Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  Trish looked up to see the sun streaming through the stained-glass window of the shepherd with a lamb. The beams of light glinted off the gold cross on the altar, as if to restate the promise. When the organ music rose in the final hymn, Trish felt as if she’d truly been in a holy place. Her heart swelled along with the song. “Thank you, Father,” Trish whispered under the strains of music. “I needed this.”

  That afternoon at the track Trish continued to feel the peace she’d found in church. While the colt under her danced and pranced his way to the starting gate, she entertained him with her song. The horse flicked his ears and snorted but walked flat-footed into the gate. Trish settled herself and him, a smile on her face and the song still singing in her heart.

  The gate flew open. The gray colt broke. Trish exploded along with him and drove him toward the turn. With only six furlongs, they had no time to fool around.

  The colt lengthened his stride. Neck and neck with a horse on their right, they left the field behind and headed for the finish line. Stride for stride the two dueled down the stretch. The other rider went to the whip. Trish leaned forward and sang into her mount’s ears, “Go, fella, you can do it. Come on now, baby.”

  The colt lengthened his stride again. He pulled forward by a head, a neck, and then the contender disappeared behind them. Trish and her mount surged across the finish line two lengths in the lead. Trish let him slow down, her jubilation punctuated with a “Thank you, God!” at the top of her lungs.

  Back at the Finleys’ condo that evening, Trish called the Shipsons in Kentucky. When they learned of Trish’s plan, they responded with delight. Trish hung up the phone and turned to Marge. “They can’t wait until we get there. Mrs. Shipson—Bernice—is thrilled you are coming along.” Trish danced a step and shuffle in delight. They were going to see Spitfire. “I better send Red a letter to let him know.”

  “Too late.” David lay back on the couch. He stretched his arms above his head. “He’ll be too busy to see you anyway.” He ducked when Trish thumped him with the pillow. “Mother, call off your kid,” David laughed.

  “Guess I’ll call him then.” Trish flipped through her address book for the Holloran number and headed for the bedroom to make the call in private. After her conversation, she returned to the living room. “He’s racing at Keeneland, his mother said. She’ll let him know I called.”

  “Did you ask how he’s doing? Racewise, that is,” Marge asked from her place in the corner of the eight-foot couch.

  “Better than me, that’s for sure. Guess he’s been in the money most of the summer. Mrs. Holloran says they haven’t seen much of him at all.”

  “Will he be riding at Louisville?” Adam asked.

  “I guess.” Trish refused to look at her brother when she heard his snort. She could feel the warmth begin at her collarbone and work its way upward. David could always make her blush about Red. “You leaving before works or after?” She felt like bopping him with the pillow again. A couple of times, just to let him know how much she cared.

  “About the time you do. That’s a long haul to Tucson.” David stretched again and rose to his feet. “The car’s all packed.” He crossed the room to Margaret Finley’s rocker. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. After staying with you, I know why Trish calls this her second home.”

  Margaret set her needlepoint on the floor and stood to give him a hug. “You come back anytime. The farm is even closer to you than this, so if you need a weekend away from school, just let us know.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ll bake an apple pie just for you.”

  “See you in the morning, son.” Adam waved from his laid-back recliner. “Just remember, if you ever need a job, there’s always an opening with me.”

  “We have first dibs on him.” Marge uncurled her legs and stood. “See you all in the morning. Come on, you two. I’ll tuck you in.”

  The three followed one another up the stairs.

  Trish told David good-night at the door and preceded her mother into the bedroom they shared. “You want to go shopping in the morning after works at the track? Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  “Is this my Trish inviting her mother to go shopping?” Marge raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

  “Rhonda and I had a blast. We could too.”

  “I know. We will. And if we keep busy enough, maybe I’ll be able to not think about David and his trek for a few minutes.”

  “Bad, huh?” Trish sank down on the edge of the bed. “Me too. I keep hoping things will go back to normal, but I can’t find normal any more.”

  Chapter

  02

  Surely it was the fog making her eyes water.

