Saturday dawned rainy and cool. Fanta rose early and drove to the showgrounds. The wide streets were virtually empty, and the jewel tones of the traffic lights glowed on the wet pavement under the overcast skies. She pulled at the waistband of her breeches. It was still too tight. She’d never admit it under threat of death or even being locked in a closed room with Deirdre, but she’d cut a little gap—okay, maybe two—in the elastic waistband with some cheap nail scissors. Her belly had plumped out in relief. No one would ever know, unless somehow she ended up at the local emergency room. Even then.
She fidgeted in the driver’s seat. The morning would feature the adult hunter division’s under-saddle or flat class, where horses were judged on their walk, trot, and canter and not required to jump. Fanta felt good about it. Des usually did well. Her fellow competitors could be merciless, though, jostling each other, cutting off other horses, pushing poor lost souls out to the edge of the ring where the judges would never see them. Fanta would be on her guard. Des didn’t usually let any of the shenanigans disturb him.
The second class over fences was in the afternoon. Fanta’s gut constricted. She wasn’t so sure about that. Would she be able to up her game from the day before? The pressure was on to put in a good showing.
Driving by the Carleton, Fanta’s thoughts turned to Greg. Somewhere, in one of the hotel’s ticky-tacky rooms, beautiful Greg lay outstretched on a bed, tanned skin and flaxen hair against tousled white sheets, sleeping soundly. Fanta blissed out at the thought of it. Or, maybe Greg was not alone. Perhaps Lana was curled beside him, petite and lovely. Or Deirdre hovered over him, ready for a morning wake-up call. Fanta’s brow furrowed. On the upside, now that she’d spoken to Greg, albeit briefly (perhaps foolishly), maybe next time he passed by, she could give a small nod, even exchange a greeting. The possibilities were endless.
Fanta turned onto the road that led to the showgrounds. Who was she kidding? Greg was totally into Lana. And why not? Lana had everything going for her. It was a smart move on Greg’s part to hook up with her. So why the feverish scene with Deirdre? And the confab with Chessy? Fanta slumped in her seat. She was older now; she could see things for what they really were. Maybe Greg’s laurel crown was a little skewed, his golden luster a bit tarnished.
But no. Fanta turned on the clicker and headed into the showgrounds. It was all Deirdre’s fault. She was the temptress, the siren. It was totally down to her that Greg was distracted and not treating his girlfriend and maybe his clients as he should. Deirdre was a wrecking ball in anyone’s life.
Fanta slid the Honda to a stop in the rain-soaked field, grabbed a few items from the trunk, and headed toward the Bay Ridge stalls. The stables were in full swing, despite the early hour. Des had eaten his oats and was standing in the grooming stall with Bonnie, who was brushing his gray coat and cleaning out his hooves. Fanta could tell that Des was happy with the attention, his eyes half-closed and lower lip drooping. There was a tight row of small braids along the ridge of his neck and one in his forelock. Show hunters were required to be immaculately turned out for competition and Des was rocking it.
Bonnie played with the strands of Des’s long tail. “Hey, Fanta. What do you think? It’s going to be a messy one today.” With some braiding, Des’s grayish-white tail could be kept out of what was sure to be sloppy, dirty footing.
“Yeah, if we can do a mud tail or something, it would look good,” Fanta replied. Bonnie was a wizard with such things. Fanta headed to the tack room. She already had her breeches, riding shirt, and tall boots on. She just had to add her tailored riding jacket and helmet. With the weather, at least she wouldn’t be so hot and sweaty in the whole outfit.
Carrying Des’s saddle and bridle and trying not to get dirty, she returned to where Bonnie was working in the grooming stall. Fanta smiled fondly. Des stood patiently, beautifully groomed and dolled up for the show ring. Then her smile faltered. Once out of the stables, it would take no time at all for his legs and belly to be spattered with mud. It was going to be a fun day cleaning equipment and hosing off horses. Not to mention potentially riding in a driving downpour. Fanta sighed. The show always went on.
