t use her name, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“That is what I worry about. That and in what kind of ad she might appear. And the men who may privately lust after her.”
<
br /> “Lust?”
“Yes, Mr. Fulton, lust.” Mary wrinkled her brow but continued to gaze at Rye Fulton. “Mr. Fulton, I see no reason for us to continue this discussion. I will talk about this matter with my husband.”
“You are not accusing me of an impropriety, are you?”
“I am.”
“I hardly think that warranted. I am an artist. My work is my life. It is the picture not Maizie that engages me. That’s what good art does, engages. I understand you want the negative, but wouldn’t a print satisfy?” questioned Rye.
“Then you have lone access to the photo’s use? I am not certain I trust that would be in Maizie’s best interest. You took this photo with our permission on our property. I‘m unclear what our rights are. We will consider your asking price to be the opening of our negotiations. When my husband returns, I will have him contact you or your attorney.”
“I don’t have an attorney. Can’t afford it. The negative is mine. Pure and simple. I can retain the right to sell the image as often as I want. Your problem is you don’t understand an artist’s feelings about the work.”
“You may be right. Now let us get back to selecting from these beautiful photos. In the future, I would ask that you not photograph Maizie.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Fulton, let me be clear. Maizie is off limits to you. I don’t want you around her.”
Mary looked at Rye suspiciously as he turned away. She took back the proofs and looked through them one more time, making sure she hadn’t missed any that told the Glidewell Ranch story. Her concern about Maizie was warranted. She knew that now.
Chapter 68
Maizie’s Diary
May 4, 1932
Mr. Fulton was with Mary this morning. I want to avoid him but Corky said I had to have breakfast with Mary and he was sitting there. I sure do feel uncomfortable around him. I can’t bring myself to tell Mary or anyone how he touched me. Some things are better left unsaid. The Glidewells may think I am like Josie and fire me. I still worry about that.
Mary was upset about a picture of me. It was just a picture. I don’t think it looked like me anyways. I would have told her it doesn’t matter to me what happens to the photo, but Mary was worried about it, so I stayed quiet. She sent me out of the room after a bit. I was sure glad about that.
I have to admit, I loved looking at the pictures Mr. Fulton had taken. When you look at the pictures, you understand what a great place Glidewell is. A girl like me living here has me forgetting about the world I came from. I wonder if that is a good thing.
The pictures of Capp made me remember how nice his face is—his smile makes my heart sing. I wonder if Tilly’s smile makes Capp’s heart sing. I hurt when I think on it. Sometimes I can’t sleep wondering about it, but tonight I drank some of Ol’ Jon’s tea. That always helps.
Bonne nuit, mon ami,
Maizie Sunday Freedman
Chapter 69
Idle Hour Farm
The Glidewell team was on their way to Lexington to purchase more horses. The early-morning sky, heavy with rain, did not dampen anyone’s spirit. Wil and James were quiet as Capp talked incessantly about the horses they had claimed the day before. It was obvious that Capp only had one thing on his mind: horses. Occasionally a cloudburst would slow them down, but even with that, Hank made good time on their three-hour drive from Louisville, arriving at the Idle Hour Farm nearly on time. They were greeted by a trainer, breeder, and a manager who was authorized to make sales.
“Mr. Blevens?” asked Wil.
The tallest man answered, “That’s me. Call me Richmond. This is Dale and Clyde. We call them the Clydesdales. Just a silly thing, but they’ll answer.” Clyde and Dale laughed while flicking their cigarette butts into a bucket of sand. Wil shook hands with all three men and liked the feel of their grip, firm and welcoming.
“We got two thoroughbred stallions expected to run the Kentucky Derby,” said Richmond. “Beautiful horseflesh, primed and ready. The horses just left yesterday in a trailer on their way to Churchill Downs,” said Clyde.
James felt a surge of envy, but the feeling was far surpassed by how impressed he was that this farm qualified two horses to run in the Kentucky Derby. “What are their names? We’ll be there to cheer them on,” said Capp.
“We got Brother Joe and Burgoo King running. Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” said Richmond.
“I’m anxious to see your stock that’s for sale. Could we get to it? Got another farm to go to today,” said Capp.
“Show us what you got. We are looking for breed stock with good pedigrees, good conformation, sound lower legs, and a winning spirit,” said Wil.
“You just described our entire stock, but I’ll show you the horses that are for sale,” said Blevens.