  David hugged his mother one last time, and then Trish. “Take care of yourself, twerp.” He tapped the end of her nose and grinned—a jaunty grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Bye all.” He waved and slid behind the wheel of his car, which matched Trish’s red LeBaron convertible.

  Trish heard Marge sniff as the red taillights disappeared in the fog. Please take good care of him, God, Trish prayed as she blew her nose. And us. Our family just keeps getting smaller.

  Adam laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He too seemed to be suffering from early foggy morning nose dripping. Trish revised her prayer. Maybe their family was really getting bigger.

  “You could go back to bed for a few hours,” she told her mother as she and Adam prepared to leave for the track. “One of us needs plenty of sleep before we attack those stores.”

  Marge wiped her eyes and shivered in the chill. “Think I will. Unless I could do something for you at the track.”

  Trish caught her jaw before it bounced on her chest. Was this really her mother talking? “Thanks, but you sleep. See you around ten or so.”

  Trish checked the clock on the dashboard as she turned the ignition. Ten to five. They were running late. She followed Adam’s taillights down the hill and past the guarded entry to the condominium complex. Once on El Camino Real, the golden light from the fog-piercing streetlamps shone on the early commuters.

  Trish let her mind fly north to Portland and the problems at Portland Meadows. Somebody had to do something, but what? And who? Was there really something going on that shouldn’t be?

  She tucked those thoughts away when she parked her car in the parking lot and got out to walk with Adam to the stalls. If she allowed her mind to really wander, it would head back home for a few more snoozes.

  The morning passed without a hitch. Gatesby even acted like a gentleman, rubbing his forehead against her chest rather than sneaking in a nip or three. Trish followed Adam’s instructions and warmed up Sarah’s Pride before letting her out at the half-mile pole to breeze her. She mentally ticked off the seconds as the poles blurred by and pulled the excited filly down again at the mile. They trotted back to the exit gate, the filly pulling at the bit all the while.

  “You’ve come a long way, girl,” Trish sang to the twitching ears as the filly kept track of everything going on around her. “You behave real well now. Wait till Patrick sees you.” Sarah’s Pride snorted and tossed her head, sending bits of foamy spit flying into Trish’s face.

  Trish wiped off a glob with a gloved hand and settled back into the saddle as Adam fell into step with them.

  “Well, what do you think?” His blue eyes twinkled when he looked up at the girl on the horse.

  “Fourteen and seven tenths.” Trish named the time she estimated they’d used.

  Adam shook his head. “You amaze me. For one so young…” He held up the stopwatch. “You were only five tenths of a second off. That’s about your best time.” He patted the filly on the shoulder. “And you did right well, young lady. Nice to see you mind your manners.”

  “You’ve a stakes race for her this time, right?” Trish kept a firm hand on the reins. She wanted no surprises this morning.

  “Umm-humm.” Adam nodded and smiled greetings to everyone who walked past. Whether he admitted it or not, he was
a popular person, not to mention a respected trainer at Bay Meadows. “I thought she was ready, and this breeze proves me right. She’s well conditioned, and I think we’ve broken her bad habits. We’ll see if Patrick knows his stuff, won’t we?”

  Patrick O’Hern, the ex-jockey/trainer her father had hired and who was now helping Runnin’ On Farm build a larger string, had recommended they put an offer on Sarah’s Pride in a claiming race at Pimlico. He saw the potential, and her father had agreed.

  “She’s lookin’ good,” Carlos, the head groom, said when Trish jumped to the ground. “Your agent came by…said for you to call him.”

  “Gracias, Carlos.” Trish ducked under the filly’s neck and headed for the office. She only had Gimmeyourheart to work and she’d be finished. Hopefully her agent had plenty of mounts for her this week.

  She felt like spinning round and round, like a top flashing reds and golds in its humming dance. Friday evening they’d be flying to Kentucky to see Spitfire.

