But then Emily says, “You can’t give up, Margaret. You’re too good at this.” I’m beginning to think that the little trailer hermit over here is actually some kind of Machiavellian genius. I have never in my life been so desperate for someone to put me in my place as I am right now. I’m terrified to open my mouth. Anything that I say could be easily twisted into another unwelcome compliment secretly designed to make me feel like crap.
Emily breaks our uncomfortable silence with, “That’s right, Margaret, you’re a really good rider. Believe me, it’s totally annoying how easy you make galloping look. Just when I thought I could handle you and all your natural confidence-building balance, you go and make a feral off-the-track thoroughbred look like a sixty thousand dollar hunter!”
Now Emily is sounding like the person who is about to go off the deep end. I finally open my mouth to snort, “Chocolates is nice, but he’s no sixty thousand dollar hunter.”
“Then why did Erica Lewis offer to buy Chocolates for exactly that after you kicked her butt in that Geoff Maurice clinic?” Emily challenges back.
WHAT?
Suddenly, the waterworks in my tear ducts shut off like somebody forgot to pay the bill. I’m no longer blubbering so much as mentally depositing thirty thousand dollars into my checking account.
Emily senses the instantaneous change in my mood and smiles. “Don’t worry. I told Erica Lewis to take a hike. We’re not selling this horse until you have a chance to make your triumphant Hunter Princess return at the Classic.” I’m speechless. No wonder this girl lives in an unheated trailer. Emily isn’t finished, though, and proudly proclaims, “Some things are more important than money. Some things are even more important than being a working student in England. So you don’t have to worry about me selling your dream down the river, Margaret. I’m not that kind of friend.”
Let me get this straight. Emily TURNED DOWN a sixty thousand offer on a horse that’s barely worth a buck fifty?!!! I want to scream all kinds of horrible things at the top of my lungs. But then I remember that pain medication and an angry Margaret Fletcher isn’t a pretty mix. I take a deep breath and ask dear Emily, “Do you honestly think that this is my dream? I spent three hours yesterday doing barn chores in shoes with NO SOLES! I don’t like Erica Lewis any more than you. But it’s not like her ponies aren’t well-cared-for. Her farm has five equine Jacuzzis for Christ sake. Call her back and tell her we accept.”
I can tell that my reaction isn’t what Emily was expecting when she told me that she took it upon herself to turn down a ridiculous amount of money for a horse that we are both hoping to sell for a ridiculous amount of money. Don’t get me wrong: selling yet another one of my ponies to the likes of Erica Lewis is not ideal. But the situation gets a lot more palatable in direct proportion to how much Erica Lewis is willing to overpay for said pony. Sure, I would be bummed to miss out on the Classic. But thirty thousand dollars could get me to the next big horse show in style. Or, I don’t know, maybe buy me another pair of paddock boots!
When Emily tells me that she is pretty sure the offer is off the table, I suddenly feel a lot poorer than a barefooted barn lackey should. I patiently wait for her to apologize and promise to never do something so stupid again.
She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Wow, Margaret. I really thought you were different. But you’re just like all the other rich girls who just use their horses to get what they want before moving on to the next one. Meanwhile, those of us who think of our horses before ourselves get left in your dust. No wonder I can’t seem to get anywhere in this business no matter how hard I work.”
“Emily, you can’t get anywhere because you do stupid things like turn down a sale that could have afforded you the opportunity of a lifetime. You’re the one who crapped all over that free ticket to England, not me.”
Emily looks like I just punched her in the gut. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes as she tells me that I need to go back to the Boss and beg for my job back because I have done enough damage here.
That’s it. Margaret Fletcher can only take so much self-righteous attitude in one day. I let those painkillers take over and scream, “Living in a trailer does not make you better than me!”
Now it’s Emily’s turn to act like a petulant child and stomp out of the feed room. I decide to wait five minutes for her to regret her actions and come back.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still standing in the tack room wondering what to do next. The path isn’t clear. But one thing is certain: I won’t be begging Emily for forgiveness just so I can continue my indentured servitude here at Muddy Scratchy Farms.
