“Oh my gosh,” Lana exclaimed, as the wine went flying in a golden parabola over the dark dining room.
“Oh my gosh,” Aidan said, standing in the doorway, pressing his hands to his mouth.
Mr. Farnsworth said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny babbled, snatching at a napkin from the table and running it over the server’s white shirt. His shoulder had gotten most of the action—well, of what hadn’t flown onto the elderly couple dining behind him. “I’m sorry,” she called to them, and they tutted at her and waved their hands at her apology as if they wouldn’t know what to do with her words anyway. More servers appeared, and a manager in a dark suit. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at her.
Jenny dropped the napkin and bolted.
Past Aidan, past the astonished hostess, through two innocent bystanders examining the menu hanging in the vestibule, and onto the hot sidewalk, where the people passing by did not look at her, but merely changed their trajectories to avoid walking into her. She felt a flush of gratitude for the passionate disinterest of the New Yorker.
The pony was still in the street, swishing his tail as he stood in an open parking spot in front of the sushi joint next door. On his back, a policeman in blue was hunched over a notebook propped against the pommel of his patrol saddle, scribbling something.
Jenny knew better than to touch a police officer’s horse, but she still sidled up just as close as she could to the pony without actually stepping into the street and entering their personal space. He watched her with pricked ears, and she thought he was the most charmingly delightful pony in the world. That blonde mane and tail, that bushy forelock, those sturdy little legs, those inquisitive eyes—she wanted to take him back to her apartment and braid his mane and feed him carrots.
The officer glanced up at her, pale blue eyes under bushy gray eyebrows. “Can I help you, miss?” His voice was classic New York, smoky and short-voweled.
Jenny flushed pink. “No, I’m sorry—I was just admiring your horse.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “No need to apologize.” He finished his scribbling and tore a sheet of paper from the notebook, then urged the pony forward a few steps, close to the nearest parked car. He leaned down from the saddle and tucked the paper under the car’s windshield wiper. It was a parking ticket.
“Now,” he said, turning the pony back towards her. “You can pet him if you like.”
Jenny stepped off the curb and into the street without hesitation. On Amsterdam Avenue, a car slammed on its brakes, the driver thinking he’d found a parking spot, then revved back into traffic when he saw the little police horse in his way. The blaring horns and the squeals of tires and the cursing of drivers: it all happened around Jenny but could not touch her; the city receded as she placed her hand on the pony’s sun-warmed neck.
“He’s so warm,” she sighed. The pony’s chestnut coat was silken, and his skin beneath was tight across his muscles. He felt softer than a racehorse, yet somehow just as fit as one. Maybe it was from being ridden all day, she thought. Endurance-fit was different than racing-fit, but the results would probably look and feel much the same. “How long has he been a police horse?”
“Trooper?” The cop considered. “Ten years? He’ll retire soon. Move upstate, get a big house with a porch and a yard.” He grinned. “Me, too.”
“Will you miss this? Riding around the city, I mean.” Her fingers were opening and closing of their own accord, scratching the places all horses wanted scratched, and the pony leaned into her touch.
The policeman looked around and considered their surroundings: the new glass towers and the low brick tenements, the stylish boutiques and the soulless drug stores and the gently moldering hardware stores and bakeries which were hanging on despite the steady march of shiny new money. The green London plane trees turning golden in the sunset, and the little patches of flowers enterprising owners planted along the sidewalks. The people everywhere, every sort of person with every sort of walk and every sort of purpose, going going going going. He looked down at the golden mane and forelock of his little red pony, who was currently leaning into the best massage he’d had all day.
“I’ll miss it,” he said finally. He scratched at his mustache, sniffed a manly sort of sniff. If Jenny had asked, he would have said “allergies” and shrugged it off. “In a way.”
“I would miss it,” Jenny said definitively. Through all of the hardship and homesickness, she’d fallen in love with New York and she couldn’t imagine ever shaking it. “The only thing this city is missing is horses, and you’ve got that, too.”
“That’s true,” the cop agreed. “Maybe you should take over for me.”
