by Joan Wolf
The local channel was full of Derby news. There was a lot of footage of Bob Baffert, who had two runners: Honor Bright, which belonged to Sheikh Mohammed of Dubai, and Kerry's Way, a come-from-behinder like Someday Soon.
Liam was not a Bob Baffert fan. Liam belonged to the old thoroughbred aristocracy, who bred and raced relatively small, quality stables. Such a stable would be lucky to have a Derby runner every five years; Baffert, on the other hand, trained hundreds of horses every season and had one or two to enter every year.
“I wonder if he wears those sunglasses in the dark?” Liam said.
Baffert was famous for his shock of white hair and his small black sunglasses.
“You have to hand it to him, though,” I said. “The man knows a good horse when he sees one.”
Liam scowled. He seriously did not like Bob Baffert. We were sitting side by side on the bed facing the television. He was only inches away from me and my body was so attuned to him that I swear I knew when he blinked.
The station interview person had a short interchange with John Ford, Someday Soon's trainer. Ford was brief. “I have him where I want him. I think he'll run his best race tomorrow.”
“Do you think he has the kick to come from off the pace?”
Not a muscle moved in Ford's face. “I wouldn't be running him if I didn't think that we could win.”
The interview reporter laughed cheerfully. “Well, that's true.” The camera cut to someone else.
Liam smiled. “John will never make it as a television personality.”
“He's much too taciturn,” I agreed. “But you're pleased with him as a trainer?”
“Yes. He prepares his horses in the classic style. He doesn't run his two-year-olds until the autumn and he believes in long slow gallops. I couldn't have chosen anyone better for Buster.”
I nodded and reached up to pull the rubber band off my ponytail. My hair fell around my shoulders.
“You have such beautiful hair, Annie.” He picked up a lock between his thumb and his forefinger and smoothed it. “Why do you always wear it in a ponytail?”
My breath quickened at the touch of his hand. “It's out of my way in a ponytail. Actually, I'm going to get it cut short.”
He looked appalled. “What? You can't be serious.”
“I'm very serious. I just haven't found the time yet to go into town to the beauty parlor.”
He swung around so he was sitting sideways on the bed, facing me. “You've always worn your hair this way. Why change it now?”
“I think the short hair will make me look older. You're always going on about how young I am.”
He scowled. “Please don't get your hair cut because of some stupid thing that I said.”
I looked at him steadily. “You just asked me why I wanted to change a style that I've worn all my life. I'll tell you why. I want you to notice that I'm not little Annie any more. I'm all grown up, Liam. I'm even a full-fledged veterinarian.”
His blue eyes were trained on my face. Without taking my eyes away from his, I reached out, picked up his lean sinewy hand and laid it on my breast. “That is the breast of a woman, not a child,” I said.
He pulled his hand away as if it had been scalded. “Christ, Annie,” he said. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running.
I gave him my nicest smile. “I trust I've made my point.”
He said forcefully, “You've made it all right.”
“Then I don't have to get my hair cut?”
“No. You do not have to get your hair cut to prove to me that you're no longer a child.”
“Okay, I'll leave it be then.”
The national news came on and we both turned our attention to the television, pretending to watch.
We each changed in the bathroom and went down to the party in the Regency Room.
The place was packed with owners and trainers and other “connections,” such as breeders. Someday Soon was the only horse whose breeder was also his owner. In one corner of the room Bob Baffert was holding court, while D Wayne Lukas occupied another. Both of them had two horses running in the Derby, and in the early betting two of their colts were co-favorites: Honor Bright for Baffert and Mileaminute for Lukas. Someday Soon was rated fourth on the morning line at eight-to-one.
I didn't know a soul and I stuck close to Liam as we made our way to the bar. A number of people knew him, and he introduced me as we went along. I met the Canadian couple who owned Tango With Me. They had made their money in gold exploration. I met a seventy-seven-year-old oil, banking and lumber tycoon. I met a partnership which was made up of four former turf reporters. When finally we reached the bar, I had my usual, a glass of White Zinfandel. Liam had a scotch.
Everyone in the room was talking about the Derby.
How can they find so much to say? I thought as I trailed Liam to the food table. An elderly couple was standing in our way, and Liam said to them, “Are you the Winslows? Do you own Armageddon?”
The two of them beamed, obviously relieved to have someone to talk to beside themselves. “You bet we do,” Mr. Winslow said.
Liam held out his hand. “I'm Liam Wellington. I own Someday Soon.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Mr. and Mrs. Winslow both smiled.
We stood and talked for a while, then we resumed our trip to the buffet table. Liam, who had just eaten a hamburger and a load of French fries, filled a plate.
“Aren't you going to eat, Annie?”
“No thanks,” I said.
Near the doorway, we encountered John Ford and his wife. He and Liam shook hands, and I was introduced.
John had brown hair salted with gray. There was a fine network of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, testifying to the time he spent outdoors.
“Horrible crush, isn't it?” Mrs. Ford said.
“It certainly is,” I agreed.
“How does our boy look, John?” Liam asked.
“He looks good. I think he's ready.”
“Great.”
