Secretariat Reborn (3 page)

“I see.” Christian popped his own soda can. “So, you do have a few horses left?”

“Still have Chris, my old stallion, and another one in the barn, plus two brood mares in the back pasture.”

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“You can fetch my Marlboros in the bedroom.”

Christian frowned.

“Look, the doctors give me less than six months. I ain’t giving up the few pleasures I got left.”

Christian retrieved the pack and lighter for his father, noticing the oxygen tank by the bed. Hank lit up and coughed slightly with the first drag. He shoved the pack up into his t-shirt sleeve, securing it against his arm.

Christian eased into a chair, took a sip of Coke, and glanced into the kitchen. “After I clean up in there, I’ll head to the store for some real food.”

Hank scoffed. “I didn’t ask you here to play housekeeper or nursemaid.” He took another drag, rubbed his forehead, and looked up, struggling to speak. “Look, Christian, I’ve never been any good with people and wasn’t much of a father, but I’m hoping to make it up to you before it’s too late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Christian said, but thought,
you’re already way too late
. He felt the urge to run, get back to his carefree life on the water, away from the smell of death.

“No, no,” Hank said. “Now, listen to me. Out in the barn is a two-year-old colt out of a stake-winning mare and old Chris. I want you to have him.”

For a moment, Christian was speechless. “Jesus, you wanted me here so you could give me a horse?” He chuckled, the sarcasm emerging despite his vow to himself. “No thanks, Dad. Give the plug to Juan or, better yet, sell it, so you can get some help around here.”

Hank leaned forward and glared, his red eyes like neon. “He’s no damn plug, Christian, and not for sale.” He sat back and seethed with each puff on the Marlboro.

Christian stared at the floor as the two men sat in an uncom-fortable silence. Tobacco smoke filled the room, the haze representative of the wall that had always stood between them and prevented a father-son bond.

Hank smashed the butt out in an ashtray. “Christian,” he said, calmer now. “This is a really good colt, probably the best I’ve ever bred. I can’t explain, but he’s more than a racehorse.” His gaze became distant. “This colt is the start of an incredible journey. He’s going to fulfill a lifelong dream of mine.”

Christian discounted his father’s ramblings about the colt and his stupid dream. He’d heard it before. Just to own a racehorse, a person had to be a dreamer.

When Hank went to his bed and the oxygen tank, Christian kicked off his sandals, more comfortable barefoot, and began cleaning the kitchen. After an hour the room was habitable. Living aboard a sailboat, he had learned to keep things tidy in cramped quarters. In his father’s bedroom, he queried Hank. “I’m going to Winn Dixie for some steaks and supplies. Is there anything you want?”

Hank pulled off the cannula, a flexible tube with two projections that attached his nose to the oxygen tank. He lifted his head from the pillow. “I want you to look at that chestnut colt.”

“I’m not interested. I really—”

“He’s fast, Christian. He’ll make you a ton of money. That colt will square things between us. You’ll see.”

“All right, I’ll look at him.” Christian left the house and strolled to the barn, laughing to himself.
The old fart’s delusional. No hay burner will make up for the grief he’s put me through
.

In the first stall, his father’s old bay stallion rumbled a friendly hello with his deep-throated nickering. “Hey, Chris,” he said and rubbed the stud’s head under the long forelock. They shared the same name and were close in age, twenty-five. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I was named after you,” he said, patting Chris’s powerful neck.

In the last stall, a greyhound-looking red colt tossed its head and whinnied. Christian reached in and scratched behind its ear. The
colt tilted his head and flattened his ear, enjoying the massage. “So you’re supposed to fulfill Hank Roberts’s dream. You look ordinary to me.”

“He is not ordinary, mister.”

Christian turned to see a short Hispanic man in his late twenties, walking toward him with a plug of alfalfa hay. “You must be Juan.”

“I am Juan.”

Christian backed up so Juan could drop the hay in the stall. “I’m Hank’s son, Christian.”

