“Why?”
“So your words are on record. Pick one of the reporters, invite him or her into the house, and have Smitty tape it. That will eliminate any misquotes.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say, Hunt.”
“Say what’s in your heart. Tell them why you and only you could ride Flyby.”
She took a deep breath and gave him a pained look. “They probably think it’s all about money. But it isn’t. It was never about the money. It’s about a promise, a payback, and proving that I was put on this earth for a reason.”
Hunt wiped a speck of dirt off her cheek with his thumb. “Then that’s what you should tell them.”
“They don’t care about that stuff,” she scoffed. “All they want to do is ask who I am and where I came from. And how a nobody like me became the heir to one of the biggest Thoroughbred breeding farms in Kentucky.”
For a moment Hunt said nothing. His gaze drifted past Nealy to the barns beyond. “Maybe you should tell them.”
Nealy gasped. “It’s none of their business. It’s nobody’s business but my own.”
“Yes, but better you tell them and set them straight with the facts than let them find it out on their own and exaggerate the truth.” He playfully punched her chin. “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”
“Are there any women reporters out there?” Nealy queried, getting up.
“I’m sure there are.”
Hand in hand, they walked out of the barn. Nealy squinted into the sunshine. There was so much she wanted to say to Hunt, but now wasn’t the time. As Jess had always said, “Why mess with something when it’s working just fine?” Was she destined to end up like Maud and Jess? Their lives paralleled hers in so many ways. She squeezed his hand. “I have to wonder if I would have made it this far without you and Danny.”
He wanted to tell her no, she wouldn’t have, but it would have been a lie. Nealy didn’t know the meaning of the word fail. It simply wasn’t in her vocabulary. “Of course you would have. Dad and I were just on the periphery. Everything you’ve accomplished, Nealy, you’ve accomplished by yourself. You think Flyby was born to run for the roses, and I think you were, too. I believe that in my heart,” he said, thumping his chest.
“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me, Hunt,” she said, smiling up at him, loving him for the very special man he was. No other man would have put up with her stubbornness. She knew she wasn’t an easy person to deal with. Sometimes she could barely deal with herself.
His arm snaked around her back and he pulled her to him. “I’d say a lot more if you’d let me. Like, will you marry me?”
Nealy laughed. “Is that a proposal?”
“Yeah, it is.” He bent his head and touched his lips to her forehead. “What’s your answer?”
Nealy’s stomach fluttered, and she felt light-headed. “Yes . . . but,” she said, pushing back from him just a little, “not right now.” She saw his look of disappointment, and said, “I do love you. I didn’t think it was possible, but you sneaked into my heart. It’s just that . . . I don’t want to rush into anything. Will you wait?”
She knew his answer before he said it.
“I’ll wait, Nealy.”
They headed for the house. In the kitchen Nealy asked, “If I do an interview, should I let them take a picture of Flyby?”
“Why the hell not! It will be on the front page tomorrow morning. If you’re going to do it, do it now, so they can make their deadline. And Nealy, don’t tell them to kiss your ass if they tick you off, okay?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss the tip of his nose. “By the way, thanks for the silks. But purple? It’s not exactly my color.”
“Purple was Maud’s favorite color,” he said. “Besides, it stands out from all the others.”
“Good thinking!” She kissed him again, this time full on the lips.
Hunt groaned. “You shouldn’t do stuff like that if you can’t carry through.”
“Who says I can’t carry through? We’ve got all day . . . and tonight,” she said, flashing him a big smile. Then she twisted away from him and pressed the intercom on the telephone. “Smitty, you there?”
“Yep, I’m here. What’s up?” she returned.
“Hunt thinks I should pick one of those reporters and give an interview. He said it will make the headlines of the morning paper.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “I think he’s right.”
Nealy looked over at Hunt. “Okay, but only with a female reporter. If she has a cameraman, she can bring him, too, but no one else, got me?”
“Gotcha! I know just the gal. Her name is Dagmar Doolittle.”
