Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2) (38 page)

*

Mounting the stage, Cassa smiled shyly as she was greeted with applause. The first gentle piano notes quietened the pub and as Cassa began to sing, pint glasses stilled. Her voice, melancholy and pure, wrapped around Frankie like cool silk, giving her goose-bumps. Frankie
stole a glance at Mrs Preston. The woman’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

‘This song was playing when I first met Cassa’s father,’ she murmured to Frankie. ‘He asked me to dance. I felt like I was in the arms of an angel for real.’

Frankie tried to smile. As Cassa sang the chorus, she couldn’t help but remember how she’d lain in Rhys’s arms, called him her angel. There, she’d found peace; there, she’d found comfort. His touch had been as tender as the melody that now surrounded her. Her heart ached. His scent, his warmth, his strength tugged her back to that night.

‘I’m no angel, Frankie,’ he’d said.

She squeezed her eyes shut to stem the tears. Hindsight was so bittersweet. She looked around the pub. It was as if they were all playing a game of musical statues and the music had stopped. No one fidgeted, drinks were forgotten. Everyone stood transfixed by Cassa’s voice.

A figure standing outside the glass doors caught her eye.
Her heart double-bounced into her throat. Rhys stood in rain that shimmered gold in the glow of the street lamp. His hair clung to his forehead in rats’ tails, his jacket plastered sodden to his hunched shoulders.

‘Rhys.’ His name tore from her lips like a knife withdrawing from her chest.

Unable to move for the crush of people, she watched him helplessly. He stared desolately back. The knife plunged back in. He looked so completely bloody. There was no trace of his usual cocksure arrogance, just a cold damp misery. Cassa’s sorrowful tones made his stance seem all the more alone.

The last piano chord was met with deafening applause, jolting Frankie back into the room. Mrs Preston clapped furiously. Cassa stood, awkwardly accepting the ovation. Frankie turned back to look at Rhys and her heart drooped. Where he had stood there was now an empty space, made lonelier still by the veil of gold-tinted rain. Frankie closed her eyes. So this was the final goodbye.

Like grumbling thunder rolling in, anticipation for the Grand National meeting built until at last with a deafening clap, it had arrived. On the eve of the jumps season’s grand finale, Frankie sat with Doug in the demure coffee lounge of their hotel.

‘So if Ta’ Qali wins tomorrow in the novice hurdle, you get to stay on at Aspen Valley, is that right?’ Doug said over the rim of his coffee cup.

‘As a work rider, yes.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Frankie exhaled.

‘Then I guess I’ll have to leave.’

Doug shook his head sadly.

‘I’m sorry, lovie.
I hope you haven’t done this just because of me.’

Frankie grinned.

‘No, this time I’m doing this for me. I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a jockey. I was too shit-scared most of the time. But being a work rider and bringing on the youngsters is definitely more satisfying.’

‘So Ta’ Qali
is your trial run?’

‘
Quite literally, yes.’

‘D’you
think you’ve nailed him?’

She shrugged.

‘We’ll find out tomorrow one way or another.’

‘Have you got our badges?’

Frankie held up her handbag.

‘Right here.
Do you want see?’

Doug looked undecided then he smiled sheepishly.

‘Go on then. It’s not every day you get owners’ badges for the National favourite.’

Chuckling, Frankie rummaged through her
handbag. Although she had mixed feelings about tomorrow, Doug had been positively glowing since Frankie had told him she was quitting as a jockey and had given him his owners’ badge a week ago. In the side pocket of her bag, as well as the badges, her fingers touched on a smooth flat surface. Frowning to herself she pulled out the unfamiliar object.

‘How did this get in here?’

Doug leaned forward.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s that picture of you with Alan Bradford and his mistress—it must have fallen into my bag when I dropped all the albums that night Tom called about Atticus.’

She let Doug take the photo from her. He leaned back in his armchair, a sigh escaping and held it long-sightedly to study it. On the back of the photo, Frankie recognised her mother’s handwriting, younger and neater.
“Doug and Al at The Goat’s Head. Adelaide in background.”

Frankie frowned.

‘I thought her name was Heidi?’

‘Hmm?’
Doug looked across, distracted.

‘On the back, Mum’s put you and Alan Bradford and Adelaide. I thought her name was Heidi?’

Doug shrugged and tossed the photo onto the table between them.

‘Heidi, Adelaide, same thing. Heidi’s short for Adelaide apparently and she didn’t like her real name.’

