Golden Filly Collection Two (65 page)
“She had to meet with Officer Parks. She went early so she could be back in time for school. Tee, you’re scaring me. What is this?”
“Wish I knew, Mom. Just bad dreams, I guess.” She rubbed her forehead. “Think I’ll lie down for a couple more minutes.” She shrugged, her half-attempted smile more a grimace. “Don’t worry. Everything’ll be okay, right?”
All the way down the hall she placed each foot in front of the other with deliberate care, in order to keep the drum from deepening its beat. Lying down with the same degree of caution wasn’t easy with the twisted covers, but she managed.
“Here.” Marge laid a cold washcloth across Trish’s forehead just after her head nestled into the pillow.
“Thanks.”
“Remember, you have that appointment with what’s-her-name from Chrysler.”
Trish winced. She kept herself from shaking her head again. “I know.”
Marge tucked the covers around her daughter’s shoulders. “You want to skip first period or even stay home?”
“No, call me in fifteen minutes. I’ll be better.” And she was.
After taking a quick shower, she felt almost human again. What had gotten into her?
“I think you’re psychic,” Rhonda answered after Trish told her tale in the car on the way to school.
“Rhonda!” Trish clenched her fingers around the steering wheel. “Whatever made you think of something like that? I had a bad dream and woke up so tense I got a headache. No big deal!”
“I read about some guy who could, you know, pick up the vibes or something. They called it…” She paused. “Ummm…”
“Precognition?” Amy questioned from the second seat. “I’ve heard that many people have it but some only sporadically.” She leaned forward. “But what I read said most people don’t believe in such a thing. I agree with Trish—she had a bad night. There’s enough stuff been going on around here to give anyone a bad night. Dreams sometimes just reflect what’s going on inside of us…helps our psyche work it all out.”
“Huh?” Rhonda turned in her seat. “Care to run that by me again?”
“It just means…”
“Let’s drop it, okay? Talk about something upbeat.”
“How’s Caesar?”
“Better. We can pick him up this afternoon.”
“And your meeting with the fancy car lady?”
“Thanks for nothing. Now my butterflies are trying to race each other out my throat.” Trish swung the car into the parking lot at the high school. “Rhonda, sometimes I could…” She parked the car and set the brake. “If I don’t get back to school, you’ll need to get a ride home.”
“No problema. Jason’ll take me home any time I let him.” Rhonda opened the car door at the same moment a certain tall exchange student reached for the handle. She turned and winked at Trish. “See? I told you.”
Trish watched her friend laugh up at the blond giant. “They say he’s a wizard with a basketball.”
“Looks like he knows how to catch a girl too.” Amy grinned at Trish in the rearview mirror. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hustle.”
“Yeah.” Trish swung open her door and stepped to the ground. Eleven o’clock wasn’t very far away either.
S
andra Cameron was late.
Trish glanced at the clock over the sink in the kitchen again. Here she’d rushed home to be on time and now they waited.
“Only ten minutes. You know how it can be renting a car.”
“Even if you’re a Chrysler executive?”
“Probably even if you were chairman of the board.” Amy and Marge clutched matching coffee mugs and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Unless you get a limo, and those have been known to get lost too.”
“Voice of experience?” Marge glanced over her shoulder to check the driveway.
“For sure. Cops get escort duty plenty in their beginning years.” Amy breathed in the steam rising from her cup. “You sure make a good cup of coffee.”
Trish eyed the platter of fresh cinnamon rolls sitting on the counter. “Wait till you taste her specialty.” As if looking through a telescope, she watched her fingers drumming on the counter. The rhythm matched that of the butterflies fluttering in her midsection. Feeling the urge for the second time since arriving home, she headed down the hall to the bathroom. Did nerves affect everyone this way? She’d just flushed the toilet when Marge knocked on the door.
“She’s here, Tee.”
