by Lisa Wysocky
As I walked in, the office phone rang. I debated answering and regretted my decision the moment I lifted the receiver.
“Shopping malls!” cried a familiar voice. “It’s perfect––”
“No. No shopping malls,” I said, rolling my eyes and unzipping my jacket at the same time. “No cheap promotional stunts, Agnes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course I understand, dear. But certainly you can see the advantages.”
“No.”
“Oh, pooh,” she replied. “You don’t actually mean that, do you?”
“Agnes, I’ve had a rough morning. I can’t deal with this right now. But I can tell you that no horse in my care will ever be displayed at a shopping mall where the general public can come to gawk.”
Agnes was silent for a moment. Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last.
“Cat, dear. Please listen. You know you have to promote to keep your name––”
Agnes is a wonderful person and I never forget she owns two horses in my barn and therefore has a vested interest in how I promote those horses. If that weren’t the case I wouldn’t put up with her, as she is the most exasperating woman I have ever met.
“––in front of the public. Then there are the horses. Such wonderful creatures. Why, if a little girl were to lay eyes on my sweet, psychic Sally Blue––”
“Agnes! Sally is a horse. She is not psychic.”
“Of course she is, dear. You must remember last fall? The world championships? Every day Sally bumped something blue with her nose. Blue is the color of champions. Sally knew she was going to win that class.”
Agnes, who saw her seventieth birthday last year, had dyed her short, spiky hair electric blue in honor of both the championship and her horse’s name, Sally Blue. If she hadn’t gotten blue-tinted lenses in her bifocals, the look never would have worked. I reminded myself that Agnes always paid her bills on time and never complained about the fees. I didn’t even mind that she carried the ashes of her three dead husbands around with her in her purse and talked to them all the time, although it sometimes made having a conversation with her difficult, as you never knew who it was that she was talking to.
“Cat, are you listening? Ask Sally. The shopping malls are a great idea.”
“You want me to ask one of the horses I train if it is a good idea to display her at a shopping mall?” Agnes was out there but this was a bit much, even for her. “You know that grubby kids will poke at her and try to climb into her stall and tired mothers will ignore their little monsters who are pulling Sally’s tail and sooner or later one of the kids will get trampled and we’ll get sued?”
Tact is not one of my better qualities. I was afraid my outburst would cause me to lose a good client and––if I were honest––a good friend. So I tried again.
“Agnes, it’s not the direction we need to go. Today is Monday. Barely. Drive down Saturday for lunch and we’ll figure out a great promotion.”
Agnes was silent again. This made twice in a single conversation. Probably a new record.
“I’m only looking out for you,” she said in a small voice.
“I know, and you are so wonderful for all you do for me. Now go think up some fun ideas.”
I hung up the phone wondering if it was possible for Agnes to come up with anything remotely reasonable.
Cat’s Horse Tip #2
“People expect respect. With horses, you have to earn it.”
3
THIS WOULD BE A GOOD TIME to mention that most of my business involves the training of Appaloosa show horses. Walk, trot, and canter along the rail, nice and pretty, both Western and English pleasure. I have always loved the distinctive spotted breed, and was thrilled when I was able to assist a now rival trainer when I was in college. Seven years later I am even more enthusiastic about the versatile, intelligent, gentle horses––so much so that I can’t imagine doing anything else.
In addition to the training, I give a few lessons to promising students, especially during the off season. And February is about as off as you can get.
This morning’s class consisted of four students who were thinking about competing in the show ring. That was three more than I usually handle a lesson. But they all had the same goal so I took them on, as I hoped they would learn as much from one another as they did from me. For the most part, I was right.
Carole Carson was the first to come through the door. My neighbor to the immediate west, Carole was the wife of the very hot, very hunky, country music star, Keith Carson. They had a slew of young kids, a few of whom I gave lessons to on the odd days when I was home in the summer. Did I mention that her husband was gorgeous?
Carole was a good rider, but I guessed that her enthusiasm came more from wanting to establish an identity of her own, away from her famous husband and ever growing brood, than from a true love of horses or competition. Tall and fashionably thin with loose dark auburn curls cascading down her elegant back, Carole fit in with the other students more easily than I’d ever dreamed. There was no star trip from her, but that may have been because one of the other students was a very retired, very theatrical, film star.
Glenda Dupree had to be well into her middle sixties, although she insisted she wasn’t a day over fifty-eight. But I’d peeked at some of her early film credits so I knew better. She had come into her own at the tail end of the glamour girl era and she’d played “diva” to the hilt on the silver screen for many years. Off screen … well, you’ll see..
Tall and curvy, Glenda’s aging hourglass figure was holding up remarkably well, assisted, I’m sure, by at least one Hollywood plastic surgeon and a stem cell face-lift or two. She had been born in Nashville, gone to Hollywood while still a teen, made her mark and her millions, and retired here several years back. She wasn’t a recluse, but she was adamant that the film star era of her life was finished. Like Cary Grant, she had opted out while she still photographed well.
