Lucky Thirteen (6 page)

“Hello, Mr. Hightower, Mrs. Hightower,” I said, nodding my head though a curtsey would be in order.

“I don’t believe that my sister ever mentioned you before,” Hillary commented. “How long have you known each other?”

“We met yesterday at the track,” I explained.

“How delightful.”

I didn’t see anything dreadful or delightful in the fact. I assumed that Hillary was just bad at making idle conversation. Miss Hightower took my arm and steered me clear of her brother’s family. Sissy remained behind with her parents and continued to glare at me. I assumed she was envious of the attention I was garnering, attention that was typically reserved for her, especially any attention coming from her rich aunt. Missy, her mother, smiled demurely and never said a word.

Miss Hightower led me to a pair of men involved in a spirited debate. I’d seen each of them earlier at the time trial. One was obviously a trainer while the other much shorter man was the jockey riding the horse.

“Chloe Boston, I’d like you to meet my head trainer, Jerry Dietz, and my lead jockey, Jose Perez.”

The two men stopped their quibbling instantly and looked to me with some interest. Dietz was tall and slender, dressed in a worn wool suit. Perez was tiny, as I supposed all jockeys to be. I wasn’t used to facing someone shorter than myself. It made me feel gangly and awkward.

“Ms. Boston,” Jerry said, nodding his head.

“Chloe, I’m so pleased to meet you,” Jose gushed in heavily accented English.

While Jerry stood his ground, Jose grabbed my hand and all but slobbered over it. This was my first experience with a passionate Spaniard. I had no choice but to smile at his introduction.

“I saw you first at the track this afternoon,” Jose explained, “and I must admit that I almost fell off the horse due to the spell you cast over me.”

“I’m pleased to meet you too, Jose,” I replied, trying to get him to release my hand.

Jose looked into my face, flashing his oscillating Rudolph Valentino eyes at me, undoubtedly trying to mesmerize me, a trick he no doubt read of in a men’s magazine. It didn’t work. Instead, I had to fight back the giggles.

“Cool your jets, Jose,” Jerry interjected. “She’s married.”

“I know that,” Jose snapped back. “But I also know that when the flames of passion burn so bright, they cannot be hidden. Excuse my frank speech, Senorita, but your beauty, it overwhelms my better judgment.”

What was I to say?

“Gee, thanks.”

I was finally able to free my hand. Miss Hightower was the first to break the awkward silence that followed.

“Mr. Dietz. I was not entirely happy with the performance of Soft Spoken Hal at the track this afternoon.”

“Nor was I, Miss Hightower,” Jerry replied.

“I told you I was going to hold him back,” Jose interjected defensively.

“Need I remind you of the importance of tomorrow’s race?” Miss Hightower added.

“No, ma’am.
He’ll be ready.”

“And he’ll lose,” a full-throated voice bellowed.

“We already know your opinion, Mr. Harrigan,” Miss Hightower replied dismissively.

“And it’s the only opinion that counts for anything in these parts.”

The owner of the voice was a large man dressed in an ill-fitting black suit and string tie. He appeared to use his voice more as a battering ram, attempting to bowl people over with it, than as a means of communication. He wore black cowboy boots and strolled toward our group with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest. A silver chain looped from one vest pocket to a button hole. As a final touch, he wore a black felt cowboy hat, something I would have assumed even the most hardened cowboy would have taken off upon entering such an elegant room. He carried a cut crystal tumbler in his hand that was almost empty. He was a walking parody of a Hollywood Texan.

“Chloe Boston, this is my neighbor, Angus Harrigan,” Miss Hightower sighed.

“Don’t you mean your competition?” Harrigan corrected, adding a guffaw.

“He has a horse running in tomorrow’s race against Soft Spoken Hal,” she explained.

“Not just
a
horse, I have
the
horse running in tomorrow’s race. Slippery Weasel is the name. If you’re smart, and you look to be, you’ll bet on him to win.”

“Excuse my father’s boasting, Miss Hightower,” said a good-looking man who walked up behind Harrigan. “He tends to get carried away when he’s been drinking.”

“You watch your tongue, boy,” Harrigan replied, managing to make his voice sound like a rattlesnake’s warning.

“We’re pleased to meet you, Ms. Boston.”

The young man had a pleasant voice and a kind smile. He was dressed in an expensive-looking business suit and wore his beautiful blond hair long. He extended a hand to me.

“My name is Wayne, Wayne Harrigan.”

“How do you do, Mr. Harrigan?”

“Please, call me Wayne. My father has exclusive rights to the name Mr. Harrigan.”

“As you wish, Wayne.”

His hand was warm and rougher than I expected. I instantly liked him almost as much as I disliked his father.

“Can we eat now?” Harrigan trumpeted.

“Hello, everyone,” Alex said, stepping into the room. “What did I miss?”

Alex was dressed in a gorgeous black tuxedo which fit sloppily since he was somewhat smaller than Hillary, especially in the gut. Mark fared no better with his attire. Since he was quite tall and muscular, the tuxedo he wore fit him tight in the shoulders and rode up his arms. I looked down to see that the too short slacks he wore showed off his brown socks and loafers.

“We were just sitting down to dinner, Mr. Lincoln,” Miss Hightower explained. “It appears that one of us hasn’t eaten yet today,” she added, looking significantly to Harrigan.

Make that two of us, I thought, feeling almost nauseated with hunger.

“I’m afraid you missed the introductions, but I’m sure that can be taken care of at the dinner table. Please, have a seat.”

Miss Hightower guided me to the seat beside hers at the head of the table. I was about to pull out my chair when I was overwhelmed by a wave of unwanted chivalry. Wayne was the first to appear by my side.

“Please, allow me,” he said, grabbing hold of the back of my chair.

