Racing Savannah

“What’s tomorrow?” Cindy asks.



“I ate lunch with Jack Goodwin today, and he asked me to work with Star personally on starting gate training.”



“And?” Dad asks.



“I said okay. I told Jack I’d meet him first thing.”



“Shortcake, there are other boys out there,” Cindy says slowly, shaking her head. Does she have to call me that?



“It’s one thing to work with his horse, but I don’t want you around him,” Dad says. “I don’t want you to upset Mr. Goodwin.”



What if they knew he nearly kissed me last night?



Cindy nervously taps her knife on a plate. “Have you been spending time with Jack? At breakfast this morning, I overheard him telling his little sister how much you impress him and that you’re a good role model.”



A role model ? Talk about the last thing you want a guy to say about you. “He was talking about me?”



“What’s going on with you and Jack?” Dad asks in a rush.



“Nothing,” I say, my face flashing hot.



“Shortcake, you know we don’t need any drama right now. Not with a baby on the way.” How unfair. He’s the one who got his girlfriend pregnant.



My mind is all screwed up because I loved eating lunch with Jack, and I like working with him and Star, working toward something together, and I can’t sort it out in mind, and I’m gonna have a sister who’ll go through the same shit that I’ve been through—growing up eating the free lunch, not having much for dinner, and wearing yard-sale clothes—and I can’t even flirt with Jack without feeling guilty, because Dad and Cindy are having a baby they didn’t plan for.



“I’m just helping with Star,” I say. “That’s all.”



“You don’t need to work with Star on the gate,” Dad says, sipping his coffee. His hand shakes as he sets the cup back on the table. “I’ll talk to Jack in the morning and take over Star’s training personally if he’s that worried about the colt.”



“Dad, it’s okay. I can handle it…Can we get some pie over here?” I call out.



The waitress finally hangs up her phone, and soon we’re toasting my new sister over rhubarb pie.



If pie only cured confusion.



The next morning I meet Jack at Greenbriar barn at 5:00 a.m. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, and the grass is still damp with dew.



“Morning,” he says, tipping his hat, giving me a grin that makes my palms go sweaty.



Along with Star, we bring Mr. Goodwin’s stallion Lucky Strikes with us to the gate. This horse won the Preakness and the Breeders’ Cup a few years back. People who don’t know horseracing think the Kentucky Derby is the most important race in the world, but the Breeders’ Cup in California attracts the best horses of all. It had a $5 million purse last year.



“Tie Lucky Strikes to that hitching post,” I say.



I hand Jack two bags full of baby carrots and sliced apples; then I mount Star and steer him to the starting gate. He whinnies, his ears go flat, and he backs up. I rub his neck and comb his hair, murmuring nonsense to him. “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “It’s just a gate. It’s not scary. It’s okay.”



I pat his neck again. “Jack, come in here quietly, shut the gate behind you, and climb up next to me.”



Soon he’s standing on the side of the gate, resting a hand on Star’s head. Star is going crazy, whipping his head around every which way, banging against the stall.



“Feed him an apple slice,” I call out, and Jack follows my orders. Star munches on his apple. “Feed him another,” I say again, holding the reins steady.



“God, you’re a taskmaster.”



“Feed him another.”



“It’s cramped in here,” Jack says loudly, wiping sweat off his face.



“Remind me never to work on a submarine,” I say, both overwhelmed and intoxicated by the smells. This early in the morning before baths, Jack and Star both have their own muskiness going on.



Star won’t stop snorting, so I decide to take an extreme course of action. “Star!” I transfer the reins to one hand and grab Jack’s hand with the other.



“What the—” Jack gazes down at our linked hands and glances around, as if making sure we’re alone.



“See, Star? Jack’s my friend. Be nice.”



We stay inside the gate, holding hands, until Star’s breathing calms down and he’s still. I think I’ve bored the hell out of the horse.



“That’s probably enough,” I say. “Let us out of the gate, and now we’ll do the same thing with Lucky Strikes while Star watches.”



Back outside the gate, I call for an exercise rider to mount Lucky Strikes and ride him into the gate. I stand with Star, feeding him apples and carrots, while Lucky Strikes moves in and out of the gate, over and over. Then I feed both Star and Lucky Strikes apples out of my palm, loving how their lips tickle my hand.



“Did you get your training style from your dad?” Jack asks.



I nod. “Dad always says that horses learn by watching other horses. And all guys love food, right?” I hold up the bag of carrots and apples.



“True.”



I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I need to exercise Star before school.”



Jack smiles and nods. “Thanks again.”



I take Star out on the racetrack and ease him into a jog, thinking of how patient and kind Jack was this morning. At Gael’s signal, I bring the colt to a full gallop and race him around the track, waiting for the speed to make my brain go numb.



