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.”
Blinded by Inspirational Posters
The evil Coach Lynn is making us run laps around the track in gym class. It’s eighty gazillion degrees outside and my arms and legs feel like Silly Putty by lap three.
Vanessa Green slows way down so she can run beside me. “Wow, you’re in dead last,” she says. “I guess your horse-riding skills don’t translate to running.”
I swipe sweat from my upper lip. “Yeah, totally different muscle groups.”
“I hate gym,” Vanessa says, wiping sweat off her brow.
“Really? Isn’t your brother like the best athlete ever? Like Superman or something?” He’s in the NFL.
“Don’t let him hear you call him Superman. Ty’s head’s already big enough since he started dating Gabriella Marsden.”
“The supermodel?”
“Yeah, she has nothing interesting to talk about though. It’s like he went to a supermodel factory and said ‘I’ll take that one please. The one with the extra-long legs and the big boobs and the hair that falls past her butt.’”
We laugh together, and at that moment, Jack and Colton sprint by. Jack turns, bows, and says, “Ladies,” before streaking off again, his long hair flopping in the wind. He’s so hot, my breath catches in my throat and I cough.
“You think he’s cute?” Vanessa asks.
“Who doesn’t?”
She shrugs. “He’s hot, but he’s not my type. He’s too pretty.”
I laugh at the irony. The most beautiful girl at school doesn’t want the beautiful boy.
“Hey,” Vanessa starts. “Do you know if Rory Whitfield is dating anybody?”
“I don’t think he is.”
“Oh…I wondered if you and him…?”
“Naw. Why?”
“Just wondering…” She gazes across the track. Rory and Jack are now racing each other, trying to be King of Gym Class. “He’s cute.”
“But you’re like, you, and he’s Rory—he’s my friend, and you could date whoever you want and I don’t want him to get hurt and you’re super popular,” I say, flustered as hell.
“So?” she says.
“Would that supermodel be dating your brother if he weren’t an NFL quarterback?”
Her nose crinkles. “Who knows? Who am I to decide something like that? If you like somebody, you just like them, you know?”
“Do you really like Rory?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve known him forever, but it’s not like I’ve thought about getting to know him better and kissing him or whatever…until lately, I guess.”
“I’m sure he’s thought about it,” I say, and Vanessa flashes me an excited grin.
“Really? What’d he say?”