Golden Filly Collection Two (72 page)

When they left the table they were all groaning, just as Trish had warned. After a jog down to the barn to say good-night to Spitfire, they joined the rest of the group in the parlor.

“Trish, Amy, I’d like you to meet Joseph Silverstein, Artistic Director for Merritt Advertising Agency. He’ll be producing the commercials. You can say he runs the show.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.” Trish felt a quiver down in her middle, maybe because a whip-lean man who looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of
Gentleman’s Quarterly,
a high-class fashion magazine, was studying her as if she were a bug under a microscope.

“Likewise.” His concentration never wavered. “Unbraid your hair please.”

“What?”

“Your hair. Let it loose.” Trish raised trembling fingers and did as he asked. “There, that’s better. Hair with riches like yours shouldn’t be bound. We’ll shoot you with it down.”

“But I don’t wear it that way when I have my helmet on.”

“So, no helmet.”

Trish felt the quiver turn to flame. Who did this guy think he was? Hadn’t he done
any
research on horse racing?

“But when I’m riding I have to wear the helmet.”

“We’ll see.” He walked around her, one finger tapping his chin.

The bug under the microscope began to squirm. Trish shot Donald a look of pleading, but all she got back was a shrug. She straightened her spine and returned look for look.
Shape up,
she ordered herself when she felt her teeth start to bite her bottom lip. She raised her chin a mite farther.

When he finally smiled, she caught herself just before letting out a whoosh of air. She smiled back, a right eyebrow slightly raised, in a barely-uncovering-her-teeth smile.

“That’s it. Give me that look on camera tomorrow and we’ll wind this up way ahead of schedule.” A blow to the solar plexus wouldn’t have winded Trish more.

It was as if no one else in the room had breathed before then either. A community whoosh made everyone smile, and when the conversation picked up, they all talked just a bit louder and brighter.

What kind of power does this guy have?
Trish let herself study him now that he was talking with Donald.
I may be only seventeen, but even I recognize power when I see it. Is the whole shoot going to be this nerve-wracking?
But while she could come up with plenty of questions, she didn’t dare ask them. Who wanted to be that bug under the scope anyway?

As they’d announced, Sarah started serving breakfast at five-thirty. The hubbub from the dining room made Trish hurry to get showered and dressed. She met Amy in the hall and they descended the stairs together.

“You’ll keep them from eating me, won’t you?” Trish asked halfway down.

“You made it through the inquisition last night. You don’t need me.” Amy, one step behind, laid a hand on Trish’s shoulder. “But I’ll be there. Count on it. Besides, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

The hand on Trish’s shoulder spread comfort through her entire body.

“Okay, folks, we’ve got a bad weather report, so we’ll get the running shots while it’s still nice out. That early morning haze’ll be in about an hour, so hustle.”

A young woman with her straight hair pulled back in two clips stopped at Trish’s chair. “Hi, I’m Meg. Here’s your script for today’s shoot.” She checked her watch. “You need to be down at wardrobe in forty-five minutes.”

“But I’m already wearing everything but my silks.”

“Makeup’s there too. You better move it.”

Trish stuffed the last of her biscuit in her mouth and pushed back her chair. “Come on, Amy. Duty calls.”

Shipson drove them down to a parking lot now full of trailers, cars, and trucks with people striding purposefully between them, all seeming to know exactly what they were doing. “That’s wardrobe and makeup. Red won’t be here till later since at this point the shoots with him are scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, I was wondering.” Trish beat back the urge to hide under the dash and instead nudged Amy to get out.

“Timmy will have Spitfire ready. You just do exactly as they say.”

“What a pity! I have to ride Spitfire around the track a few times. This part is real hard to take.” Trish reached back inside to grab her script off the seat. “
This
is the part I’m worried about.” Worried didn’t begin to cover it. The thought of saying lines already written and getting the right inflections turned her mouth to sawdust and her stomach to mush. Or tied it up in knots—whatever.

They crossed the gravel and stopped in front of a door on a tan trailer. The sign said Wardrobe/Makeup. Trish turned to look at Amy, who stepped forward and opened the door.

“After you.”

“Hi, I’m Lennie.” A young woman with skin the color of rich milk chocolate turned from the mirror where she’d been applying gloss to lips already lined with deep burgundy lipstick. “You must be Trish. Sit here and let’s have a look at you.” She gestured to the chair in front of the three-sided mirror bordered with lights that showed every pore and lash.

Trish did as she was told. “Guess I’m in your hands.”

“Then you don’t need to worry, honey. I’ve been doing this for ten years now.” Lennie, rump perched on the edge of the makeup counter, studied her project carefully. “Hmmm.” She tipped Trish’s chin up and from side to side. “Joseph was right. The hair is glorious. With eyes like yours, no wonder the camera loves you. Good skin…those cheekbones will leap out with blusher…we’ll narrow that nose a bit.”

Trish now knew what dissection felt like. By the time Lennie was finished with her, she’d been pasted, powdered, and painted. Her hair had been braided loosely and her bangs fluffed to the side. But her eyes—they looked huge, and her lips—well, she grinned to see what she’d look like. Not bad. She glanced in the mirror to see Amy give her the thumbs-up sign.

“Ready in five.” A knock sounded along with the voice.

“Now, you just go out there and wow ’em.” Lennie handed Trish her helmet.

Spitfire nickered as soon as she stepped out the door. But when she tried to whistle, her mouth refused. Too dry to pucker. That along with the butterflies who awoke with the sun and now cavorted around her middle, and Trish thought of the rain and cold at Portland Meadows with longing.

