“It’s easy, Tom-Tom, give it a try.” Colette waved him toward her.
Wanting to come-off as sporting, he hurried to her side to take the guide pole and walk alongside the huffing and puffing horse.
She clapped her hands in delight.
Smiling, Tom looked over his shoulder at her while approaching the narrow bridge that lay over the entrance ramp of the pool, which was where he caught his toe on the lip. Slipping on the wet surface, with arms flailing in the air; he stumbled and fell on top of the horse to straddle it like a jockey.
“Tom-Tom!” Colette shrieked.
“Shiiiit,” Mike muttered. He was impressed with the landing.
In the water, the gelding thrashed and snorted in a panic.
Coco ran alongside the pool while grabbing for Tom’s arms. Yelping, he reached out to her. “Mike, help!” she cried.
Mike leaned in close to Shane. “I’m really not sure what she wants me to do.” Calmly, he held his position.
“Tom-Tom looks like a pro to me.” Shane folded his arms over his chest.
Frantic, Colette managed to grasp Tom’s hands and yank him toward her. She fell backward to the floor with Tom landing on top of her.
Dripping, Tom looked into her concerned eyes and burst into laughter. “Exhilarating! I’ve never had so much fun!”
Mike and Shane’s mouths dropped. Their eyes popped.
Tom pulled Colette to her feet and kissed her hard. “That’s it. From now on we’ll ride the horses while they swim. We’ll all exercise together.”
Christ, this guy can’t be for real. At a sprint, Mike was now closing the distance between him and them. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not? I just did!” Tom exclaimed joyfully.
“That was an accident. It could have turned out very badly—” Mike began.
Tom wrapped his wet arm around his shoulders to tug him to a more private space. “Mike, Mike, you need to chill-out,” he said in a jovial voice. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I know you and Colette had a thing, a little affair. I understand. Forgive and forget. That’s what I always say. No hard feelings, man. This will give Colette and me a chance to bond with the horses—Make them feel part of a family. You understand, don’t you?”
Forgive and forget? What should I be forgiving? The fact that me and Coco never had a “thing”? Or maybe I should be forgetting that I never saw Coco naked, and we never got to have a “thing”.
“You’re freaking nuts,” he said.
“No, Colette’s dog is nuts.” Tom laughed.
Ahhh, Mike thought, so Tom’s experienced Booger’s little doggy libido. Wonder if Coco’s cooked for him in that little black do-things-to-me dress, or worse yet ... naked?
He clapped his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You’ll see. We’ll put my horse and Colette’s on the program immediately. It’ll all work out.”
“Coco’s horses?” Mike was hitting the panic button. “Those horses are un-race-able. They need a new vocation.”
But Tom was on an unreachable plain, in a zone, in love with a fantasy, and a beautiful blonde. Her Cocker Spaniel? Maybe not so much.
Eric and Kate walked through the door. “Tom, what happened?” Eric asked in a high-pitched tone of concern while taking in Tom’s soaked-to-the-skin condition.
Grabbing Colette by the hand, Tom smiled at his old friend. “The time of my life, Eric, the time of my life. Gotta go, we’ll be back in a few days.” He turned to Mike. “Have the horses ready.” He and Colette trotted gleefully out the door.
“Make sure they get out of the driveway safely.” Eric pushed Mike toward the door before turning to Shane, who was leading the exhausted huffing horse out of the pool while opening a soda. “What’s going on?”
Shane said, “New training procedures. Where’ve you been?”
Eric glanced down at his watch. “Doesn’t matter, I’ve got to get cleaned up a bit.”
“Where are you going?” Kate asked.
“I have to see someone.”
She grew a smug grin. Through narrowed eyes, she looked at him suspiciously. “Jen Fleming?”
“No, Margie O’Conner.”
Shane choked on his soda. “Mangy Margie?”
Eric glared at his younger son. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you call her that?”
