The Queen of DarkHorse Farm

A love that has not diminished with the years, is a stronger love than the fear that imprisons it…. kg

When you find this letter, you will know that I have been to Rue Royale. You will know immediately that I have broken your rules.

Mother always began her day with breakfast in bed. The tray laid out like a road map to her nature of perfection. After breakfast, the drapes would be opened, and the bath would be drawn. The small dogs would be removed from the bed, and Mother would rise in all her early morning glory to greet and begin the new day.

Rule No. 1: No one enters Mother’s bedroom until the door is opened and left ajar for visits.

Opening the bedroom door releases the sweet aroma from the recent bath, and the scent of gardenias waifs out into the hall.

Later in the morning, mother would usually be seated at her antique French desk in front of the expansive bay of windows. “My favorite view in the whole wide world,” she would say. And, a view it was. At this time of year, the cascading carpet of perfectly groomed, green grass, corraled only by the crisp white fencing winding its way into the next county. This was mothers viewing stand of all that she reigns over as the Queen of DarkHorse Farm.

Like her breakfast tray, Mother’s desk was a study in precession—the desk a present from father or as she preferred to call him, The Senator, matched her elegance. Like her, the desk contained concealed compartments for her secrets, of which there were many. Centered on the desk a lovely mother of pearl box containing cream-colored, monogrammed note cards. Her fountain pen lavishly writing words of; thanks, regrets, congratulations, and condolences. Yet, sadly, never a note of love.

Rule No. 2: Never put into the written word the secrets that are held in your heart.

As the late morning moved with the sun into the early afternoon, a light lunch was served. The small morning room was perfect, as most luncheons’ mother ate alone. Father was usually in Washington Monday through Friday. After lunch, as she stood on the front entrance steps, she watched as a groom walked her horse, McGraw, up to the house. McGraw was definitely mother’s horse. As soon as McGraw caught mothers sent, she tossed her head in the air and whinnied. Mother would be all smiles as the horse came prancing up to the house in all her beauty, demanding the grooms’ and mothers’ attention and ready for a race.

McGraw was born and raised on the farm. At 4:00 am on a winter morning, McGraw was dropped from her dam, literally, into my mothers’ arms. Mother was firm in her conviction that she and McGraw held a special bond. McGraw was the Queen of the barn, as she, my mother, was the Queen of DarkHorse Farm. McGraw’s legacy was long and golden. She was an international champion with countless races and titles and, along the way, labored through the delivery of many champions.

Jackson Landry could have been the Marlboro Man. He did some acting when younger but always found himself drawn back to the track, the barns, the horses. And the farm. He was raised here. His father, the legendary trainer, J.C. Landry, brought his wife and five-year-old son, Jackson, to DarkHorse Farm after winning the coin toss with the Senator. J.C. had been working on the farm for a year. He became entranced with a spirited young mare and began training her on his own time. The senator happened by and watched J.C. and the mare’s workout. Impressed, the senator made a wager. If the mare won against a seasoned winner, J.C. would have the assistant trainer spot. The rest of the story is DarkHorse Farm history.

J.C. Landry did not last long as the assistant trainer. Within the year, the Senator named him head trainer. Along with the training of the horses was the training of young Landry. Jackson was a natural, just like his father, J.C., with one exception. Jackson dropped out of college. Deciding instead to travel and work the top racing farms around the world. He returned at his fathers’ request and took over the reins of the training of the future champions of DarkHorse Farm upon his father’s death.

Jackson knew and understood the bond between mother and McGraw. The horse and the woman shared a similar temperament. Both were beautiful, both fought to get their own way, both could be unpredictable, and both had a temper. McGraw would sweetly nuzzle you for an apple and, just as easily, turn and bite the hand that fed her. The dense black coat of McGraw matched mothers raven-colored mane. As Jackson watched mother and McGraw from a distance, he knew their trust and devotion to him was unequaled in horse or woman. As the two rode into the expanse of green, the pace picked up from a steady canter to a heart-racing gallop. At the intensity in which they rode, one could ask – are they racing into the future or escaping the past?

Rule No. 3: Be careful what you wish for.

