Golden Filly Collection Two (44 page)
“She tell you that?” Trish turned her head to look at him with surprise.
Patrick shook his head. “Didn’t need to.”
Trish studied her mother. Graying hair feathered back on the sides, and one lock flopping down on her forehead, Marge looked years younger than forty. Her full mouth curved in a smile as the filly shook her head. Booted feet spread to brace against any coltish behavior, and her plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, Trish’s mother looked totally relaxed and competent.
Why, she’s beautiful,
Trish thought.
And she’s having a great time.
Trish shook her head. All those years when Hal had been alive, Marge had never worked with the horses. In fact, Trish thought her mother hated or at least disliked the animals. Maybe this was another of those things she’d have to rethink. Could they work together?
That night the three of them rode to the racetrack in the minivan. Trish sat in the back, thinking about the meeting ahead. This was another first for her: The first TBA—Thoroughbred Association—meeting without her father. He’d been president of the organization several times through the years.
With a rush the tears stung the backs of her eyelids and clogged her nose. Trish sniffed and dug in her purse for a tissue. Before she could roll her eyes in evasive action, the drops trickled down her cheeks. She blew her nose and mopped her face.
Marge reached back with one hand and patted her daughter’s knee.
Trish sniffed again. When she took a deep breath, it was as if a storm had crackled with heat lightning and then blown over after smattering the earth with only a drop or two. “Whew.” She let her air out on a sigh. With one finger she wiped beneath her eyes to keep her mascara from smudging. At least she wouldn’t go into the meeting looking like a raccoon.
It seemed like years since she’d been at Portland Meadows. The lighted horses that usually raced across the front of the dark green building were only dim outlines. Vehicles filled the parking slots closest to the building. It didn’t look to be a large crowd.
Trish walked through the glass doors along with her mother and Patrick. Her father should be here. He’d know what to do. She swallowed the thought and clamped her jaw against the quiver she could feel returning.
“Good to see you Trish,” someone called from the group of men congregating in the corner. “Welcome home,” another voice added.
“Thanks.” Trish tossed the word in that direction along with an almost smile.
“You all think you could get in here so we can start this meeting?” Bob Diego poked his head out of the door. “Buenos dias, amiga.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he saw Trish. Even his mustache smiled. “Welcome home.”
Trish stilled the quiver enough to return his greeting. As the members filed into the room, she started toward a chair at the back.
“Mind if I sit here?” A man wearing a brown leather bomber jacket pointed at the chair beside her.
Trish looked up into smiling hazel eyes. “No, I guess not.”
“My name is Curt Donovan. I’m from
The Oregonian.”
He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the tan folding chair.
“I’m Trish Evanston.”
“I know. I’ve been writing about you for months. Not often a reporter gets to be in on history.” He sat down on the chair and turned to watch her.
“History?” Trish felt like she was reacting in slow motion.
“You set records. First woman to win the Derby. First woman to win the Triple Crown. Congratulations.”
“Oh, that.” Trish blinked. It seemed like that had all happened in another lifetime. “Umm, thanks.” She dug deep for her manners, aware that her mother sat on her right.
A gavel rapped from the podium. “Let’s call this meeting to order.”
Trish thought a moment and then asked the questions that had been plaguing her. She spoke in an undertone so as not to disrupt the meeting. “Curt?”
“What?” He leaned close to hear her.
She turned her head, keeping one eye on the speaker. “Do you think…” She stopped to listen as Bob Diego called for a report from the secretary. “Have you heard anything, you know, illegal or something going on here at the track?”
Marge put a finger up to her lips and shook her head. Trish leaned close to hear Curt’s answer.
“No, have you?”
Trish nodded and watched her mother out of the corner of her eye. “Sort of.”
“We’ll talk later.”
Trish could feel her mother’s frown clear down to her bones.
I
thought I asked you to stay out of that.” Marge laid her purse on the counter with extreme care.
Trish walked to the sink and filled a glass of water at the tap. “I just asked if he’d heard anything.”
“And then you agreed to talk with him further.” Marge crossed her arms across her chest. “Trish, I just don’t want you to get involved.”
“Mother, we are involved whether we want to be or not. If that track doesn’t open, where will we race? I race.” Trish put her hand to her chest. She fought against the catch in her voice. “You know how much I hate to have someone else ride our horses. That’s my job.”
“I know how…” Marge shook her head. “No, I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I think I understand.” She held up a hand to ward off Trish’s protests. “I know you want to ride, especially after almost quitting, but things aren’t the same as they used to be. No one else could ride Spitfire. You had to be there. But now others can ride for us, and if we have to, that’s what we’ll do.”
Trish felt an angry fist grab her gut and twist. She stared at the square set of her mother’s chin, then clamped her arms across her belly to halt the twisting. “Why are you being so unreasonable?” She fought to keep her voice from rising to a screech. If only she could scream and yell. “I don’t want someone else to ride our horses.”
Go ahead, act like a little kid again and then she’ll really think you’re ready to be treated like an adult.
Trish’s nagger was only voicing the words she’d been burying.
Marge turned and leaned her weight on her rigid arms, staring out the window at the mercury-lighted yard. “I think I’m being very reasonable. All I’m asking is that you stay out of the controversy—if there really is one—at Portland Meadows.”
