Frances, wearing a peach linen and silk dress with a corsage, turned to her daughter and said, “Joan, did you show the newlyweds Harlem’s Dreamgirl?”
“Yes, I did.”
Paul, a twinkle in his eye, twisted in his seat to wink at Fair. “You got the dreamgirl.”
Fair slapped the older but still powerfully built World War II Navy vet on the shoulder. “I think we both married our dreamgirls.”
“Paul and I married in the Dark Ages.” Frances laughed.
“Still a honeymoon,” Paul gallantly said.
Joan took off her beige silk jacket as the heat bore down. A gorgeous pin, a ruby and sapphire riding crop intertwined through a sparkling horseshoe, graced the left lapel.
“Joan, did you fix the clasp on that pin?” Frances asked.
“Yes, I did, and it’s tight as a tick.”
“Good. You know I think that’s the prettiest piece of my mother’s jewelry.”
Joan, knowing her mother wouldn’t be satisfied until she had examined the pin, slipped her coat off the chair, handing it to her mother.
Turning the lapel back, Frances fingered the pin. “Well, that should hold it.” Before handing it back to Joan, she noted the careful work the jeweler had performed. “You know that’s our lucky pin. You wear it when it counts, but always on the last night of the show.”
Everyone studied their programs.
“Third class has that movie star in it.” Paul read down the list.
The third class was the adult three-gaited show pleasure.
“She’s going to have a tough time beating Melinda Falwell.” Joan folded back her program.
“Booty’s client.” Paul named Melinda’s trainer, a gregarious man still recovering from a sulfurous divorce last year. The recovery was financial as well as emotional. It was Booty who Harry and Fair had seen walking out of the practice ring.
Five years ago an intense rivalry set off fireworks in the Saddlebred world as the old guard began to retire or die off, leaving the younger men and a few women in their middle years to come forward in a big way. Larry Hodge, Booty Pollard, and Charly Trackwell had taken up where Tom Moore, Earl Teater, and the late Bradshaw brothers had left off. Pushing behind Larry, Booty, and Charly were men and more women than in previous generations, in their late twenties and early thirties, one of whom, Ward Findley, evidenced special talent.
Saddlebred trainers rode the difficult horses or the horses in the big classes, which would add thousands of dollars to the horse’s worth if the animal showed well. In the Thoroughbred world, trainers did not ride in the races. Here they did, which gave the shows an extra dimension. It was as if Bill Parcells played quarterback or Earl Weaver stepped up to the plate.
The amateur riders, coached by the trainers, didn’t necessarily ride easy horses, but usually the horses were more tractable and less was at stake. A win at one of the big shows could send a horse’s value skyrocketing. Few people are immune to that incentive, hence the enduring appeal of the trainer/rider.
Ward Findley, who was twenty-nine and had close-cropped, jet-black hair and sparkling blue eyes, quickly came up to the Kalarama box, leaned over, and whispered to Joan, “You’d better get to the barn.” Right behind Ward came Booty Pollard, his pet monkey on his shoulder. “Trouble,” Ward continued. The monkey, Miss Nasty, chattered as she peered at everyone in the box. Miss Nasty loved Booty, but she hated his snake collection, which he kept at home. She, at least, got to travel. Fortunately, the snakes did not. Booty did have peculiar tastes in pets.
Paul, overhearing, stood up.
“Daddy, you stay here. People need to see you and Mom.” Joan was already out of the box.
Fair, an equine vet, followed her. Kalarama had their regular vet, but he didn’t attend the shows. The organizers kept a vet on the premises so there was no need for each competitor or breeder to tie up their own vet for the four evenings of the show.
Not to be left behind, Harry scooped up both cats, her progress slowed by the two unhappy kitties squirming in her arms.
“If you’d put me down, I could follow just fine,” Mrs. Murphy complained.
“She thinks you’ll run off,” Tucker, excited by the tension in the humans, commented.
“You’re a big, fat help,” Mrs. Murphy growled.
“I’m a dog. I’m obedient. You’re a cat. You’re not.” Tucker relished the discomfort of her two friends, since they often lorded over her.
The conversation abruptly ended as they reached Barn Five, where three horses were being led into the barn, Charly Trackwell trotting after them, his face grim. They were not Joan’s horses.
“Isn’t that the chestnut mare from the practice ring?” Pewter studied the gleaming animal, her long neck graceful.
“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy was happy when Harry unhitched Pewter’s and her leash and quickly deposited them in the hospitality room. Pewter used the opportunity to jump onto the table, snatching a succulent square of ham.
“You’re a goddamned diva!” Charly shouted at Renata DeCarlo, who stormed ahead of Charly.
The loss of board and training fees for three horses would hurt Charly a bit, but the real blow was losing his movie-star client.
Joan prudently stood by a stall, since Charly now faced Larry, Renata to Larry’s side. Fair stood behind Larry.
“I’m sick of you shouting at me, Charly.” Renata, face flushed, was remarkably calm.
Charly turned to Larry. “You’re behind this, Hodge. You’ve been trying to steal Renata away from me since she came to my barn.”
“That’s not true.” Larry kept his voice level.
“You love the glamour. And you’ll make a bloody fortune. You always do.” Charly, shaking with rage, stepped toward Larry.
Renata grabbed Charly’s arm, which he threw off. “You’ve criticized me one time too many. You’re an egotistical shit and I’m sick of it.”
Much as he wanted to hit her and Larry, too, Charly managed to control himself. He stopped breathing for a second, then gulped air. “Renata, you redefine the word ‘ego.’”
“We can all sort this out tomorrow when everybody has calmed down,” Larry sensibly suggested.
“The hell with you.” Then Charly wheeled on Renata and pointed his finger right in her face. “I know about you.” With that he turned on his booted heel and left.
Manuel Almador, Larry’s head groom, watched along with Jorge Gravina, second in command to Manuel. Their distaste for Charly flickered across their faces.
Renata, floodgates now bursting, allowed Joan to shepherd her to the hospitality room. The people who had gathered at the barn’s entrance dispersed, a few to follow Charly. They had to trot, since his long legs covered the ground.
As Renata’s sobs subsided, Larry, Fair, Manuel, and Jorge consulted one another in the aisle.
“Manuel, you and the boys will need to sleep here all week. Take four-hour shifts. Charly will have his revenge, and I don’t want it to be on Renata’s horses or ours, either.”
Manuel nodded; he knew Charly’s reputation.
Handsome Charly, an explosives expert and captain in the first Iraq war, was explosive himself.
“I can check, too. We’re just down the road,” Fair offered.
“Thanks. The men can handle it.” Larry appreciated Fair’s offer. He glanced at his watch. “Olive.” He named a client riding in the next class. Larry needed to walk with her to the arena, then stand alongside the rail so she could see him. He smiled. “No charge for the extra entertainment.”
Back in the hospitality room, the animals listened as Renata ticked off Charly’s list of faults, most notably that he was arrogant, didn’t listen to her, and was a man, which seemed to Renata to sum up his original sin.