Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  The Hunt Cup didn't offer a purse until 1972, and it was only $15,000 now. The few horses and riders here today, Carey thought, were up for the unique challenge of this race. The purse was only a minor bonus.

  He'd entered for several reasons, some less tangible than others. First, the Hunt Cup was by reputation the most terrifying, most formidable course in the world with timber jumps lethal to both man and beast. Carey thrived on that danger-the cutting edge excitement of survival. Secondly, this hunt country had been home to his mother's family for generations; a Carrville always risked his life in the Hunt Cup. Faithful to its original intent as a race for gentlemen sportsmen through home fields, the Hunt Cup was still the only steeplechase in the world charging no admission. So he rode for the sense of adventure and family. And, last but not least, the thought of winning the triple crown in world steeplechase brought a rush to his senses. He'd had eight wins in fourteen mounts in this race but the perfect combination of victories at all three-Aintree, Autueil, and here at home, had always eluded him. If he won today, he would have achieved something no American rider had ever done before.

  He wished he were less tired.

  He wished he'd had another day to rest after the sleepless nights in Nice.

  Maybe the field would fall away, he speculated with casual hope and considered expectation. It was known to happen here and at Aintree. There had been times at both races when the last horse standing had won, and this year only a field of twelve had been entered. The famed third fence usually took out a few riders, and the sixteenth and seventeenth of the twenty-two fences often claimed their victims. Perhaps simply staying on would be enough to win.

  But his cynical sigh brought Tarrytown's ears forward as though he, too, understood more than luck was involved. Reaching out, Carey stroked the velvet softness of Tarrytown's coat as they waited to move up to the starting post. “You've got a nice long rein today,” he said, his fingers trailing down the gleaming chestnut's powerful, deep neck, “so carry me through and I'll just stay on one way or another.”

  Tarrytown twisted back and nuzzled Carey's leg as if to reassure him. And Carey grinned, oddly relieved, knowing his horse understood his weariness. In the years they'd been riding together, they'd developed a communication distinctly their own with a telepathy peculiar to their special natures.

  “It's a slop course,” Carey added. “Pray we lose a few competitors to that.” Early morning thunderstorms had softened the ground so the turf was going to be muck to anyone not in the lead. They had to get out front and hold it from the start.

  Tarrytown apparently had decided on the same strategy-a favorite of his-because he broke away at the starting post with power and speed that was both remarkably elegant and economical. Coming into the first fence, Tarrytown lowered his head to see what he was up against, and Carey allowed him to make his own arrangements. He knew from experience Tarrytown was bold but careful. This horse didn't take any chances. Although he had the courage to face any steeplechase fence and the weight to hit them without necessarily falling, he preferred a clean jump. All Carey had to do was keep himself under control and watch.

  Tarrytown shortened his stride and jumped, tucking his front legs under in his own peculiar style to avoid the top rail. As they soared over the fence with extravagant inches to spare, Carey's weariness lightened.

  Eleven riders followed them over the first two fences but predictably the third fence took its toll, and four horses either fell or were brought down in a terrible struggling mass. The field was precipitously cut to eight, and further dwindled to six when two horses failed to get over the ninth fence, hitting the top rail simultaneously and splitting it as they went down. Another rider fell at the twelfth fence when his mount balked at a loose horse.

  By the fifteenth fence, Carey could feel Tarrytown's mood as if he were saying, “I'm going.” They were in balance, in complete harmony, physically flowing as a single component of motion. It was the bareback training from age three and the high wire, his father always said, that made a rider one with his mount. Similar to dance, one had to feel and hear and sense the movement with intrinsic emotion, not logic. That purist training made Carey the supple, effortless jumper he was today, lifting his weight completely off his horse while it was in the air, yet touching down smoothly, exhibiting unparalleled poise from lift-off to finish. With good reason, Carey Fersten was heralded as the most stylish rider in the sport.

  At the nineteenth fence, Tarrytown was still strong and jumped the next two timber obstacles with a gutsy speed and power that was part conceit and part elation. He was the kind of horse who liked to take the lead and hold it against the competition, and the diminishing field was far behind. Moving into the inside position by habit, they turned toward the finish and both felt the irrepressible stirrings of triumph. Victory beckoned, the cheering crowd was faintly distinguishable above the beating of their hearts, the straight green stretch of turf was all that was left between them and the first triple crown in steeplechase history. Carey tried not to think of the melodramatic stories of horses falling or stumbling just short of the finish line, or the instances when some physical hazard abruptly ended a seemingly triumphant victory. “Let's take her home,” Carey murmured, his voice deliberately calm. But the electric energy pulsing through his body was more potent than the tranquillity of his tone.

  And Tarrytown dug in, cruising down the stretch with ease and enjoyment, as though he were finishing a country meeting flat race instead of four miles of the most treacherous racing in the world.

  “Show off,” Carey whispered, exhilaration in his voice, Tarrytown's boundless stamina and gallant heart never ceasing to amaze him.

  The handsome bay turned on an additional burst of speed in response, as if the stopwatch mattered and he had his own private goals.

  Their winning time was the second fastest on record.

  An American had won the triple crown for the first time.