“Cheer up, Fanta.” Lyle Sampford strolled up beside her, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. His wiry hair was carefully brushed, and he had taken time with the sparse hairs on his chin that might possibly have required shaving. His woodsy cologne with floral undertones was overpowering and reminiscent of the fly spray they used on the horses. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt, and pointy cowboy boots. “It’ll be like a do-over for you and Des this afternoon. You can’t mess it up a second time.”
Fanta threw an exasperated look at Lyle. He was a fixture at Bay Ridge, having ridden there since he was a child. He was a good rider and he obviously loved the horses, including his own little bay Trifle. Fanta pursed her lips. Lyle loved the horses, but she knew for a fact he was also pretty happy to scope out the many cute, athletic girls who competed in the sport.
Sara hurried up the aisle. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a hurricane. Fanta was sure she could see smudgy traces of the heavy makeup from the evening before on Sara’s face. Gross. Where exactly had Sara spent the night? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Sara shooed Lyle out of the way, whipped open one of the large Bay Ridge tack boxes, and began rummaging through it with a frantic energy. “Pay no attention to him, Fanta. He has no clue what he’s talking about, as usual,” she said, her head disappearing into the trunk.
Fanta stepped away as Sara and Lyle started their usual dickering. It was incredible how Sara’s moods could swing from one extreme to another. Fanta didn’t know what to make of it. Her own mood stayed pretty much the same from day to day. Should she change it up? Something to consider. She would welcome more happy positivity and less endless worrying.
“Here’s your boy.” Bonnie was leading Des toward her.
“He looks amazing, thanks! Did I mention you’re the best?”
Fanta grinned at Bonnie, who helped her hop up onto Des’s back. She started toward the warm-up ring. Des walked along happily, despite the raindrops spattering his coat. Fanta could see her dark riding jacket beginning to get damp. There was nothing to be done about it.
Reaching the warm-up, she took in the swirl of other horses and riders prepping for the flat class. In show hunters, it was ideal to have a horse with a long, low stride that covered the ground and was comfortable for the rider to sit. From her pony club days, Fanta knew that show hunters had their origins in the traditional fox hunt, where riders spent a long day in the saddle, riding cross-country. Comfort was paramount.
Terry trotted by on the gorgeous Pearl. There was the class winner, Fanta thought, not without a hint of jealousy. Pearl was a classic. Des was not in her league, but he usually won a ribbon in the flat class. Fanta started to put him through his paces in the warm-up.
Soon, the competitors were called into the show ring. The class started with everyone at a walk, spread out around the large ring. Already, Fanta sensed some of the riders vying for the best position from which to catch the judge’s eye. She concentrated on keeping Des’s stride long and loose. He seemed happy to oblige.
“Trot, please!” commanded the ring steward.
Fanta asked Des to pick up his pace. Fortunately, the sand ring was not too wet. Still, many of the horses fussed, not keen on the rain and puddles. Others pinned their ears and swished their tails, not liking so many horses moving beside them. Des swung along easily. Across the ring, directly in the judge’s line of sight, Pearl floated over the ground, calm and graceful.
Then came the command for the canter. Fanta tensed, ever so slightly. Things might get interesting. The faster pace was exciting for the horses. On the outskirts of the group, she saw a rangy chestnut explode with a huge buck, his back hooves kicking gaily into the air, his rider holding on for dear life. A dark bay nearby pulled hard at the reins, obviously wanting to gallop off willy-nilly across the ring. The rider pulled back with all her might, face grim.
“Thank you, reverse please!” came the command.
Obediently, the group returned to a walk and changed direction. Horses needed to be balanced on both sides. Like humans, they tended to be stronger one way than the other. Fanta knew Des preferred going around the ring to the left.
Once again, they went through their walk, trot, and canter. Des was the perfect gentleman, even as a snippy chestnut mare bared her teeth at him and a gray horse shaped like a dump truck rumbled right under his nose. Fanta was just as happy when they were all asked to line up down the middle of the ring.
The announcer wasted no time. “In first place, we have String of Pearls, owned and ridden by Terry Miller.” The result was no surprise.
