Three
Aaron Wellington III looked nothing like I’d imagined an award-winning journalist would. He’d casually draped his lanky form over the dining chair in the restaurant where I’d chosen to meet him. Now that it was time for Dream to race in the March stakes at Turfway Park, my stomach was doing little dips. Maybe meeting a journalist on one of Dream’s biggest race days wasn’t a smart thing to do.
I took the seat across from Aaron, trying not to be obvious in my perusal. It wasn’t often I got to sit across from another Black person. The urge to catalog his features to see if they were similar to mine niggled at the back of my brain, but that was a tendency I could push away. I stopped playing the where’s-my-family game once I understood that I didn’t live on the same continent as my blood relations.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Of course.” I smiled. “You have an impressive résumé.” I wasn’t sure why someone like him wanted to write a magazine article about someone like me.
His black eyes met mine, and I noted the brown skin with the red undertone. Somehow his suit seemed at odds with the shaggy ’fro he sported. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t put my finger on who.
“And you have an intriguing history,” he said.
“How did you hear about me, again?” I took a sip of the ice water.
“Friends in various places know what captures my attention. This particular friend saw Dream in a few prep races. He made the connection between you and your adoptive parents.”
His grin somehow reassured me that this meeting was all very normal, but modern media reminded me anyone could be dangerous. I needed to proceed with caution.
“How could my intriguing history possibly be newsworthy?”
Dream hadn’t won the Derby. Wasn’t writing an article about me and whatever potential success he had premature? Aaron was known for writing lengthy feature articles on Black Americans who’d broken the racial barrier. Surely I fell in the watch-and-see category, not award-winning.
“You’d be surprised what the public wants to know.” He stroked his mustache. “For instance, you’re a transracial adoptee. That alone would pull in a certain audience. How do you feel about racial tensions in the US? Was it an issue growing up? How did it impact your identity? Et cetera.”
Ugh.So he basically wanted an answer to all the questions that continued to plague me? “What about the racing aspect?”
“If Dream continues an upward trajectory and lands in the Derby or Breeders’ Cup, you’re breaking a barrier that’s previously been seen only in the jockey world. It’s a whole lot different telling the tale from the owner’s box.”
“How does this work? If I were actually interested?” I resisted the urge to ring the cloth napkin in my lap.
“I’d ask questions. Come to certain races like today’s. Incorporate a little of the personal with your business life, and the article will practically write itself. I could even talk to your friends and family who’d be willing to lend a quote.”
My heartbeat pulsed in my neck. What would my folks say about this? Would they feel exploited or a little unnerved to have me tell the adoption story? Would I—we—feel exposed?
I rubbed my forehead. “I need to think about this.”
“How about a little sample of how it all works?”
“Um, sure?”
“How nervous are you for today’s race?”
“I can’t quantify it,” I responded.
“Try.”
I searched my brain for the right words. “Part of me wants to throw up, and the other wants to jump up and down cheering.” I lifted a shoulder. “It’s hard to express if you don’t have a dog in the fight.”
“Why horse racing? Why not any other sport?”
Because the equine life was in my blood. But seriously, since I was adopted, did that phrase even apply?
“Horses are part of my earliest memories.” Much better than the ones of me in the orphanage ... alone. “I feared them for a time because they seemed so big and imposing. Now I love them with every breath in my body.”
“I see.”
Yet something in Aaron’s tone told me he didn’t get it. “Do you?” I studied him.
A chagrined expression covered his face. “Not really.”
How could I explain the thrill of watching the three-year-olds burst out of the gates and down the track? Seeing the pure agility and horsemanship of the jockeys as they coaxed the Thoroughbreds closer to the finishing post. Not to mention the inexplicable pride that surged through me knowing I was here as an owner.
I wasn’t a jockey—though I’d been mistaken for one in New Orleans—and I certainly wasn’t a stable hand. My name was listed as owner of Dream. I wasn’t going to let my ethnicity or gender keep me from enjoying the sport. I refused to be the token Black girl and instead aimed to be one of the African American trailblazers paving a way in the sport for people who looked like me.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Aaron asked softly.
“They’re worth more than a penny.”
His grin crooked. “Good. Then maybe working with me will show you how I can bring out your love of horses, showcase the lack of diversity—”
I opened my mouth to interject, and Aaron held up a hand.
