Racing Savannah

Chapter 7. If Pie Cured Confusion

Between periods, I’m disappointed to discover that Rory and I aren’t in the same lunch because his drama course is interfering, and of course he’d rather do that than eat with me. Ugh, nothing’s worse than eating alone.

When I head into the cafeteria, I find Jack slipping quarters into the Coke machine, holding a tray loaded up with a burger and fries. I skirt the edge of the cafeteria and make a break for the picnic tables in the courtyard. Outside I grab a seat in the corner, unsnap my Velcro lunch bag, and pull out a sandwich, carrots, a cookie, a juice carton, and one of those soups you can drink.

I open one of Mom’s history books—A Compendium of Poetry. I don’t like poetry all that much, but reading her books makes me feel closer to her and lets me pretend she’s right here beside me. I set my bookmark on the table and start reading the section where I left off. It’s about Robert Frost. It says one of his most famous poems is “The Road Not Taken.” I don’t completely understand some of the lines in the poem, but the last section makes me sit up and pay attention:

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Mom highlighted that one section in yellow. Did she feel like she lived life to the fullest? Did she take the right path for her? I bite into my sandwich and chew, thinking.

That’s when I hear him. “What is that?”

I turn to find Jack salivating over my sandwich. “Roast beef.”

He straddles the picnic table bench and sits. “Split it with me.”

“No.” I take a big bite, smacking obnoxiously.

He laughs. At school he’s so different from how he is on the farm where he’s the boss. “Where’d you get the lunch?”

“Yvonne,” I say through a mouthful.

“Yvonne made you lunch?”

“She did.”

“She’s never made me a lunch.”

“Probably because you’ve never asked her to, brainiac.”

“I’ll be speaking with her as soon as I get home.” He sits up straight and pops open his Coke. “I want a roast beef sandwich.”

“Boys,” I mutter. When I move to open my thermos, Jack snatches my roast beef sandwich off the table. He takes a huge bite, grinning, before I can stop him.

“Give me that!” I say, grabbing it back. A piece of roast beef slips out onto the bench. In retaliation, I grab a handful of his fries and stuff them in my mouth.

That’s when Brent, that bonehead from the party the other night, walks by, staring at me. Girls at the next table over see I’m sitting with Jack and give me dirty looks.

“This sucks,” I say to myself.

“What does?” Jack asks, scooping up ketchup with a fry.

“Everyone’s looking at me like I’m a science experiment gone wrong. They don’t even bother to say hi. They figure they know everything they need to know based on what I look like.”

“People are assholes.”

“Yourself included?”

“Guilty as charged.” He holds his hands up, laughing. “You are really pretty…” He drags a hand through his blond hair. “But you’re kind of like a great book…you know, you pick up a book at the bookstore because it has a beautiful cover…but it’s what’s inside that pulls you in.”

That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I give him a small grin and his eyes meet mine.

That’s when Vanessa, Kelsey, and Colton enter the courtyard. Kelsey stops dead when she sees me sitting with Jack.

“What?” she mouths at Jack. He stiffens as his friends saunter over. Colton and Vanessa are bickering.

“Any idiot can be on The Price is Right,” Colton says. “Jeopardy! shows that you’re smart.”

“But you get to spin the big wheel on Price is Right,” Vanessa says.

“I wish they could incorporate that wheel into Jeopardy! ” Colton muses, biting into his burger.

“You guys remember Savannah, right?” Jack asks. “She works on my farm. We were just going over some business.”

Once Kelsey hears that, she stops glaring at me and turns her attention to her cell phone, glancing up at Jack a couple times. Vanessa smiles but can’t get a word in, because Colton launches into a speech about how, if he were to go on Jeopardy!, he’d bet it all and make it a true Daily Double.

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about Star,” Jack says to me. “Do you have any idea what’s wrong with him?”

“No,” I lie, remembering how Star got upset when Jack came around. I don’t want to say anything until I’m sure I’m right.

Jack pops another fry in his mouth. “Tomorrow before school, before you exercise Star, can we try gate training him again?”

“Yes, sir.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“Smart ass,” Jack says with a grin. “Stop calling me sir. For real.”

Kelsey glances up from her phone, looking at me as if I said I love doing homework. “You call him sir?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I snap, and she turns her focus back to her phone. Jack covers a grin by sneaking another bite of my sandwich. I yank it away. “Give me that!”

I bite my lip, excited about the prospect of hanging out with him tomorrow morning. I tell myself it’s only business. But if it’s only business, then why are all these girls giving me dirty looks because I’m sitting with Jack?

My heart can flutter all it wants—that’s not gonna change the fact that Jack is not in my league. How could we ever have a good working relationship if I were to let him have his way with me, and then things go back to the same ole same ole?

I steal one more of his fries, just to show him who’s boss.