Glenda owned the farm just east of mine, so she had the pleasure of being sandwiched between Hill Henley and me. Lucky her. Actually, her home, Fairbanks, had been the original residence of the Henley plantation. Hill had let the towering two story antebellum mansion, complete with lofty white columns, slide into a horrible state of disrepair. Glenda purchased the house just months before I moved in, but it was several years before the extensive renovations on Fairbanks were completed and I had a genuine former movie star living next to me.
Today, an enormous cobalt blue scarf hid Glenda’s shoulder length, fashionably streaked blonde hair. The scarf also hid most of her face. I knew her, though, from her runway model strut, her designer jeans, and her theatrical gestures as she entered the barn office. Saying that Glenda Dupree was a pain in the ass to work with is like saying Hannibal Lecter was a little bit dangerous. But if Glenda ever learned to ride, she’d be great in the show ring.
My third student, Robert Griggs, was a hard one to figure. By profession he was a nurse. By personality he was an absolute stick in the mud. After a few lessons I got the feeling there was a sensitive side to him, but I couldn’t quite find it. Everything, from the way he moved to the words he spoke, was controlled and devoid of emotion. He even combed the long bangs of his salt and pepper hair forward, almost to his eyebrows, as if forming a barrier to keep intruders out of his mind.
At our first meeting Robert told me that a former girlfriend had gotten him involved with Morgan horses, but as he was no longer seeing the girl, he no longer wanted to ride Morgans. I wondered if the ex was the source of his suffering. But in spite of the lack of personality that surrounded Robert, I liked him. His rare smiles were charming and you could tell he had a real rapport with the horses. He not only liked them, he loved them. I hoped he had the same relationship with his patients.
My last student, Darcy Whitcomb, was, as usual, late. And, as usual, I decided not to wait for her.
We had been working the past few weeks on how attitude affects performance in the show ring, and at the last lesson
had videotaped a mock competition. I had spent much of the previous evening reviewing the tape and had typed what I hoped were constructive critiques for each student. With a bright look, I passed out my summaries. Hank assisted by wagging his tail.
The relaxed mood of my three pupils tightened perceptibly as they read my remarks. They finished reading within seconds of each other and turned to me as one, their faces registering emotions that varied from indifference to anger to absolute surprise.
“Now, I understand that some of you may not agree with my comments,” I said.
Glenda muttered something unprintable.
“But you all signed up for this class for a reason,” I continued. “You want to excel in the show ring, and I intend for you to do just that.”
This time Glenda sent a frightful look in my direction. Apparently what she was looking for was affirmation of her already perfect talents.
“If I only mentioned areas where you already excelled,” I went on, “if I didn’t offer comments on specific areas where you needed to improve, I wouldn’t be doing my job. You are all here to gain insight into the show ring, not to receive senseless adulation.”
This last part I directed in Glenda’s direction. Glenda frowned, her collagen-injected lower lip swelling into a familiar pout. Actually, her showmanship in the ring was superb, instinctive, the obvious result of her many years in front of a camera. But the mechanics of her horsemanship left a lot to be desired and I’d told her so in my critique.
By far, Carole had turned in the best performance. Entering the ring quietly with her chin up, heels down and shoulders back, she’d turned her head slightly and given the camera an “I am going to knock your socks off” stare and had me won over before the competition even began. I turned on the small TV/DVD combo we kept in the barn and asked the class to watch the tape with the emphasis on Carole’s ride. My students watched with the same expressions of indifference, anger, and surprise.
By the time the tape ended, Glenda’s anger had turned to a smirk.
“You know, Mary Catherine,” she said using my full name, even though, or maybe because, she knew I hated it, “I do treasure your wee efforts to educate us.”
Glenda lounged in the one good chair in the room, her jacket unzipped, her scarf and kid leather gloves on my desk. Now that her warm outer clothes had been removed, I saw that her face was as immaculately Botoxed and made-up as ever. Never one to be underdressed, she wore an exquisite cable knit sweater that looked as if it had recently hung in one of the upscale shops in Belle Meade. Her jeans hugged her curvy hips to perfection.
“My wee efforts?” I repeated.
“Yes, wee. It’s a good word for you, don’t you think?” she asked. “Considering your Irish heritage and all. Too bad, I can’t take them seriously. Your efforts, I mean.”
Somewhere along the line I’d forgotten that Glenda was a first class bitch. Why in the world had I let her in this class? I’d known her for years. I knew she always had to be the center of attention. When Glenda was around no one else could be recognized for any accomplishment, no matter how insignificant. I knew better, but I let it happen because she’d pestered me so. Glenda, it seemed, always got what Glenda wanted.
“I’ve been talking with another trainer,” she continued, nodding at the others, “and this, well … other trainer … thinks I’m ready to compete in shows right now.”
She stopped, drinking in the astonished looks of her classmates. They were as aware of her lack of riding ability as I.
“In fact,” she added, “I’ve already made plans to compete in several small shows next month.”
Embarrassed celebratory mumbling hailed her announcement. But Glenda was oblivious to the uncomfortable feelings of those around her. She shot a dramatic and superior look around the little room, then continued.
“You all know how excited I’ve been about the possibility of competing in real horse shows. I decided I just couldn’t stand another day of those tedious drills and silly exercises we all do,” she said with a wave of her hand. “So I talked to this other trainer and, well, he had some fabulous ideas. And here I am, ready to go.”
