Carl Van Marcus: The tempted bride

Judi began chattering away about the various merits of the different dresses she had, their effects on men, how women reacted to them (usually jealously), and how much each of them had cost.

Grace listened with only about a quarter of her mind's attention. She day-dreamed, thinking of how nice it would be to suddenly inherit a lot of money from a previously unheard-of uncle or aunt… or win one of the soap company sweepstakes which would pay $50,000 cash or $400 each month for the rest of her life. She could imagine the happy look on Stan's face when he came home and discovered she had purchased a house and furnished it just the way they had always dreamed – with a nursery and a big formal dining room and an all-electric modern kitchen…

"… and so I told her, 'Well, lady, he's your husband. Why don't you tie a bell around his neck so you'll know where he is?' And she says to me, 'If I catch you again with my husband, I'll…'" Judi continued yapping happily away about her uncomplicated life.

Grace, feeling the buoyancy of the water holding her effortlessly up simply let her body and mind drift. In the house, there would be a bathroom with a sunken tub, a huge fireplace with lots of cushions tossed about so guests could lie on the floor in comfort if they chose. Of course, it's all just a wonderful dream, she thought, but there's no harm in dreaming.

She was too young, too innocent to know yet that some dreams can be treacherous – especially those where one wants something for nothing, with no effort or will power expended. Dreams like these should be handled carefully – like a rattlesnake – and not be cuddled too close to the heart.

After several years of being one of California's less important race tracks, Bay Meadows finally began to attract horses and bettors of a calibre that moved it up in class until it is today the state's third or fourth track from a standpoint of attendance and daily handle.

Part of this sudden spurt in popularity came with the complete renovation of the club house and stands. The other was the advent of night racing, which permitted daytime workers to blow the week's pay check on the quarter-horses and trotters.

The Turf Club is big, comfortable, and roomy – except on Saturdays and holidays when it can become a bit crowded. In the evenings, the Turf Club is open to club house patrons. Dinner is served, if one desires, out on the terrace high above the finish line. There is an overall air of luxury and expensiveness that can be, and often times is, contagious.

In spite of her cool calm exterior, Grace could not help but feel a certain growing excitement as she had her second martini of the evening and watched the horses parade to the post in the initial race. The first martini had been ordered for her by Mr. Austin, the big boss. Dubious, because she had never had one before, she cautiously sipped it and, in her aroused state, discovered that it tasted delicious.

"It is now five minutes to post time," the voice over the public address system boomed out.

Judi, who was talking to Bill Hill, the Sales Manager, turned to Grace and asked, "You making a bet on this race?"

Grace shook her head silently.

"Want to split one on number three?"

Grace, biting her lower lip in uncertainty, shook her head again. It would be fun just to bet a dollar. After all, what was a dollar? Still, though, her earlier resolve not to foolishly waste money came back to her.

Judi disappeared toward the sellers' windows with Bill Hill. Doug, another one of the car salesmen came over to the table and asked, "What you betting on this race, Gracie?"

"Nothing."

Doug glanced out toward the tote board. "That number seven looks awfully good at the price. Seven to one; why he shouldn't be more than three to one at the most."

Grace had absolutely no idea of what he was talking about, so remained silent in order not to show her ignorance.

"I think I'll try a fifteen dollar combination," Doug said, then turned back to her. "You sure?"

"Positive."

She was sitting there alone, waiting the return of the rest of the party from the sellers' windows when a tall, distinguished looking man who had been seated at Sam Austin's table came over and smiled down at her. "You're Mrs. Hope," he said smiling.

"Yes?" It wasn't an invitation, but it was non-committal.

"I'm Jim Meloney. Sam was just telling me you're his new Office Manager. I couldn't believe it, you look so young."

Grace dimpled in spite of herself. "Thank you." She paused a second, feeling a bit awkward about his standing there, then asked, "Would you care to sit down for a moment, Mister Meloney?"

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Hope. Yes, if I'm not intruding." He pulled out the chair next to her and seated himself. An expensive cigarette case and lighter was pulled from his pocket. "Do you smoke?"

"No, thank you."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"Not at all." Now, she thought, here is a real gentleman. Sophisticated, rich, dignified, handsome… unobtrusive.

She noticed his hands as he lit the cigarette. Manicured nails, long sensitive fingers, tanned and obviously capable hands… immaculate white French cuffs peering from the sleeves of his navy blue cashmere coat… extraordinarily large wrist watch with two sets of sweep hands. She also noticed the way he peered at her, looking at her as though she were an interesting person – not like a piece of meat being inspected in a butcher shop.

"You're not only young," he said suddenly, "but I have a feeling you're pretty intelligent as well."

Grace blushed, feeling momentarily a loss of words. Then she replied in light banter, "Thank you, kind sir. But how could you tell if I'm intelligent… or stupid?"

"Well, for one thing, there's a lot of intelligence in your eyes. Another thing – which furthered my conviction – was that you're not betting this race. I saw you turn down several offers. Now that's what I call smart. These are a real bunch of dogs. The race is wide open. Anything can win it. Never bet unless it's a lead pipe cinch."

He seemed so knowledgeable! Grace blurted out before she could stop herself. "You seem to know a lot about it. How come?"

The man laughed, obviously delighted with her question. "I can tell you're not a race fan, and I'll bet you don't read the sports pages, either."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. This is my first time."

"You show even more sense then, in not betting. This isn't a game for amateurs. I ought to know. I own Red Rebel Stables; we're running seventeen horses here at this meet. It took me almost thirty years to learn the game. And even now, I get fooled all the time."

Grace recognized the name "Red Rebel Stables" from an earlier glance at the program. She brightened immediately. "You have a horse in one of the races later this evening?"

He grinned, obviously pleased with her ability to recall the information. "Yes. We've got Red Jewel in the fifth… and the entry in the feature race."

"Oh, well. In that case, I'll make a bet on those two races. Just to wish you luck."

Jim Meloney shook his head. "Now don't make me change my mind about you, young lady. That would be an extremely foolish thing to do."

"But why?" she protested. "Don't you think your horses will win?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged. "I really don't think we have a chance for top money in the fifth. I'll settle for the show or fourth place purse. As for the seventh? It's going to be very close. It's a toss up between one of my horses and six of the others. If I do bet, it'll be only a small amount. I never bet big money unless I'm almost positive."

"Oh." Grace's disappointment showed in her voice. Jim Meloney laughed, a deep booming laughter of pleasure and companionship. "Look, try to find me just before the sixth race. There's a horse in the sixth that may have some possibilities; I'll know better after I see him in the paddock. Find me and I'll tell you."