Juan’s brown eyes brightened and his lips curved upward into a broad smile. “Oh, welcome, welcome. Mr. Roberts must be very pleased. He was worried you might not come.”

Christian grimaced. “We’re not close, but he
is
my father, and he’s dying.”

“That is what I told Mr. Roberts—that you would not let him down.” Juan turned to the horse. “This is a fine colt. You are lucky to have him. I exercise him every morning, and he is ready to win a big race.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate what Dad is trying to do, but I don’t want this colt. I got burned out on horses a long time ago. They’re big, dumb, and dangerous, plus very expensive.”

“That is true,” Juan chuckled. “But Thoroughbreds are also noble creatures and have great hearts. No other creature will break its legs to win for you. I saw you scratching his ear and how he responded. You have a way with horses, like your father.”

Christian’s drive to the store involved thumbnail chewing. “What am I doing here?” he asked himself. “The old man never gave a shit about me, but now I’m supposed to do him a favor and race his fucking horse. In a few days I’m outta here. He can take that colt and stick it up his ass.”

Back at the farm and unloading the grocery bags, he glanced at the orange-and-pink horizon laced with purple clouds, sinking beyond the silhouette of moss-covered oaks. At sunset, the ever-changing
Florida sky was more than beautiful, it was engrossing. It made him feel good, lucky, alive.

Not so at the house, now only a shadow of his childhood memory and a forlorn place barely holding death at bay. He exhaled deeply. No sunset would help here. Sighing at his mixed emotions, he fried steaks while the potatoes cooked in the microwave. He set the small kitchen table and called to his father. “Dad, dinner’s ready.”

Hank ambled into the kitchen. “Smells good, but don’t hold it against me if I don’t eat much. Kinda lost my appetite.”

Christian pulled back a chair for his father. “I could’ve brought a plate into your bedroom.”

Hank sat down. “No,” he said. “While I’m able, I want to get up. Keeps the bedsores away.” He looked around and grinned. “My goodness, boy, you’ve been busy. This place looks spotless.”

Christian smiled his thanks, but he had to say his piece. “Dad, I’d like to stick around, but I’m leaving Saturday morning. I have a business to run.”

Hank took a bite of potato. “And what business is that?”

“I told you about it four years ago.” He inhaled deeply through his teeth. His father still didn’t know or care about his life. “I have a few docks at a marina off Sarasota Bay. We rent out WaveRunners, Hobie Cats, and Sunfish. I also restore boats in my spare time.”

“I remember now,” said Hank. “That’s the business your stepfather helped you with.”

“Frank loaned me the money, but I’ve since paid him back.”

Hank put down his fork and stared at Christian. “Your mom did a good job raising you. You’re a hard worker; seem responsible.” He sighed. “I’m trying to say you turned out okay.”

Surprised, Christian could barely swallow his food. He had waited all his life to hear those words. He managed a weak smile. Was this what dying did for people?

“About you leaving in a few days—that should work out fine. It’ll give you and Juan time to check out my old two-horse trailer for the
trip to Miami. I’ve already put the colt’s Jockey Club papers in your name and, while you were at the store, I called a big trainer at Calder. He’s got an open stall for the colt. I told him—”

Christian broke in, “Wait a minute, Dad. You’re jumping to conclusions. I haven’t agreed to take the colt, much less trailer him three hundred miles to Miami.”

“Three-fifty,” Hank corrected him.

“Whatever!” Christian stood and paced the kitchen. Like a punctured balloon, his feel-good moment had deflated. “I know all about your gambling … how you’d spend your last dollar on a horse. I don’t want anything to do with your so-called dreams. Don’t you understand? They made my life miserable.”

“Now you sound just like your damn mother,” Hank retorted. “Get it straight. I’m no gambler. I never bet at the track.”