So Glenda had trekked through the cold and ice just to make her big announcement. Her very own mini press conference––without the press. She couldn’t have called me on the phone, or even dropped by privately to discuss this. Not once had she indicated that she was unhappy with her progress, or that she wanted to hurry into the show ring. Not that she was anywhere near ready, no matter what the “other trainer” had told her.
We all jumped as the office door banged and a colorful whirlwind of wet mittens and boots burst into the room. My tardy fourth student was once again making an entrance.
Darcy Whitcomb was seventeen going on forty. The only child of Mason Whitcomb, a prominent dot-com entrepreneur, Darcy was, to put it mildly, a spoiled brat. I know, because she’d been training with me since she was thirteen. Since our first meeting four years ago, Daddy Mason had divorced exotic Asian wife number two and was now engaged to number three, a twenty-two-year-old party girl he’d met on a boat off Myrtle Beach. Darcy’s mother, wife number one, had long been jet setting in Europe. No one knew when or where she’d turn up, or which duke, prince, or count she’d have in tow. In spite of all the parental marrying and divorcing and spoiling, Darcy was a good kid and I had a feeling she’d turn out okay.
Of the four, Darcy was the only one with show ring experience. Until eighteen months ago she’d been one of the top youth competitors in the nation. But she lacked the ambition––the drive––to be successful on a regular basis. She stayed out of competition all last season and spent the summer being a regular teenager. Regular teenaged life, apparently, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and Darcy decided to take this class to see if she was ready to come back to give it a better shot. Secretly, I thought she came back because there was no other place for her to go where people understood her. Either way, she was a good addition because she willingly lent her wealth of experience to the others in the class.
Darcy shook her thick, waist length blonde hair out of a Santa stocking cap, turned her huge blue eyes toward me and said, “What’s up?”
The room couldn’t have been any quieter if the Pope had walked through the door.
“I was just telling the others,” Glenda finally drawled, “that I have decided to switch to a new trainer. Hill Henley.”
My first reaction to the name of the trainer was to collapse into the scarred wooden desk I was leaning against. The shock was as real as if someone had punched me in the stomach. But as the full impact of the name Hill Henley whirled through my brain, a comforting thought popped in: the two deserved each other.
“Hill is just full of wonderful advice. Which, naturally, I am all ears for. It’s been a while since I had any good advice,” she said.
Glenda was in the middle of quite a performance and by now she knew she owned the small audience.
“Of course Hill is a fourth-generation Walking Horse trainer. This business of training horses is in his blood. He grew up around it. His ancestors even saved the area during The War of Northern Aggression. Did any of you know that?” Glenda’s look was condescending. “No, of course you didn’t. How silly of me.”
It was all I could do not to throttle her right then and there. Have I mentioned that I have a very small anger management problem? Nothing serious, really, but it does pop up from time to time. Recognizing that I was on the verge of losing my temper, I instead bit my tongue. It would prove to be a life-saving gesture. Well, my life, anyway.
I, as did the others in the room with the possible exception of Robert Griggs, knew all about the Henleys. Furthermore, we all knew much more than she about the highway robbery and horse thievery that permeated the Henley ancestral tree. Not that I planned on filling Glenda in on the gory details. I’d let her find that out for herself.
“Hill says I am going to become the next Champion Rider of the Year,” Glenda announc
ed with a grand sweep of her arm.
Carole looked up from the melting globs of ice she’d been intently inspecting on the floor. Her face only partially contained a smile. Robert looked blankly around the room. Like the rest of us, I imagined he wished he were somewhere else. Darcy, ever loyal, looked ready to pounce.
“I’m also going to tell everyone just who helped me get to the winner’s circle, and,” Glenda added, “who didn’t.”
I knew very well that it was ridiculous. Hill Henley could never make Glenda Dupree champion of anything. Not in his wildest dreams. If you throw money around right and left it will only get you so far in the show ring; eventually you have to actually stay on the horse. But like it or not, Glenda was a famous film star. Excuse me. Former film star. Either way, people would believe what she had to say. At least at first.
I didn’t believe she could do me much damage as far as prospective clients go. Due to the very different build and use of each breed, Appaloosa people and Walking Horse people did not mix all that often. It was like the difference between a dentist and a podiatrist. Both were doctors, but at different ends of the spectrum. We did use many of the same veterinarians, feed suppliers and other vendors, however, and I realized it was a situation that would have to be handled carefully.
For the first time since she exploded through the door Darcy moved. Crossing the tiny office to stand directly over Glenda, she looked down at her.
“Like that idiot next door could teach you anything. Get real,” said Darcy with all the sarcasm her seventeen years could muster.
Glenda gave Darcy a bemused look. It was clear that Glenda thought Darcy’s intelligence was somewhere in the neighborhood of owl poop.
“Honey,” she said, sarcasm dripping all over the word, “Why don’t you go play with your little girlfriends or whatever it is that you do? You’ll be so much happier if you stick to your own kind and stay out of important business that can’t possibly concern you.” Then she laughed and flung her hand in a cruel and dismissive gesture.