“The suspense is killing me,” I said humorously. “I feel like I'm a little girl again, waiting for Christmas so that Santa Claus can come.”
John Ford grinned. “You've hit the nail right on the head there, Dr. Foster.”
We stayed until ten, with Liam making it a point to talk to as many owners and trainers as he possibly could; then at last he said in a low voice, “What do you say we get out of here?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “If I drink one more glass of wine, I'll be drunk.”
“Actually, I think you're a little drunk already.”
I glared at him. “I am not. I can handle three glasses of wine.”
He shook his head. “I think you can handle two glasses of wine. The third put you over your limit.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your eyes are glazed over. Trust me, Annie. If there's anyone who knows the signs of too much to drink, it's me.”
I thought of his mother. “Maybe you're right,” I conceded. “Maybe I didn't need to take that third glass. But it was such a ghastly party that I had to do something.”
He laughed. “It wasn't a ghastly party.”
“It was all right for you. You knew people. I didn't know a soul.”
“I introduced you to a ton of people.”
“I don't like parties with a ton of people. I like small parties with people that I know.”
“I like them best, too.”
The elevator had reached our floor and Liam guided me out. “I just hope you don't have a headache tomorrow for the Derby,” he said.
“I'll take a couple of aspirin before I go to bed.”
“Good idea.”
We reached our hotel room and went in. Liam said, “Do you want to use the bathroom first?”
“Yes, thank you.” I washed my face and hands at the sink, brushed my teeth, put on a moisturizing cream, and got into my blue pajamas with a men's cut. I ran a brush through my hair and left it loose. Then, carrying my c
lothes, I went back into the bedroom.
Liam looked at me. “I don't usually sleep in pajamas and, since I thought I would be alone, I didn't bring any.”
“Wear your shorts. I don't care.” I brought my clothes over to my suitcase and began to fold them.
He stood there for a long, silent moment, watching me. Then he went into the bathroom and I could hear the shower running. I finished folding my clothes into the suitcase and went over to the bed. In truth, that third glass of wine had knocked me for a loop. All I wanted to do was lie down and close my eyes.
I was almost asleep when Liam came out of the bathroom. I was too tired to open my eyes to get a glimpse of him in his shorts. I felt him getting into the big bed on the other side. This is nice, I thought sleepily. The next thing I knew, it was morning.
I sat up, pushed the hair out of my face, and looked around for Liam. He was nowhere in sight but the bathroom door was closed. I looked at my watch, which I had forgotten to take off the previous evening. It was eight-thirty.
I went to the bathroom door and called, “Do you want to order breakfast from room service or do you want to go downstairs?”
“Let's go downstairs,” he called back.
It was a little early for my pink suit, so I picked up a pair of khaki pants and a clean, yellow knit shirt. Then I waited for Liam to come out of the bathroom.
He was wearing a pair of blue striped shorts and nothing else. I thought he looked as beautiful as a Michelangelo statue. He pushed a lock of hair away from his forehead and said, “The bathroom is all yours.”
“Thanks.” I picked up my makeup case and went inside.
After I had showered, I put on some blush and lipstick and put my wet hair in a ponytail. Liam was waiting for me outside.
“That's great timing, Annie,” he said amiably. “Every other woman I know would have taken at least twice as long.”
“Thanks,” I said expressionlessly, and wondered how many other women he had shared a hotel room with.
I put my pajamas back in my suitcase and Liam and I left the room to go downstairs.
CHAPTER 9
After breakfast, Liam and I went to Churchill Downs to check on Buster and we walked into what looked like a giant picnic. Tents were erected everywhere on the backstretch while owners and trainers glad-handed their guests. I caught a glimpse of the Crown Prince of Dubai in front of Bob Baffert's barn.
There wasn't any of the circus-like atmosphere at John Ford's barn, however, and when we got there Buster was being walked up and down the shedrow.
“How is he?” I asked Henry.
“Busting out,” Henry said. “He's ready to bust out.”
Liam smiled at me. “That's how he got his nickname.”
John Ford came up to us. “He's as good as he was for Florida,” he said. There was a fraction of a pause before he added, “Maybe better.” He patted Liam on his shoulder. “Don't worry, he's going to be a credit to his mom and pop and the farm he came from.”
“Thanks, John,” Liam said.
“I need to go shopping for a hat,” I told Liam.
“You don't need a hat. Just do something fancy with your hair. Believe me, the hair will look better than a hat.”
“It's a tradition that women wear hats to the Derby,” I said.
“The hell with the tradition. I am staying here for the races, not traipsing all around town looking for a silly hat for you.”
The Derby was the last race of the day; there would be a full card of races before it was run. I said, “Give me your car keys. When Buster wins I want to be properly attired.”
“Oh, all right, I'll drive you. I have to go home anyway to change my clothes. But you have to be fast.”
“I'll be a whiz.” I didn't care what kind of hat I got, I was just determined not to be the only bareheaded woman in the paddock enclosure.
Liam double-parked outside a department store. “I'll wait here for you.”
“Okay.” I dashed inside and found the hats almost straight away. I figured the store would have a bunch of them but it looked as if a lot of the stock had already been bought. I picked a yellow straw with a rolled brim and a pink ribbon, which would match my suit. I didn't even try it on; it was going to have to do.