“But the growing interest in ethnic circles would be discussed as well.”
“And my faith.”
Aaron blinked. “You believe in God,” he stated, skepticism in his tone.
“I do.” I straightened to my full height, chin lifting just a little. I wasn’t ashamed of my faith, and I wouldn’t let anyone make me feel less than because of it. “Is that a problem?”
“I wouldn’t say problem.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “More like an added layer to delve into.”
“A layer that makes you uncomfortable?”
He shrugged, tilting his head with the movement as well. “Nothing that would impact my professionalism.”
“Fair enough. I’ll let you know once I make a decision.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll be in Kentucky for a while, so the timing is really ideal for me.”
Could I say the same, though?
“Piper?”
The sound of Tuck’s voice had me turning in my seat. “Tuck!” My heart lightened at his approach. Just seeing him soothed the jittery nerves flowing through me—as if I’d drunk one too many cups of coffee.
“Hey, Pipsqueak. I didn’t realize you had a meeting.” He glanced at Aaron, and a look flashed in his eyes. One I couldn’t quite place because I’d never seen that expression on him.
Remembering my manners, I stood and introduced him to Aaron. “He’s interested in doing a feature article about me in Glass Breaker.”
“Wow. Nice to meet you.” Tuck shook his hand.
“Likewise.” Aaron slid his hands into his pockets. “How do you know Ms. McKinney?”
Was he already in investigative mode? Would he be mentally labeling people in my life like a genealogist with a family tree?
“She’s my best friend. We grew up together.”
Something sparked in Aaron. I could see his little writer hamster rubbing his hands together in glee. “So you’d be the man to talk to if she accepts my proposal?”
Tuck glanced at me, asking me with his eyes if it was okay to divulge a bit.
I dipped my head.
“Guess so. I’m probably the one who knows her the best.”
“Not her parents?”
“Her parents know childhood Piper.”
Actually, that was probably an apt statement. It’s not like I didn’t want my folks to know me as I was now, but I didn’t spend as much time at home now. I was usually at my own place or Tuck’s.
“I see.” Aaron met my gaze. “I’ll let you two catch up. Please reach out when you have an answer.” He picked up the check. “I’ll handle this.”
“Thank you.”
I gestured for Tuck to join me, then sat. “Did you come to eat?” Tuck had mentioned grabbing a bite midday, but I told him I had something to do. Not that I was necessarily being secretive, but I wasn’t sure how the meeting with Aaron Wellington III would go.
“No. Saw you through the window and thought you looked a little uncomfortable. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Did he have any idea what he did to my heart?
What would it be like to gaze into each other’s eyes while holding hands and whispering sweet nothings? Though the image was almost sickeningly cliché, it didn’t make my heart pound any less. Plus it didn’t hurt that he looked impressive in the tan sports jacket, matching cowboy hat, and dark-wash jeans.
Time to shove Tuck back into the role he’d played for the majority of my life.
“You’re such a great friend,” I said.
Something that looked very much like a wince flickered across his face. “I try.” He sat back. “So a feature article, huh?”
“Yep.” My lips smacked at the p. “Sounds ridiculous, right?”
“Not at all. You have an interesting beginning and, depending on how far Dream goes, a potentially explosive future.”
A shiver racked me. Wasn’t that what I wanted? Yet the thought of being thrust into the spotlight before I knew how to handle my everyday had me reaching for my glass of water. I downed the contents and dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.
Tuck’s eyes glimmered. “Thirsty? Or are you nervous at the thought?”
“Terrified.” I liked the little anonymity I had. So far Tuck had been the one journalists wanted quotes from. They loved talking to trainers. “Teetering frontward and backward. Though that may be a passing-out feeling.”
Tuck laughed. “Even when you’re nervous, you make me laugh.”
“Glad someone is.” I certainly wasn’t. “I have no idea if I’m supposed to say yes to the article.”
“You’ll make the right decision for you.” Tuck reached out his palm.
I placed my hand over his, and he squeezed it. “How do you always calm me down?”
“I’ve had practice.” He winked, then slid his hand back.
Tuck winked often in my dreams, but I also followed up the action with a kiss. Too bad this was reality.
“Pipsqueak, you listening?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“The race will start in about an hour.” He made a motion toward the exit. “You ready to go?”
“Yes.” As if it had gained permission, my brain immediately switched to worrying about my Thoroughbred.