Jenny considered the gun on his hip. The police she saw in Florida typically stayed in their cars, their weapons out of sight. In the city, they walked or rode or biked as much as they drove, their guns in full view at all times. They made Jenny nervous. Following a police officer up the subway station stairs, she never failed to wonder what would happen if someone just snatched that gun right out of the officer’s holster. Somehow, it was the casual nature of the unguarded holster that bothered her the most. The cops and troops standing with their military automatic weapons hoisted at Penn Station or big events didn’t bother her at all.
The cop followed her gaze. “You know, there’s a volunteer group in the park that ride patrol. Nothing too scary. They mostly give directions to the bathrooms and pose for pictures. You should call them up, see if they have any openings.”
“You’re kidding,” Jenny said, her mind racing at the thought. “They’re volunteers?”
“Sure,” he said, picking up the pony’s reins. Jenny reluctantly stood back, knowing he had to get on with his job. “Anyone who can ride a horse and talk on a radio can join. Look them up.”
She watched the pair ride down Amsterdam Avenue, stepping confidently through traffic. The pony’s ears were pricked; they were probably heading home, back to grain and hay and a quiet night in deep shavings. She thought of the quiet of the training barn back at home, the evening still as the horses pulled at their hay-nets, and settled down to nap. She wished she could have that, and this city.
“You found the only horse within a half-mile,” Aidan said from behind her, his voice tinged with amusement. “I should have known.”
Jenny turned around reluctantly. Aidan was standing close to her, his hands in his pockets, his face turned down to hers. He smiled. “Everything’s all cleaned up inside. Forgotten already. Come back in and let’s eat dinner.”
She winced, remembering the wine incident. The pony had driven it from her mind with astonishing efficiency. “I definitely would rather just disappear into the night than face the people in that restaurant right now.” Not to mention Lana’s father, who would have put the dressing-down he’d given her about carriage horses right out of his mind and moved on to appetizers without difficulty.
“You can’t do that,” Aidan said. “Come on, come back in. Lana’s father ordered another bottle of wine. And there’s more bread.”
Jenny looked back up Amsterdam, but the pony and his rider had already disappeared from view. The sun was sinking behind the tallest apartment towers, casting long shadows across the street, but the heat was not in any hurry to abate. She couldn’t think of a single thing more compelling than staying outside on this sultry city night.
“No,” she told Aidan, stepping away from him. “I’m going for a walk. Tell Mr. Farnsworth I don’t feel well.”
“Jenny, don’t do this,” he protested, catching at her sleeve. “He’s not mad at you. Stay and have dinner with me, at least.”
She tugged her blouse from his grip. “I’ll always have dinner with you, Aidan,” she said. “But I’m skipping a meal with the bosses tonight.”
It felt weird, calling Lana and her father the bosses. Jenny considered the strangeness of her words as she licked her ice cream cone and kicked her heels out in front of the bench she’d found free near Bethesda
Terrace, then pulled her feet in again as another group of people went strolling past. It was hard to relax in Manhattan without feeling like you were in the way. It was hard to relax in Manhattan, full stop.
“Lana’s my friend, not my boss,” Jenny said to herself, her eyes focused on the water splashing down the angel-topped fountain. The sun had set, but cotton candy-pink clouds were drifting above the angel in a deep blue sky, catching the last sunlit rays of the long June day. Behind the fountain, the trees of The Ramble rose in a hillside above The Lake. Central Park had a few showy names like Bethesda Fountain and the Conservatory Water, but most of the park’s sections were titled with impressive efficiency: The North Meadow, The Pond, The Ravine, The Great Lawn.
Lana was definitely her boss now. Jenny wasn’t sure the two things could ever be separated again. Even if Full Stride failed and the site was taken down by the end of the month, there would still be the memory of these couple of weeks when Lana had made demands on her time, criticized her choices, and given her orders. How had they thought nothing would change?
