Lucky Thirteen (5 page)

“That’s my pride and joy, Soft Spoken Hal,” Miss Hightower pointed out as the horse crossed the finish line.

“Lucky thirteen.”

“That’s right.”

“When does he race?”

“Tomorrow at the same track where we met.”

“Oh, how I wish I could be there.”

“That can be arranged.”

I was sorely tempted to take Miss Hightower up on her thinly veiled offer, but then there was Alex to consider. Miss Hightower stepped away for a few moments to have words with the man I assumed to be the trainer. I was leaning against the track railing with my chin on my hands when Miss Hightower surprised me with her next offer.

“Chloe, have you ever ridden?”

I was pretty sure she didn’t mean a bicycle.

“Once, when I was a little girl.”

“Follow me.”

Miss Hightower led me to yet another stable, this one more modest than the other we had visited to see the birth of the foal. Again, there were several greyhounds waiting to greet us. As we approached, Miss Hightower explained that this was the family’s private stable which housed her personal riding stock. A few quick commands to the stable hands and two horses were soon saddled and bridled, waiting for us in the stable yard. The horse Miss Hightower chose for me was a lovely bay mare named Clarabelle. I was intimidated by the horse’s size even though Miss Hightower assured me she was a sweet and docile animal.

“Do you know how to mount a horse?” she asked from the saddle of her own sorrel.

“I wouldn’t even know which way to face in the saddle,” I admitted to the amusement of the stable hand holding my horse’s reins.

“I’d recommend you face your mount’s head,” Miss Hightower suggested, apparently taking my statement seriously. “Franklin, get the mounting block for Ms. Boston.”

One of the stable hands brought a small box and set it next to the mare. Another stable hand stood in front of my mount holding the horse’s head.

“Now, grab onto the reins with your left hand. No, let out some slack. Grab ahold of her mane, not too tight, and step up onto the mounting block. Keep your left side toward her shoulder and turn the stirrup toward you. No, not like that! Franklin, help Ms. Boston get her foot in the stirrup.”

With the aid of the two stable hands and a constant stream of instructions, I was eventually able to mount Clarabelle, and I was even facing the correct direction. I felt like an ass needing so much assistance for what turned out to be a relatively simple operation. Next came a stream of instructions regarding starting, steering, and stopping my horse. I was smiling all the while, though I was still nervous. So far, I liked riding horses. Never had I been so tall. Never had I been in control of such strength. As Miss Hightower trotted off, my horse naturally followed, no instructions needed. Good horse, I thought, patting her on the neck.

From horseback, we continued our tour of the facility. I felt like a genuine cowboy, though my rear end began hurting almost immediately. I supposed that I needed to grow callouses back there, but cringed at the thought of what Alex would say if I showed up back at the hotel room with blisters at the end of my stay. The day was beautiful, filled with blue sky and warm sun. Everything smelled so clean. Everywhere we went people were working with horses. I was surprised to look back and find that Flying Miss Lady was still following.

Passing through a series of gates which Miss Hightower opened and closed for us, we were eventually let out into open countryside where we were able to give our mounts some rein and gallop on the horse trails through high grass and beneath shady oak trees.

By the time the sun was well past its zenith and getting ready to set, I realized that I was getting hungry, having eaten nothing all day. I was both pleased and disappointed when we returned to the stable to get ready for dinner. Again I received copious assistance and much needed instruction during my dismount. Once back on solid ground, I walked around the stable yard like John Wayne trying to get the feeling back into my legs. The stable hands also found this amusing.

“Come, Chloe, we need to get you ready for dinner,” Miss Hightower announced. “Did you bring appropriate attire?”

“I thought I might wear what I’m wearing now,” I replied innocently.

“No. That won’t do at all,” Miss Hightower retorted. “We’ll see what Sissy has that might suit you.”

I had no idea who Sissy might be, but wasn’t about to argue. I liked trying on new clothes, at least clothes that were new to me.

Miss Hightower drove me back to the mansion in the golf cart. Somehow, Flying Miss Lady had managed to keep with us the entire day. Then again, I thought, she is a greyhound. We parked in front of the hacienda and Miss Hightower led me inside. After she threw wide the heavy oak door, I froze, awestruck, the moment we stepped inside.

A large wrought iron chandelier dominated the massive space above the stone tile floor. A polished wood staircase with a red carpet runner, like that out of
Gone with the Wind,
curved up to a second-story landing. Large arched windows let in so much light that the foyer appeared to be outside. An elegant fountain tiled in a blue mosaic stood in the center of the space producing the sound of dappling water.

“Your home is beautiful,” I observed.

“It is at that, and it’s huge as well. The old servants’ quarters have been closed off and abandoned and still we have plenty of room in the house for family and servants.”

I had only a moment to take in the sights before Miss Hightower grabbed my hand and whisked me upstairs. She marched me down a hallway and pushed open a solid oak door to a charming bedroom.

“Don’t you knock anymore?” a young woman protested.

The young woman was standing beside the bed, clutching a dress to her body in a vain attempt to hide the fact that she was clad only in panties and a bra. I could hardly fail to notice that her body was as lovely as her heart-shaped face, regardless of the scowl. I looked away out of propriety. Miss Hightower scowled at Sissy, refusing to avert her eyes.

“Chloe, I’d like you to meet my spoiled niece, Sissy Hightower. Sissy, this is my close friend, Chloe Boston.”

I could hardly object to her portrayal of me as a
close
friend, though it made me feel uncomfortable having only known each other a short time. It also made me wonder what kind of company Miss Hightower had been keeping. I nodded my head rather than extending my hand, given the situation. Sissy lost the scowl, replacing it with a most winning, though undoubtedly artificial,
smile
.