“Have you met her?” he retorted. His father continued to glare at him, which prompted him to back down and clear his throat. “What are you going to see her for?”
“I’m teaching her to read.” He walked out the door.
Kate’s lips parted in surprise. “I didn’t know Margie couldn’t read.” She sighed. “That’s kinda sweet. Dad’s teaching her to read.”
“Oooh, Mike’s not gonna like this,” Shane said.
“Why not?”
“Margie’s always had a thing for Mike. He’s gonna have a stroke if Dad brings her around.”
“She’s a little rough around the edges is all—kind of like Audrey Hepburn.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Audrey Hepburn,” she explained. “She was ignorant and dirty until Rex Harrison came along and taught her to read, and write, and speak properly.”
Totally lost, he said, “I don’t know her. This happened at our track?”
Kate rolled her eyes. A little light in the attic came on. “Does Mike have a date for the benefit dance next month?”
To raise funds for hospital and household expenses, twice a year the Jockey’s Association put on a benefit dance for jockey’s that had been seriously injured while racing.
Shane shrugged.
There was the sudden gleam in Kate’s blue meddling eyes. “Maybe Dad is trying to prep Margie for the benefit dance.” She was no longer gleaming, she was beaming at the Eliza Doolittle notion.
Shane wasn’t getting it, but he was sure of one thing. “Mike’s screwed,” he said with a wince.
Twelve
The evening shadows were starting to filter down from the old maple tree’s branches that drooped over the rickety wooden gate at the end of the cracked sidewalk. The untrimmed trees hanging over the house created an ominous setting.
After parking his black Denali, Eric measured the battered farmhouse, the old Thoroughbreds behind the baler twine fence, and the falling-down barn.
Doug didn’t make a bad living as a trainer. In fact, he had a decent racing record. Several times a year, his name appeared on the top ten trainers list at Keystone Downs. But Doug was a hard man. He trained hard; he spoke hard; and, from the looks of his farm, he lived hard, as well.
Too bad for Margie.
Eric scooted the little gate open to trace the arced impression the gate had engraved in the ground beneath it. Cackling a warning that someone was approaching, chickens scattered.
A cat screeched frantically when Eric stepped on its tail on his way up the steps. When he jumped back, the cats scampered in different directions beneath his feet to flee the intruder.
A single sixty-watt bulb hung from a wire near the weather-scarred screen door. He rapped on the door, which vibrated under his fist. Click,click, click. Several latches on the other side turned, twisted, and popped before the door finally jerked open.
Margie peeked at him from inside. “Hi, Mr. West, come in.” She swung the door open.
Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Silver hoops dangled from her ears. Her jeans were fresh and fitted, and her blue blouse was pristine.
The living room was surprisingly neat and clean, in spite of its worn-out condition. The wood floor was in desperate need of refinishing. Old and in disrepair, the furniture consisted of a dull green floral couch and a gold striped over-stuffed chair that didn’t match. A brown brick fireplace took up the far wall. The mantel was filled
with photographs of Thoroughbreds in old tattered wood frames. The laminate early-American coffee tables held ashtrays and pitted brass lamps that didn’t match anything else in the room. Well-used spittoons rested next to the couch and chair.
Margie led him into a tiny kitchen with metal cabinets, scuffed linoleum, and a wooden table with three wobbly puritan-style chairs. A brass spittoon rested next to the leg of a chair with a crushed, frayed, blue pillow on the seat—Doug’s chair, no doubt.
“Have a seat, Mr. West.” Margie nervously fingered an earring.
The left side of his mouth curved. “Margie, if we’re going to be spending time together, I think you should call me Eric.”
The suggestion urged a timid smile. “All right, I’ll try to call you Eric, Mr. West.”
He chuckled. “Good. How did practice go?”
Her eyes brightened. The timid smile grew to a full-blown grin. “Good.” She hurried to the counter to retrieve a clipboard. Oozing with pride, she presented it to Eric. She clasped her hands to her chest and watched attentively while he looked over her work.