Margaret Fletcher may have gotten her head scrambled like an omelette on the track at Winning Edge Farms. But she is most definitely not the one acting like she has a screw loose!
CHAPTER 18
~ Emily is fed up ~
Ever since the day Margaret crashed and burned on the track, I have done everything in my power to support her and make her feel good about herself. And how does she repay me? By nearly killing our horse, and then telling me that it’s MY fault I can’t afford to make my dreams come true. That Hunter Princess really is a piece of work. My first instinct is to call Uncle Sam and complain about how wronged I’ve been. But he’s bound to come to Margaret’s defense with some ridiculous analogy about her baking skills. I’ve got too much anger boiling up inside me. I have to let some of it spill out of the pot.
I call Sara. Who else could possibly understand what I’m dealing with? But Sara isn’t cooperating. No, she thinks Princess Fancy Breeches has a point. I refuse to listen to whatever traitorous thing she has to say. Margaret Fletcher has done nothing but wreak havoc on my ego ever since she set foot on the grounds of Winning Edge Farms. I’m sick of it. She dresses better than me. Gallops better than me. And just when I think I’ve finally got her where I want her, she rides a green show horse better than me. Not that I was looking for her to fail. But come on! How on earth did she come out of that clinic looking like a hero?
When Sara asks why I turned down Erica’s offer without consulting Margaret first, I don’t know what to say. It felt right, OK? Never in a million years would I have expected such a grilling from the one girl in my life who understands what it’s like to be the only poor girl in the room. I can’t believe it. I’m ready to hang up now. But she is not letting me go. She starts blathering on about how I’m a really good rider, but I just don’t give myself enough credit. What is Sara talking about? I’m always saying what a great rider I would be if I had more money. That doesn’t sound like someone guilty of never giving herself enough credit.
I hear Sara sigh at the other end of the line. She is trying to tell me something and I’m just not getting it. So I change the subject to something I’m more comfortable with and say, “Did you know that you’re supposed to color coordinate your jacket with your horse?”
Sara laughs and warns me to prepare to be introduced to a whole new world of crazy at The New London Classic. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve been so focused on Margaret’s silly behavior, it never occurred to me that I’m about to travel into the eye of the storm.
“Any advice on how to blend in with the fancy natives? Should I get a pair of fake diamond earrings and call everyone Lovey?” I joke.
I can feel Sara rolling her eyes as she responds, “Emily, you’re focused entirely too much on money. Just remember that no matter how much you have, in this sport there is always going to be someone richer than you. So if you want to have any kind of longevity as an equestrian, you’ve got to have more to offer than a fat bank account.”
I think Sara has forgotten who she’s on the phone with. Of course there is always going to be someone richer than me. I’m broke! That’s the problem. That has always been the problem. Even if I sold Chocolates to Erica Lewis for sixty thousand dollars, that would still be the problem.
I make a big show of yawning and thank Sara for her totally useless advice before hanging up the phone. I’m still mad a
t Margaret. But in the quiet of my own company, I can admit to myself the real reason why. I asked the Boss to give me the ride on Matty while Margaret cooled her heels at Green Acres. And he said no. I didn’t push for an explanation because deep down inside I was glad he wouldn’t let me. I’m terrified of that horse, as is every other rider at Winning Edge. I was just the only one with the guts to pretend to want to gallop him.
But I know that come next week, Margaret is going to get right back up on Matty. When she does, I’m pretty sure it will be the final blow to whatever is left of my ego. And once again, Margaret Fletcher, Hunter Princess extraordinaire, will deliver the wallop without even realizing what she has done.
CHAPTER 19
~ Margaret girds her loins ~
Mother insists I bear witness to another one of her fake shopping sprees. I should say no. It’s embarrassing to watch her try on clothes that she can’t possibly afford. And I feel sorry for the salesgirl shuttling garments back and forth, believing that the crazy woman admiring herself in the dressing room mirror still lives in a world where a seven thousand dollar evening gown is a reasonable purchase. Poor thing is probably already calculating the commission on this star-spangled monstrosity of a dress.
