“This is Cracker Jack Prize,” I say, pointing to a sleek, dark bay with bright eyes and a thin white blaze streaking his muzzle. “He was foaled in ’39, which means he’s still a baby in horse years.”
“Quite a looker.”
“Isn’t he? The trainers say he’s going to be a champ. A good brain and a brilliant pedigree. His sire was Dark Upstart out of Lexington, a high earner until he had to be retired because of a slab fracture.”
You look surprised and a little impressed. “And here I was thinking you’re a novice. You sound like a pro with all that horse jargon.”
I smile and relax a little, pleased by your praise. “I told you. Lots of reading.”
“He seems a bit standoffish compared to the others.”
“Horses aren’t like people. It’s not love at first sight. It takes time to develop a bond. I practically grew up with Nipper and Bonnie Girl. They were like pets. But it’s different with racing horses. They’re athletes rather than companions. And neither will be here long. This is just a ‘getting to know you’ visit until they’re green broke.”
“Which means?”
“Responsive to cues. Comfortable with a saddle. But that’s just the start. When they’re old enough to course train, they’ll be moved to Saratoga.”
“With Teddy’s horses?”
I stiffen, perturbed that his name has come up again. “Yes, I suppose. Cracker Jack will be prepped over the winter and spring and hopefully start racing as a two-year-old next summer.”
You step past me to peer into the last stall. “And who is this beauty?”
I eye the chestnut filly with her strongly chiseled face and perfectly matched half socks, a beauty despite her less-than-glamorous pedigree, and I feel a fresh pang of guilt. “I don’t know, actually. I haven’t named her yet. The trainers aren’t quite as keen on her, but I think she has a lot of promise. At least I hope she does. For now, I’ve been calling her Little Girl. Not terribly original, but it’ll do until she gets her official name. I need to hurry up and decide, though, before I run out of time.”
“Out of time?”
“Naming a Thoroughbred is a big deal. There are all kinds of rules you have to follow, like names not being more than eighteen characters. And there’s a whole process. You submit six names in order of preference to the Jockey Club, and they have the final say.”
“How is that fair?”
I shrug. “Those are the rules. I’m leaning toward Sweet Runaway as my top choice. No guarantee they’ll let us have it, but at the moment, it’s my top pick.”
You have the strangest look on your face as you listen to me speak, an intensity that makes me want to look away. “Name her Belle’s Promise,” you say abruptly.
“Belle’s Promise?”
“You said you think she has promise.”
“I did, but who’s Belle?”
“You are.” You look away briefly, almost boyish. “It’s the name I gave you the night we met. You were the belle of the ball that night. As I suspect you are on any night, in whatever room you happen to find yourself. At any rate, it’s how I’ve been thinking of you ever since.”
Your words make my cheeks go hot. “You’ve been thinking about me?”
“Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”
“We’re strangers,” I remind you, my voice alarmingly breathless. “You have no idea what suits me.”
“I’d like to fix that.”
I toss my head with a nervous laugh. “Well then, if I’m to be Belle, what shall I call you? Hemingway, perhaps? Or Hemi?”
“I don’t care. As long as you call me.”
I look away. You’re flirting with me and I don’t like it. Or perhaps I like it too much. I try to step away but your hand grazes my arm, the barest of touches.
“Don’t go. Please.”
“Why are you here?” I ask bluntly. “What is it you want?”
“I told you—to talk. Presumably, we would have talked while riding. We’ll just do it without the horses.”
You wander back toward the open stable doors and locate a pair of battered stools, then drag them to the doorway. I watch, exasperated, as you hang your hat on a nearby nail, plant yourself on one of the stools, and wait—another man used to getting his way. Against my better judgment, I join you.
The rain is falling harder now, and it’s as if a thick gray curtain has been drawn around us. It’s just us and the thrum of rain on the roof. My senses are suddenly heightened, every nerve at attention.
You smile, attempting to disarm me. “What should we talk about?”
I pluck an imaginary bit of lint from my sleeve and flick it away. “You called the meeting. You get the first question.”
“Very well. Tell me about growing up.”
I blink at you, puzzled. “Growing up?”
“I want to know it all. Did you wear your hair in braids? Who was your first boyfriend? Did you like school?”
“No to the braids,” I reply, though I have no idea why you’d care about such a thing. “I don’t remember my first boyfriend’s name. And I hated school. No, that’s not true. I didn’t hate all of it. I hated the girls I went to school with. And the headmistress, Mrs. Cavanaugh, who didn’t like me because I asked too many questions and doodled during class.”
“Doodled?”
“In my composition book.”
“Your boyfriend’s name?”
“Poems,” I say simply.
“You write poetry?”
I see I’ve surprised you. I’ve surprised myself too. I haven’t thought of those silly poems in years, and I wonder why they’ve suddenly sprung to mind. “I was a girl. It’s what girls do. Write silly poems about our angst.”
“Love poems?”
I toss my head with a little laugh, dimly aware that the gesture might be mistaken for a flirtation. “What did I know about love? I was a child. No. I wrote nonsense. Rubbish about a caged bird who dreamed of leaving her bars behind, of soaring high above the city and flying far, far away. And there was one about being lost in one of those hedge mazes. The hedges kept growing taller and taller and I couldn’t find my way out.”
“Sounds deep.”
“It was tosh, as they say on your side of the pond. But I was a fanatic about poetry back then. I read everything I could get my hands on, some of it unacceptable for a girl my age. I was convinced I was going to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning when I grew up.”
You study me strangely, as if searching for something. “When were you going to tell me this?”
The question feels odd, the kind of thing you ask someone you’ve known for years. “Tell you how? When? We’ve only just met.”
Your mouth curls in a way that’s vaguely sensual. “I keep forgetting.”
I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but you seem to be sitting closer now, as if the world has suddenly shrunk to just this doorway, to just you and me and our words, mingling with the falling rain. And yet, when I blink, I see that your stool is exactly where you first placed it. I drop my eyes, stare at my boots.