When Nealy choked into the speaker, Smitty said, “I swear to God, that’s her name. She’s a big Swede. Hell, she’s bigger than life, and she’s been out there every morning with those vultures. She’ll give you a fair shake if you open up. She has never written a negative thing about you. She just stated facts as she knew them. You want her, she’s yours.”
“Okay, Smitty. Go get her.”
Smitty was right. Dagmar was a big woman, but she was amazingly graceful. She was also refreshingly intelligent, unlike some of the female reporters Nealy had seen on TV. There was a spark in her eyes that Nealy immediately related to.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this interview?” Dagmar asked, looking as if the ax was about to fall directly on her head.
“You’re a woman. I’m a woman. Smitty tells me you’re fair. I consider myself a fair person, too. I can give you forty-five minutes, so we need to talk fast. I’ll let you take one picture of Flyby providing you put him on the front page of your paper. Smitty is going to tape the interview so there won’t be any misquotes. If you’re okay with that, we can move right along. Let’s be clear on one thing, this is about a horse, his rider, his owner, and his trainer. It is not about my personal life. Okay?”
“Absolutely. What are my chances of getting an exclusive in the winner’s circle when they drape your horse with the blanket of roses?”
Nealy laughed, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the kitchen. “The interview is yours because you said ‘when’ not ‘if.’ You get the Preakness and the Belmont if I run Flyby, too. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“What the hell kind of name is Dagmar Doolittle?”
“You don’t want to know, honey. Maybe sometime when I know you a little better, we can share secrets.”
“Don’t count on it,” Nealy and Smitty said in chorus.
15
Derby Day!
Nealy sucked in her breath and moved quickly. She hadn’t had one moment to herself since she, Hunt, and Danny had pulled in at the back gate of Churchill Downs at two-thirty that morning. From then on she’d had an endless stream of things to do, not the least of which was getting Flyby and Stardancer comfortably settled in their assigned stalls in barn number twenty-six.
Now, finally, everything was done. Flyby and Stardancer were resting from their midnight run from the media hounds and would soon enjoy a good breakfast of clean white oats. Nealy had brought Stardancer along to be Flyby’s lead pony. Normally only geldings escorted the runners in the post parade, but because of Flyby and Stardancer’s unusual relationship, father and son got special permission to ride together to the post. Another unorthodox note in the long list of unorthodox notes.
From there on in, the horses could be left in Danny’s capable hands. He still had to brush away the accumulated sawdust from the trailer ride, bathe them both, then braid Stardancer’s mane and tail with purple and white ribbons. It was a long-standing Derby tradition for the lead ponies to be decked out in their finest livery.
During the ride to the track, Nealy and Hunt had talked about taking Flyby out to the track for a morning workout, but decided against it because of the media. Instead she would walk him around the barns, talking to him softly, trying to explain what these new goings-on were all ab
out. Later she swore he understood everything she said.
With Charlie leashed and at her feet, Nealy hurried down the length of the long shed row toward the racetrack. These few minutes, just prior to sunup, might be her only chance to get a good look at the famed twin spires of the venerable Churchill Downs.
Mist rose from the tubs of warm water the grooms were carrying to bathe their charges. A cat meowed, and a hen clucked. The smells of leather and liniment, straw and manure filled the air. A wonderful memory to tuck away and cherish.
Then she saw it. Churchill Downs. The white spires shone like beacons in the predawn light. A light breeze moved the American flag that rose over the rooftop. She looked upward into the grandstand and imagined it as it would be later that afternoon, filled with more than a hundred thousand people. The thought made her feel light-headed and weak in the knees.
The sound of thundering hooves caught her attention. She looked to the left and saw a dappled gray horse galloping out of the clubhouse turn, toward her. She smiled as she watched him race past. Steam rose in foot-high vapors off his heated shoulders. Whoever he was, he was a plucky little colt, 15.3 hands max, with legs barely long enough to keep his tail off the ground. Yet he didn’t lack for speed, and Nealy knew he would be a serious contender.
As of late the previous night, Flyby was still a long shot, though the odds had dropped from eighteen to one to ten to one. “A crackerjack colt,” the evening paper had called him. “Owned, bred, and trained by Cornelia Diamond, whose unorthodox training methods have shaken the Thoroughbred racing world.”