  Her imaginary top wobbled and toppled over. After Friday she wouldn’t be racing for—for who knew how long. Here she’d been nearly ready to quit, and now the thought of it made her throat tighten. Would she ever understand herself?

  She finished marking the four mounts her agent had for her in her calendar and stuffed it back into her pack. That gave her nine mounts in four days. Things were looking up.

  After riding Gimmeyourheart, Trish forced him to walk back to the stables. “He acts like he has no idea what he’s supposed to do out there,” she said as she kicked her right foot out of the irons and slid to the ground. “No wonder he didn’t do well.”

  “Maybe he was just testing you.” Carlos stripped off the saddle and cloth while Juan, Trish’s favorite stableboy, prepared a soapy, warm water bucket. “What about that hoof?”

  “Feels like he favors it. You sure it’s all healed?”

  “Maybe we should send him out to the farm and let him loose for a while. Since you don’t know whether Portland will start or not in a couple of months, let’s give him another rest.” Adam checked each hoof and felt for any heat in the fetlocks. “Seems fine, but…” He shook his head. “You watch…when he comes back, he’ll be a sizzler.”

  Trish hoped the doubt didn’t show on her face.

  When she got back in her car, the first thing she saw was PTL! written in huge letters on a Post-it she’d stuck to her dash earlier. Praise the Lord. She’d promised to do just that—in everything—as the Bible said and her father had done. Her nagger seemed to stretch and uncurl on her shoulder to chuckle in her ear. What’s it been? Two days? Three? And no praise. I told you you couldn’t do it. Or wouldn’t.

  Trish wished she could brush him away like a pesky fly. She studied the slip of pink paper. Good reminder. She turned the ignition and put the car into gear. “I will praise the Lord. Thank you for the sunshine.” That one was easy. “Thank you for taking care of David as he travels.” That one was hard. “I praise you for helping me win again.” Super easy.

  Streets and stores, cars and pedestrians, flashed past in her peripheral vision as she struggled to find ten things to be grateful for. She had only promised to do three a day, but she had several days to make up for. “Thank you, Jesus, that Mom is here and we are going shopping.” easy. She pushed her black sunglasses up on her nose with one finger. Portland. How could she praise God for the mess in Portland? She tried the words out several ways. Nothing felt right. She sucked in a deep breath as if she were preparing to dive. “Thank you that you know what is happening up there and you can…” She paused. Yes, God could take care of things. But would He?

  She saluted the guard at the gate to the condominiums and drove on up the hill. Marge waved at her from the front door. Trish grabbed her bag and leaped up the steps. Thank you for my mother. That was certainly a lot easier now than it used to be.

  Marge was as totally overwhelmed by the Stanford Mall as Trish and Rhonda had been.

  “You ever think that you can afford to buy from any of these stores now?” Trish asked as they looked from Neiman Marcus to I. Magnin and over to Saks.

  Marge turned, shaking her head as she answered. “But why would I want to? I don’t really need anything.”

  “I know. But you could if you wanted to.” Trish took her mother by the arm. “I guess it’s just that all these years you’ve made do, bought stuff for us kids when we needed it and not something you needed because we couldn’t afford both. Now I want to buy you something for a change. I can afford it.”

  “So can I.”

  “Too bad. It’s not the same. You want to hit the fancy stores or see where Rhonda and I found our cool outfits?”

  Marge squeezed Trish’s hand against her side. “Both.”

  By three o’clock the number of packages had grown to fill all four of their arms. “You know that phrase ‘Shop till you drop’?” Marge set her shopping bags down on the sidewalk.

  Trish nodded as she followed her mother’s actions.

  “I dropped…about an hour ago.” Marge shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her hand where the bags’ skinny handles had dug a groove. “And I’m starved.”

  “Me too. Let’s take this stuff to the car, and then I know of a super-good deli. Their dessert tray is to die for.”

  “Sounds good to me.” They wended their way across the palm-tree-studded parking lot to the red convertible. Marge helped Trish put the packages in the trunk and then sank down on the car seat. “How come shopping makes me more tired than cleaning house all day, even doing the windows?”

