“Come on up to the house?” he politely asked.
“Carry me to the back pastures where the yearlings are.”
“Sure.”
They walked up to the house, climbed into his truck, and bounced along the interior farm roads to the back where the yearlings grazed. Most horse breeders put the yearlings farther away from the main barns and drive to them, because they go through a gawky, ugly stage, just like human teenagers. By the time they’re two, Saddlebreds usually begin to look like real horses.
Charly pulled alongside a white fence, painted every two years at a hideous expense. He cut the motor and Renata hopped out.
Charly, soon beside her, glanced down at her white espadrilles. “Ruin your shoes.”
“Bought four pair. Have another in the truck. They’re so cool in the summer but they still give some support. Too bad men don’t wear them.”
“Maybe the ones who carry purses do.”
She shrugged. “To each his own.” She looked at his feet. “Top-Siders.”
“Summer.” He nodded. “I love summer.”
“I do, too. But I miss fall, winter, and real spring when I’m in California. When I’m out of California I don’t miss it at all, except for the smell of eucalyptus trees in Montecito.”
“I like that, too.” Charly had showed often in California, plus he’d visited Renata there. “Let me whistle them over. There’s still a lot of dew on the grass; you might have three other pair of espadrilles, but these will be green and your feet will be wet.” He put his fingers in his lips and let out a piercing whistle.
The yearlings—geldings in one pasture on one side of the road, fillies on the other—lifted their heads. They stared, then slowly trotted toward the figures at the fence. Halfway there, they decided to make a race of it, youthful high spirits abundant.
At the gate they skidded to a halt. Charly turned back to his truck and pulled out a big bag of carrots, which he always kept with him. He then handed some to Renata and she fed the boys. He walked across the dirt road to feed the girls, a fair amount of ear-flattening and nasty looks between them, since each girl wanted more than one carrot. The lower fillies on the totem pole skittered away, and Charly threw them carrots while hand-feeding the more dominant fillies. He made note each time he visited the yearlings as to pecking order. He wanted his workers to handle the animals daily. It made working with them so much easier when training really started.
An animal could not be dominant in the herd yet be amazing in the ring. You never knew until you worked with them. He made note of that, too.
Renata fed the boys one by one, shooing off the pushy ones after they’d received their carrot. “Who’s the almost-black fellow with the star on his forehead and a thin white stripe coming out of it, kinda like a fairy wand?”
“Captain Hook.” He called the fellow by his barn name.
“I think it looks like a star wand.”
“Well, it does, but I couldn’t call him Tinker Bell.”
“This is the foal I liked. Took me a minute. He’s grown. He’ll be sixteen hands.” She studied him. “He’s flashy. What do you want for him?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Liar.”
“No, I really hadn’t.”
“Start thinking.” She turned to the fillies. “The bright chestnut has quality.”
“It’s a good crop, but she is the standout, isn’t she?”
Renata said nothing but climbed back in the truck. They returned to the house. Charly, although full of coffee, made another pot. They sat on the back porch with their cups.
“How much?”
“No less than one hundred thousand.”
“For a yearling? We’re not talking about Thoroughbreds here.”
“I meant one hundred thousand for the colt and the filly.” He grinned, always the horse dealer.
“Hmm.” She drank her coffee.
“Ward hopes you’ll leave Kalarama and board with him,” Charly fished.
“I never said that.”
“What did you say?”
“Exactly what you and I discussed. I’d bring him a few big clients, and I will. He’s decent enough.”
“He’s a good trainer and will get better.” The cut grass glistened with dew; the white crepe myrtles at the end of the lawn by the fence line bloomed. Soon enough the zinnias would reach full height, too. “Think he has any idea?”
“He knows I did it for the publicity. He doesn’t know we’re together.”
“What about Joan and Larry?”
“They say nothing but they aren’t dumb. They may not know we’ve cooked this up, but I don’t think either one will be shocked when I return to you, citing we’ve mended our fences, et cetera, et cetera.” She smiled languidly. “It worked. God, I got fabulous publicity out of this. Scripts poured in within twenty-four hours. My agent FedExed a few, and he says the others are waiting for me.”
“How’d he pick?”
“By reputation. Doesn’t mean they’re good. Every now and then a rookie hits a home run. Hard, though. Hard to be a screenwriter. It’s never yours—the work, I mean.”
“No, but the check is.”
“That’s true.” She laughed. “And the writer gets paid first. I have to wait but not too long. And I do receive goodies no writer can dream of—you know, jewelry, signing bonuses, trailers with everything in them for my comfort between scenes. It’s a good life that way. The rest of it stinks.” Her voice dropped.
“Make hay while the sun shines.”
“Charly, I bet I hear that every other day.” She sipped more coffee. “I know it, but I also know there will be a day, sunny or not, when I can’t take it anymore. It’s not my passion, acting. I can do it. I’m good. I’m not great. I’m not Meryl Streep. But I’m good. Still, I don’t want to spend too much more time not doing what I love. I don’t want to be eighty and think that all I ever did in my life was look into a camera.”
“Horses.”
“They’re all I’ve really cared about since I came into the world.”
“Me, too.” He frowned for an instant. “But at this level, it takes millions.”
“You make that.”
“The best year I ever had I made three million. I pretty much average about a million and a half, which you know. I’ve been honest with you.” And he had, except for his sideline. “This place eats that up, buying and breeding new stock. And don’t forget farm maintenance, either. It takes money to make money.”
“It does. That’s why I live in a small but adorable house in the Valley.” She meant she lived on the other side of the low mountains dividing Los Angeles from the Valley, on the east side of Mulholland Drive. “I keep expenses low. I’m up off Ventura in the hills, which you know, but I watch every penny and I sock it in the bank or in stocks. When I walk I want my money to make money.”
“Smart, but I’ve always said you were smart.” He hadn’t always said that, but he was learning now that he had to pay more attention to her mind, dazzling though her physical attributes were. “Of course, I never realized how creative you are until you came up with the idea for us to have a big scene.”
“You’ve got a little talent there, Charly.” She laughed at him.
“Studying you,” he flattered her.
“One thing eats away at me.”
“Which is?”
“I wonder if Ward killed Jorge.”
“What?” Charly sat up in his chair.
“Well, Ward used Jorge to dye Queen Esther’s legs and neck. He told me when I asked how he got Queen Esther out from under everyone’s nose. He paid Jorge five hundred dollars cash, which was a lot for Jorge, and then I think he gave him a little more for odds and ends, whatever they were. Jorge—apart from you and me and, well, Benny, who says nothing—was the only one who knew.”
“You didn’t tell me about Jorge.”