“Margaret, honey,” Mother screeches as she zips it up over her boney hips, “Allison is having another one of her fundraisers for poor children that want to ride horses. I don’t know how I’m going to fit it into my schedule. But you know Allison! She’ll be absolutely furious if I don’t attend. I think this dress might just be the thing to wear. It’s kind of got a rhinestone cowboy feeling to it, don’t you think?”
Dr. Allison Swanson may have a habit of buying horses for talented young riders of modest means. But this fundraiser is a figment of Mother’s imagination. I know this because even if Dr. Swanson was inclined to throw a charity ball for otherwise-privileged youths who can’t quite afford the equestrian lifestyle, she would never in a million years invite Mother. Back in heyday of the Fletcher family fortune, Mother referred to Dr. Swanson as her personal white whale, on account of the fact that the good doctor was the one social connection she could quite never catch. “Mark my words, Margaret. One of these days, I’m going to find the right harpoon!”
I don’t know why Mother put such a premium on obtaining Dr. Allison Swanson’s friendship. But she sure did everything in her power to try and get that woman’s attention. She even showed up at Dr. Swanson’s hunt club unannounced, dressed to the nines and ready to Tally Ho. After being told that she couldn’t ride to the hounds on the golf cart she stole from Daddy’s country club, Mother finally gave up.
I can’t help but notice that the poor salesgirl is working way too hard for her fictional commission, and I feel the need to make it stop. “Remind me Mother. Did they ever let you back in Daddy’s club after the golf cart incident?”
Mother immediately starts looking a little green around the gills and quietly slips out of the dress that she never had any business trying on in the first place. “Why would you bring up a silly thing like that now,” she says sheepishly, like a kid who just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I brought up the notorious golf cart incident up because it has always been the one thing in Mother’s history guaranteed to take her down a peg. Besides, I’ve always been genuinely curious to know how she found the courage to face her peers after three quarters of the club demanded the Fletcher family produce a clean bill of mental health for her as a condition of Daddy’s membership reinstatement.
After sending the salesgirl on a fool’s errand to find the red, white and blue rhinestone nightmare in a size negative zero, Mother and I slink out of the boutique before anyone has a chance to ask us to leave.
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other, staring at a giant plate of pancakes that neither one of us is touching. Mother isn’t one for fluffy, gluten-filled breakfast treats. But the pancake house is the only place in town that serves white wine at ten AM.
“I don’t know what possessed me to think that stealing a golf cart was a good idea,” Mother admits, “Your father never forgave me. He said I humiliated him in front of all of his friends. Do you know how hard it is to hold your head up high when everyone in town thinks you’re a lunatic? I lost all confidence in myself. It got to the point I couldn’t even look at the social calendar without getting a pit in my stomach. Then your father lost all our money and the invitations stopped coming. You know, honey, life can turn on you so fast. One minute, you’re the belle of the ball and the next, you’re racing around on a stolen golf cart, completely oblivious to the brick wall that you’re about to smash into head-on.”
Kind of like how one minute, you’re galloping a difficult horse and the next, you’re lying on the ground wondering what your name is. And that’s when the pit starts growing in my own stomach. Do I really have the courage to continue to risk life and limb for twenty dollars a head? Last week may have been the first time I fell off at forty miles an hour. But if I keep on galloping, it won’t be the last. I would be crazy to ask for my job back, right?
Mother interrupts my introspection with a story about how she was unable to get out of bed after Mitzi Malone accused her of mixing one too many prescription medications with her afternoon cocktail. “Let’s face it, Margaret, I’ve always been something of a loose cannon. It was only a matter of time before I did something to really embarrass myself. And when it finally happened, I was paralyzed with the knowledge that, if left to my own devices, I would probably do it again. But what was I supposed to do? Stop being myself because the consequences of my behavior can be scary? What kind of life would that be?”