After the workout, I pull my gloves and helmet off and look up to find Jack standing beside the clocker’s tower with a mug of coffee. “Two sugars and cream?”



I set my helmet and gloves on the ground, take the cup, wrap both hands around it, and sip slowly. “It’s perfect.”



He smiles. “I thought Cindy was lying to me. She didn’t seem happy when I asked her how you take your coffee.”



“She didn’t lie to you,” I say, sipping again.



“I figured you might like it black or something. Black for a badass girl.”



I give him a look. “Well, thanks, I think.”



Jack’s hounds circle around us as we walk back to the house arguing about black coffee versus coffee with delicious sugars and creams until he reaches for my elbow. “Listen,” he says quietly, turning me to face him as we reach Hillcrest. He places a hand above my shoulder against the house. My heart bangs against my chest. “I want to say thank you for helping me. It means a lot to me.”



I should tell him that he has a huge staff of people willing to do anything for him, because the Goodwins pay them, but somehow I know he considers what we did this morning more personal than regular ole work. He smiles, and I find myself staring at his lips.



Then Yvonne waddles up with a laundry basket under her arm and Jack tries to take it off her hands, but she swats at him. “Don’t even think about it.” She wags her finger at him, and then motions for him to lean down so she can kiss his cheek. Then she kisses my cheek and heads inside where I can hear her getting on to Cindy for not drinking some special prenatal green tea she concocted. Jack and I laugh at Yvonne together.



“Anyway,” Jack says. “I have to finish balancing the accounts before school.”



He takes off for the manor house, and I sip my coffee. Mmm. Perfect.



I shower and dress for school, and while I’m sitting at the table trying to finish my stupid geometry homework, the maid bell starts ringing. Cedar Hill has several bells that date back to the Civil War. Each bell indicates if one of the Goodwins needs something. The chef bell, for food or coffee; the maids’, for laundry, bedding, or cleaning issues; the gardener, for gardening issues.



You know, in case there’s an emergency gardening issue.



The maid bell ringing doesn’t make any sense—none of the maids are down here right now. They’re making beds and serving breakfast and doing other things maids do. Then the phone rings. “Savannah,” Cindy says in a weak voice.



“Is something wrong with the baby?” I rush to ask.



“I’m not feeling my best…I’m so tired,” she replies. “I need you to send Paula up to work breakfast instead of me.”



“She’s not here.”



“Oh no, I just remembered it’s her day off.”



“I can come up before school—”



“No, no,” Cindy says. “Mrs. Goodwin doesn’t like it when the help track mud in the house.”



“I’ve already changed clothes.” I peek down at the pink Converse Dad gave me for Christmas last year. “I’m coming.”



I jog up to the manor house and barrel into the kitchen. Cindy’s sitting at the island, wiping sweat off her face. Jodi, the Goodwins’ chef, is frying an omelet and writing down notes at the same time.



“I can’t serve breakfast,” Cindy says, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it another four months. I’m so tired.”



“You should take some time off.”



“I need the money,” Cindy whispers, shaking her head. “You know I need a root canal and I won’t be able to afford it for a long time and I want to buy your little sister clothes and start a savings account and—”



“Shhh,” I say soothingly. She Who Must Not Be Named should be able to take time off if she needs to. But with Dad still paying off Mom’s medical bills, having enough money to take time off seems like a fantasy. What the hell are we gonna do after she gives birth?



“Jodi? What do I do?” I ask in a harsh tone.



“Refill their coffee. Mr. Goodwin drinks his black. So does Jack. Mrs. Goodwin drinks tea. Shelby likes hot cocoa with lots of whipped cream, so make sure she has enough.”



I quickly wash my hands in the sink and take a deep breath.



“Come back to grab Shelby’s omelet,” Jodi says.



I tie on an apron and grab the coffeepot before striding into the dining room. A chandelier hangs above the table made of a deep cherry wood. Sunlight illuminates the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shelby is doing the word search in today’s paper. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin look up at me.



“Short-staffed today,” I say, holding up the coffeepot.



Mr. Goodwin sets his paperwork down. “Is everything okay?”



“Cindy’s a little under the weather. She’s really tired. And Paula has the day off.”



“Oh, of course,” Mr. Goodwin says, returning to his papers. He’s reading printouts of the Daily Racing Form. Dad and I read it every day so we can stay up-to-date on the best horses and jockeys and their news.



“Welcome to the team,” Mrs. Goodwin says, toasting me with her teacup.



“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. I saw her at the races on Sunday, but this is the first time she’s spoken to me. I can see where Jack and Shelby get their good looks from—Mrs. Goodwin is exquisite.



Jack chooses that moment to enter the dining room, looking fresh in a pair of dark jeans, cowboy boots, and an Oxford button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, of course. His hair is still wet from the shower.