“In polo,” Tom said, “we call them ponies. I collect polo ponies.” I briefly wondered what a man did with such a collection. I supposed Tom played polo, but the amount of money he must have to own a whole slew of ponies specifically for that purpose? “It’s why I’m here, in Louisville,” Tom went on. “I’ve come down to the Derby the past few years to talk to the breeders and look for ponies worth buying.”
“And to visit us,” Anabelle added, finally recovered from her fit of giggles.
“Sure, if you say so,” Tom said, flippantly. He turned back to look at me. “Why is it that I’ve never seen you around here before… what’s your name?” he asked. “Anabelle, you didn’t even introduce me to your friend you were so busy going on about horses.”
“I’m Daisy,” I said quickly, before Anabelle could laugh again. “Daisy Fay. And I’ve always been here. Born and raised and spent my whole entire life in Louisville.” I tried to keep my voice as light and easy as his. “Maybe you just didn’t notice me before.”
The truth was, of course, I hadn’t made it to many parties last spring. Rose had still been recovering. And now it felt impossible that only a year later, Rose was gone, Jordan was away. I was trying desperately not to lose everything, and here I was, clinging to annoying Anabelle for dear life.
“No,” Tom said, finishing off his drink and resting the empty glass on the rail of the balcony, “I definitely would have noticed you. And your name… Daisy. I would’ve remembered your name. Daisies are the most beautiful flowers.”
“I quite agree,” I said.
“Those pure white snow petals…” Tom’s voice was husky, and his eyes dropped again, tracing my body greedily as he spoke in a way that made my skin feel hot. I had the sudden memory of Jay’s hands on my skin, and I worried Tom could tell. That he could see it there, written across my body. I’d been with a man, and there was nothing pure about me anymore. But his eyes kept going and he kept talking. “… with a vibrant beating yellow heart center,” Tom finished. His eyes traveled back up, met mine again, and we stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
“Daisy,” Anabelle piped up, interrupting the moment. I’d almost forgotten she was here, but then there she went again, giggling. “You’re blushing.”
* * *
I’D BEEN TO the Derby several times before, but never on the arm of a man like Tom Buchanan, who was so tall and handsome and well-dressed in his tailored pearl-colored suit that he commanded attention. We walked into Churchill Downs a week after Anabelle’s party, and it felt, impossibly, that all eyes went from the horses straight to Tom, this strikingly wealthy collector of ponies. A man like Tom, I wrote in a letter to Jordan last night, that’s exactly the kind of man who will always keep me safe. I’ll never want for anything.
Before I’d left Anabelle’s party, Tom had invited me to lunch, and after a long and lavish meal at the Seelbach hotel, Tom had invited me to accompany him to the Derby. He had his eye on a pony, and he said he could use my advice. I’d laughed and told him I knew nothing at all about ponies, but his mouth had simply twitched into an easy smile. You can be my good luck charm, Daisy.
Is that what I wanted to be, someone’s good luck charm? Did it matter anymore, what I wanted?
The last time I’d gone to the Derby was two years ago, the month before Rose had gotten sick. She and I had gone with Daddy, over Mother’s protests that the horse track was no place for two nearly full-grown proper ladies. The memory of that afternoon sat in a golden ephemeral bubble in my mind. Rose and I had dressed in our fanciest pink dresses and matching pink hats and clung to Daddy’s arms. The day was warm, the sun so bright it was almost blinding. Daddy had bought us caramel corn that we struggled to eat without making a mess. And as Tom and I walked into the viewing area now, the smell of that same corn was so strong, so overwhelming, it invaded my senses. It was Daddy and it was Rose. It was a past I could never have again.
“Daisy,” Tom said. “Are you all right?”
I closed my eyes for a moment, blinking away tears. I could hear Rose’s voice, telling me to be good. And Mother’s voice, telling me we had lost everything. Had Daddy been losing money on the horses, even then? I inhaled, remembering the way Rose and I had both been so carefree here once, laughing at the stickiness of the corn on our fingers. There was no worrying about illness or death or money.