Trish dashed her hands under the water, made a face at the one she saw in the mirror, and finished drying her hands on her pants when she walked back down the hall. Through the front window she could see a tall, corporate-suit-clad woman retrieving her briefcase from the front seat of a black LeBaron. She tossed back her shoulder-length pageboy hair and strode up the walk.
Trish swallowed to wet her dry throat. Was this really about her being in an advertisement, or did they want to take her cars back? Maybe they thought three red convertibles were too many for one person. Her mother motioned toward the front door, obviously meaning for Trish to answer it. Having her feet glued to the floor made forward locomotion difficult.
When the knock sounded, Trish ripped her feet from their moorings and, pasting what she hoped looked like a smile on her face, answered the door.
“Tricia Evanston?” The woman extended her manicured hand. “I’m Sandra Cameron. How are you today?”
“F-fine.” Trish swallowed again and gestured for the woman to enter.
You sound like an idiot, Evanston.
Thank God for mothers.
Marge greeted the woman, making the small talk that grown-ups did so well and that Trish felt tongue-tied over. Give her horses to talk about anytime and she did fine, but gosh, this woman was from…
Trish took herself sternly in hand. If she could talk easily over a microphone to thousands of fans at the track, surely she could handle this interview. After all, it didn’t really mean anything—did it?
By this time Marge had them all sitting comfortably in the living room while she exited to the kitchen for the coffee.
“So now, how are things going with your racing?” Sandra leaned forward on the sofa and clasped her hands together on her knees.
“Good.” Trish flashed her a grin. “We opened at Portland Meadows on Saturday.”
“I hear you won the Hal Evanston Memorial Cup.”
“You did?” Trish’s voice squeaked on the “did.”
“Trish, I don’t think you know what a celebrity you are. Sunday’s paper in Detroit carried a big article about all your efforts to keep the track open and then winning the cup in memory of your father.”
Trish gritted her teeth against the flash of tears behind her eyelids. One sniff and she was fine again.
“No, I guess not.”
“Curt Donovan is making quite a name for himself writing about the ‘Comeback Kid.’” Sandra pulled a sheaf of articles, paper-clipped together, from her briefcase and handed them across the open space. “See?”
Trish glanced down at the picture of her accepting the trophy, then looked back up at her guest. “Wow—I mean, I knew this was in
our
papers, but clear back in Detroit?” She shrugged. “It wasn’t like I was at Churchill Downs or something.”
“But you will be soon, right?”
“Sure, we’re running Firefly in the Oaks, and I’m riding for Bob Diego in the Breeder’s Cup.”
“But not Spitfire.”
“I wish. But the syndicate would never let me. He’s too valuable at stud now.”
“How about if we make him a movie star too?”
“What?”
“Well at least a star model. We at Chrysler would like you and Spit-fire to star in a series of ads we’ve designed for LeBaron convertibles. We’ll shoot them at BlueMist Farms, since we already checked and they don’t want to transport him off the farm if they can help it. I know this is tight timing, but we’d like to spend three days shooting—hopefully we can finish in that time—beginning on Monday next week. You’d fly to Lexington on Sunday, shoot Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and have Thursday off before you race on Friday. What do you think?”
The shiver started at her toes and worked its way up. Star in an ad? Whoa!
“Don’t you think that big black horse of yours would look great beside a bright red convertible? And the camera loves you. We know that from all the pictures we’ve seen, both TV and print.”
Trish tried to find words. She really did. They just wouldn’t come.
“We’ll pay you, of course. And pay for the use of Spitfire also.” She named an exorbitant figure. “And if this works like we think it will, you’d continue to be a spokesperson for Chrysler. Usually we’d make all the arrangements with your agent, but since you don’t have one…”
Trish shot her mother a look of pure pleading.
“Trish has an agent.” Marge set her tray down on the coffee table.
“I know she has one at the tracks, but this would be entirely different. All the big names in sports, film, or modeling have agents to help build their careers.” Sandra accepted the coffee and cinnamon roll. “Thanks. This looks delicious.”