Terry pulled out from the line, looking tired but pleased. Fanta kept her ears cocked as the announcer continued. Then, “In fourth place, we have Desmos, owned and ridden by Fanta Delaney.”
Fanta urged Des forward, a smile on her face. The judges and stewards congratulated her and pinned a fluttery ribbon on Des’s bridle. They walked from the ring, Des with his head held high, Fanta grinning. She was dying to get back to the stables and see Bonnie, who would fuss over them like a mother hen.
Sure enough, when she arrived, Bonnie was ready to help.
“Look at you guys! Congrats, Fanta, way to go. Good boy, Dessie.” Bonnie took the reins from Fanta and patted Des, even giving him a smooch on the nose. Des played it up like a ham.
“I’m afraid we got a little dirty.” Fanta eyeballed Des’s lower legs, which were covered in sand and grit. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Nothing a little warm water can’t fix.” Bonnie led Des into the grooming stall. He would have some time to rest and hang out with his hay net before the next class over fences.
Fanta pulled the leather gloves from her hands and plucked her raincoat from the peg where she’d left it.
“I’m going to grab a coffee. Can I get you anything?”
“A hot chocolate would be great, thanks,” Bonnie replied, slipping off Des’s saddle.
“I’d love a tea, if you don’t mind.” Sara appeared out of the aisle. “But it has to be organic. And not too hot. And if they have cardboard cups, not Styrofoam, that would be great.”
“Coffee for me, black,” called Lyle from the tack room.
Fanta rolled her eyes. Lengthy beverage order in hand, she put on her raincoat and headed to the canteen. She patted her pockets to make sure she had her phone and wallet. She surreptitiously slipped a finger under the waistband of her breeches. Better. She would purchase a healthy, protein-packed breakfast item. At least a banana. Not one of those delicious-looking muffins. Everyone knew those were basically just big pieces of cake.
She hopped through the puddles, trying to keep her leather riding boots dry. Over the usual horse show hubbub, she heard raised voices. She glanced around. Terry was standing beside one of the rings, arguing with another man. Looking more closely, Fanta recognized Dave LeDans, Greg’s business partner at Two Gates. Dave’s pot belly strained against a stained polo shirt and his thick black hair was greasy and uncombed. He and Terry stood close together, gesticulating, their faces red and flustered. It looked unpleasant. Fanta wanted to scoot by as quickly as possible.
“I have no idea where the guy is, Terry. He’s probably trying to avoid you. Can’t you give him a break about your invoices? Don’t you trust us to get things right?” Dave shouted.
“I have every right to inquire about the billing, Dave,” Terry replied frostily. “And it’s more likely that Greg is trying to avoid you, since you’re always hassling him about his plans. No wonder he wants to be done with you.”
“What? I don’t think that’s true. How could you say such a thing?” Dave reared back. “In any case, we need to find him, and fast. He’s got horses to ride today, and I don’t want to let these clients down.”
Dave jerked his chin toward the warm-up area, where Deirdre was leading one of Greg’s horses around in a circle. Her eyes were puffy, her skin was sallow, and she walked with an air of dejection. Fanta chuckled. Perhaps Greg had given Deirdre the brush-off, even in the face of her frilly underwear and wanton behavior. Or, if Lana ever found out that Deirdre was trying to hook her claws into Greg, who knew what fury might be unleashed.
Fanta picked up her pace toward the canteen. She didn’t want to be in earshot of much more. She had no idea what it was about, but it sounded bad. In her haste, she almost missed another commotion going on near the entrance to the main jumper ring.
“Greg Grenier, please make your way to ring one, you’re wanted in the ring. Greg Grenier, ring one,” crackled the PA announcer.
The ring stewards craned their necks while riders circled on their mounts, waiting to see what the holdup was. That was odd. Fanta paused. Horse shows usually ran efficiently, with riders going in the ring at appointed times and classes running to schedule. This was especially true in the main jumper ring, which hosted big-money classes that were often televised.