  An amateur rider, rare in the ranks of professional jockeys, had attained the remarkable prize.

  The most brilliant contemporary rider had finally brought it home.

  CHAPTER 14

  I t was getting late. He'd talked to old friends, danced, drunk, enjoyed the congratulations, and pleased his mother by being solicitous to all her favorite people. The victory was sweet. He'd done it-the triple crown. Actually, Tarrytown had done it and he'd been along for the ride. His spirits were high, and he was accepting some cordial parting compliments from the Benchley master of the hounds when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning slightly, Carey recognized the tall brunette, smiled at her, swiftly concluded his conversation with Elliot McLeod, and, turning back to her said, “Good evening, Mrs. Garrett. How did I miss you earlier?”

  “I only recently arrived. Family things to do.”

  “Ah, that explains it. How are all the little Garretts?”

  “Fine, healthy. Asleep.”

  “And Mr. Garrett?” He glanced around briefly.

  “In Europe.”

  “How nice,” Carey said pleasantly, his eyes sliding down to her toes and up again. “For him, I mean,” he added in a tone which belied his words; his dark eyes were provocative with inquiry.

  “Yes,” Sarah answered.

  “Would you care for a nightcap somewhere?” Carey asked, looking over the busy ballroom still full of guests.

  “I'd love one.” Her voice was decisive, not coy. It was the Sarah he knew.

  “Your place or mine is the customary response,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “My children are more curious than these people here,” she responded, her gaze sweeping the room.

  “My place, then,” he said smoothly. “How convenient. Shall we walk over?” He put out his hand.

  Her long silk gown trailed along the damp grass as they walked hand-in-hand across the moonlit pasture. Tilting her head to look up, she asked, “Do you remember the first time we went riding?”

  His smile flashed white. “
Do you?”

  “Pickney's pond was high.”

  “And you were the cutest girl in the county.”

  “Why did you divorce?” she asked in the same girlish voice that always reminded him of summer sun and swimming in cool, shady places.

  “Are we changing the subject?” His heavy brows quirked in a tentative inquiry but his smile was wide.

  “Yes, and don't try to be evasive. Remember I knew you when you didn't even have fuzz on your upper lip. No practiced charm, Carey, darling, just an answer.” Her angelic expression contrasted the bulldog directive.

  “You always were a persistent brat,” he acknowledged with amused tolerance. “Why did I get married would be a better question. But marriage didn't seem to suit me, to answer your question about my divorce. Are you happy with Edward?” It was a sincere inquiry, like a young child asking how high the sky is.

  “We get along.”

  His grin was boyish, dйgagй. “What more can one expect?” He swung her hand lightly back and forth. “How do you feel about a swim with an old friend? I can't promise Pickney's pond with wild strawberries and flitting dragonflies, but Mother's pool is at least secluded.”

  “I don't have a suit,” she said with a mischievous smile.

  “I was counting on that,” he replied. “Lord, you look good, Sarah.” And stopping, he pulled her close. Her arms lifted high around his neck, sliding over the silk collar of his tuxedo, their eyes meeting under the spring moon. “You feel wonderful,” he murmured, pressing her warm body intimately near. The silk beneath his hands was smooth and heated.

  “You feel… interesting,” she whispered, her face lifted to his.

  “I hope you don't have to be home early.” He was moving her slowly back and forth in languid arousal.

  “The servants will manage.” Her eyes were half closed, her voice low.

  “Till next year?” Carey lightly kissed the top of her winged brow.

  “Not without a raise,” Sarah breathed, her mouth brushing slowly over the cushion of his lower lip.

  “I'll talk to my business manager,” he murmured, enticing her lips with gentle, tugging nibbles.

  It didn't matter that Sarah spent most of her life chauffeuring her children to dance lessons, riding lessons, music lessons, Little League games; chairing the Junior League, volunteering at the museum two afternoons a week-in short, taking motherhood seriously. It didn't matter that Carey knew he was leaving tomorrow. Tonight was joyful friendship and pleasure and sweet lust. They stood under a bright yellow moon after a day of victory, absorbing each other's happiness. Their kiss was long and luxurious, the taste of each other triggering lush memories of lazy summer days.

  “Why is it always so delicious with you, Carey? Like a dear treasure that never loses its luster.”

  “I think it has something to do with being fifteen at the time, Sarah. And agreeing then that we never had to go home. Some blood pacts last for centuries with undiminished gilding. Trust me.” His fingers glided gently over her bare shoulders, his dark eyes alive with passion. “You were enchanting at fifteen. Beautiful,” he whispered, his finger tracing a slow path downward until it reached the heavy curve of her breast. “Always will be…”

  “Are the daffodils in bloom at your mother's?” Sarah's hands drifted slowly down Carey's back until they rested just below the base of his spine, then splayed over the taut muscles of his lower back while her hips moved in a slow, undulating rhythm.

  He groaned very low, like a contented lion, and nodded twice in time to her intimate dance. “You feel like you need a daffodil shower,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire. And then a smile of remembrance creased his lean face.

  Sarah laughed softly. It was a private joke, a private keepsake shared by only two people in the world. “Do you ever wish you were fifteen again?” she asked, her fingers moving upward.

