Golden Filly Collection Two (14 page)

After working the horses in the morning, Trish called the Chrysler dealership and made an appointment to bring in her car.

“Mom, would you follow me into the shop?” Trish asked after she’d hung up the phone.

“Sure.” Marge leaned against the sink, sipping hot coffee. “What time?”

“Right away. I just need to change clothes.”

Trish brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t think she looked like herself. Even her hair was unmanageable. The charm from her new bracelet clinked against the edge of the sink when she leaned over to brush her teeth. “Whoa, I haven’t called Red since I got back.”

After her car was looked over, Trish sat in a state of shock. The estimate on the repairs read between $2,500 and $3,000. New bumper, repair tie rods, adjust alignment, replace dented oil pan—and that was only what could be readily seen. There could be more damage inside.

The only good news was that she should be able to pick the car up the next evening.

“Are you going to file an insurance claim?” her mother asked as they walked back to the family station wagon.

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Trish rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She winced as she hit a tender spot. She must have banged her head on the steering wheel.

“It might be better to pay it off yourself, since the accident was your fault. That way it won’t show up on your record. Your insurance rate could go up quite a bit at your age.”

“I’ll have to get money transferred from savings to checking, then. Can we stop by the bank?”

Marge nodded as she pulled out onto the street. “When will you see Pastor Mort?”

She’d decided to see him at his office. “I’m going in this afternoon at three. Can I borrow your car?” Trish hated to ask, but she had no choice.

Sitting in the pastor’s office, Trish felt like a child being reprimanded in the principal’s office at school.

“Who are you mad at, Trish?” Pastor Mort said gently after a few moments of general conversation.

Trish shrugged. “No one, I guess.”

“Do you think that drive you took was because of anger?”

Trish tightened her jaw. “Maybe.” If she didn’t talk much, maybe this would be over sooner than she thought. At least she was doing what her mother had asked.

“I think you’re mad at yourself.”

Trish raised her eyebrows. “Maybe. I know driving like I did was stupid. I’ll never do that again.” Her voice became stronger. “Actually, I can’t believe I did it. Three thousand dollars—maybe more.”

“Do you think you could be mad at your dad for dying?”

“That too…” Her voice trailed off.

“How about God?”

Trish nodded. How did he know all this stuff? “My dad used to say that God heals. He had me memorize Bible verses about it.” Trish shoved herself to her feet. “Yes, I’d say I was mad at God. He doesn’t live up to His promises.…” Her voice broke. “I don’t want to hear about God’s promises ever again.”

Pastor Mort just nodded.

Trish sat down again. “What’s worse—my mother is taking over Dad’s place! And my brother sits in Dad’s chair. Patrick’s doing his work down at the barns. No one seems to miss him except me. Why did he leave me?”

“I don’t think your father wanted to leave you, Trish, and I understand how you feel.”

“Do you?” Trish glared at him. “You talk about how God is so good. Well, I don’t see Him that way.” Trish held her head in her hands. She felt like a volcano about to erupt.

She pulled her legs up underneath her. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay.” Pastor Mort poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“That’s not enough?” She sipped the water.

“No, I think there’s more.”

Trish stared into her glass. “I guess I—uh—I feel so…guilty. Like it’s my fault that Dad died. And that I shouldn’t be mad like this. Sometimes I just want to die…it hurts so bad.” She leaned her head against the back of the chair.

“Do you know anything about the grieving process, Trish?”

Trish shrugged. “I—I guess you’re sad, and you cry a lot.”

“Have you cried a lot?”

“At first I did. Mostly when I was alone. Now I can’t. There aren’t any more tears, I guess.”

“You’ve locked them away, Trish. There are more tears, and you should let them come. Grief comes in stages. Denial, anger, fear, guilt—it’s all normal. Every person that suffers a loss experiences these stages of grief—in different degrees, of course. Sometimes we go back and forth between emotions. It’s okay to be angry at God, by the way. He loves you no matter what you think of Him.”

Trish muttered into her glass, “If this is love, what is hate like?”

“God isn’t punishing you or trying to hurt you, Trish. We can’t always know
why
or understand what life throws at us. As long as we live on the earth there is going to be some pain, illness, death. God only promises to get us through it—if we trust Him. You have to deal with your feelings. They aren’t good or bad, they’re just there—a part of you. By trying to lock them up, not allowing yourself to cry, you get stuck in the rage. Tears are healing, Trish. They are not a sign of weakness.”

“Do you think I drove off like I did because I was stuck in a rage?”

“What do you think?”

Trish nodded in spite of herself. “But nothing will bring my dad back. And I can’t live without him.”

“It may seem like that right now. But you have to give it some time. You can’t be over your grief so quickly. You know your dad would want you to go on and enjoy your life. He did the best he could with his. I have a suggestion. How about writing a letter to God, telling Him exactly how you feel? Don’t hold anything back; tell it like it is. And then write a letter to your father.”

Trish stared at the pastor, as if he were a little wacky.

“Your dad found writing in his journal was a big help back in the early days of his illness, when he was angry and scared.”

“He was angry and scared?”

“Yes, he was. He and I did a lot of talking when he was in the hospital that first time. He said journaling helped a lot. He could say what he felt without feeling like he was being judged.”

“I don’t see how writing can help.”

“I agree it doesn’t make much sense at first, but try it. It works. Will you try, Trish?”