Everyone’s head swooped around as Greg’s young blonde groom came running toward the in-gate from the stables. Her cheeks were patchy red, her breath came in panicky gusts, and her skinny arms windmilled as she ran, trying not to trip on the uneven ground. She looked like someone fleeing a house fire.
“He can’t come, he can’t come!” she cried, dropping her hands to her knees and heaving in great gouts of air. “He’s…he’s dead!”
Everyone stopped. Then, just as suddenly, a frenzy ensued. Everyone started talking. A swarm of people formed at the in-gate while others ran off to spread the shocking news about Greg.
Fanta halted in her tracks. She couldn’t take it in. She had just spoken to Greg the night before. She had mooned over him for years. How could he be gone? She had the sensation of being on a rapidly sinking ship in the middle of stormy seas.
Dave and Terry steamed off toward the stables with the young groom scurrying in their wake. Deirdre followed more slowly with Greg’s horse. Fanta resumed her walk to the canteen in a daze. Her brain was like a computer on the fritz. She managed to rhyme off the Bay Ridge drinks order and then stood in the throng of people waiting for their food near the silver truck.
“Can you believe it?” one misty-eyed lady breathed at her companion. “What a thing to happen. Greg was so lovely.”
“Lovely? That’s not what I heard,” came the reply. “I don’t think there’s a woman on these showgrounds who hasn’t had something to do with Greg Grenier. And not always in a good way, let me tell you.”
“What? Now that’s not nice,” chimed in another voice. “Just because you weren’t on the receiving end of his attentions.”
“Ha! You listen to me, missy—”
“Maybe it was a heart attack. From all his exertions.”
“Or someone killed him!”
“I bet you it was that groom of his, you know, the snarky one.”
“Or that little mousy one. It’s the quiet ones that will surprise you.”
“I saw Terry yesterday and he looked fit to be tied.”
“Poor Dave. Can you imagine living in Greg’s shadow? I bet he didn’t see much action.”
“What about Lana? She’s a great rider, but I can tell you she’s one uppity minx.”
Fanta grabbed her beverages and pushed her way out of the maelstrom. She hurried back to the stables, agitated and unhappy. All around her, she could see the news about Greg hopping from one person to the next, spreading like wildfire.
“What’s wrong?” Bonnie called, looking up in concern.
“You won’t believe it,” Fanta said, skidding to a stop. She bobbled the tray with the hot drinks. Carefully, she held it out in front of her. She’d completely forgotten to get anything for herself.
“Try us, Fanta. We’re not as easily shocked as you are,” said Lyle, reaching in to take his coffee. Sara plucked out her cup of tea, muttering a crotchety, “This is Styrofoam, but I’m dying for some antioxidants.”
Bonnie looked at Fanta with trepidation, slowly taking her hot chocolate from the holder.
“It’s Greg Grenier.” Fanta paused, her eyes swiveling around the group. “He’s dead.”
“Whaaat?” squawked Sara, burning her lip on the hot tea.
“Oh no! That’s so sad,” Bonnie cried. “He was so young. And so, you know, pretty.”
“Whoa, maybe he was whacked,” said Lyle. “It could have been any one of a dozen jealous girlfriends.” His tone was more than a bit envious. He cracked the lid on his coffee and took a slurp.
Bonnie frowned at Lyle before turning back to Fanta. “Does anyone know what happened?”
Fanta shrugged helplessly. She was like some useless messenger with only half the message. She sorely needed some deets. But who knew what had happened?
“Did I hear you say that Greg Grenier was…was dead?”
Chessy appeared out of the tack room. Her usually glowing face was white and wan, her confident voice hesitant. Dressed in boots, breeches, and a riding shirt, she twirled her baseball cap uncertainly in her hands.
Fanta nodded mutely. She had no words of comfort, much less explanation.
Chessy blinked, sniffed, and hurried away down the aisle, eyes downcast.
Bonnie and Fanta exchanged a wary look. Everything had just gone sideways. The horse world had lost its wayward adonis, and so young, too. The show would undoubtedly go on, but the shock of it all would be hard to absorb.
***
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