It would probably be a very dull life, spent sitting behind the reception desk at a veterinary clinic or some other uninspired office space with unflattering fluorescent lighting. I wouldn’t have to worry about inconveniences like road rash, concussions or trips to the emergency room. But I also wouldn’t get to feel the wind slapping me awake at five thirty in the morning as I gallop faster and freer than I ever thought possible. The muscles on my arms would shrink and the best years of my life wouldn’t be spent smelling like horse sweat and bridle leather.
You know what, Mother? You’re right. Some things are worth acting like a crazy person for. I take a heaping forkful of pancake, pouring extra syrup on top before shoving it in my mouth. Don’t worry, I’ll be galloping the calories off as soon as I convince the Boss to let me saddle up again.
EXACTLY TWO SECONDS AFTER MY FEET touch Winning Edge soil again, I see the Boss limp towards me with Matty in hand. I’m still upset about the way things ended between us. But there is something about seeing him in this weakened state that tugs at my heartstrings, and I can’t help but chuckle as the Boss hobbles towards me with the grace of a broken-down old man.
“Alright, Princess, you win. Nobody in this barn can gallop Matty like you can. Including me. You were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry.” I think that might be the sexiest thing that man has said to me to date. My chest swells with pride as I bask in the glow of the Boss’s unabashed admiration.
But when he begins handing over the reins of the equine firecracker that nobody in their right mind wants to gallop, I question if this is a challenge worth tackling. The part of me with a sense of self-preservation says no. But that pesky little voice inside my head, the one that always gets me into trouble, says it’s time to show the rough-and-tumble riders here at Winning Edge Farms that Margaret Fletcher kicks ass.
I gingerly take the reins out of the Boss’s hands, letting my fingertips graze the pleasing protrusions of his manly knuckles for one blissful moment, and consider my options. I know I should say no. But every bone in my body is telling me to ride that stallion.
Pull yourself together, Fletcher. Besides, he’s a taken man, remember?
“What about Emily?” I say, “She’s a bold and brave cross-country rider and I’m just a silly little Hunter Princess. Wouldn’t she be a better choice for such a challenging horse?”
The Boss informs me that Sam won’t let her risk her neck on the strongest horse in the barn. “So unless you can produce a concerned family member, you’re up, kid.”
Ouch. That hurt. It’s not like I want some crusty old Uncle interfering in my affairs. But now that the Boss brings it up, it would be nice if someone sharing my DNA had an opinion about me risking my life for twenty bucks a head. Now that Daddy and I are finally getting to know each other, I’m sure he would have all kinds of protective things to say about the harrowing situation that I am about to put myself in.
Wait a minute! Uncle Sam LOVES me, probably even more than Daddy. At least he knows more about what is going on with my life right now.
“Sam is not going to let you jeopardize my safety any more than Emily’s,” I inform him with an imperious nod.
But the Boss just smiles and says, “Putting you back on Matty was his idea.”
Et tu, Sam? I guess blood is thicker than water. I take a moment to wallow in a little self-pity when Emily bursts onto the scene, guns ablaze, screaming, “You’re going to let Margaret do it and not me?!!!” Completely unconcerned about her appearance, the rant continues with Emily insisting that life is not fair and if a rube like Margaret Fletcher can ride that horse, she can ride it better.
Offended, I’m about to come to my own defense when the Boss looks Emily in the eye and quietly says, “You’re a good rider. But you’re not Margaret.”
Silence.
Emily’s voice shakes as she replies, “I know you think that puffed-up Princess with her custom socks and monogrammed shoelaces is a better rider than me. But you’re wrong.”
The Boss breathes a heavy sigh and with the gravity of someone about to crush a young girl’s dream, he says, “You can’t hesitate on a horse like that. You’ve got to believe in yourself because if you don’t, he sure as hell won’t. It takes grit to get something that cocky to listen to you. And that is just not the kind of rider you are, Emily.”
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 15