A Little Bit of Charm (26 page)

Jake and Rachel walked an overexcited group of kids to their bus in the parking lot. None were ready to leave, but Mrs. Ingraham insisted they had taken advantage of Brady hospitality long enough. Truth was, as much as he enjoyed his students, Jake was eager for some time alone with Rachel.

“Where to now?” she asked when the bus turned onto the highway. Both of them waved until they could no longer see the children.

“Anything you like. You pick.”

“Let's watch that fancy-schmantsy dressage. Those horses and riders all look like snobs.” She lifted her chin high and wiggled her nose in the air.

“Don't let Jessie hear you say that. She trained most of those dressage students.”

“I'll behave, don't worry. Then I want to watch the fund-raising in the show barn. I have my eye on basket number twenty-seven. I bid thirty dollars and I'm hoping to win.”

“Thirty bucks?” Jake took her arm as they walked back to the arena through the crowd. “Must be something special in that one.”

“You're not kidding. It's loaded with bubble bath, shower gel, body lotion, candles, tins of flavored teabags—tons of great stuff.”

“All sounds rather smelly to me.”

“Yes, but a gal shouldn't smell like horses all the time. I want to smell like peaches and raspberries and the ocean on my days off. Look, there's Keeley.” Rachel pointed at his sister. “Is she
juggling
?” Rachel took a step toward a cluster of people.

“She is.” Jake grabbed hold of her arm. “People throw money into her hat for charity. How about if we spend the rest of the evening as just the two of us? Haven't you had enough company for one day?”

She looked a tad apprehensive but nodded. “Sure, let's head into the arena. I would hate to miss any of the high-class horses in action.”

After dressage they wandered into the show barn, where his mother had created a wonderland. White linen covered every round table and padded chair, while strings of tiny lights twinkled overhead. Bowls of flowers and mixed nuts waited on each table. Even Jake was amazed by the transformation. “It looks like a wedding reception in here,” he said. “Let's take that one over there.” He guided Rachel to a small table for four.

“Not like any Amish wedding. Is
this
where they'll announce
the winners of the baskets?” She peered around as though in a trance.

“Yep, the final event. Look, now my dad's wearing a tux.” Jake waved at a well-dressed waiter. Ken Brady and the celebrity chefs circulated around the room with long-stemmed glasses of pink lemonade.

“I have never had so much fun in my life,” she said, lifting two glasses from his dad's tray. “Are these for free?” Rachel selected a Brazil nut from the bowl once Ken had moved on to other guests.

“They are. Mom treats the silent auction bidders very well.”

Rachel shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. “This room is too fancy for baseball caps.” She pulled off the hat, allowing her hair to fall down her back and shoulders. It cascaded like a waterfall of wheat-colored silk.

Jake was transfixed by her beautiful mane of hair, especially since he'd never seen it not in a braid or ponytail.

She noticed his stare and blushed. “I shouldn't have done that. I got carried away.”

“Why not? I promise not to ogle the next time.”

“There won't be a next time. An Amish woman never wears her hair down in public. It's to be shown only to her husband. I'm ashamed of myself.” She quickly coiled it up and jammed it under the cap—messy, but fairly concealed. “There, that's better.”

“Why? I'm not criticizing, only curious.”

“It's written in the Bible that a woman's crowning glory should not be displayed.” Rachel selected an almond from the bowl.

“Do you always take everything in the Bible literally?”

“Well, yes. It's the Word of God.”

“It was written more than two thousand years ago.”

“What difference does that make to Christians?”

For that, Jake had no immediate reply. He fished through the mixed nuts looking for another Brazil nut.

“You're a Christian, right? Don't Baptists take God's Word seriously?”

“I'm sure they do. Don't judge Baptists by my example. It's just that I'm young and still need to make my mark in the world. It easier to be devout when a person's old and living on a fat pension check.”

Rachel gazed at him with an expression of confusion. “Being a Christian never gets easy. It's not supposed to. What do you mean ‘make your mark in the world?'”

“I have to establish Twelve Elms as a world-class training facility. If not in the world, at least in the state of Kentucky. And I need to make a living to support a future family someday.”

Her bewilderment didn't ebb. “Can't you earn a living and follow the Lord's path?”

“Generally speaking, yes. I can be nice to folks, give to charity, and try not to get jealous when a buddy buys a new truck. I never kill folks and I don't steal, unless you count the cookie jar on the kitchen counter.” He looked up, hoping to see her smile.

But Rachel remained stoic. “Why do you say ‘generally speaking'? Nobody can live a faultless life, Jake. By human nature we're doomed to sin and fall far short of the glory of God, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't take the Bible literally and try our best.”

Jake glanced around the room. Everyone else was laughing and enjoying the event, while they were locked in theological debate. “In the Gospels, Jesus told His disciples they must give up their jobs, homes, families—leave everything and follow Him. How does that relate to the twenty-first century? My father is devout, but his family is glad he never abandoned us to follow the life of a monk, praying from sunup to sundown.”

Rachel was silent for a moment. “You and I might not be called to be missionaries, but God can still be central in our lives. We can still pray about all matters.” She reached for his hand.

Her touch washed away his discomfort. “True enough.” He squeezed her fingers in return. “Mom is at the podium. She's about to announce the winners for each basket and gift certificate.”

Rachel dug a slip of paper from her purse. She had written the number twenty-seven with red marker. “Wish me luck.”

“I have a good feeling about this.” Jake accepted two more glasses of lemonade and settled back in his padded chair. One by one, the highest bid was announced for each donation. When Taylor Brady called out a name, the winner marched forward to claim their prize with face aglow.