Darkness fell across the city at last, and the street lamps dotted the pathways with circular pools of light. The dinner would be done. They would have scattered their separate ways, Lana and Aidan heading downtown by subway, Mr. Farnsworth in a cab to the Metro-North station in Harlem, heading back to Connecticut for the weekend. Jenny got up slowly, licking the sticky ice cream from her fingers, and made her way up the walkway and south through the park. She was starting to spend so much time here, the long train ride to Brooklyn was starting to feel like a mistake.
Chapter Thirteen
Caitlin Robert’s barn might be in the furthest corner of Belmont’s backside, but the place was kept up like a palace, without a speck of dust or a cobweb to be seen. Jenny walked down the shed-row, which was open to the elements on one side and lined with eager horses on the other, all of them leaning over their rubber stall guards to see if she had any treats in her pockets. The stall fronts had been freshly painted in white; the open stall doors were dark green, the same fir-tree shade as the showier barns closer to the grandstand. The concrete foundations were swept clean of loose straw and hay. A calico cat sat in the short paved aisle that cut through the center of the barn, carefully licking her snow-white paws.
Jenny and Aidan had been at Caitlin’s barn all morning, and now it was ten o’clock: when the track closed to training rides. That made it quitting time for riders, but on the frontside, the workers who put the public face of the racetrack together were getting to work: slicing lime wedges, wiping tables, counting bills, brewing coffee. In another hour, the doors would open to the public, and a few people would actually show up, ready for an afternoon of betting on the ponies—both the ones running here, live and in person, and the ones running across the vast arrays of simulcast screens, beamed in from around the world.
While the frontside came to life, here on the backside, the pace would slow down to a crawl. Grooms would finish leg wraps and pick out stalls before heading home for a nap. Trainers might doze in their offices before the races, or go to lunch with owners, or even head home for the day. The horses would pull at their hay-nets, and stretch out in the straw for an afternoon snooze. Until the afternoon races, when six or ten horses would be led over each hour for their shot at the winner’s circle, the backside barns would be the quietest places in New York.
Caitlin sat on a folding chair outside the shed-row and peeled an orange with surprisingly dainty fingers. She rode in gloves, and her farmer’s tan was impressive, bronze forearms turning ghostly white at her wrists. She tossed the orange peel into the grass in front of the barn for the birds to peck at, and a tabby cat materialized from somewhere behind her, dashing after the peel. He inspected it, determined that it was not living, and stalked away, tail high and affronted.
“That’s Minion,” Caitlin said around a mouthful of orange. “And the calico one is Virginia. Best barn cats ever, but Minion keeps killing my swallow babies.”
“No one likes swallows in their barn but you,” a groom said gruffly, passing by with a bucket of poultice and an armful of pillow bandages. “They poop up the place.”
“Well, it’s my barn,” Caitlin said comfortably. “So I guess I can have swallows if I want them. Hear that, Minion?”
Minion disappeared into a stall, unnoticed by its equine occupant.
“Do you have any horses in this afternoon?” Aidan asked. “Should we stick around, catch the prep and the walk over to the paddock?”
He and Jenny were sitting on matching chairs, gray paint mottled with rust, passing a Diet Coke back and forth between them. Jenny’s whole body was crying out for a cold brew, and the soda tasted like window cleaner on her tongue. She was annoyed by the eagerness in Aidan’s voice as he invited himself to the race-day ritual of walking over. Only owners and personal friends were usually given the honor. He was being embarrassing. That, and she wanted to get back to the city and a good cup of coffee post-haste.
“No runners today,” Caitlin said. “I’ve been short on riders, actually. It’s hard to get all their works in when I don’t have a rider I trust to do it… you can’t put just anyone on a horse and get a good breeze out of them. You know what I mean, Jenny. I’ve seen you put in some pretty fast times out there.”
Jenny smiled, thinking of her days as an exercise rider. She’d been good with time and strides, nearly always hitting the marks her parents requested of her on a timed work. This fast at the first quarter pole, this much faster at the half, turn it on at the three-eighths, this many seconds for the final furlong: some people were instinctively good at rating their horses, and she had been well-known at Tampa Bay Downs for it. Sometimes she even took on breezes for big-name trainers, who had no trouble getting top jockeys to take on morning works—that was how good she’d been. How good she was? She didn’t know if she still had the knack, or if she’d given up her talent when she’d stopped galloping.