“I—I’ll see. Maybe I will.”

“Let me know when you do, and what you think of it.”

Trish stood to her feet. “Is that all?”

“I think that will do for now. Thanks for coming, Trish.”

Why is he thanking me?
“Thank you.”

Once outside, Trish felt free as a swallow in the spring. Maybe it was just the fresh air. She remembered her father suggesting journaling to her. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, talking to Pastor Mort
did
make her feel better.

At home, David greeted her with, “Patrick thinks Miss Tee may have torn a ligament in her shoulder—because of that run on the road.”

Chapter
12

G
atesby didn’t want to leave home.

“Do you always have to be a jerk?” Trish muttered as she clamped her hands tighter on the lead shank. Her shoulder already ached from the force of the gelding’s high jinks.

“Walk him around and we’ll try again.” Patrick planted both hands on his hips. “Sure and he can be an ornery beast.”

“You got that right.” David glared at his charge. “Okay, Trish, let’s take him around again and then right up the ramp without slowing or stopping.”

This time Gatesby walked in without a snort. David kept up his muttering while tying the horse in place. “Anderson didn’t do us any favors when he brought you back.”

Gatesby nosed David’s gloved hand. “Knock it off.”

“You really gotta watch him when he does that,” Trish told Patrick. The bay swung his hindquarters and trapped David in the stall.

“Move over, you miserable hunk of horse,” David ordered, slapping Gatesby’s shoulder. The horse squeezed him tighter. “Trish!”

“It’s good to know I’m needed,” she said sweetly. “All right, Gatesby, get over.” The gelding straightened out and peered over his shoulder. Trish slipped in beside him and fed him a carrot piece from her pocket. “You really are a pain, you know.” She rubbed his forehead and smoothed the forelock in place. “Now, you behave yourself.”

The two fillies walked in with no problems. The men closed the doors and they were ready to roll. David and Patrick would take turns driving the van, and Trish would follow in her car.

“Please be careful,” Marge cautioned as she handed a small cooler to the men and another to Trish. “Call me as soon as you get there.” She leaned in the window to kiss Trish on the cheek. “I’ll be praying for you.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. Okay?”

“You know I don’t worry anymore.” A smile flitted across her face and disappeared. For a long time worrying had been a serious problem for Marge, but now it had become a family joke. “It’s not easy letting my sixteen-year-old daughter go off like this, though.”

“The Finleys are probably more protective than you are,” Trish said. “I’ll call often.”

“Maybe even write?”

“Maybe.” Trish waved as she followed the silver van down the drive-way.

The trip was uneventful, but long, because they had decided to drive straight through. They pulled into the backside of Bay Meadows at ten in the evening. The guard at the gate gave them instructions to the Finleys’ barn.

“Any trouble?” Adam asked as they stepped down from the cab.

“None.” David arched his back and dug his fists into the tight muscles.

Trish got out and stretched too. She bent from side to side and rotated her shoulders, then stepped easily into Adam Finley’s embrace. “It’s good to see you. That was a long haul; I’ll take the plane anytime.”

“Glad you could come, Trish.”

“How are you, Adam?” Patrick asked. “Your barn looks real good.”

“I’m doing good, and thanks. The vet will be down here right away to check your horses in. I called him as soon as the gate let me know you were here. So—four new horses in my care. Sure you don’t want to stay and help me out, Patrick?”

Patrick shook his head. “Sorry, too much to do up north.”

“You miss the track?”

Trish had never really thought about the fact that Patrick might miss the track. She waited for his answer. What if Patrick didn’t want to stay with them at Runnin’ On Farm?

“Oh, some, yes. But it won’t be long before Portland opens. Time flies awful fast when you’re having fun.” Patrick tipped his hat back on his head. “Gotta keep up with these young folks here.”

Trish breathed a sigh of relief. They really did need Patrick now that Dad was gone.

It didn’t take long for the vet to check the animals for signs of fever or other illness. As soon as he finished drawing blood samples, they led the horses into their new stalls.

“You’ll have plenty to keep you busy here,” Patrick said to Trish as they hooked the last gate. “You’ll be switching mounts right quick in the mornings.”

“At least I don’t have to clean stalls.” She smiled.

“Yeah, like you’ve been overworked in that department lately.” The sarcasm in David’s voice touched a nerve in Trish. Obviously, he still wasn’t pleased about her leaving home for the summer.

She missed the easy teamwork with her brother. Was that gone for good too?

“I made reservations for you at a motel across the street,” Adam said to the two men. “You can park the van in the lot and I’ll give you a ride over. Trish, your room is ready at our condominium. Martha can’t wait to see you.”

“See you in the morning,” Trish called as she waved good-night to David and Patrick.

Trish tried to memorize their route as she followed Adam to his home. He said they had a little condominium, but when he showed her the program numbers on the entry gate she began to wonder.

After winding up a narrow road, he parked in front of a three-level home, stair-stepped into the hill. Martha Finley stood waving from a huge bay window on the second floor. The cream stucco building with a Spanish-tile roof made her think of the Finley ranch in the San Joaquin Valley.

Martha met them at the ornately carved oak door. Black wrought-iron railings flanked the stairs. “My dear, you have no idea how happy I am to see you!” She hugged Trish and ushered her into the tiled entry. Stairs led up and down to the other levels, and to the right Trish could see the lights of San Mateo with the black hole of San Francisco Bay beyond.