“Bullshit, every time you put a ton of money and energy into a yearling, it was a gamble,” Christian argued, “hoping he’d turn out fast, hoping he didn’t break down, hoping you’d sell him at a profit, hoping—” Before he crossed the line and said too much, he stormed outside, slamming the screen door. In the yard he pushed back his hair and held his head. Nothing had changed. Even dying, his father’s foremost concern was his horses, not his son. And like four years ago on his last visit to the farm, he and his old man were fighting and he had been here only one day. He heard the creaky door and turned.

His father stood in the doorway. “Christian, you won’t have to put a dime into the colt. I promise.”

“Are you telling me the Miami trainer, the vets, the farrier won’t charge anything? Give me a break, Dad. I’m not stupid.”

Hank nodded. “Oh, they’ll charge and charge plenty, but by the time you get their bills, you’ll have the money. This horse is going to win. Please, son, I can’t explain now, but this dream—It’s bigger than me or you, but I’m running out of time. I need you, Christian.”

Christian looked at his defeated father leaning against the door-jamb. “Last Chance” again started playing in his head. This could
be his last chance to know his father and perhaps have some kind of relationship that’s worth remembering. He gazed up at the first star of the night, deep in thought.
Even if we don’t connect, I might regret that I didn’t take his frigging colt. At least when Dad dies, I can say I did my part and walk away with a clear conscience. So I’ll do it for me, not him. Besides, how much trouble can one lousy racehorse be?
He glanced back at his father. “All right, Dad, you win. I’ll take the horse.”

After dinner Hank reclined in his living room, smoked, and watched TV. He had barely eaten. Christian dumped the steak and potatoes into the garbage bin, washed the dishes, and stepped outside to make a call. No reception on his cell phone,
fuck it
.

He returned to the house. “Dad, I need to make a call, but can I use the phone in your bedroom?”

Hank smiled. “Girlfriend?”

“Something like that.” Christian walked into the bedroom, shut the door, and, sitting on the bed, he placed the call.

“Hello,” Kate said.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Why are you calling from this number?”

“No cell signal in this backward place. I’m using the farm phone. So—what are you doing?”

“Painting my nails,” she said. “Wait until you see the black dress I bought for Saturday night, low cut. You’ll love it.”

“Look, about that, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it back until Sunday. I have to do something for my father.”

“But we had plans. Chad’s party at his beach condo is this weekend.”

“I know. You go ahead.”

“I’m not going by myself,” she griped. “Everything is more important than me.”

“Kate, you
are
important, but—”

“I’m tired of your excuses, Chris.”

“Excuses?” he grumbled. “You mean like spending time with my dying father? I have responsibilities. I don’t have the luxury of attending every party that’s thrown in Sarasota.”

For a moment there was silence. “I just get the feeling, baby,” she said, her voice softening, “that you don’t care about me anymore.”

He hesitated and rubbed his forehead. “I do care, Kate. When I get back, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Fine, Chris,” she snapped and hung up.

Christian leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, wondering if this high-maintenance woman was worth all the aggravation. Four months earlier, he had met the long-legged knockout with high cheekbones, luscious large lips, and bewitching green eyes when she Porsche-d up to the marina and asked him about sailing lessons. Her wit kept him so off balance that by evening, she had him in her Longboat Key condo, where he lost himself in layers of her coffee-colored hair during incredible all-night sex.

He and Kate soon became a couple. Heads turned when they entered a nightclub. She introduced him to a wealthy circle of friends and prodded him to replace his little pickup for the expensive SUV. After several trips to the islands and Mexico, he had thought she might be the one, but, lately, the romance seemed as rocky as his sailboat in a squall.

Christian saw himself as easygoing and capable of adjusting to most situations. He could hang with crusty sailors, beer-toting fishermen, and country rednecks, fitting in as one of the good ol’ boys. But then, chameleonlike, he could adapt; clean up, put on a suit, and ramp up his charm and intellect to blend in with a rich, sophisticated crowd. With a craggy horse trainer father and an affluent lawyer stepfather, he had learned to mingle with comfort in both worlds.