Golden Filly Collection Two (3 page)

Trish felt herself smiling before she opened her eyes the next morning. How incredibly wonderful…She and Spitfire had won the Belmont Stakes, the final jewel in the Triple Crown! Then the awful reality struck…Her father was
dead.

Trish rolled over and smothered her cries in the pillow. “It’s not fair!” She punched the pillow with her fists. Would her broken heart ever mend?

This can’t be real; it’s like a nightmare.
The words echoed through her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut.
If only it were just a bad dream.

She sat bolt-upright in bed.
Dad always said God was his strength—our strength. But we prayed. Why didn’t you answer, God?
She leaped from the bed and jerked on her clothes. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“That’s it! No more crying!” she ordered the swollen and blotchy face she saw in the bathroom mirror. She held a cold wet washcloth to her eyes for a minute, but it didn’t help the puffy eyelids. She sniffed again and swallowed hard. “No more!”

By the time Trish had unbraided, brushed, and rebraided her dark wavy hair, she felt she had her armor in place. She squeezed toothpaste onto the brush and methodically brushed her teeth. Maybe doing all the routines would get her back on track, but when she looked in the mirror again she nearly lost it.

“Trish?” Her mother knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”

“Uh…yeah, I’m okay.” She opened the bathroom door, but couldn’t face her mother. “I gotta go, Mom. I need to feed Spitfire—work him and stuff, you know. See you later.” She ducked her head and bolted for the door.

At the car, she dug in her pockets. No keys. She couldn’t go back up there. Feeling the weight of the entire planet on her shoulders, she leaned her forehead on the rim of the car roof.

“I’ll drive,” David said from behind her. He nudged her over so he could insert the key in the lock.

Trish felt like shoving him back, but what good would it do? She stomped around to the passenger’s side and climbed in.

“Quit acting like a spoiled brat,” David said in his most reasonable big-brother tone.

Trish stared at him.
How could you…?
She bit her lip and tried not to let the dam burst again.
What are we doing? We never act like this.

“Look, I know you’re mad at God…and all the world.” David’s voice cracked. “Well, so am I.” Trish could hardly hear him. He took a deep breath. “Let’s just get through this day, Trish. Can we do that?”

No tears!
her mind screamed. “Whatever.” She stared straight ahead and wished she didn’t have to get through this day or any other day.

The guard at the gate nodded them through. His usual smiling face was somber. When David parked by their barn, he leaned his forehead on his crossed hands on the steering wheel. After a bit he straightened and turned toward Trish. His eyes filled with tears. “I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Trish clamped down on her lip again. She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard. “Yeah, I know.” She opened the car door and leaped out. When she tried to whistle to Spitfire nothing came.
You can’t whistle when you’re drowning in tears.
The little voice inside she called her nagger seemed to chuckle with glee. It always seemed happiest when she was in trouble.

As she entered the long green and white barn, a reporter peeled himself off the wall and approached her. “Can I ask you a few questions, Trish? I know this is a terrible time for you, so I’ll keep it short.”

Trish stared at him, shock paralyzing her vocal cords. Had he lost his mind? How could she talk to anyone now?

He took her silence for agreement. “Do you know when the funeral will be?” Trish shook her head. “What will you do with Spitfire?” Trish shook her head again and pushed past him. “Will he go directly to stud? How about the Breeder’s Cup? You said once you’d like to race him there.…”

“Get on with you now.” Patrick shook a gnarled fist in the man’s face. “I already answered all your questions. You be leaving the kids alone.”

“Just doing my job.” The man touched a finger to his forehead in a salute. “Trish?” He raised his voice. “I want you to know how sorry I am. Please accept my condolences. Your father was one in a million. We’ll all miss him.…”

Trish buried her face in Spitfire’s mane.
Be polite.
Nagger seemed to perch right on her shoulder.

“Thank you.” She heard David’s voice outside the stall. “We’ll let you know what’s going to happen with Spitfire as soon as we know ourselves.”

“Okay, lass, let’s get the old man saddled here so you can walk him nice and easy. He’s got an awful lot of pep for running a mile and a half yesterday.” Patrick handed Trish the bridle, then spread the saddle cloth and settled the saddle in place.

Trish slipped the headstall over Spitfire’s nose, then ears, then buckled the chin strap, all in one easy, fluid motion. She didn’t need her mind in gear to perform these tasks. Spitfire blew gently in her face and lipped a strand of her bangs. She stared into his eyes. No mischief lurked there this morning, only a gentle caring.

Trish rubbed up behind the horse’s ears and underneath the headstall. “You’re such a good fella,” she whispered.

“They sense things.” Patrick checked the girth again. “I don’t know how, but horses—most animals—seem to know when something bad has happened. He’s trying to tell you how much he cares, how much he loves you.”

Trish nodded, and raised her knee to be boosted into the saddle. She didn’t dare look at Patrick; the kindness in his voice was enough.
You will not cry again!
she commanded herself.

David snapped the lead shank in place and handed Trish her helmet. “Come on, fella.” He stopped at the end of the barn. “Would you rather just walk him around in the barn here? A couple of turns would loosen him up. That’s why the aisles are so wide, you know.”

“I know.” Trish gathered up her reins. “But I think being outside will be better. Maybe the wind will blow away some of my fuzziness.”

“Hey, wait up.”

Trish turned to look over her shoulder. Red Holloran, the young jockey she’d dated in Kentucky, jogged up the sandy stretch. She would recognize his red hair anywhere. Had he been around yesterday after the race? Trish couldn’t be sure. The evening was a blur in her mind.

“Hi.” He reached up to clasp her hand. “You okay?”

Trish ducked her head in a kind of nod.
If okay means I’m here and riding, yes, it fits. But how will I ever be really okay again?

