“Are you a betting man, Tripp?” Aunt Edna asks, eyeing him curiously.
“Ma’am”—his left hand covers his heart and his body inches forward, shaking off Virginia’s hand—“I’m not a man of many vices. But I thoroughly enjoy a friendly wager.”
Tripp removes his sunglasses to reveal a foreboding glint in his eyes. A chill runs down my spine. I’m reminded of the pool shark we met at the Westlake biker bar, the one who fleeced a room full of frat guys.
“You want a little betting advice?” Aunt Edna asks, moving toward the edge of her seat. “Clean out everyone’s pockets?”
“Go on,” Tripp says, placing both feet on the floor, creeping closer to Aunt Edna.
I poke at Holly’s side, urging her to jump in. To release Eli’s predator instincts among these unsuspecting rich people would be a very bad idea.
“Tripp probably doesn’t want to take money from all these folks he just met,” Holly says, forcing a smile. “That wouldn’t make the best first impression.”
“Bah,” Aunt Edna exclaims, waving her cane in the air. “Everyone’s here to clean up.”
“That’s right,” Judy chimes in, eagerly rubbing her hands together, making me question the real nature of their old ladies’ bridge club. “Errol Dean is taking bets in the garage. Odds are on the chalkboard.” She points to a list next to the TV, broadcasting the horse races. Twenty horse names appear in order of their program numbers. Next to each is their starting gate position, winning odds, and potential payout. “Just fill out your slip and pay up.”
“My money is on the Queen’s Curse,” Aunt Edna loud-whispers to Tripp. “Are you with me?”
“Hogwash,” Judy cries out. “The Queen’s Curse is dead last. Odds are fifty to one. Seventeenth post position, the kiss of death.”
“It’s the most unlucky position at the starting gate,” Holly adds. “That position has never produced a winner. Some people say it’s cursed.” Then, glaring at Tripp, she adds, “Which is why it’s such a terrible idea to place a bet.”
“Maybe it takes one curse to break another,” Tripp replies breezily. “But fifty to one? Those are some mighty high odds.”
Aunt Edna directs the top of her staff at Tripp, piercing himwith her blue eyes as she declares, “She’s a mudder. A mudlark, you understand?”
Tripp nods, watching her with rapt intensity. These two seem to be having a one-on-one conversation that none of us are invited into—not even poor Virginia.
“The Queen’s Curse knows how to spin mud into gold,” Aunt Edna says, her eyes going a little wild. “Mark my words, young man, she will conquer the slop.”
And then to our extreme dismay, Tripp cries out, “I’m in!”
Two hours later—mostly thanks to Virginia’s extraordinary gossip prowess—news of Tripp, his mother’s tragic death, Bedford Hall, and The Colonel has swept through the hearts of every last one of the partygoers like a wildfire consuming grassland. Incidentally, several of the women have been plying him with drinks, in spite of our best efforts to take control.
Seen from a pragmatic point of view, I should be delighted that Tripp’s foray into this world has been so unexpectedly effortless. Today, after all, has brought us a step closer to completing our mission. But as we head inside the coach house for the main derby event, betting slips in hand, I’m only growing more tense and restless.
Virginia takes Tripp by the arm, pulling him to the front, where they catch up with Aunt Edna to huddle in a mass in front of the giant TV screen. I grab Holly’s arm and force our way to the front beside them. Tripp went all in with Aunt Edna on the Queen’s Curse, blatantly ignoring our repeated warnings.
The crowd holds a collective breath as the horses are loaded into position and a camera pulls back to pan over the starting line. More people squeeze into the garage, pushing us even closer together, until I’m standing in front of Tripp, my back pressed flat against him, so close that I can sense his almost feverish body heat through the thin fabric of his shirt. It’s like a sauna in here. A bead of sweat travels down my neck and disappears into my bra. This race can’t be over fast enough.
I peer up, ready to apologize for the tight space intrusion,but I find him staring down at me, a soft closed-mouth smile on his lips. In that instant, Tripp disappears. The crowd around us and all the chaos seem to fade. I’m staring back into Eli’s gray eyes, so much older than his years, wondering what’s crossing that clever mind of his. Why is he here, doing all this? Is it just about the money for him? Or does he actually care about our mission? About me?
I wish I could ask him—and get an honest answer.
Then the starting bell rings and we’re back at the center of the raucous crowd. “And they’re off!” the race announcer calls out, to cheers and applause.
Everyone, it seems, has a horse in this race. There’s pointing and yelling, all-out screaming and hollering as the twenty horses gallop around the muddy track. “Well behind the rest of them is the Queen’s Curse,” the announcer says.
Tripp pulls at his hair, yelling out at the screen, “Come on, Queeny, move your damn ass! Move your ass!”
Oh no. No. No. No. He’s slipped out of that Mississippi lilt and into his full-on North Georgia twang. This can’t be good. To my left I hear Holly through the commotion, muttering an “Oh God.”
Oh God, indeed. These are the most stressful two minutes of my life.
The announcer is spitting horse’s names and positions so fast, it’s impossible to keep up.
Tripp is doing his own jockeying behind me, shouting at the TV with one first raised. “Eat that mud! Eat that mud!” He sounds like a full-on redneck.