A thought occurred to Frankie, but she dismissed it immediately. It would be too much of a coincidence. Nevertheless, she picked up the photo and examined it again. Her heart began to pound. Was this her just wanting to believe what she was seeing, or could it be true?

‘What was her surname, can you remember?’

‘God, I don’t know. She was just Heidi—oh no, wait. I do remember. She was a big fan of that pop group, Manfred Mann.’ Doug chuckled. ‘She was always singing
Pretty Flamingo
. She claimed that she was related to Manfred Mann because they had the same surname, so she must have been Heidi Mann.’

Frankie’s mouth fell open.

‘You’re sure?’

Doug’s brow furrowed at her serious tone.

‘Pretty sure. She might have been lying, I don’t know. I doubt she was really related to Manfred Mann. Why?’

Frankie licked her lips
and tried to regulate her breathing.

‘When did she get pregnant?’

‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question, Dad! This is important.’

‘Hell, I don’t know exactly. It was a couple of weeks before Crowbar’s National that she came back knocking on the door. I don’t think she’d known about it long so maybe January? I don’t know.’

Blood pounded in her ears as she
furiously flicked through her mental calendar.

‘So
the baby would have been born around September, October?’

‘If she’d kept it,’ Doug said bitterly. ‘She had an abortion.’

‘Do you know that for definite?’

‘Well, presumably she did. We never heard from her again. Alan paid her off. Why are you so interested in this now?’
Doug looked bemused.

Frankie swallowed, scratching her dry throat.
She looked down at the photo. Her gaze flickered between the two smiling faces of Alan Bradford and Adelaide Mann.

‘
I’ve got to go find Tom,’ she breathed.

‘What on earth?’ Doug said, watching Frankie fumbling the photo into her handbag. ‘Why do you have to go see Tom?
Frankie, what is going on?’ His tone was commanding.

A
dumbfounded smile pinked her cheeks.

‘What if she kept the pregnancy? What if she had the baby and gave it up for adoption?’

Doug’s jaw dropped.

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

Frankie nodded.

‘I think so.’

*

The bed and breakfast house Tom was staying at proved further away than she’d imagined. It took her numerous attempts to explain to the hostess in breathless gasps who she was after. The woman eventually understood enough to call Tom’s room and he was quick to appear.

‘Frankie, is everything okay?’

‘Tom, I need to speak to you,’ she glanced at the hostess sat in a nearby armchair pretending to read a magazine. ‘In private,’ she added.

Tom gave her a quick frown and ushered her towards a corridor.

‘Come to my room. Don’t worry, she won’t be staying,’ he said when the hostess opened her mouth to object.

Tom’s room looked like someone had gone Laura Ashley mad. Floral frills bedecked the single bed, the curtain rails and even the wastepaper bin. Frankie shrunk away in disgust.

‘My God, how can you sleep in here? It’d give me nightmares.’

Tom hooked a chair closer—or was it a flower bush, Frankie wasn’t sure—then sat down on the bed.

‘Have you
really come over here to criticise the interior decorating?’

Frankie sat down and refocused.

‘Tom, you’re not going to believe this, but—oh, God, how do I even begin to say it? Are you still trying to find Adelaide Mann?’

‘You came all this way to ask me that?

‘Just answer the question!’

Tom clasped his hands and blew his fringe off his forehead.

‘You’ve found something out, haven’t you?’

‘Yes!’ squealed Frankie. ‘I found her! I found
him
too!’

‘My father as well?’
Tom looked taken aback.

‘Yes! My God, Tom, it’s such a small world, you wouldn’t
believe it. Adelaide Mann was—’

‘Wait, Frankie,’ he interrupted her, holding up his hand. He rubbed his face and sighed. ‘I
–I don’t think I want to know.’

‘But—
’

‘No, listen. I know it might sound bizarre considering the lengths I went to before, but that
was then.’

Frankie stared at him in disbelief.

‘But what’s changed? Don’t you want to know who your parents are?’

‘I know who my parents are. They are Charles and Ruth Moxley.’ Noting Frankie’s confusion he carried on. ‘They might not be my biological parents, but they’ve given me all the love that any son could wish for, and more.’

‘I get that,’ Frankie replied. ‘But then why did you start looking for Adelaide Mann in the first place?’

Tom chewed his lip in consideration.