The media certainly had made a big deal about her being Flyby’s trainer, even more than being his jockey. “Female trainer makes a run at history,” one banner line read. “When Cornelia Diamond makes her run for the roses, she’ll be challenging a male-dominated tradition.” Nealy sighed. What could she expect? Horse training, like horse breeding, was dominated by testicles. And that made today’s race all the more exciting.
If the reporters’ estimations were right, thousands of women in the stands and at home would be watching her, rooting for her. By winning the world’s most famous horse race, she would knock down yet one more door that had been previously closed to women.
Watching the dappled gray colt head into the quarter mile stretch made her positively itch to get into the saddle and get out on the track.
Hunt was sitting on a bench between Flyby’s and Stardancer’s stalls when she returned. She smiled as she waved her arms airily to show what she thought of her magnificent surroundings.
“How are they doing?” she asked.
“Better than me,” Hunt answered. “Flyby’s taking everything in stride. Absolutely nothing ruffles him. Nothing. You’ve trained him well, Nealy. He’s the most adaptable horse I’ve ever seen.” Hunt folded up the newspaper he had been reading and handed it to her. “There’s going to be a lot of bullshit going down once people read this.”
Briefly, their eyes met, but she couldn’t read his expression. Resigned to seeing another embarrassing banner line, she slowly opened the paper, and gasped. “My God,” she whispered, staring at the front page picture of Flyby. “This is . . . I mean it’s . . . my God! It’s the whole front page!”
“I’d say that woman who interviewed you really delivered the goods, wouldn’t you?”
Still overwhelmed, Nealy could only nod.
Hunt laughed. He could count on one hand the times he’d seen Nealy speechless.
“Look at him, Hunt,” she said, turning the paper back around for him to see. “Look at the way he’s looking at the camera. What a ham. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was smiling.” Seeing the agreement in Hunt’s eyes, she started to howl with laughter. “Tell me he isn’t one kick-ass horse, Hunt. Tell me.”
“He’s one kick-ass horse, Nealy,” he said, beaming up at her. “But if you think that’s great, wait until you read the article. You won’t believe it. I think you finally found an ally, maybe even a crusader.”
Nealy folded the paper up and stuck it under her arm. “I’m not going to read it. At least not now. This is enough for me. More than enough. I love it, absolutely love it.” Brows knitting, she glanced up and down the length of the shed row. “Where’s your dad? And isn’t it about time Smitty and Carmela got here with the kids?”
“They came while you were gone, and Dad took them out to breakfast. They’ll be back in a little while. Wait until you see them.... Carmela and Smitty are wearing big, floppy hats with flowers and birds and the whole nine yards. I wouldn’t be surprised if Smitty isn’t carrying a lace hankie. And Emmie looks . . . well let’s just say she looks like an angel.” He leaned forward and grabbed her hand. “Sit down here with me. I have a feeling that as soon as that paper starts to circulate, there’s going to be some curiosity seekers wanting to get a close-up look at you and Flyby.”
Nealy leaned her back against the wall. “Wherever Maud and Jess are, I sure hope they’re watching today. Do you believe in the afterlife, Hunt?”
He leaned back, too. “I don’t know. I never thought much about it,” he said, yawning. “As soon as my dad gets back, let’s leave him in charge and head out for the hotel. He slept all the way here, so he’s rested; but I’m beat, and I’ll bet you are, too.”
Thank God for Hunt. He was forever thinking about her wants and needs. He took better care of her than she did herself. “Sounds good to me. Meantime, Charlie and I want to have a little heart-to-heart with Flyby. Come on, Charlie,” she said, patting her knees for him to jump up.
Nealy listened as the announcer’s voice came over the speakers. “None of the horses running today have gone a mile and a quarter, and except for those going on to the Belmont, none of these horses will ever go the mile and a quarter again. When you handicap a race, you usually look backward to see the best performance. Not so with the Derby. You have to anticipate who is going to run their best race today . . . for that reason Celebration, General Don, Phil’s Choice, and Texas Rich still have their best shot yet to fire.
