“Princess, even if I can’t legally sell Chocolates to you, I’m not going to sell him to her. So just keep showing him and have fun. I won’t pull the rug out from under you. I promise.”
Wow. My knight in shining armor, right? But what about Emily? Part of me can’t believe that I actually feel that way. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a charitable person. I was ALWAYS the girl handing down last year’s breeches to whatever working student deserved them the most. But when it comes to passing on opportunities to ride and show, I’ve never been one to share. I love this sport more than anyone could love anything. And Chocolates is one hell of a show horse. I know we could go far together. So really, this whole not being able to sell Chocolates works out well for me.
It’s times like this when not having any friends would come in handy. But that’s not my life anymore. Emily is my friend, and it turns out I care more about her chance to go to England than my own shot at returning to A-Circuit glory.
I decide that I can’t afford to sit around and wait for the Boss to solve this problem. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. It’s a good thing that I can FINALLY ask for advice from the one person in my life clever enough to outsmart the likes of Erica Lewis.
MOTHER AND I MAKE A DEAL: I’ll forgive her for her idiotic behavior at The Classic. In exchange, she allows me to tell Daddy all about my new Gallop Girl lifestyle.
Excited to finally begin a real, meaningful relationship with the man who helped bring me into this world, I tell Daddy everything about my new job, my friends and all the ways in which Erica Lewis is trying to mess things up. But I’m pretty sure Daddy stopped listening to me the moment I first said the word “thoroughbred”. His eyes are filled with the kind of lusty expression Mother probably hasn’t seen since their wedding night. Drool dribbles out from the corner of his mouth as he says, “You own a racehorse?”
I start all over again and explain that I USED to own a former racehorse that isn’t worth anything to anybody interested in winning races. Daddy slowly comes back to earth as I encourage him to accept that this racehorse of mine isn’t worth falling off the wagon for.
All right, ONE more time from the top. Daddy, I need help. I’m in a rough situation here. Mother doesn’t understand problems that involve helping other people. I need your sharp tactical mind on this one.
I’m about to give up on Daddy offering any helpful advice when, out of the blue, he looks at me with clear eyes and says, “You know, Cookie, Martin Lewis is a gambler. Anybody who owns racehorses is a gambler. He just hasn’t had occasion to let himself get carried away like I did. Gamblers don’t like to get stuck holding onto losers. It sounds like that Chocolates of yours is a loser, at least on the racetrack. You know what guys like Martin Lewis like? They like winners. They’re addicted to winners. You find yourself a winner and I bet you could get him to trade that loser of his for your winner.”
Daddy is wearing his hemp sweatpants and the room is filled with the scent of those awful peace and harmony candles. But for the first time in a long time, I can see a glimpse of the captain of industry I once longed to get to know. The more Daddy talks about winners and losers, the more frantic he becomes. I can feel his heart beating faster and his breath getting quicker. My eyes dart around the room in a fruitless search for a gluten-free hemp treat to calm him down. Sweat starts to bead on Daddy’s forehead and he says, “A winner, Cookie, a winner. That boss of yours is not a winner. He’s a gambler. Anyone that works in his line of work is a gambler and gamblers are always losers. Trust me, Cookie, I know.”
I am beginning to realize that the whole Zen Daddy persona is totally an act that goes poof! the second you mention racehorses. OK, Mother. You’re right. You were not trying to sabotage my chance at finally having a close relationship with Daddy. You were protecting me from the monster that comes out at the mere smell of an opportunity to put a couple bucks on a nice pony.
I should shut my mouth and slowly walk away, right? But amazingly, Daddy’s not-entirely coherent advice sparks an idea. Without thinking, I blurt out, “Matty is a winner.”
Daddy instantly goes into overdrive, demanding to know, “Who’s Matty? Is he really fast? How is he working? Do you think he has what it takes to be a grade-A stakes winner? Do you own this horse, Cookie? COOKIE. COOKIE, DO YOU OWN THIS HORSE?!”
I’m starting to worry that Daddy would push me into oncoming traffic if that’s what it took to get more information on Matty.
And that’s when it hits me. Daddy and I don’t have a close relationship because Daddy and I are never going to have a close relationship. And it’s not because he’s too busy or Mother is in the way. It’s because Daddy is an addict. He always has been an addict and he’s always going to be an addict. If it’s not work, it’s a racehorses or yoga and gluten-free hemp cookies. But whatever it is that has Daddy’s attention, it’s probably not good for him and it’s definitely not me.
Daddy is completely covered in sweat. He’s extinguishing the peace and harmony candles and whispering like he’s convinced the room is bugged. He tells me that all I have to do is convince the Boss to sell Matty to Mr. Lewis on the condition that Mr. Lewis gives up all claims to Chocolates. It’s actually a pretty good plan. I’m starting to feel guilty for giving up on Daddy so quickly.