He smiled again at the woman before him. “Very good indeed. I’m glad I sent Pedro over with this clipboard this afternoon.” He sat at the table. “Can you write your name for me?” He ripped away several used-up, scribbled-on papers to expose a fresh sheet. “Without looking at the practice sheet?”
Sinking into the chair next to him, Margie met his confident gaze with enthusiasm. “I think so.” She picked up the pencil.
She uncovered a dish of cookies on the table and slid it toward him. “I hope you like oatmeal-raisin cookies. I baked them myself.”
“They’re my favorite.” He took a bite of one of the cookies and pressed his eyes closed to savor the flavor. “Mmmm, reminds me of the cookies my wife used to make.”
The pride-filled grin returned to her gaunt, unattractive face, and her lovely dark eyes filled with satisfaction.
She took the pencil and slowly, painstakingly, formed each letter of her name. He could see the absolute concentration on her face. His heart felt heavy for this woman, who had been robbed of the basic right to learn to read and write. It wasn’t hard to recognize her strong constitution to seize what had eluded her all these years. Yet, she did not hold any bitterness toward her father for the thievery. In fact, it seemed she loved him, and was beholden to him for the life she had.
Finally, she held the clipboard up for him. Her eyes were moist with accomplishment.
Progress, this was indeed progress.
“Very good, Margie. No more fake glasses, and soon, no more asking anyone to read for you. Now, let’s get started.”
With a can of Iron City in his fist, Doug leaned against the doorway of his bedroom while watching a man he had no use for teaching his daughter something he had never bothered with. Wishing Eric would mind his own damned business, he glowered at him. What’s in it for him? Hell, I would never spend time sitting around a table with someone I barely knew if there weren’t no benefits to it. What’s his angle? There’s gotta be one.
Taking another swig of Iron City, he retreated into his bedroom and closed the door.
Ahhh, Thursday morning! Eric breathed in the smell of the sweet hay piled in the barn’s aisle while leading his old grey Quarter Horse gelding from his stall. Ike was saddled and bridled, and ready for some outrider action.
Thursday was the day that the Wests did not go to Keystone Downs. They worked the horses at their own training track at the farm. Eric and Ike; or Bert and Ernie, as Kate fondly referred to them; would position themselves at the far end of the training track, and wait for an exercise rider to loose control of a mount. Ike’s ears would perk when Eric booted him in the sides, tossed him the reins, and ran down the out-of-control Thoroughbred until they were alongside the horse, where Eric could reach over, grab the reins, and slow him to a stop.
Oh, yeah, those were the exciting Thursday mornings. Every Thursday? No, some Thursday mornings, Eric and Ike would sit at their post, sip coffee, take in the view, and never be summoned. Those were the boring Thursdays. At least they were out in the fresh air to enjoy the view.
Eric checked the girth one more time.
“Dad,” Mike bellowed from the end of the barn.
Eric turned to see his elder son jogging toward him. He didn’t look happy.
Mike’s head was spinning. Shane couldn’t wait to spill the news that their father was tutoring Margie, and she would more-than-likely be visiting the farm, often. Shane’s eyes twinkled with satanic joy when he shared the information with his big brother.
Mike shrugged it off at first, but after giving it more thought and letting it marinate a big twinge of panic hit him in the gut.
He conferred with Kate, a more reliable source, about the rumor. Yet, she rambled on and on about some girl named Eliza. Never heard of her, maybe she’s a new jockey at the track. Kate isn’t making any sense at all. She seems to have stars in her eyes. What the hell is wrong with her today? Women.
Eric swung a leg over Ike and fidgeted in the saddle for a comfortable position.
“Dad, what’s going on?” he asked his father breathlessly.
“Today’s Thursday. I’m the outrider.”
“Shane said you were at Margie O’Conner’s house last night.” If Shane is screwing with me, I’m gonna have to kick his ass.
Eric adjusted his reins. “Yep.”