“Phil’s Choice is not the favorite on this first Saturday in May, but he’s made it here, and that’s all that matters. His owner is said to have made a nasty wisecrack to Cornelia Diamond at Santa Anita. He apologized, but Ms. Diamond would have none of it. She said her horse had more class and breeding than Phil’s Choice or his owner.”
“This is it, Nealy,” Hunt announced, briefly taking her into his arms and hugging her. “Twenty-four minutes to post time. You look great. Purple is definitely your color.”
“And yours,” she said, referring to his coordinated shirt and cap.
“Nealy, I’m going to wish you luck even though I know you don’t need it,” Danny Clay said. His eyes were shiny and bright. She suspected unshed tears. She nodded as she bit down on her lip.
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t believe you and Flyby were going to win. Trust in him to know what to do. Give him his head and let him go would be my advice.”
Nealy was shocked when he threw his arms around her and gave her a squeezing hug. She returned it.
Carmela and Smitty came forward, all smiles. Nealy grinned at their attire. They were the picture of Louisville’s society ladies, with their crisp linen suits, wide-brimmed straw hats, and bow-trimmed shoes.
“Take this for luck,” Smitty said, handing her a lace-trimmed hankie. “It was my mother’s, and she was one lucky old lady.”
Carmela stepped up to the plate and hugged Nealy. “Maud and Jess would be so proud of you,” she whispered. “I’m proud of you, too.”
Nealy swallowed.
Emmie and Buddy were next. Nealy hugged them both to her, then stepped back to talk with her fingers. What do you say when this is over, we take a long vacation and go to Disney World ?
They broke into wide smiles and hugged her again.
Emmie’s fingers said, See you in the winner’s circle, Mom.
Count on it, baby!
The announcer’s voice boom
ed over the PA system. “Riders up!” was the call in the paddock. Nineteen jockeys mounted their colts and got ready for the walk underneath the main stands and out into the sunshine in front of 151,000 people.
Nealy gave Hunt a quick kiss. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too.” He gave her a hand and helped her settle into the irons. “This is it, Nealy. God, my heart is pumping so hard it feels like it’s going to bust right out of my chest. Does yours feel like that?”
“It did, but I’m calmer now.”
The bugle sounded. “The moment is at hand,” the announcer blared into the microphone.
Nealy mounted Flyby and walked behind Leisure Boy and Nightstar, the favorites to win. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Ricky Vee look at her sharply. She smiled. The walk was longer than she thought it would be, under the main stand and out into the bright sunshine. The roar of the crowd thundered in her ears.
“We’re now bringing you a live look at the walkover that starts in the barn and then goes out onto the track. Here comes Flyby with his owner/trainer/jockey, Cornelia Diamond, along with the Blue Diamond Farms manager, Hunter Clay. A little while ago we tried to get a few words with Ms. Diamond, but we weren’t successful. As the only female jockey riding today, she opted to stay away from the jockey room and the media. She’s wearing purple silks, her mother’s favorite color. Her mother, by the way, was the late Maud Diamond of Blue Diamond Farms, a two-time Derby winner. As another point of interest, and a first-time-ever occurrence, Flyby is being escorted out onto the track by his sire, Stardancer. Flyby is Stardancer’s only colt, but after today his stud services may be in great demand.”
Riding next to Nealy, on Stardancer, Hunt listened as the announcer rattled off the gate numbers. Flyby was in fifteen. Three of the last five Derby winners had rocketed out of that same gate. Today would make four. His mind raced as he imagined how the race would be run. Serendipity would go to the front early, and that could be a negative because there was going to be a lot of other speed in the race. Vegas Heat was the mystery horse, with the best jockey in the world riding him. Saturday’s Warrior won the Breeders Cup Juvenile with odds of thirty to one. He had an excellent pedigree for the mile and a quarter. He could save valuable ground on the first turn if he ran true to form. Nightstar, Flyby’s biggest competitor, was bred to go long.
Kentucky Rich Page 18