“But somebody has to be involved.”
“Somebody is. You heard them vote to ask for an extension before the city council votes. Bob Diego will take the petition to the council tomorrow night.”
“Sure, after they argued back and forth. They’re scared to do anything. You’d think they want the track to close. What a bunch a…” She sucked in a deep breath and adopted a more controlled tone. “All I want is to be able go to the meetings and see what happens. That isn’t too much to ask.”
“Trish, we’ll talk about this later.” Bright red stained Marge’s cheeks, and her voice snicked each word like a scalpel.
Trish stared at her mother. Angry words threatened to pour past her clenched teeth, but instead of spitting them out, she turned and stormed down the hall to her room. This was such a stupid fight. She grabbed the edge of the door, ready to slam it closed, but stopped. The click sounded even louder than her pounding heart.
All the things she wished she’d said thundered through her mind as she undressed for bed. She threw her jeans in the corner and flung her shirt over the back of the chair. Why bother to put things away? Just because her mother liked a clean room. She barely resisted kicking the chair leg when she nudged it with her stockinged toe.
“If you really cared about my riding, you’d let me go,” she muttered to herself as she pulled her nightshirt over her head. “You never wanted me to ride anyway.” The box of tissues fell to the floor when she snapped off the lamp on her bedstand. The name she called it wouldn’t fit in Sunday school.
When Trish curled up under the covers, she shivered in her fight against the tears. Here she’d been home only a few days, and she and her mother were already fighting.
It’s not fair. She just doesn’t understand.
Yeah, sure, you think you’re so grown-up, and here you are fighting again. Thought you promised not to lose your temper anymore.
The voices raged inside her head.
If Mom only cared enough about me and the horses. She doesn’t understand. What if I have to quit riding. I can’t stand all this. I hate being mad.
She turned over and fumbled on the floor for the tissue box. After blowing her nose—again—she flopped back on the bed and let the tears trickle down into her ears. The yawning pit reached up with tentacle arms to suck her down in.
At the thought of saying her prayers, she blew her nose again and turned over. Sure, ask God for help. How could she when she knew He’d expect her to go and tell her mother how sorry she was. Sorry was right. What a sorry mess.
The nightmares returned with a vengeance. Trish awoke sometime in the night with her heart pounding like she’d run two miles. A weight seemed to sit on her chest, threatening to cut off the air she gulped as if it were nearly gone.
When she tried to picture Jesus in her mind, all she could see was her mother’s eyes. Sad eyes with a hint of a tear at the corners. Angry eyes too, with sparks that flashed when the two of them got into it.
Trish scrubbed her hands across her own eyes. She had promised herself to never fight with her mother again. They didn’t need it, either of them. A sense of desolation settled over Trish’s bed, pushing her heart down through her ribs and into the bedsprings. It lay there, heavy and thick, clogging her throat and burning her eyes.
When she finally fell asleep again, it was to toss and turn, trying to throw off the suffocating blanket.
When she awoke, she knew she should go ask her mother’s forgiveness. It was the only thing to do. But when she entered the kitchen ready for school, the emptiness echoed around her. The full coffeepot told her that Marge had been there. Trish walked back through the living room and checked her mother’s bedroom. Empty. In the living room, she stopped to stare at her father’s recliner. If only he were here, life would be so different. Back in the kitchen, Trish looked out the window. The van stood dripping in the misting rain. So her mother hadn’t left the farm anyway.
Trish sucked in a deep breath that only went as far as the top of her lungs. The weight wouldn’t let it go any further. So her mother was down at the barn. She probably had plenty to do down there. So what?
After fixing herself a slice of peanut butter toast and pouring a glass of milk, Trish meandered back to her bedroom, munching as she went. If only she could talk with her mother the way she had with her father. He understood. And he wasn’t a worrywart. She shook her head and blinked her eyes. If she started crying now, her mascara would run and she’d have to do her makeup all over again.
She grabbed her book bag and purse, retrieved the empty glass from her desk, and headed for the front door. The urge to throw the glass into the sink surprisingly changed into rinsing it out and sticking it in the dishwasher. At least she couldn’t be accused of leaving the kitchen in a mess.
She headed out the door for the van. If only she had her own car, then she wouldn’t have to use her mother’s. She tossed her bags in the center and buckled her seat belt. What a lousy, rotten day this looked to be. And all because her mother lived at the height of unreasonableness. If she’d dared, she’d have spun gravel on the way out.
She turned into Rhonda’s driveway. Maybe she should go live with the Finleys. They seemed to know what a kid needed.
“Hi.” Rhonda leaped into the van, shaking her head to keep the raindrops from sinking into her fly-away mass of carrot waves and curls. She took one look at Trish’s face. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong now?”
“You don’t want to know.” Trish put the van in motion before Rhonda finished settling into the seat.
“Probably not, but tell me anyway. That way I know when to duck.”
“Yeah, well.” Trish clamped her teeth on her lower lip. If she talked about it anymore, she’d cry. And she was
not
going to cry over a fight with her mother or anything else.
After the silence lengthened, Rhonda turned to her friend. “Let me guess then. You had a fight with your mom.”