  “Yeah, I’d rather muck stalls for four hours.” Trish leaned against the front fender. She clasped her hands above her head and twisted from side to side. “That rust suit and hat will be a standout in the winner’s circle at Churchill Downs. You’re movie-star material in it.” Trish turned to look—really look—at her mother. “You know, Mom, if you wanted to, you could—”

  Marge held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I am not going to color my hair or fuss with my makeup or wear the latest style. That’s just not me.”

  “That rust suit is pretty stylish.” Trish rolled her lips to keep from laughing. “Come on, Mom, ya gotta go with the flow.”

  Marge heaved herself to her feet. “Just flow me to food before I flow right down the drain from hunger.” She stopped when they started back across the asphalt. “You think maybe I better take that suit along so we can find some shoes to match?”

  Trish locked her arm in her mother’s. “It’s right here in the bag.” She swung the shopping bag she carried in her other hand. “And you need boots too.”

  “We’re going to have to buy another suitcase for me to take all this home,” Marge pretended to grumble.

  “That’s okay. I know where the luggage store is. I had to find one for Rhonda, remember?”

  Later that night, after showing all their treasures to Margaret, Trish and her mother sat out on the deck watching the moon come up over the eastbay hills. The evening breeze rustled in the palm fronds as birds twerped and tweeted in the branches, settling in for the night.

  Trish lifted her face to catch the scent of jasmine drifting from the ground cover on the hill beyond them.

  “You have time to take me to the airport on Wednesday?” Marge lay back on the green and white padded chaise lounge. “Oh, this smells so good.”

  “Wednesday. Why don’t you just fly out of here with me on Friday? There’s no sense making two flights if you don’t have to.”

  “But I have so much to do at home.”

  “It’ll wait. Besides, Patrick can handle everything with the horses. Consider this your vacation.” Trish closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. When a yawn caught her unaware, she patted her mouth and yawned again.

  “Sounds like you’re about ready for bed.”

  “I know. So what do you think?”

  “I’m too comfortable to think. I’ll play Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow.” Marge stretched full length, like a kit
ten awaking from a deep sleep. “I’ll stay. Now that I even have clothes to wear, who needs to go home?”

  “Great!” Trish swung her feet to the deck. “If you want my car in the morning to go shopping…”

  Marge groaned.

  “…or anything, I can ride with Adam.” Trish stood up. “And if you stay out here much longer, the mosquitoes will get you.” She slapped at one on her arm. “Good night.”

  Finding three things to be thankful for was easy when Trish said her prayers: shopping, the peaceful look on her mother’s face, and the call from David saying he’d made it safely. “Thank you that I get to see Spitfire on Friday.” She paused. “And you are taking care of the mess in Portland, aren’t you? Amen.” She heard her mother return from the bathroom. “Night, Mom.”

  “Night, Trish.” Marge stopped at her daughter’s bed and bent down for a good-night kiss. “God loves you and so do I.”

  Trish felt the immediate rush of tears to the back of her eyes. Her father had always said that to her along with a good-night hug. “Me too.” She swallowed the quiver in her voice and turned on her side. Margaret Finley had said the tears came unbidden for years after losing someone you love. And for Trish it had been only months. But at least they stopped now and the pain was more like an ache.

  The week flew by with Trish winning one race, placing in two, coming up with a show, and at least getting paid for running the others around the track. The day she won she found tons to be grateful for…and the others? Well, as the psalmist David said, praise sometimes was a sacrifice.

  Thursday night Trish closed her Bible after reading a couple of psalms where David moaned and groaned. But he always praised God somewhere in them. She hadn’t been in the top four in either race. Moaning looked good.

  But her heart felt overflowing with praises. Tomorrow she would see Spitfire.

  In the morning Gatesby nearly left her a painful reminder to pay attention, but his teeth closed only on her shirt. “Whew. That was close.” Trish jerked on his halter and shook her finger at him. “You want to be sent home, you dopey horse? I thought you were my friend.”