“How do you do, Chloe?” she asked politely.

“Sissy,” I replied.

“Sissy, I was wondering if you might have a suitable dress that Ms. Boston can wear to this evening’s meal, the two of you being more or less the same size.”

Sissy was a good three inches taller than me and voluptuous besides. Still, I imagined that something might be put together to last one evening given enough pinning and padding.

“Why, of course, Auntie,” Sissy replied.

Miss Hightower looked as if she wanted to say more. Instead, she glowered at Sissy, smiled at me, and left the room, closing the door behind her. Sissy quickly slipped into a lovely chiffon evening dress, ignoring me as I stood uncomfortably in the center of the room. She then stepped to the door and turned to address me with her hand on the knob.

“Take what you want. The evening dresses are in there,” she said, pointing to a beautiful antique wardrobe and managing to sound as if she didn’t care if I lived or died.

She was about to leave when she apparently thought of something more to say.

“Oh, and Chloe.”

“Yes, Sissy?”

“If I find out that you’re here after my aunt’s money, you’ll be dead before the evening is through.”

The words were spoken flatly, more a statement of fact than a threat. Having spoken her piece, she was free to exit the room which she did with haste. I shivered in the cold of her wake.

Rifling through Sissy’s evening gown wardrobe, I was shocked and intimidated by what I found. Christian Dior and Vera Wang dominated the scene, and these weren’t your standard off the rack dresses. Many looked to be from the designers’ couture collections. But when I found the white flowing gossamer number with the halter top, plunging neckline, and rhinestone accents, I looked no further. This was the dress of every woman’s dreams. Of course, it was too long and I wished that it needed pinning around the waist. The length of the dress helped hide my tennis shoes beneath—none of Sissy’s heels came even close to fitting and I didn’t feel safe trying to balance on a pair of heels that didn’t fit. The deep V of the neckline precluded wearing a bra, but I fortunately found some stick-on cups which I applied for modesty’s sake. Next stop—Sissy’s vanity and her large array of makeup. I took my time doing my hair and makeup, and when I was through I had to admit that I looked sensational. I was about to leave when I spotted a jewelry box sitting on the top of a dresser and thought—in for a penny, in for a pound. It wasn’t something I would have done if Sissy had been less nasty, but her threats had brought out my rebellious side.

When I lifted the lid of the box, diamonds winked back at me in profusion. I gasped, and then examined each piece individually. I settled on a diamond choker and matching bracelet that probably cost more than I’d make in a lifetime. I left the rings behind not knowing if they might have sentimental value to their owner.

Swishing out the door, I sashayed down the hall and stepped slowly down the stairs. I was halfway to the foyer when I looked up and saw Alex standing just inside the door, accompanied by Miss Hightower, Sissy, and beside him none other than Mark Halifax.

“Chloe?”
Alex said, looking up the stairs in wonderment.

“My diamond choker and bracelet,” Sissy gasped.

“Wow,” Mark exclaimed.

“Chloe, you look absolutely radiant,” Miss Hightower proclaimed with a smile.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Mark amended.

“Chloe, is that really you?” Alex asked in surprise.

“Yes, Alex, it’s really me,” I said, fully descending the stairs. “What is he doing here?” I asked, nodding toward Mark.

“Oh, he insisted on coming when he heard,” Alex said, shaking himself from his trance. “Besides, we’re celebrating tonight.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“Mark is my new partner in the firm of Lincoln and Halifax Security,” Alex announced.

“I see,” I replied noncommittally.

“Do I get a hug and a kiss now that I’m nearly
family
?” Mark asked me.

“Knock it off, Mark,” Alex warned.

It was then that both Miss Hightower and I noticed that our most recent guests, though dressed in business suits, were hardly attired for an elegant evening of dining.

“Charles!” Miss Hightower called.

“Yes, madam,” Charles replied, appearing at her side as if from nowhere.

“Escort these two gentlemen to Hillary’s room,” Miss Hightower ordered. “I’m sure you’ll find suitable attire amongst his belongings.”

“As you wish, madam,” Charles said, bowing.

As Alex passed, we shared a quick kiss and a smile. He then headed upstairs with Charles and Mark to get dressed, casting glances back my way as he went. Meantime, Sissy stared daggers of hate at me. I tried not to smirk. It was a good thing my mother wasn’t there to see me. She would not approve of my behavior.

“Come, Chloe, and meet the rest of my tenants,” Miss Hightower said, taking my arm and leading me from the foyer through a set of wide double doors.

The dining room was massive, with exposed wooden beams running across the ceiling far overhead. The room was dominated by the longest table I’d ever seen, covered in white linen and set for a feast. There were fresh cut flowers set in elaborate vases amongst beautiful crystal and china. There were also several men and women milling around the room engaged in idle conversation. All of them stopped talking and turned to watch us the moment Miss Hightower and I entered the room.

“Chloe Boston, I’d like you to meet my brother, Hillary Hightower,” Miss Hightower said after guiding me to the nearest gathering. “And this is his wife, Missy,” she added after almost forgetting the utterly forgettable woman standing beside her brother.

“The honor is all mine,” Hillary said, taking my hand and bowing to kiss the back of it.

“The honor is all his since there’s little honor involved in meeting an inebriate and a
layabout
.”

“Really, Sis,” Hillary objected. “I do wish you’d allow me to leave my own impression.”

Hillary held both a drink and a cigarette between the fingers of one hand. He had blond hair and a blond mustache which hid the gray and made it difficult to judge his age. His nose was a bright red worthy of W C Fields, which I’ve always associated with alcoholism. He wore an impeccably tailored white dinner jacket with black pants and had a red handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. In all senses, the impression he left me with was one of an inebriate and a
layabout
. It pained me to agree with Sissy.