“Easy, fella.” She rubbed cold fingers up behind his ears. “At least you’re warm.” But when she stepped forward to hug him, Joseph appeared at her shoulder.

“Don’t let him get your silks dirty.” He pushed back his Detroit Tigers ball cap and checked something on his clipboard. “If you’ll mount now, we’ll get under way. All I’d like you to do is run him around the track.”

“How fast?”

“Well, like you’re racing. You know that butt-in-the-air, hunched-forward look. And fast enough so his mane blows. The camera crew will be shooting from different locations so you needn’t think about them. But do look like you’re having a good time.”

“I’m always having a good time on my friend here.” Just as she turned to mount, Spitfire raised his nose with lightning speed and tipped the cap off the man’s head.

Trish bit her lip. Hard. “Spitfire, no! Sorry. He thinks hats are a game.”

Joseph reached down and, after dusting off his cap, put it back on his head, at the same moment taking two steps backward. “Remind me to watch out for him. Does he bite too?”

“No, only Gatesby does that.”

“Gatesby?” He stared at her over the tops of the half-glasses he wore far down on his nose.

Trish stroked Spitfire’s nose and kept her face straight. “He’s a horse we train. You gotta watch him.”

“And him.” Joseph pointed at Spitfire with the end of his pen. “Horses with a sense of humor.” He shook his head. “You learn something new every day.” He started to leave but turned back. “You didn’t command him to do that, did you?”

“No. No way. I try to keep him honest.”

“Just make sure you do.”

Once on the track, thoughts of commercials and cameras left her mind completely. She drew in a breath of crisp fall air through her nose and let it out. “Well, Spitfire, old fella, this is your chance. Let’s show ’em how beautiful you really are.” She brought up her knees and found her stirrups. At the signal from Joseph she broke her mount into a canter and then a gallop.
Butt in the air, my foot.
She thought back to the producer’s instructions. “Come on, fella, let’s go.”

Twice around the track and the signal came to stop. She pulled the colt down to a trot and then a walk. “Timmy was right. You’re in good shape, old man.” She stroked down the glistening hide. Barely warm.

“Okay, Trish, take a breather.” Joseph gathered his camera people about him. Lennie came over to see if Trish needed any touch-ups but kept her distance from Spitfire.

“I never did trust anything bigger than me, honey. So don’t you go taking offense. You look fine, anyway.”

“Thanks. You seen Amy?”

“She’s over talking to a good-looking redheaded young man.”

“Red’s here?”

“Guess that might be his name.” She winked at Trish and marched back to her trailer.

“You want me to hold him?” Timmy asked, walking along at her right knee.

“No thanks, we’re fine.” She scanned the groups of people milling around. No blond Amy with a redheaded fellow. Then she saw an arm raised and waving.

“Trish!” Red broke away from the group and trotted across the gravel. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on break.” He walked the last few yards and, taking Spitfire’s reins with one hand, reached the other up for Trish’s hand. “You two look mighty fine out there.” He squeezed her hand. “I am so glad to see you.” His sky blue eyes said the rest.

“Can you believe we’re doing this?” Her hand in his sent electric jolts clear to her toes. She leaned forward. “Can you believe they’re paying me to ride my favorite horse in all the world?”

“I know. Rough life. Wish I could be out there with you.”

“Okay, Trish, let’s do the same again.” This time Joseph stopped a few paces back. “We’ve clouds coming up from the west, so our sun might not last much longer.”

Trish touched her gloved hand to her forehead. “Yes, sir,” and nudged Spitfire forward. Red walked beside her knee. “I hear you’ve been having some trouble again.”

“Amy blabbed.” His comment snatched her thoughts of The Jerk from their hiding place and displayed them front and center. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so bad.” He shook his head. “No wonder David was so worried.”

“David? How’d you know?”

“You ever heard of the U.S. mail? Or maybe it doesn’t go to Washington yet. Couldn’t prove it by the amount I’ve received, that’s for sure.”

Trish patted him on the head. “Sorry. Been a lot on my mind.”

“If I could get my hands on him…”

“You and about a million others. Amy said they’d get him. He has to make a mistake one of these days. And maybe with me gone, he’ll forget all about it.”

“What are you waiting for, Trish?” The voice came over a bull horn.

“Sorry, gotta go.” She glanced to the west. Black thunderheads rose behind the trees, darkening the sky and sending a cold wind to bite Trish’s nose and cheeks. “Looks like we may get wet. That’ll send ’em into a tizzy for sure.” She nudged Spitfire to a trot and then a gallop. The sun had melted the ground mist and now sparkled through the flaming leaves on the elm trees along the track.

Trish sniffed the air. Perfume of horse and burning leaves somewhere. What a combination. But after two more laps, they signaled her in.

“We’ll move into the barn for the interior shots next. You can put your horse away for a while. It’ll take us some time to get set up.” Joseph signaled someone else toward the stallion barn. “Oh, and, Trish. You’ll do these next shots with your hair down, so get back to makeup.”

“Guess his mother never taught him to say please or thank you,” Trish muttered while she leaped to the ground and looked around for Timmy. Now she had to review her lines again. Her butterflies all fluttered at once—but not in rhythm.

An hour and a half later, the interior was finally set. Directly in front of Spitfire’s stall sat a red LeBaron convertible, just like the one Trish drove at home. When it wasn’t in the shop, that is.