But then Daddy starts insisting that he come to Winning Edge the next time I’m scheduled to work Matty. He mumbles something about buttering up the Boss. But I know he’s just looking for an excuse to get within smelling distance of a racehorse. I turn the offer down.
Daddy is not giving up easily here, though. He looks at me with way too much intensity, lowering his voice until it’s almost impossible to hear and says, “Your boss is a gambler, Cookie. No gambler is going to want to give up his winning horse without some serious coaxing. You’re going to need my help.”
That’s it. I’m not even pretending to take Daddy seriously anymore. The Boss isn’t a gambler. He’s a horseman! I want out of this room before I start to suffocate. All of a sudden, Daddy looks really small and ashamed. He revealed a side of himself that he hoped to always keep hidden, and I can see the regret spread across his face. He takes one last look at me and say, “Cookie, do yourself a favor. Don’t ever ask a gambler to help you with your problems. We’ll just disappoint you in the end.”
Well, there you have it. After twenty two years twisting in the wind, I’m finally getting some fatherly advice that might actually help me out in the world. I never thought of the Boss as a gambler. But if Daddy is right, he’s the last man I should be trying to attract.
I leave my father alone in his peace and harmony room. The younger, innocent Margaret Fletcher might have fallen for Daddy’s song and dance about wanting to come to the track to help me out. But real life has a way of making it harder to fall for the same crap you believed before your fairytale lifestyle came crashing down around you, leaving you with only a tiny apartment and a closet full of last year’s breeches.
For all our dysfunction, I guess Mother really has been a pretty decent parent to me. Even though every piece of the advice that she has given me has been completely inappropriate, she was always there. And you know what they say: ninety-nine percent of life is about showing up.
I find Mother in the kitchenette baking a tiny Quiche Lorraine in the toaster oven (Mother has always been too intimidated to bake in the full size model). I wait until she finishes setting the timer and give her a hug. The experience leaves her a little startled, and I leave before she can figure out how to hug me back.
That’s OK, Mom. I know you love me too.
CHAPTER 24
~ Emily meets her spirit guide ~
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
First let me express my gratitude for the opportunity that you so generously offered me. Unfortunately, the funding I was relying on to get to me England has suddenly f
allen through. So it is with my deepest regret that I must decline what is probably the opportunity of a lifetime.
***
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Why on earth would you let a silly detail like funding get in the way of living the high life in grand old England mucking stalls and dishing out bran mash in the pouring rain?
***
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Maybe my previous email came across as a little flip. Let me assure you that “funding falling through” is not code for “bought one too many custom frock coats this season and need to tighten the Hermes belt before the fall helmet fashions hit the tack shops”. Unlike many of my peers, I have been begging, borrowing and sometimes stealing my way through the horse world my whole life, waiting for my big break. Three weeks ago, I was sure I’d won the equine lottery. But it turns out the ticket is counterfeit.
***
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
You’re broke. So what? All that proves is that you’re foolish enough to try and make a living in the horse world. Sounds exactly like the kind of person who need to beg, borrow and steal her way to England to come work for me.
***
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
I can’t believe that I am in a situation where someone of your caliber is trying to persuade me to come to England and work for her. I’m touched. Really. But in addition to my insufficient funds, there are bigger concerns keeping me on my side of the pond.
***
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Please elaborate.
***
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
I think I might suck as a rider.
***
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Of course you suck. I haven’t started teaching you yet. All the more reason to beg, borrow and steal your way to England so you can stop sucking post haste.
***
To: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
From: Emily Morris ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Well, there is still the issue of funding.
***
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Turtle Cumberbund ([email protected])
Re: With Regrets
Figure it out. Get yourself to England and learn how to stop sucking. Simple, but not easy, right? Just like riding.
***
SIMPLE, BUT NOT EASY. I never thought of it that way. Sounds like the kind of self-contradictory statement Uncle Sam would make. So I turn to him for decoding. But all I get is, “She’s right. Life is simple, but not easy. The solution to your problem, simple. Just sell that horse of yours for enough money to get to England. Getting around the fact that you don’t legally have the right to sell him? Well, that’s not going to be easy.”
Uncle Sam doesn’t need to know that I singlehandedly wiped out all interest in Chocolates before Erica pulled the rug out from under the operation. As far as I’m concerned, the only “facts” that matter involve Margaret’s ridiculous high school rivalry and how her reckless behavior put me in this difficult situation. Margaret claims to have some foolproof plan that will fix this whole mess. Do I dare trust her again?
Uncle Sam puts his arm around me, signaling that he’s about to give me some fatherly advice, so I better hurry up and listen. He says, “Kid, you’re right. That Margaret Fletcher is totally bonkers and any reasonable person wouldn’t trust her as far as they could throw one of those Hermes belt buckles of hers. But here’s the thing: it’s the crazy people who have the courage to lead extraordinary lives. You’re the dirt poor daughter of a single waitress and you want to ride horses in the Olympics. Sounds pretty extraordinary to me.”