“Oh, dear. These baskets are fetching large sums. Somebody probably passed my thirty-dollar bid five minutes after I placed it.”

He forced himself not to grin throughout the first twenty-six donations. Finally, his mom held up the special basket. “Folks, number twenty-seven contains enough goodies to make any woman feel like the Queen of Casey County.”

The friendly crowd of benefactors laughed. “And the winning silent bid is…three hundred fifty dollars!”

Rachel groaned. “Not even close. You can tell I've never been to one of these before.” She slumped onto her elbows.

“And the winning bidder is…Jake Brady. My son! Goodness, I never thought him the type for this stuff. Come on up, Jake.”

Acquaintances in the crowd slapped his back as he strode to the podium to collect his prize. Rachel was sitting wide eyed as an owl when he returned. “This is for you.” He set the basket in front of her.

“Have you lost your mind?” she whispered. “
Three hundred fifty dollars?
”

“The bidding had already reached three hundred by the time I got to the table. That's what it cost to win.”

“But you could buy that stuff at the mall for a fraction of that.”

“This is a charity fund-raiser for the Juvenile Diabetes Association,” he said, close to her ear.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” She fingered the ribbon on the basket. “Thank you, Jake. This is the most generous thing anyone has ever done for me.”

But for the rest of the evening, until he walked her to the Stoll back door, she refused to look him in the eye. It was as though the basket was a giant shame to her, similar to the brief interval without her baseball cap.

TWELVE

The Lord has promised good to me

T
he November horse sale was a highlight in an equestrian's year. With a major contender for the Kentucky Derby in eighteen months, Jake had been anticipating this sale for weeks.

“About ready to go, son?” his father called up from the foot of the stairs.

“Be right down.” Jake tightened the knot on his tie before slipping on the cashmere pullover. The sweater had been a Christmas gift from his grandmother. He'd never had an occasion to wear it until now, but he wanted to look like a serious owner, not your average horseman with a few fillies to sell. He had polished his leather loafers until they shone and pressed his chino slacks.

I wish Rachel were coming with us
.

That particular errant thought ran through his mind on a regular basis. What interest would an Amish girl have at a horse auction? There would be registered Saddlebreds, Thoroughbreds, and quarter horses. Standardbred buggy and draft horses were usually sold at local county auctions. Yet he wanted her by his side no
matter what the occasion. Jake entered the kitchen to a raucous chorus of whoops and wolf whistles.

Keeley looked up from her bowl of cereal. “Who are you?”

Jake ignored her and headed straight for the box of donuts.

“Don't pay any attention to them. You look nice, son.” His mother buzzed his cheek with a kiss.

“Had I known what you planned to wear, I never would have returned that tuxedo.” His dad chuckled in a similar fashion to his twelve-year-old sister.

“Don't be silly, Ken. That's a brand-new flannel shirt. You look nice too.” Taylor bestowed a kiss on her husband's cheek as well.

Jake devoured his first donut and carried his second out the door. “I'll check to see how Bob's coming along with loading the trailer.” He stepped onto the porch. Fog hung low over the fields for as far as the eye could see. The sun was a mere amber glow on the horizon behind the thick haze. Rain threatened, but patches of blue to the south promised clearing later.

“Just about ready to go,” said Bob Sullivan, the barn manager and a longtime Twelve Elms employee. “Two colts and four fillies—more yearlings than we've sold in several years.”

“We're putting our faith behind the colt we're keeping.” Jake reached between the rails to scratch the muzzle of a lovely brindle-colored horse. Keeley wanted to keep this filly so much, but Jake insisted on the sale. “We don't need any more riding horses, squirt,” he had told her. “Besides, you have a fine mount.” Now with the filly's huge round eyes fixed on him, he regretted his decision. “Don't worry, little missy. Somebody nice is bound to buy you.”

Keeley's favorite shook her silky mane in disagreement. Their eyes locked between the bars of the trailer as Jake ate the rest of his donut. “Hey, Bob. I changed my mind. Take this brindle back to her stall. She's not for sale.” He scratched the horse's nose once more. “Perhaps we'll earn enough on the others that her price won't be missed.”

Bob released the ties and led the horse down the ramp. “Keeley will be overjoyed.” He offered a gap-toothed smile.

“Let's go, son.” Ken latched the trailer door and double-checked the hitch and electrical connections to the taillights. “We have to get these horses unloaded into the sale barn and registered with the director. Then you and I need to check into the hotel and find some supper.” He inserted himself behind the steering wheel.

Jake waited for Bob to climb into the backseat before he slipped into the front passenger side. No matter how many years they attended this horse sale, his father always enumerated the exact same sequence of events. But Jake said nothing. With a two-hour drive to Lexington, there was no sense starting out on the wrong foot.

That afternoon the registration process went smoothly, as he figured it would. Jake scratched the brindle filly from the sale roster and then verified the pedigree and particulars for each horse they planned to auction. Bob stabled the horses and left to spend the evening with longtime Lexington cronies. The Brady father and son checked into their hotel and then headed to their favorite steakhouse for dinner, where they dined every year. Three times horsemen interrupted their meal with questions about Eager to Please. Everyone had heard the tales about their colt. And no, he was not for sale.

Jake fell asleep that night with visions of moneybags dancing through his head like sugarplums at Christmas. The attention Eager to Please garnered didn't drop off during breakfast the next morning. Several old-timers stopped at their table in the hotel dining room to shake Ken's hand.

“I brought my checkbook if you want to put Eager to Please on the auction block,” said one man, slapping Ken on the back.