The long-ago labor of mothers delivery of me was preceded by many late nights and pre-dawn rendezvous, with Jackson, in the small coach house adjacent to the barn. The pre-dawn meetings were mothers’ salvation on so many emotional levels. Along the walk from the big house, she would be mesmerized by the low-lying mist that hung in the air and clung to the grass. The crisp – not yet – morning air was intoxicating. But, most of all, for such a short moment in time, was the color of the sky. The dark grey still lingering from the night was slowly mixing with the pre-dawn blue. Not yet completely in its color, but still exquisite for the contentment it brought forth through its perfection.

Inside the coach house, the soft amber glow of the fire-place matched the glow and warmth that emanated from Jackson’s naked body as he lay next to her. Slowly over time, as they each gathered their trust in one another, their lovemaking reached a depth of passion that neither had known before or were prepared for now. The pre-dawn nights were never long enough to satisfy the desire they felt and graved. Whispered words of love from Jackson were always silenced by mother’s index finger laying gently on his lips. The words that did escape were hidden deep within her heart.

There was no moon on this night as Mother walked slowly toward the coach house with a heavy heart. The pre-dawn mist had evaporated, and the sky was now faded. She hesitated a moment before entering the coach house. The soft amber glow was now (only) ashes scattered about the fireplace. The emotions swirling inside of her felt foreign. She knew passion. She knew anger. But, did she know love? Deep, everlasting, once in a lifetime love? She did with Jackson. But this love could never exist outside this small house. Her good-bye to Jackson was final – the coach house was to be vacated before night-fall.

Jackson stood, his entire body occupying the door frame, and watched her walk away. It was then that he felt his knees buckle beneath him, and he slowly slid down to the floor. He would leave by night-fall. But, not this night-fall. He knew there would be no changing of her mind. But, he also knew that time was, somehow, on his side.

Mother fought the urge to look back. She knew Jackson was in the doorway watching her. She also knew he would be there the next morning. The walk back to the main house felt like a dream sequence. Like she was walking outside her body. She stopped abruptly and said out-loud ENOUGH! As she continued her walk she craddled her small but growing belly. She began to hum an old lullaby, not wanting the reality of the tears to rise up inside her, like the sun slowly rising in the east.

Rule No. 4: Do not reveal what you don’t want to be fact.

The years flew by. Time rode the back of McGraw with relentless speed. The farm was sold, the old wounds buried in the family cemetery along with father. McGraw retired to greener pastures close by. The Queen of DarkHorse Farm was now the Queen of Rue Royal. The French Quarter’s allure drew Mother as if in a trance back to her roots, which were buried deep within the quarter and upper Rue Royale.

As I return today to leave my letter, the expansive apartment is quiet and empty—the afternoon sun illuminating the tiny dust particles floating along with the slight breeze from the French windows. I have not been here for over a year. Not much had changed. Great pride was passed down along with exquisite French antiques from Mothers’ family, as was the apartment. The juxtaposition of the modern art with the family antiques was Mother’s way of declaring the space as her own. Even when married and living in the big house, she would spend a few nights on Rue Royal and admire the modern art collection she kept in the apartment.

The faint sweet aroma of gardenias and bath salts linger in the air of Mother’s boudoir. The antique writing desk now sits in front of a different view. Her fountain pen lying there poised to write the words on the monogrammed note cards. My letter will sit upright, leaning against the only photograph in the room. The Tiffany frame surrounding a photo of McGraw, regal in her black beauty way, and Jackson, ruggedly handsome, with a gaze to break your heart, holding her harness.

Rule No. 5: Don’t break the rules.

I’ve broken the rules. I wrote that I have met with Jackson several times over the past year. I told how I came across an old note from Jackson, written to you recalling the heartbreak of the final night so long ago. The pre-dawn story broke my heart as it did his, and I am sure yours as well.

As I leave the apartment, I wonder if the Queen of Rue Royal will override Mother and break Rule No. 2 and write to me of the secrets buried for so long.

A love that has not diminished with the years, is a stronger love than the fear that imprisons it.

This story was originally an assignment in a 2008 writing class. I think I might expand it into a short story. What do you think?