My first thought is: I could actually throw one of those Hermes belt buckles pretty far. So I don’t think Uncle Sam has a firm grasp of how that analogy is supposed to work. But as much as I hate to admit it, the rest of what he said is spot-on. Margaret Fletcher is totally bonkers and no reasonable person would be stupid enough to put their fate in her perfectly-manicured hands. So if I want to think of myself as reasonable, I should really say sayonara before Princess has a chance to entangle me in whatever crazy plan is brewing under that cubic zirconium tiara of hers.
But if I want to be the fearless eventer that I have always imagined myself to be, brave enough to tame the wildest beast and insane enough to boldly tackle cross-country, I’ll need to be brave enough to hitch my cart onto Margaret Fletcher’s horse.
So what’s it going to be, Morris? I think to myself. Are you in or are you out?
AS IT TURNS OUT, Margaret’s plan is just plain crazy. Convince the Boss to sell the best horse he’s ever owned in exchange for a clear title on Chocolates?
Sure, Mr. Lewis would love to get his hands on a horse like Matty. But the Boss isn’t going to hand that one over. He’s been trying for years to find something that can finally put him on the map. I bet he thought he would never own a horse like Matty. And now that he does, I can’t imagine that anyone could convince him to give that up. Not even Margaret Fletcher.
I try my darnedest to convince Margaret that her plan is ridiculous. But, surprise, surprise, she refuses to listen to reason. Take a deep breath, Emily. It’s the crazy ones that have the courage to lead extraordinary lives, remember?
Margaret feels confident that she can trick Erica into demanding her Daddy buy Matty. “All YOU have to do is convince the Boss to take the deal on the condition that we get to keep Chocolates. Don’t look at me like I’m asking you to do the impossible. You’re a poor girl with a big dream. You’re a compelling story. Just sell it.”
I probably shouldn’t be rolling my eyes right now. But I can’t help myself. “Margaret, do you have any clue how important a horse like Matty is to a guy like the Boss? There is no way that he would ever let him go.”
The cheery expression vanishes from Margaret’s face as she reminds me that no one knows more than her how difficult it is to sell a nice horse. “But sometimes you don’t have a choice because it’s the only thing that will keep your family from drowning. So you kiss them on the nose, say “I love you” and let them go. And years later when you find out it was all because the man you used to admire has an uncontrollable urge to behave irresponsibly, you try not to hate him for destroying everything you loved.”
I have a feeling that we’re not talking about the Boss and Matty anymore. I give Margaret a moment to wipe the stray tear from the corner of her eye, and then I cautiously break the news that I just don’t think this plan is going to work.
But Margaret isn’t in the mood for my negativity. “Oh, Emily, it’s time for you to start taking responsibility for your own life.” Off my raised eyebrow, Margaret concedes that I can always be relied upon to do grunt work and act like a martyr about it. However, when it comes time to do the heavy lifting of making sure that I have the funds necessary to make my big dream happen, the responsibility has been falling squarely on her shoulders alone. Before I have a chance to open my mouth in protest, she reminds me, “I found Chocolates. I came up with the idea to flip him. And now that we f
ind ourselves in what appears to be an impossible situation, I’ve come up with the brilliant plan on how to solve our problem. It’s time for YOU to start fighting for yourself, Emily. I can’t be your Spirit Guide forever!”
Spirit Guide?! Wow, this girl really has some ego. The problem with Margaret’s plan isn’t that I don’t want to fight for myself. No, the problem is THE PLAN IS STUPID.
But Margaret refuses to listen to reason and accuses me of sounding like my Mother. Since when does Margaret Fletcher know anything about my Mother? Seriously. I demand to know.
“Uncle Sam and I talk about your mother all the time,” Margaret casually says, like it’s not big deal, “He says you’re just like her, totally capable of amazing things, but too afraid to actually try.”
I’m hurt, horrified and flabbergasted all at once.
“Emily,” Margaret sighs, patting me on the shoulder in a patronizing manner, “Sam and I actually talk about all kinds of things. We’re friends. I didn’t really have any friends growing up, and finally taking the time to make some has been a positive change in my life. Aside from me and Sara, you don’t seem to have many friends, either. So you might want to start working on that.”
I’m still fuming with the knowledge of Uncle Sam and Margaret’s character assassination and I’m ready to storm out of the room in a fit of anger. But then Margaret says, “Just a little hint. When a friend — and just so we’re both on the same page here, I’m referring to ME — goes through something traumatic like finding out that her father is deadbeat gambler, you should check in and ask how she’s doing.”
Ninety-nine percent of what Margaret Fletcher has said in the past fifteen minutes is complete crap. But I have to admit that she’s got a point with that last bit about me coming up short as a friend. Despite the unlikely situation, Margaret Fletcher and I have become friends.
I’m not sure what to do here. Do I offer a hug? Say something mean about her dad? Or lie and insist that this whole gambling thing is just a phase? I guess I really am pretty bad at this whole friend thing.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 19