“Hey, look Dad—”
Eric settled into the saddle. “Calm down, Mike. I’m just teaching her to read. I haven’t made some covert deal with Doug to marry you off to his daughter.” He nudged Ike forward toward the barn door. “I’m not sure he’d have it anyway,” he added under his breath.
“Well, how long is that gonna take?” Mike called after him.
Eric tossed his hands in the air. He and Ike exited the barn.
Two Weeks Later
A cool breeze blew through the O’Conner kitchen while Margie and Eric worked through an old reader that he had found in the attic. It was outdated, and the pages were brown; but it would serve the purpose at hand, Eric figured.
As always during their tutoring sessions, there was a platter of homemade cookies and dessert breads on the table. Eric was amazed at the array of goodies she would prepare: cookies, apple pie, peach pie, cherry pie, pumpkin bread, and banana bread. It was truly impressive how this woman could bake so many things without being able to read or write down a recipe.
Margie wanted to show her sincere gratitude for his time and patience. Baking was the only thing she thought she excelled at. Motivated and smart, she was proving herself wrong.
She was improving in the brush and comb department, as well. Desiring a different look to go with her new self, she bought beauty magazines to learn new hairstyles. She was considering trying some make-up techniques, as well.
Each time Eric arrived, her hair was neatly pulled-back in a ponytail, or a tight bun. Sometimes, she would draw up the sides and allow the back to cascade over her shoulders. She was getting damned good at using a curling iron.
“See Dick run. Run Dick run. H ... he ... he ...” Margie stammered.
“Hear,” Eric helped out. When she looked puzzled, he explained, “Not like come here, but rather hear … like with your ears.”
“Oooh. Hear Spot b-b-bark.” She smiled. “Bark, Spot, bark.” She looked at him for confirmation and praise.
He didn’t disappoint her. “Very good. You’ve come a long way in only two short weeks.”
“Oh, I know, and ya know what? I’m gonna learn how to use a computer and everything.” She glanced around the kitchen. “I wanna show you something.”
She retrieved a book from a drawer and handed it to him while keeping watch for her father. Eric examined the Harlequin Romance book that was dated from the 1980s.
“I found a whole box of these in the basement,” she told him in low voice. “I got them hid under my bed. They were my mother’s. I used to look at the covers every night before I went to sleep. It’s all I have of her.”
Once again, Eric’s heart agonized for her; but her eyes were bright, hopeful, and determined.
She told him, “When I’ve learned to read good, and learn how to use a computer, I’m gonna look for her. Did you know her, Mr. West ... Eric?”
Regret filled his eyes. He sucked in his lips. “No, Margie. I never met your mother.”
“I’m gonna meet her,” she said softly while staring with longing at the book. “And I’ll have you to thank.”
He tried to change the mood up a notch. “Ahhh, it’s worth it. Look at all the great treats I get.”
With a smile, she tilted her head and lifted a shoulder. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I’m going to get fat, ya know.”
“You? Never. Pleasantly plump, maybe.” She let out a laugh, and fell silent while gazing at his handsome face. She could see where Mike got his mysterious, daunting hazel eyes.
“Well, that’s enough for tonight. I better get home.” He pushed away from the table.
She walked him to the door. “Make sure you tell Mike I said hey.”
“I will.” Eric carefully stepped over a sleeping cat as she closed the screen door behind him.
“She’s kinda young for you, eh West?”
Doug’s miserable voice crept from the shadows at the edge of the porch to bring Eric to a halt. He turned. Wrapped in an afghan, Doug rocked back and forth on an old rocker while tapping an empty beer can on its arm.
“What the hell are you so afraid of, Doug? That Margie will realize there’s a world out there beyond Keystone Downs—and you?” Eric remarked in a clipped tone.
“She’s a good girl, my Marge.” He slurred his words.
“She’s not a girl. She’s a woman. And you’ve treated her like your personal servant for as long as I can remember.”
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