Page 9 of Hats off to Love

“Nonsense. Just because you don’t have a Derby contender doesn’t mean people won’t be looking at you and for you. You still need to represent your farm.” Her friend pats her on the arm.

Cue record scratch.

What was that? Did I hear her right?

No contender for the Derby?

Without making it obvious, I discreetly turn down the cafe music I have playing in the background so I can hear them better. Should I be eavesdropping? No, but this is some front-row gossip. After all, Sterling Bells Farm is one of the oldest and most prestigious thoroughbred farms in Kentucky, and they have a top-three trainer. Every year—and I do mean every year—they have a horse racing in the Derby. They’ve had four Derby wins in the last twenty years.

“It’s just so crazy. Bill is beside himself. They’ve gone over and over what could have made those horses lame. They aren’t overworked, they aren’t obese, the floors in the stalls of the barns have rubber mats, their food is specialized—it just makes no sense,” Mrs. Rupp declares.

“What about the bloodlines? Was there any documentation or disclosure of laminitis in the purchase paperwork?” the friend on the left asks.

Laminitis—yikes. Crippling foot pain from inflammation between the hoof and the bone that takes several months of gradual healing before they can go back to work. Even then, once a horse has one episode, they’re likely to get it again, and she said horses, as in plural. I wonder how many. Just thinking this hurts my stomach.

“No, none. Those poor horses. We were so certain Big Red was going to go all the way this year, too,” she says as she picks up her cup and takes a sip.

“I can’t believe you waited three weeks to tell us,” says the friend on her right as she takes a sip of her tea.

“Bill is worried if it gets out, it might affect breeding and boarding for next year. He’s gone into damage control, so y’all must keep this between us.” She looks them both in the eye and then over at me. Of course I anticipated this, so I’m on my laptop looking completely disconnected from them.

“Absolutely,” says the friend on the left as she reaches over and places her hand on Mrs. Rupp’s back.

“Regardless, it’s just one year, so you should definitely let Rosie make you that hat. It’s going to be stunning.”

“It really is, isn’t it.” She smiles softly.

I’ve often wondered what all these women do with their hats when they are done with them. Do they keep them boxed up in their closets, or do they donate them? I can’t imagine them being thrown away, but after so many years, it would be a large collection.

“Isn’t this place just the cutest?” Mrs. Rupp asks her friends as they finally make it to the checkout counter. The two women have each chosen a hat off the wall, while Mrs. Rupp has commissioned me to make her one with burgundy, silver, white, and pink. This way she can find a nice white dress.

“It really is. We may need to come back here during the off season just to have a pot of tea,” the woman who sat on her left says as the two friends grab their boxes and the three head for the door.

My heart thumps with excitement. This is exactly what I’ve been hoping for. Maybe during the off season, I can get the bakery to supply me with a few more items, and it can be more like a high tea with sandwiches, scones, and petit fours.

From the back office, Molly hears the bell over the door ring, signaling that the women have left, and she makes her way out to help me clean. We both agreed that although the farms around Louisville have a long history of friendship, during the season, for the private appointments, it can become a little tricky, so she stays in the back unseen. Even though the results depend on the jockey and the horse on race day, it doesn’t make the different farms any less competitors until it’s over.

“How did it go?” she asks as I stack all the dirty dishes on a tray.

Part of me wants to tell her about the injured horses, but part of me doesn’t. If I want customers to come in and feel like they have a safe space to talk, the secrets told need to remain within these walls. There’s no way Molly wouldn’t tell her mom about the horses from Sterling Bells Farm, and then it would trickle out from there, even if she didn’t mean for it to.

“Great. Mrs. Rupp is having me make her a custom hat, and her friends each bought one too.”

“Woohoo! That’s wonderful.” She leans over the table to spray it with cleaner. She has a potential client coming in; she loves to meet them here. It’s usually quiet, they can have a cup of tea, and there’s nothing better than surrounding someone with the product of your work.

“You know,” she says, eyeing me warily and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking…Stokes is right. It would be great exposure for you to be seen with him. Yes, I know you will be at the party, but it’s different. He’s someone people look at, and I think you should be his date.”

What?

My gaze fogs over at her words. She can’t be serious.

I stand up straight, holding the tray with the dishes, and frown at her. “You must be kidding. You know how I feel about him—how he feels about me!”

“I do, but come on, he’s not that bad, and it might be fun for you two to go together.” Her face morphs into something hopeful, and all I can think is pop and scare. He’s not even here and POP, there he is, only this time he’s somehow cast a spell over my very loyal best friend.

“He is that bad, and as far as ‘fun together,’ I equate that to getting a root canal.” I turn and head to the back of the shop. Inside our office we’ve installed a mini kitchen, and I set the dishes next to the sink with a frustrated sigh.

Why she thinks I should be saddled with him for an entire evening is beyond me. I can already see it now, me standing there while he charms the socks off of people in his own unique way while ignoring me, and then when no one is looking, he insults something about me, perhaps how much or how little makeup I’m wearing or my height—while I’m not super short, I’m definitely not tall. Maybe it’s whether or not he thinks my shoes are appropriate, and let’s not forget the many, many times he’s made snide remarks about my hats, fascinators, or headbands. It’s like he thinks they have a personal vendetta against him.