“It’s just experience,” she said modestly. “I’ve been galloping since I was a teenager. You learn best as a teen, right?”
“Not hardly,” Caitlin snorted. “Half the kids galloping out here are under eighteen and some of them, you can’t drill a fast quarter into their heads no matter what you do. I’ve got a good colt sitting in the barn waiting for his race, but he needs timed works and every time I have him primed for one, my rider flakes on me.” Suddenly Caitlin was gazing at Jenny with an assessing eye. “What are you doing on, say, Thursday this week?”
Jenny looked at Aidan, hoping he’d rescue her, but Aidan clearly had no idea where the conversation had led. He smiled at her. “Thursday’s a pretty open day, isn’t it, Jen? We just do clean-up for the weekend posts.”
“Oh, perfect!” Caitlin leaned over conspiratorially. “What say you get on a horse for me on Thursday morning?”
Jenny shook her head. “You know I haven’t been on a horse in months? I don’t even remember the last time I galloped. I’m not strong enough.” As if those were the only reasons she had no business getting on Caitlin’s horses.
“True,” Caitlin sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Of course, you could just jog a few for me and free up my rider to do a breeze before the maintenance break—come on, it’s like a free gym membership!”
“I can’t do that, Caitlin! I don’t have—” Jenny paused. She’d been about to say she didn’t have a license, but of course she did; the laminated card in her pocket gave her permission to gallop as well as to wander the backside freely. She could have said she had a job, but being out here at the track was part of her job, so that wasn’t a very good argument either.
“Come on, Jenny,” Caitlin cajoled. “I’m short a rider, and you know what you’re doing. Don’t tell me you’re not itching to get back on a horse. You have to miss it like crazy!”
Jenny looked back at Aidan, desperate for back-up. “Tell her I can’t do it.”
Aidan shrugged. “I don’t know why you’d turn it down. The ph
otos would be great, and it would definitely solidify your insider status with the readers.”
“But it would show bias,” Jenny argued. “Towards Caitlin’s barn.”
“I hate to tell you this, but no one is worried about Caitlin’s barn.” Caitlin grinned wryly. “I’m not even second-tier around here. I’m in the back barn just trying not to get kicked out. If you were going to ride for one of the big boys yeah, I’d see how there’d be some issues for your readers. But for me? I’m one step above a backyard racer to the people around here.”
Jenny looked back at the quiet shed-row. A groom was raking the dirt back into place, filling in the trench left by a morning of hot-walking horses. There was a very particular way to rake a shed-row, using a big claw-toothed rake that dug into the clay and gave the user abs of steel after just a few weeks of practice. It was a system of angles, reach and grab and pull, reach and grab and pull, and it was a calming, meditative way to end the frenetic morning of training. Jenny had always loved doing the raking-up. She needed something zen like that in her life now. Something to soothe all the jagged, rough edges of writing and commuting and the general drama of New York. Wouldn’t jogging horses do that for her?
Too well?
“I’m really sorry, Caitlin,” she said softly, “but it would be all or nothing for me. After a week or two, I’d be here every single morning.”
Caitlin smiled. “Is that a problem?”
“I have a job,” Jenny said.
“You can do both,” Caitlin scoffed. “You’re writing articles on your laptop. Please, you can do that in the afternoons. Everyone here has a second job. But really, maybe just give it a try. You’d be helping me out, and maybe you wouldn’t go all-in on it like you think. Maybe you’ve changed since you’ve moved to the city. It happens to people. The city can knock the horse-girl right out of you.”
That didn’t seem possible. Jenny just shrugged; there was no way she was winning this conversation, especially if Aidan wasn’t on her side. She picked up the bag she’d left leaning against her chair leg. “We should get back. We have to write up today’s visit. I think Aidan got some great shots of your horses, so thanks again for having us this morning.”
The Hidden Horses of New York: A Novel Page 13