Dad and Cindy want to take me out to dinner tonight to celebrate my first day of senior year. Neither of my parents got a high school degree, so this is a big deal for me. Of course, Dad’s idea of “going out to dinner to celebrate” is not the same as mine.

“Really?” I ask, as we park in the dumpy parking lot of a dive diner called Foothills.

“I said the same thing, Shortcake,” Cindy says, making me wince. “I told him we should go to the Cracker Barrel, but your dad never listens to me.”

“Do boys ever listen?”

“No,” Cindy replies.

Dad tries to hide his grin as we climb out of his ancient truck. “Mr. Goodwin told me Foothills is the best place in town.”

The F and the T of the neon sign are burned out, so it looks like we’re going to OO HILLS diner. The bell jingles as we open the door. We order coffee and breakfast for dinner, and after we finish eating eggs and bacon that are surprisingly amazing, we pick songs out on our private little jukebox until Dad clears his throat.

He reaches across the table and takes Cindy’s hand in his before he speaks. I feel my eyes grow wide at the sight of them holding hands. Holy hell, what’s coming?

“Savannah—”

“Are you sick?” I ask quickly, wanting to rip the bandage off.

“No,” Dad says. “Why’d you ask that?”

“Mom,” I choke out, as my heart races out of control. When my parents told me Mom had cancer, we went to McDonald’s as a special treat.

Dad puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. “I’m not sick,” he says quietly, glancing over at Cindy. “It’s the exact opposite. We went to the doctor this afternoon for a gender ultrasound.”

“Let’s order pie and have a toast with our forks,” I say, raising a hand to wave down a waitress.

“Shortcake, don’t you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Cindy asks.

Part of me wants to know, and part of me doesn’t. “Whatever it is, we’re still getting pie.” I wave my arm at the waitress. She’s standing behind the counter yapping on her cell phone.

Cindy’s face falls and Dad gently curls a hand around the back of my neck.

“Savannah…” Dad’s tone brings my attention back to him instead of pie procurement.

“I guess Cindy’s gonna need a double order of pie,” I say, trying to delay the conversation. If things were different for my family, I wouldn’t mind so much that they’re having a baby. “So what is it?”

Cindy grins shyly. “It’s a girl.”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” Dad says, kissing the side of my head.

“I was thinking about tomorrow,” I lie, not wanting to discuss the baby. I lightly run my fingers over spilled salt on the sticky table.

“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.

He sees me standing there and stops moving. Avoids my gaze. God. This is the most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever. He kisses his mother’s cheek before taking a seat and placing a napkin on his lap.

“Morning, sweetie,” Mrs. Goodwin says to him, smiling as she sips from her teacup. Then she goes back to sorting through the pile of mail in front of her. It’s probably invitations to charity balls, political fundraisers for her brother who’s the governor of Alabama, and cocktail parties, or it’s about her cookbook.

Apparently every year she develops recipes for a special cookbook—Entertaining with the Goodwins: Prizewinning Recipes from Prizewinning Cedar Hill Farms. She sells them for charity. We have a copy on the Hillcrest common room coffee table.

I move to pour hot coffee into Jack’s cup. Dear God, don’t let me spill.

“You know,” he says under his breath. “Just because I brought you coffee doesn’t mean you had to bring some to me.”

I freeze as Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin exchange glances with each other. I move to pour coffee in Mr. Goodwin’s cup, but he puts a hand over it.

“I’m fine. I’ve had enough.”

Jack selects a muffin from the breadbasket. “Dad, I’m selling the Big Society yearling.”

“To who?”

“Bushy Branch Farms in Georgia. Got Paulsen up to $320,000.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Goodwin says with a smile, making Jack practically glow with pride.

Jack sorts through the mail at his place setting. He opens an envelope and pulls out a card. The embossed initials on the paper read AW.

“Crap,” Jack mutters, dropping the card on the table.

“What is it, dear?” his mother asks.

“It’s just a card from Abby Winchester. I saw the AW on the front and thought it was about A&W Root Beer.”

“You goof,” Shelby says.

“I love root beer,” he replies, sounding sad and overly emotional about root beer. Boys.

Mr. Goodwin opens his mouth, presumably to talk about AW of the Abby Winchester variety, not the root beer, so I go back into the kitchen. Jodi hands me a tray loaded up with the omelet, little bowls of something I don’t recognize, and another basket of scones and muffins. I reenter the dining room to another interesting conversation.

“I want pink streaks in my hair,” Shelby says as she licks hot cocoa off her upper lip.

Mrs. Goodwin sets her letter opener down. “No.”

“C’mon! I want pink hair for my birthday! Carla got blue streaks and Whitney has purple streaks and I think I would look good with pink!”

“No,” her parents say simultaneously. Mr. Goodwin never looks up from the Daily Racing Form.