‘I was in a strange place in my life, I guess. I was trying to find myself and I thought I could find the answer by finding my real parents. It happened round about the time I met Joey. I was confused. I didn’t know who I was or what I was. I thought that by tracing my roots—by confirming my foundations—I would know where I stood. As it happens, I didn’t need to find Adelaide Mann. Joey—and you—gave me the courage to face up to who I am. My parents stood by me when I came out. They were wonderful. I don’t need to find my biological parents anymore; I don’t
want
to find them. Does that make any sense?’

Frankie looked at him doubtfully. Okay, so this had all been a subconscious ploy to find his own identity, but surely, with her sitting here, knowing what she did, he must be a little curious?

‘I think so.’ She looked down at her hands still clutching her bag where the photo of Tom’s parents lay in hiding and consciously loosened her grip.

Perhaps sensing her disappointment, Tom leaned forward and squeezed her knee.

‘I know it’s hard to understand. And a part of me does want to know how you managed to find out. But consider this: what can of worms might we be opening if you told me?’

That much was true, Frankie granted. She nodded and smiled.

‘So you’re okay now?’

Tom winked at her.

‘Yeah. Things aren’t as bad as they first seemed. I’m not living a lie any more, I’ve found someone to love, and work is picking up again.’

‘It is?’ Frankie said, cheered at the news.

‘I’ve got most of my old jockeys back to valet. And I hate to say this to you, but I owe Rhys for it.’

Frankie’s neck muscles sprung taut.

‘How come?’

‘He and Donnie had a set-to not so long ago. Rhys called him a homophobic idiot then turned round and shouted to everyone there that they would be t
oo if they carried on the way they were.’

Frankie didn’t know what t
o feel. Her heart ached with Rhys’s betrayal yet at the same time it soared with pride that he’d stood up for Tom. A thought occurred to her and a small smile touched her lips. Little did either men realise they were actually half-brothers. It would have made things a whole lot more complicated if Rhys had reacted the same way as Donnie.

‘I know this might be hard for you to hear, especially after what you’ve gone through, but he’s really not such a bad guy.’

Frankie wanted to cry. Missing Rhys like she did, she desperately wanted to believe Tom, but it would never change the fact of what he had done.

‘He used me,’ she said
staunchly.

‘He made a mistake. We all make mistakes, right?’

‘Yes, but there are mistakes and then there are
mistakes
.’

‘Exactly, some mistakes work out for the be
st. Look at me, I’m a mistake—Adelaide Mann’s mistake. But if she hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t be here. In Rhys’s case, by getting you to give up the ride on Peace Offering he gave you a get-out clause. You only wanted to ride in the National to please your dad and your dad’s admitted he never wanted you to be a jockey anyway. So wasn’t it for the best?’

‘Rhys didn’t know that though. Stop making him sound like the good guy.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it,’ Tom said with an impatient sigh. ‘Can’t you just forgive him? I know you miss him. I see it every day on your face.’

Frankie grimaced.

‘I do miss him, you’re right. And I do want to forgive him, but there’s something—I don’t know what—something that won’t allow me to. Why should I forgive him? What has he done to redeem himself?’

‘Remember, this is Rhys we’re talking about. He
doesn’t have much to say on a good day. And he’s not short on pride either. He knows what he did was wrong, but admitting it would be especially hard for him. Having said that, he has tried and each time you’ve pushed him away. He’s a jockey, he has to watch what he eats, and there’s only so much humble pie a jockey can stomach.’

*

A drizzle began to fall as Frankie trudged back to her hotel. It was past midnight by the time she at last pushed open the entrance door, yet still people were about, out-of-towners here for the weekend, looking alert and excited about the National tomorrow.

‘Today,’ she corrected herself. Another sixteen hours and it would all be over.

She took the elevator to the fourth floor where, by comparison, the corridors were quiet. She let herself into her room and threw her bag onto a chair. Her clothes and her hair were damp, but she didn’t have the inclination to do anything about it. She fell back onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Tom and Rhys were
brothers
. If Tom was still concerned about going bald she supposed she could always keep an eye on Rhys from afar and give him the head’s-up if she saw his hairline receding. She couldn’t imagine Rhys going bald, perish the thought. Maybe, if Ta’ Qali fell short tomorrow and she lost her job, it might be for the best. Best that she leave Aspen Valley—leave Helensvale if necessary. She didn’t want to see Rhys grow old, to see him move on with his life.