The Horsewoman(16)

“Steve,” Maggie said gently, “from the start, we all agreed that there had to be an element of trust in this partnership, or it was never going to work, whatever the financials were. All Mom and I are asking you to do is trust us.”

“After she throws the contract in my face?” he said.

“To get this horse,” Maggie said, “we would have done this deal on a handshake.”

Okay, she thought, I am officially lying my ass off, just as Becky always said I could.

“Good thing you didn’t,” Gorton said. “Or I’d be back on the island already.”

He never called it Palm Beach, Maggie knew by now. Always “the island,” in keeping with the rich men and women in their world. She and her mother had done business with a lot of them—and none of them ever wanted to hear the word no.

She reminded herself to remain as still as possible in the wheelchair. Just about any quick movement these days lit the pain fuse. Explosive jolts would come at any time, from everywhere.

She turned her head slightly and said to her mom, “You asked Steve for a month, correct?”

“Correct,” Caroline said.

Maggie turned her head to face Gorton.

“So give us the Grand Prix, it’s right around the corner,” she said. “Then the Longines two weeks after that. If my daughter hasn’t proved she can do the job, you won’t have to take her off the horse. I will.”

“Worst case,” he said, “we’ve lost a month. To quote Caroline, ‘A month can feel like a lifetime in this sport.’”

Caroline winced, but Maggie pushed forward.

“It’s not even February. A new rider would still have five months on Coronado to qualify for Paris.”

“Say I go along,” Gorton said. “What’s in it for me?”

Always looking for an angle, Maggie thought. For an edge.

Her mother jumped in now.

“If we’re wrong,” she said, “that means you’re right, Steve. If we lose, you win.”

Gorton briefly checked his phone, ate an olive, patted the table a couple of times. But then smiled.

“Deal,” he said. “You get a month. Either way, I really do win. Best kind of deal there is.”

He pushed his chair away, stood up, and left.

“I get broken in half,” Maggie said, watching Gorton go, “and the money man sticks us with the check.”

Maggie angled her wheelchair to have a better look at the room. Three men and a woman were sitting together at a four-top. The familiar faces of her fiercest competitors had softened with pity. She waved. They all waved back.

She turned back to Caroline and said, “Some things never change. I’m still on the clock.”





SIXTEEN

Gorton



STEVE GORTON WALKED past the kitchen, past the bar where he saw the Mexican kid nursing a beer and talking to a smoking-hot bartender. It was still early. Maybe, Gorton thought, he’d take the car home and get a driver, head over to Honor Bar and see if anybody who wore a tank top and jeans as well as this bartender did was looking to have some fun.

He thought briefly about grabbing their waiter and offering to pick up the check for drinks, or even dinner for his partners from Atwood Farm.

But what the hell for?

They’d already gotten everything they wanted.

Or thought they had.

For now.

What a waste that he had driven the Ferrari. After two adult beverages, he’d have to stay under the speed limit.

Inside the car, Gorton placed a call. “Where the hell are you?”

“This place called Oli’s,” said the man who answered.

“Seriously?” Gorton said. “I just walked out of there.”

“I saw you,” the man said. “But I didn’t think it was a good idea for the whole town to see us talking to each other.”

“Well, I’ll talk now,” Gorton said. As he pulled out onto Forest Hills Boulevard, he quickly related his conversation with Caroline Atwood.

“I don’t want this kid to win,” he said. “I’m sick of the Atwoods calling the shots. You want the horse?”

“You know I do.”

“Then figure something out,” Gorton said.

He ended the call, took a right on Southern, then put on some Sinatra and continued his slow ride to the island.

Trust us, she’d said.

What kind of schmuck did they think they were dealing with?





SEVENTEEN



“YOU’RE SURE YOU’RE ready?” Mom said.

Two days after Mr. Gorton had given us his deadline, we met in the schooling ring and laid out our competition schedule. I’d show next weekend on both Sky and Coronado at a height that was just under four feet eight inches, listed in programs as “1.45.” The following week would come WEF’s Saturday Night Lights, where Coronado and I would compete in the International Arena at the Olympic height, the height of the jumps would be just under five feet three inches. It would be like jumping a horse over me.

“Can I be ready but not sure I’m ready at the same time?” I said.

“Whatever gets you around clean,” Mom said.

“And fastest,” I said.