I put a bowl at each spot. It looks like some sort of wonderful egg casserole bacon mash-up? I bet it totally rocks the socks off the Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

“Dear,” Mrs. Goodwin says to Jack, “what do you think of the cheese grits brûlée?”

He shovels it into his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “Delicious.”

She claps. “You’re not just saying that?”

Jack looks like a goddamned bulldozer scooping it up. I’d say he likes it.

“Trust us. It’s wonderful,” his father says, glancing up from his paperwork to smile.

“Maybe try adding some sour cream to the grits,” Jack says.

“I’ll tell Jodi,” Mrs. Goodwin replies, nodding as she writes a note about sour cream. “Can you look over the draft cookbook again after school?” she asks Jack.

“Of course,” he says. “I hope you added the surf ’n’ turf option like I suggested.”

He helps with the cookbook? Who knew? I thought his activities consisted of:

1. Womanizing

2. Thinking about horses

3. Torturing me

Now that they’ve been served, I hover between the kitchen and the dining room, waiting on everybody to finish. Mrs. Goodwin goes with Shelby to help her get ready for school, leaving Jack alone with his dad. I’m about to leave to go finish my math homework when I hear my name. I feel guilty for eavesdropping, but I can’t help it.

“What were you doing with Savannah Barrow this morning?” Mr. Goodwin asks.

“Trying to get Star used to the starting gate,” Jack replies.

“Is that all you were doing?”

“Yeah, I swear.”

I peek around the corner to see Jack taking a gigantic bite of muffin, so big it looks like he might choke. I lean up against the wall, making sure to keep out of sight.

“It doesn’t look good when a businessman dates his staff. Or uses them for any other activities.”

A pause. “Savannah had some ideas for training Star, that’s all.”

“Anything new?”

“Not really. Same stuff we usually do.”

“Did it work this morning?”

“The horse seemed calmer than usual. He’s been clocking excellent times during his workouts. Savannah just knows how to control him.”

“Don’t get your hopes up that Savannah can make a difference with the horse. I haven’t decided if she’s talented. I still think you should sell Star.”

I breathe in and out, suddenly panting. Please don’t sell Star. Please don’t sell Star. He might end up with a cruel owner. Just like Moonshadow. Please don’t sell Star. I can’t bear to lose one more thing.

Mr. Goodwin says, “Don’t forget, we have that dinner tonight. I’ll have Yvonne get a suit ready for you.”

I peek around the corner one more time to find Jack rubbing his eyes. He sighs, picks up the Daily Racing Form papers, and stands as he chugs the rest of his coffee.

Jack didn’t stand up for me when his father questioned my talent. I guess it’s not surprising. I just started working as an exercise rider here. I haven’t proven myself.

I slowly take off my apron.

Out the kitchen window I watch as Jack’s big shiny red Ford truck coasts down the driveway toward the main gate. I pull a deep breath and walk back into the dining room where Mr. Goodwin is poring over The Tennessean.

“Sir?”

His head pops up and he smiles. “Yes, Savannah?”

“May I have a quick word?”

“Of course.” He folds the newspaper, places it next to his empty bowl, and looks up at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry Cindy wasn’t here to serve breakfast this morning. She’s normally not a flake—it’s just she wasn’t feeling well and I’m sure it won’t happen again. I know we haven’t made a good impression our first week here. I hope you won’t take it out of her paycheck since I worked—”

He waves a hand. “No big deal. I understand you’ve got a new little brother or sister on the way?”

“A sister, yes, sir.”

“How are you liking living here? Is your bedroom okay? Everyone treating you nice down in Hillcrest?”

The paint is peeling off my bedroom walls, but Dad said we can wait until we’ve been here awhile to fix that. “Everything’s great, sir. I mean, except for that Yvonne won’t let me wash my own clothes.”

“Join the club.” He smiles. “Anything else? You probably need to be getting on to school.”

I toe the fancy Persian rug with my pink Converse. “Sir, I was wondering. My dad and Cindy have a whole lot going on. Lots of bills and debts and stuff.”

“Yes,” Mr. Goodwin says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m wondering…since Cindy will need to take more time off for the baby, can you please keep my paychecks instead of docking it from hers? At least until the baby is born?”

“If that’s what you want. But I wish you’d save it for yourself instead.” Mr. Goodwin studies my face. “Let your father handle his debts.”

“I want to do this.” I won’t let my little sister grow up like I did.

“I’ll make it happen.” A sly grin forms on Mr. Goodwin’s face. “Tell me something, Savannah. Do you know what’s wrong with Tennessee Star?”

“I’ve got a possible idea, yes, sir.”

It surprises me when Mr. Goodwin doesn’t quiz me further. Instead, he winks. “Can’t wait to see if you’re right at the race this Saturday.”