Trish used the moment to shake her mind out of total shock and unlock her tongue. She looked over at Amy, sitting so quietly by the window, and caught a wink that helped bring her back to the mission at hand.
They want me and Spitfire to star in ads—for Chrysler. We can do that—can’t we? Sure we can. No big deal—right?
She rolled her lips together to stifle the giggles that threatened to erupt.
Wait till Rhonda hears this. She’ll freak. Totally freak!
Ms. Cameron’s voice brought Trish back to the living room with a thump. “I know I’ve been doing all the talking. Marge, these cinnamon rolls are simply scrumptious. So Trish, I’d like to hear what you think of all this. Are you interested?”
Am I interested? Do horses eat grass?
Trish sucked in a deep breath and let it all out. This was supposed to help her relax. Could she count on her voice to work now?
“I g-guess.”
Yeah, right. I sound like a total idiot.
She tried again. “I think this sounds exciting—like I never dreamed of such a thing.”
“Then you’re interested?” At Trish’s nod, Sandra smiled and leaned back against the sofa. “Good. Then we can proceed.”
They talked for another hour before Sandra asked, “How about if I take you all out for lunch? I need to call my boss and tell him this is a go, so if I could use your phone?” At Marge’s nod, Sandra rose to her feet. “While I’m doing that, why don’t you keep thinking of any questions you have. Also if you have an attorney you’d like to discuss this with, have him look over the contract.”
Amy came over to sit on the stone hearth to be by Trish. “Wait till I tell ’em down at headquarters about sitting in at a meeting like this. Trish, this is absolutely fantastic! I can’t begin to tell you how thrilled I am for you.”
“Pinch me to make sure I’m not dreaming.” Trish held out her arm for Amy to pinch. “Ouch, guess I’m not.” She leaned forward in her father’s recliner. “Mom, what do you think? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Just wishing your father were here to see all this. He’d be so proud.” A tear meandered down her cheek till she swiped it away with the tips of her fingers.
“You’ll go too?” Trish blinked against the moisture threatening to overspill.
“Of course. Just never thought I’d be a stage mother. ’Course I never planned on being the mother of a celebrity at all.” She shook her head. “Life is strange all right.”
“Couldn’t happen to better people.” Amy leaned back against the stone fireplace. “Just couldn’t.”
“You think God wants me to do this?” Trish turned again to her mother.
“If not, He’ll close the doors. That’s how I’ve been praying.” Marge took her daughter’s hand in hers. “I always pray for His perfect will and what is best for you.”
“You two are something else.” Amy leaned forward, hands on her knees.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen real faith in action like I have here. Makes me want it too.”
“Okay, that’s all taken care of.” Sandra walked back across the room. Her smile included them all. “We’re really pleased with your agreement. Really pleased. The wheels are now in motion, not that they weren’t before.”
Trish clenched her hands together.
Wow! Is God working or is God working? Like Dad always said, “Walking the walk is a better witness than just talking the talk.”
She shot an arrow prayer heavenward for Amy.
“Now, do you have a favorite restaurant?” Sandra stopped before the trio at the fireplace, as if aware she’d interrupted something. “You want me to go out and come back in a while?”
Marge shook her head. “No, this has nothing to do with our discussions. Diamond Lil’s is nice, has good food.” She laid a hand on Trish’s shoulder. “Unless you’d rather have Trish’s favorite.”
“Pizza.”
“I
was
thinking of something a little fancier than that.”
Within minutes they were all four piled into the minivan and heading down the driveway. They waved at Patrick returning from the track in the pickup.
By the time they were seated at the restaurant and had ordered, Trish had a multitude of questions bubbling over, like what lines to say, what she’d be wearing, what scenes they’d thought of, what a “shoot” was like, when the TV spots would air.
Sandra held up her hand. “Easy, I won’t remember all the questions. How about if I just run through what a typical day might be like. Keep in mind, though, that Murphy’s Law is nowhere more proved out than on a commercial shoot.”