“I’m so sorry, Tee.”

Trish squeezed Red’s hand. “Yeah, me too.” She looked beyond Spitfire’s twitching ears. Out there all the world seemed so normal. People were laughing, someone was singing, and the cicadas were warming up for their daily concert from the elm trees. Spitfire took a deep breath and exhaled noisily.

“I could work the filly for you, if you’d like.”

“That’s okay,” David answered for Trish. “Why don’t you walk over with us. Then we can come back for Sarah’s Pride while Trish is walking Spitfire.”

“Sure. Or does Patrick need some help?”

Trish felt a warm spot in her middle. Red really cared, she could tell. She squeezed his hand again. All the way out to the track, her hand stayed warm.

Spitfire jogged sideways as soon as David released the lead. Ears forward, neck arched, he danced in place, then set out at an easy extended walk. Trish let her feet dangle below the iron stirrups. It would be so easy to let her mind wander, but even in her fuzzy state she knew better. That’s the way accidents happened.

Later Trish realized she had spoken with people and gone through all the proper motions, even talking with a reporter who evaded the barriers put up by Patrick, David, and Red. But life seemed to be happening at the end of a long tunnel or the small end of a telescope. If she kept it all far enough away, she didn’t hurt so much.

The meeting with Spitfire’s syndicate owners was held back at the hotel about noon. Trish nodded and answered in all the right places. When the Shipsons discussed the barn and accommodations for Spitfire at BlueMist Farms, Trish agreed that everything sounded great. When Adam Finley talked about the horse van he’d reserved for the trip back to Kentucky, Trish nodded again. A van was a van, and even though they’d had an accident with one coming up on the New Jersey Turnpike, it wouldn’t happen again, she was sure.

But inside Trish screamed
No! Let me take him home. I want Spitfire at Runnin’ On Farm where he belongs. I need him there. He needs me. No one else can even ride him! Please, please, let me…
But just like keeping Sarah’s Pride under control, Trish rode herself with a tight rein.

Even when Adam talked about the flight arrangements to take the family and Hal’s body back to Vancouver, Trish stared straight ahead. She clenched her teeth to shut off the voices in her head.
Just get through this. Just get through.
She repeated the phrase again and again until it assumed its own beat, like a bass drum in a parade.
Just get through.

But when Martha Finley reached over and took her hand, Trish almost lost control. She could feel the tears burn behind her eyes. She sniffed and took her hand back.
Just get through.

“Are you coming, Tee?” Her mother laid a hand on Trish’s shoulder.

“Uh—where?” Trish tried to shut off the inner cadence so she could answer.

“To the funeral home. We’re going to pick out the casket.”

Trish forced her legs to lift her body off the chair. How long had she been sitting there? She looked around the room. “Where’s everyone?”

“They left a bit ago. Do you want some lunch first?”

Trish shook her head. “No, let’s get it over with.”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” Marge put both hands on Trish’s shoulders.

Trish really looked at her mother. Marge seemed to have lost weight; her face was pale and drawn. There were deep creases from her nose to the sides of her mouth. Did they all look like that? “I’ll go.”

On the drive over, Trish pulled herself back to the small end of the telescope. The woman at the funeral home spoke so softly Trish could hardly hear her.
Oh well, do I really want to hear her?

They entered a large room that displayed a wide variety of caskets—blue, gray, brown, wood tones, metallic, burnished.
Just get through.
Trish felt like heaving. They couldn’t put her father in a box like this. Not her father. He was so alive and real.

He’s not alive anymore.
Trish dug her fingernails into her fists.

“Don’t you have a simple wooden box?” Marge asked. “That’s what Hal wanted.”

“Are you sure?” David looked at his mother, confusion written on his face.

“Yes, he and I—uh—we discussed these things a long time ago. I have all his suggestions, requests. He wanted to make it as easy for us as possible.”

“You know…” The woman paused. “Yes, we do have some wooden caskets.” She led them to another part of the room. There were several of plain wood. One had a cross burned in the cover.

“I’ll take that one,” Marge said firmly. After writing the check, she thanked the woman for her help, and they stepped out into the entryway where Adam and Martha were waiting for them.

“They’ll have everything ready and at JFK airport by twelve-thirty,” Adam said. “I talked with the director while you were downstairs. He assured me that there would be no difficulties.”

“Thank you.” David nodded as he reached to shake Adam’s hand. Instead, the older man drew the younger into a hug.

Just get through.
Trish slipped behind her mother. She could manage as long as no one touched her.

That night Trish was already in bed when Marge came in to talk with her. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Is there any way I can help you, Tee?”

Trish shook her head. At least when she was asleep, she didn’t have to think.

Marge reached over and smoothed a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear. Trish flinched.

“It’ll be easier for all of us if we help each other. You know your dad wanted it that way.” Marge waited. The silence stretched, broken only by a car horn honking on the street. “I know you’re trying to tough this out, but crying does make things easier.”

Trish could hear the tears in her mother’s voice. She didn’t dare look, for fear her own would break through.

Marge reached for a tissue. “Where’s the eagle?”

“I put it away.”

“Where?”

“In the closet.” Trish felt Marge get up from the bed, then heard the closet door slide open. The eagle was on the top shelf. She knew her mother had picked it up. If she let herself, Trish could picture the light glinting off the intricately carved wings, but she pushed the image from her mind.

Marge sighed.

As her mother reached the door, Trish turned over and asked the question that had been plaguing her. “How come he died—right then, I mean.”

“It was a massive hemorrhage in his lungs. The doctors tried…nothing helped. We were on our way out the door—to come to the track.…” Marge paused and blew her nose. “Just like that, he was gone.”

Trish didn’t answer. She couldn’t. One tear squeezed out from between her clenched eyelids and slipped down her cheek.