In the paddock were two mares, each a bay with a white blaze, black mane, and four black socks. Both were five years old and had produced fine foals. Dale explained the mares were half-sisters sired by the same stallion. Pedigrees were strong and the stallion was a stakes winner. Capp asked that the mares be brought to him so he could assess their soundness.
Wil turned to James, “I like these two mares. They are proven breeders with good conformation. They were running in the paddock as we approached—both looked spirited.”
“Do you think we should make an offer?”
“Maybe, when Capp is finished.” The men watched as Capp mounted each horse bareback and gently checked their gate and response to commands.
“Could either be pregnant?” Wil asked Blevens.
“Nope, they’re fertile, proven but not currently pregnant.”
When Capp finished his examinations, he put his hands high in the air, signaling that he was excited. “They are good. Beautiful and sound. The one mare has a well-developed chest, good for passing on muscle strength to her foals. The other wanted me to run her. She was ready to race.”
The next stop was the yearling field. There were ten colts and fillies running and playing, rolling in the wet bluegrass. When Blevens pointed out the yearlings belonging to the two bay mares, Wil and Capp could tell they were strong youngsters—playful, curious, and intelligent.
“I would like a yearling. Would you consider letting go of one?” asked James.
“Maybe, we have one colt. He has a good pedigree but appears small. Could be genetic, could be he isn’t thriving. Seen it before and then the yearling makes great strides in his second year. He’s the small bay near the rail. We’d be willing to sell him, if you’re willing to take a chance.”
James was thinking hard, counting how much money he wanted to drop here at Idle Hour Farm. The yearling began running and playing with the others in the field. Throwing his head, lifting his front legs high, he looked like there was racehorse in his blood.
“James, I think we should consider the two broodmares,” Wil said.
“How much do you think for the two, Wil?” James asked.
“Let’s wait. Let’s see if they have a stallion we like. We can ask them for a bundle price.”
“I want the colt for Maizie.”
“Well, you’re talking about two broodmares, a yearling, and a stud stallion. I sense they want to get rid of a few horses. We would be taking a risk with the yearling,” suggested Wil.
“No risk with the yearling. It’ll be Maizie’s horse,” said James.
The six men moved on to the stallion holding field, some distance from the broodmares and the yearlings. Grazing in the sun stood three stallions. “There is only one stallion here for sale. He was on the racetrack until he was six years old and is a proven stud. He has sired twenty foals here at the farm. He’s seven now. He has at least ten years left, maybe fifteen, to breed. And he’s a beauty. Black as the ace of spades. We called him Black Ace on the track,” said Blevens.
“May I check him out? Has he been ridden?”<
br />
“Yes, the colonel likes to keep his studs exercised. They stay more fertile that way, he believes.”
“May I ride him?” asked Capp.
“Think you better view this boy from the ground. You can use a lunge line in the corral. Just a precaution. He’s fiery with strangers,” admitted Clyde. “He threw his rider during a workout last week. Poor guy broke a few ribs.”
So as before, Capp went through his list of things to look for in a fine thoroughbred and worked him from the ground with a lunge line. After the workout Capp was satisfied, gave a thumbs-up, and handed the lunge line back to Clyde. The three men were ready to bargain. James, Wil, and Capp, who were generally excited, would play their hand carefully. Buying four horses from Idle Hour Farm was an exhilarating feeling. James was prepared to pay a fair price. Knowing that these horses were more proven than the horses he had claimed at Churchill Downs, he wondered how much these high-quality thoroughbreds would cost.
Dale held the door as the men entered the Idle Hour office located near the north side of the large barn. There were several desks and a large conference table with comfortable chairs. It was around this table the six men sat. Richmond Blevens quickly offered coffee and set cups in front of each member of the Glidewell team.
Blevens began his discussion as he passed pedigree charts around the table. “I preselected the horses I showed you based on information Wil had given me. You can see as you look at the pedigrees that each horse has champions in their bloodlines. We vary our bloodlines by bringing animals in from other farms to further improve our stock. There is no inbreeding here at Idle Farm. Our horses are not only sound in structure, but also healthy and well cared for. We breed for conformation, speed, demeanor, and match complementary strengths. There is no guarantee in breeding that you’ll get a champion, but your chances are better with our horses.”
“What do you want for the whole lot?” said James.
Through Tender Thorns Page 24