  Carey thought for a minute. “Yes, for the summer with you. No, for the lack of control over my life.”

  Sarah tilted her head in a small, graceful inclination. “Are you in control now?”

  “As much as a horse-mad, iconoclastic dreamer can be. We're talking simulated control.” And he kissed the tops of her fingers that had crept over his shoulder and drifted across his cheek.

  “My therapist says I should be less passive, more aggressive, take charge of my life more often,” Sarah softly declared, tapping a fingertip on Carey's lower lip for emphasis of each word.

  Carey knew how unstable Sarah's childhood had been, how her father had remarried four times. Her extended family was a byzantine snarl of half-brothers and sisters, step-mothers and shared vacations. Hardly a lesson on how to take charge of your life. “Therapists usually have a few ex-wives or ex-husbands in the woodwork. Don't take everything they say to heart. If they were so great in dealing with relationships and the world, they'd be celebrating silver wedding anniversaries instead of raising their third family. If you're satisfied, who cares? Do you like your kids?” He was not so tactless as to ask the same about her husband.

  “Love them.”

  “Lucky for them,” he replied with solemn gravity.

  “You don't have any children, do you?” Sarah said, reading the traces of regret in his tone.

  Carey shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  His hands dropped away from her shoulders, and, slipping his fingers through hers, he resumed their journey toward his mother's house. They walked several steps before he responded to her blunt inquiry. “After Vietnam and all the Agent Orange problems,” he said very quietly, “I didn't think it was wise. We were drenched in that stuff up in the jungle. They were spraying round the clock. No one mentioned side effects, but several of my buddies had children with severe problems. You want to cry when you see those babies struggling to do simple things every child takes for granted. I couldn't deal with that.”

  “How terrible!” Sarah exclaimed. Regardless of her ambivalent feelings toward Edward, her children were her greatest joy. “Oh, Carey,” she said, sympathy reaching out in her voice, “I'm sorry. How awful for you.”

  “Hey.” He pulled her to a stop. “It's not that big a tragedy. The world will get along just fine without any more Ferstens. Now,” he went on, tugging on her hand like an insistent child, “if this conversation doesn't lighten up, I'm taking back my offer of a daffodil shower.”

  “I won't let you!” Sarah cried. “A promise is a promise, Carey Fersten! You have to!”

  “Make me,” he teased.

  “With pleasure,” she cheerfully replied.

  And it was.

  Juliana's driver took Sarah home the next morning after a late breakfast poolside. Carey took a second breakfast with his mother before leaving for Minnesota. She only mentioned the daffodils once in passing, a casual remark about how “boys will be boys.” Carey apologized. “It must have been the spring moon. I'm sorry, Mother.”

  “Sarah's a sweet girl,” was all she said. “Will we be seeing you again soon?” she asked with a motherly inquisitiveness.

  “You will be seeing me again when I've finished shooting. Probably in two months. Maybe three if the weather doesn't cooperate. Come up though, if you're interested in a starring role. We'll write you in,” he said with a grin.

  “As if I'm inclined to be a movie star at my age. I can't even remember a telephone number, let alone pages of dialogue.”

  “Just so you don't forget mine. Call me.”

  After saying his good-byes, Carey boarded his plane at a small local airstrip and slept the few hours it took to reach his father's.

  The next day, production began on the film Carey had been wanting to make for eleven years. It was a personal indulgence he hadn't been able to afford until now. But his last two films had grossed so much money, his accountants were scouring the tax laws for hidden loopholes.

  He'd always wanted to do an immigrant story.

  He'd always wanted to explore the beginnings of the union movement in the iron mi
nes.

  He'd always wanted to bring the diverse ethnic mixture of the Iron Range to the screen.

  It was an ambitious project. Some of his advisors had warned him that it was too ambitious, too self-indulgent.

  “Not commercial enough,” they'd said, now that he was considered “commercial.”

  “Not my first priority,” he'd replied. “Nor my forty-ninth, either,” he'd added.

  “Too esoteric,” they'd cautioned.

  “Bull,” he'd retorted. “Give the audience some credit, guys.”

  “Immigrant sagas don't sell,” they'd protested.

  “Good stories do, though,” he'd pleasantly responded.

  “Carey, fella, you're going to lose a bundle on this concept.”

  “But it's my money, isn't it? We start May first. Everyone be ready.”

  “There's not even a decent restaurant in that outland,” one assistant director in a foul mood and a stylish leather jacket had muttered.

  Carey gave a thin smile. “I just want to remind everyone this is not a corporate decision. And to those uncertain of the structure of Golden Bear Productions, Allen will fill you in. Bon appйtit.”

  CHAPTER 15

  T he decibel level had been rising steadily since the cocktail hour at the class reunion began. Molly was smiling at one of Marge's facetious remarks about girls' field hockey. Years ago they had all agreed that field hockey was the pits, and their opinions were unaltered by time.

  It was comfortable, genial, like old home week, back with the group that had shared every bit of whispered high school gossip. The five friends had kept in touch with the usual Christmas cards, birthday cards, and birth announcements, but this was the first time in ten years they'd all been together again.