Christopher's Medal Read Online Free PDF Page A

neighboring yard came to their table with a tip for the two-forty-five race. They exchanged idle small talk until Grace noticed the time and realized that she had to get the colt ready.
    When she reached the shelter of the stable, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.
    “We’ve only known each other a week, that’s all.” She picked up the body brush to give the colt one last go-over. “How the hell did this happen?” She loved the balm of talking to horses. They kept their secrets and never gave advice, good or bad. She lost herself in the race preparation, thankful for the distraction. She hummed along to the music from the loudspeakers and concentrated on perfect quarter-marks. The owners of the colt might have been prats, but she was grateful that he was so well behaved and that he listened, twitching his ears toward the sound of her voice while she talked.
    “This won’t do.” She brushed his tail. “I’m the wrong class, for starters. Why do I always fall for the posh ones?”
    The horse nibbled at the rope and sighed.
    “You’re no bloody good. I don’t need this, big fella. I do not need to go falling for someone who’s out of my league…again.” She fitted the saddlecloth and hugged the colt. “Thanks for listening.” She splashed her face with water from the bucket. “Let’s go and meet those idiot owners of yours, eh?”
    * * * *
    Christopher leaned against the wall and waited. He tried to make sense of the rush he seemed to be in. It had been too easy to take Grace’s hand. It felt right, the way her fingers fit through his, the way her shoulder brushed his when they walked through the crowds. In the canteen, she’d blushed when he’d played with her hand and he loved that. He loved how she took nothing about him for granted. He thought of her, the few memories he’d managed to collect and the conversations they’d had every night. He hated talking on the phone, but every night at seven, he’d found his hand twitching toward his phone. He loved the smoky purr of her voice when she answered, the rustle of cellophane when she groped for her cigarettes, the click of the lighter and that first, long inhale. He could see her in his head—legs tucked beneath her as she rested against the arm of the settee, smoked her cigarette and listened to him. He took comfort that he could hear the smile in her voice and in the fact that she didn’t mind him complaining about his job.
    He had looked forward to the weekend, not wanting to lose the momentum he thought had gathered when they’d met. He hadn’t slept a wink Friday night, trying to decide whether a day in her company would be enough, whether he’d pluck up the courage to make it last longer, whether he’d want to. He’d known as soon as he saw her leaning over the door with the morning sun in her hair, he wanted more than a day, more than a weekend.
    * * * *
    The owners waited in the paddock, half a dozen over-dressed, partially drunk estate agents from Essex. Grace was grateful for Christopher. He stood close to her while she saddled the colt and fended off careless, off-color remarks with humor and tact. She was grateful that Billy did his part too, diverting them before she gave him a leg up into the saddle and led them toward the track.
    “Well, that’s an interesting choice of companion,” the jockey observed when they walked around the paddock. “Did I miss something last week?”
    “Not much. Not that I noticed.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
    “Really, Billy, there was nothing last week. This is all this week. This is him phoning me every night. This is him sweeping me off my feet.”
    “Do you mind?”
    “No, but I’m not sure I believe what’s happening.”
    “Why? He seems like a nice enough guy.”
    “He’s lovely. It just seems unreal. People like Christopher don’t happen to people like me.”
    “Bollocks.” He picked up the reins when she led the colt out onto the track and unclipped