I was back at the car within five minutes. “Good job,” Liam commented.
Both of us were too nervous to eat lunch, so we went back to the hotel, where I got into my pink suit and arranged my hair in a French twist, over which I put the hat. Liam was wearing a blue blazer, white shirt, red tie and gray slacks.
I could feel the tension bubble in my stomach. “This is so exciting.”
He gave me a wry grin. “I feel sick to my stomach,” he admitted.
“He'll do great; I have a good feeling about this race.”
“I hope you're right, brat. A lot is riding on one horse's back today.”
Properly attired, we left the hotel and went to pick up Liam's car.
The weather was perfect; eighty degrees with low humidity. It hadn't rained for a week, so the track was fast. In fact, as the day went by, it became very clear that the speed of the track favored front runners. Horses like Mileaminute and Honor Bright would be able to lay off the pace set by such speedsters as Tango With Me, and when the time came to make their move, they'd be rested and ready. The late closers, such as Buster, would have a hard time passing the second tier.
Three track records were set in the course of the afternoon. It was looking more and more difficult for Buster.
“Buster will have the stamina for a mile and a quarter. I think he can do it.” This was Liam's refrain all afternoon as we watched the races from seats in our owner's box.
Half an hour before the eighth race—the Derby—was to be run, Liam and I made our way out to the backside. We stood with Buster as he was saddled up and taken to the paddock.
“He looks marvelous,” I said to Liam.
And he did, but he wasn't getting any attention. All of the crowd's attention was on Baffert's big bay horse, Honor Bright. “Hah,” Liam said. “All of these people are in for a big surprise.”
Buster tossed his head as if he agreed. Then the call went out:“Riders up!”
All around the paddock, trainers began to give their jockeys a leg up. There was Jerry Bailey in crimson and gold on Honor Bright, then Gary Stevens on Epic Challenge and Kent Desormeaux on River Rush. Jorge Chavez blessed himself before vaulting into the saddle of Tango With Me. John gave Miles a leg up, and the line of splendid horseflesh began to move toward the paddock exit.
The owners, trainers and grooms followed the horses, and Liam and I joined the crowd as we moved out of the paddock and into the tunnel that would take us to the track. As we passed through the darkness of the tunnel I sent up a prayer, I know I shouldn’t pray about such an unimportant thing as a horse race when people are suffering and dying, but please, Dear God, let Buster win!
We came out into the sunlight at the end of the tunnel and the horses moved onto the track where each was picked up by an outrider. They began to trot down the track in front of the grandstand. The University of Kentucky marching band struck up “My Old Kentucky Home.”
I got goose bumps. All around me people were singing, “Weep no more my lady, Oh weep no more today. I will sing a song of my old Kentucky Home, of my old Kentucky home far away.”
Liam said to me as we pushed through the crowd to get to our box, “There were 36,152 thoroughbred foals registered with the Jockey Club the year that Buster was born.”
“Wow,” I said. “What are the odds of any one of them getting to the Derby?”
“Very low.”
I bit my lip. “I can't stand this. I think I'm going to be sick.”
“Don't you dare desert me now.”
I clutched Liam's arm. “I can't bear to watch.”
He gave me a hug. “We'll know soon.” John Ford and his wife arrived in the box but, aside from a quick smile, none of us spoke. All of our attention w
as on the glossy chestnut colt wearing the number nine.
The horses had finished their parade up the track and now they turned and headed back toward the starting gate. I watched Buster cantering down the track, his face pulled over the withers of the sensible quarter horse that was leading him. He seemed perfectly calm. Much calmer than I.
My whole body felt frozen with tension. I could tell Liam was the same. They started loading the horses into the gate and we looked at each other. I moved a fraction of an inch closer to him, then we both returned our focus to Buster, who was waiting patiently to be loaded. My dad had taught him well.
One of the assistant starters took hold of his bridle and another assistant got his flank and he walked quietly into the gate. The door closed behind him.
For one moment that seemed frozen in time, all of the horses were in their stalls, poised to erupt into full flight. Then the bell went off, the gate sprang open and the horses surged forward. The Kentucky Derby had begun.
I lifted my field glasses and tried to pick Buster out from the pack of horses crowding the field.
“Shit,” Liam said. “He got bumped on his way out of the gate.”
“He has plenty of time to make it up,” John Ford said.
We watched amidst the noise of the crowd as the field sorted itself out. Tango With Me ran to the front, as expected, followed by Enzo and Kerry's Way. The three set a scorching pace. A few lengths behind were Honor Bright, Point Taken and Mileaminute. Behind them came the rest of the field, including Buster.
“Christ, they're going fast,” Liam muttered as the front runners passed the first quarter pole.
The early speed on the front could be a good thing for the horses in the second tier, like Honor Bright. It simply wasn't possible for the horses on the lead to maintain that pace over a mile and a quarter; they were sure to fade and leave the track open for the horses that had been lying just off the pace.
A few moments later, the announcer informed us that the third tier of horses, in which Buster was running, was fourteen lengths behind the leaders.
I said, “Damn. He's too far back. And he's in the middle!”