“No, I will seat the young lady,” Jose insisted, trying to shove Wayne aside.

“I’ll take care of this, little man,” Mark interrupted, placing a hand on Jose’s shoulder.

“Unhand me or you’ll regret it,” Jose warned.

“Really, gentlemen.
I assure you I have this taken care of,” Wayne insisted.

A brief struggle ensued. I stepped back to watch, embarrassed by the unwanted attention.

“Perhaps I can help, little lady,” Harrigan added.

I looked to Alex for assistance. He was standing beside the seat opposite mine.

“I really think that it might be my place to seat my own wife,” Alex suggested as he walked around the end of the table.

There were now five men gathered round my chair. My embarrassment only increased with the added attention. The men were shoving and slapping at each other.

“Perhaps Chloe can seat herself,” Miss Hightower suggested, using a raised voice of authority.

“Perhaps you’d like to seat me, Wayne,” Sissy suggested hopefully.

The men stopped, considered one another, and almost recommenced their scuffle. Then with warning glances exchanged between them, they separated and left me standing unseated near the head of the table. Wayne walked around the table to seat Sissy Hightower. I shook my head, once more dismayed by the machinations of the male mind, and seated myself. Harrigan stepped behind Miss Hightower’s chair to assist her in taking her seat.

“Allow me, Sweet Pea,” he said condescendingly as he set her chair behind her knees.

“Why thank you, Mr. Harrigan.”
                     

“Angus would suit me a sight better.”

There was a brief round of musical chairs as Jose and Mark rushed for the chair beside mine. Jose won the much vaunted position by dominating the bulk of the seat cushion with his derriere and holding onto the legs of the chair to successfully avoid being unseated. Wayne and Mark grudgingly took seats elsewhere while Jose stuck his tongue out at them. Alex sat in his place across the table from me, to Miss Hightower’s left. Since the table was so long, we gathered at one end. With the seating arrangements ironed out, the soup course was served without incident.

“Alex, perhaps you could regale us with your exploits while here in our state,” Miss Hightower prompted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say there’s much regaling to be done,” Alex admitted. “It’s been mostly boring computer stuff related to system security for a hotel.”

“Why, that sounds fascinating,” Miss Hightower said encouragingly, though I doubted she was actually fascinated.

“I’ve dabbled a little in computers myself,” Hillary injected.

“Seems to me, you’ve
dabbled
in a little bit of everything,” Jerry interjected.

“Mr. Dietz!” Miss Hightower exclaimed.

“Sounds like women’s work to me,” Harrigan bellowed.

“Mr. Harrigan!”

“Angus, Sweet Pea.”

“Alright, Angus!
And stop calling me Sweet Pea. You know I hate it when you do that.”

“Have it your way.”

“Mr. Harrigan, perhaps you’d tell us about your business,” Alex suggested.

“I’m a horse breeder and trainer by trade,” Harrigan replied proudly. “I own the best breeding and training facility in the state.”

This statement elicited groans and mumbled responses from many around the table. Miss Hightower refrained from comment. Most likely she was familiar with such boasting coming from the large man.

“Alright, perhaps the second-best breeding and training facility in the state,” he amended. “But then, if I have things my way, the two best breeding and training facilities will soon be one.”

“Oh?” I replied, almost choking on a sip of soup.

“Mr. Harrigan!” Miss Hightower objected.

“I hadn’t heard about this,” Hillary said with some concern in his voice.

“Oh yes, Sweet Pea and I have been talking,” Harrigan hinted.

“You mean that you’ve been talking and I’ve been refusing to listen,” Miss Hightower clarified.

“Why that would make Sissy and Wayne brother and sister,” Mr. Dietz pointed out with a chuckle.

“Shut up, Jerry!” Sissy snapped.

“Perhaps we should change the subject,” Miss Hightower insisted.

“So, Hillary, what kind of computer work did you do?” I asked dutifully.

“Sales,” Hillary responded proudly.

“Oh? What did you sell?” Alex prompted.

“This and that.
Some of those infernal machines that people work on and other machines
that allow
them to communicate.”

“Personal computers and networking equipment then.”

“If you say so,” Hillary replied, looking defensive.

Jerry chuckled again at Hillary’s response.

“Shut up, Jerry!” Sissy repeated.

“Sissy, what career have you chosen?” I asked quickly.

“I’ve been thinking of attending
beauty college
so that I can open my own salon,” Sissy replied. “That is if grandmamma will lend me the money.”

“You don’t think that you should start out working in a salon first? Just to see if you like it?” I asked out of curiosity.

“No, I do not,” was her frank reply.

“And you, Missy?” I asked, quickly moving on to Hillary’s mousy wife.

Missy was about to reply; in fact, she was about to say the first words I was to hear from her mouth when Hillary replied to the question for her.

“My Missy is a stay-at-home mother.”

“Would you like more soup?” Jose asked at my side.

Being famished, I’d finished my soup and concluded by sucking on the spoon. Jose must have noticed this in his
overattentiveness
. The truth was that the soup was delicious and I could have made a meal of it. But I realized that I should continue to play the part of a lady of manners.

“No thank you, Jose.”

“If you should need for anything, you let me know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Fortunately, our soup bowls were soon whisked away and replaced by our dinner serving consisting of Cornish game hen, asparagus, and baby red potatoes. I had to hold myself back from attacking the contents of my plate like a wild hyena.

“Perhaps we should discuss what I’m sure is on all of our minds but has remained largely unspoken: namely, the race tomorrow in which Soft Spoken Hal will leave that Slippery Weasel behind in his dust,” Jerry Dietz suggested.

“Mr. Dietz!” Miss Hightower protested.

I wondered if every meal was like this.

“More likely break a leg at the quarter-mile post,” Harrigan countered.