“Heck no. My roof days are long over. You want I should call Ty for you? He could come out after he loads up the last order at the feed store today, stop by your place on his way here for dinner.”
She should have thought of Ty herself. He’d get the job done fine for her. She had no idea how she’d pay him unless Frank accepted the article.
“Thanks, Sam. Maybe I should get an estimate for the work.”
“No point. No one’ll do it cheaper, and you need it done. And fast, before we get more rain. You get mold in that old adobe, and you’re going to be in a world of sorry.”
She hung up and pressed her phone to her forehead.
It felt like every creature on earth depended on her. She couldn’t get fired. She covered her eyes with her palms and exhaled, breathed in, then slowly forced the air out. And again. What had Frank taught her when she first worked for him? Put yourself into your work, he’d said.
She opened her eyes and looked across the room at the note she’d found when she got back.
She pulled her laptop onto her knees.
Tonight, she wrote, I found a death threat in my motel room when I got back from interviewing owners of Tennessee walking horses. A note slipped under my door. I am huddled on my bed, shaking…
She stopped at about five hundred words and sent what she’d written to Frank with one word typed on the subject line at the top: Better?
It was an hour later in New York than in Tennessee. She pictured him working in his office in the apartment they’d shared, a pool of light on the papers on his desk, light thrown by the Tiffany lamp she’d bought at auction and given him for their fourth anniversary. When she left him, she had almost taken it with her, but decided instead to leave everything except a carry-on suitcase and her computer. Maybe he’d already gone to bed.
She lay back on the pillow, holding her phone in her hand to be certain she’d get the call. If it came. After a while, her eyes closed. Just for a second, she told herself. Just to rest. The ping of the mail program woke her.
You’ve got the job.
CHAPTER 26
A CEMENT SIDEWALK cut across the lawn outside the stadium where the Big Show was held. Hundreds of fans lined up waiting for the gates to open so they could get their seats. Vendors pushing carts with grilled corn, fried chicken, tamales, and ice cream sold out early. Children catapulted from excited to cranky to weepy. Their parents lay raincoats and picnic blankets on the lawn for them, and they slept or played with blades of grass and fat black ants. The parking lot filled then overflowed. Cars and vans and SUVs parked on the street, wheels up on the curb. The police didn’t bother to write tickets.
Billie felt awkward, almost shy about approaching strangers with her questions. Her reticence was useless and didn’t even make sense. In her experience, there was always someone willing to answer any question she might pose.
She stepped up to the line and caught the eye of a man standing near her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m working on a story about the horse show. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
The man gave a who-me? shrug, looking past her as if hoping someone would intercede.
She forged ahead. “How do you feel about the negative publicity about the Big Lick gait?”
“What? Who are you? Beat it!” he said. “Leave me alone.”
The response, even though unfriendly, relieved her of her shyness. She was simply working. She stepped onto the lawn and pulled out her iPhone.
“The town of Shelbyville is putting on a party,” Billie dictated. “Come one and all. This is the culmination of a year of preparations, training, grooming, and showing the most magnificent Tennessee walking horses in the country, in the world.” What she’d said was awkward, but she’d fix it later. “Tonight in this very arena is the ultimate competition, when the best of the breed meets the best of the breed. But what makes a great walking horse?” She spoke loudly enough for her phone to hear her, softly enough so, she hoped, few others did.
“Pardon me.” She extended the phone toward a woman with four small kids hanging on her arms and legs like sloths on a tree. The mother seemed to constantly pluck children off some part of herself only to have them reattach. The oldest boy leaned against her, jabbing at a tablet. Peeking, Billie saw that he was playing Angry Birds. His mother was pregnant with what was at least her fifth child, and Billie wondered how many more there were at home.
“What would you say makes a great walking horse?” Billie asked her.
The woman stared at her with exhausted eyes.
Billie tried again. “Is there a horse you’re rooting for tonight?”
The woman pried a toddler’s fingers from the waistband of her shorts and handed him a PayDay candy bar. “I don’t know,” she sighed.
The older boy spoke up. “I want last year’s world grand champion to become this year’s world grand champion. I want him to win.”
“How old are you?” Billie asked.
“Nine.”
“Do you think the Big Show is a good horse show?” she asked. “Do you think it’s fair?”
He looked at her as if she had serpents exiting her ears. “You
