“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“I know,” Jack replies. “But Dad’s always harping on me about how I should learn to do stuff for myself before college starts.”

“Is that why he tried to teach you how to do laundry?”

“You heard about that, huh?” He leans around the flower arrangement to grin at me.

“I hear everything,” I say, sniffling into his handkerchief. It smells like him. “The maids gossip about you all the time in Hillcrest.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“I heard about the walk through the rose garden with the country singer and you picking thorns out of your—”

“I’ve been looking for you, son.” Mr. Goodwin appears in the dining room wearing a gray suit like Jack’s. “I want you to talk to George about business school—” He gazes from me to the water pitcher in Jack’s hands. “What’s going on here?”

I hold my breath and bite down on the handkerchief.

Jack lays a hand on his father’s shoulder and speaks quietly to him. I hear the words “Marcus” and “dickhead.”

“Are you okay?” Mr. Goodwin asks me.

“Yes, sir.” I nod quickly.

“Do you wish to be relieved? I’m sure we can find someone else to serve us.”

“No, sir. I’m fine.” Cindy needs the money.

“Good. Why don’t you head back into the kitchen to see if Jodi needs anything.”

It’s not like I expected Mr. Goodwin to throw Marcus out of the house, not with a big business deal with Marcus’s father on the line, but I can’t help feeling a tiny bit betrayed anyway. But this is how our world works—rich people like Marcus and Jack can do as they want, while people like me serve them coffee and hope they will treat us nicely.

I leave the dining room and hide in the same cranny I did this morning to calm down, but also to hear what else they say in case they mention selling Star again.

“I see the way you look at Savannah,” I hear Mr. Goodwin saying quietly.

What?! How does Jack look at me?

Mr. Goodwin goes on, “You better not do that tonight during dinner. You know how much I want this deal with Winchester…and I’d rather you not piss off his daughter by being more interested in Savannah than her.”

“I know Dad…Savannah and I…we’ve just been working on a school project together.”

Lies.

“And that’s it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s this project?”

A long pause. “We have to tell the school where we want to be in five years.”

“And where do you want to be?”

“Getting my MBA and working for you. I hope I’ll have a winning horse by then.”

“What else?” Mr. Goodwin asks.

Jack pauses for several seconds. “When you were my age, where did you want to be in five years?”

I peek around the corner to see Mr. Goodwin checking his tie in the window reflection. “In a woman’s bed, I imagine.”

Jack laughs. “That’s where I want to be in five years too.”

“I dare you to write that on your project.” Mr. Goodwin straightens Jack’s blue tie and dusts his shoulders off. “Please be on your best behavior tonight. Don’t eat all the bread before anyone else gets any, okay?”

“You’re a cruel man, Dad.”

“No, I just really like Jodi’s bread.”

I rush to the kitchen, breathing in and out. I set the water pitcher down and bury his handkerchief in my apron pocket. Forget about him, Savannah.

* * *

I’m cradling a wine carafe as everyone files into the dining room.

Mrs. Goodwin and Mrs. Winchester are wearing chic suits, and Abby Winchester and Shelby look straight out of a movie with their sparkly cocktail dresses. My awful blue maid’s uniform makes me want to jump out the window. A man with stark white hair, Mr. Winchester seems like one of those guys whose ego fills an entire room. Jack steps forward to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak in Cincinnati the other day.” The man searches Jack’s face and fiercely squeezes his hand. Looks painful.

“I was busy with my horse,” Jack says.

Mr. Winchester sips his drink. Looks like he’s been checking out the famous bourbon collection. “I’m sorry he lost. He should’ve won, considering his pedigree. Sometimes the breeding doesn’t work out like we hope it will.”

Embarrassment stains Jack’s face redder than the wine I’m holding. Mr. Winchester drops his hand and Jack moves to pull out Abby’s seat and helps her to sit down. She smiles at him over her shoulder as he scoots her chair in. She really is pretty, and elegant, but she looks breakable, like one of Cindy’s angel figurines.

I fill wine glasses while Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Winchester start talking business. Marcus makes eyes at me from the other side of the table.

“I’m looking forward to your sister’s birthday party this weekend,” Abby says quietly to Jack. “Maybe we’ll have a chance to explore your farm? Alone?”

“I don’t know if we should do that,” Jack says slowly. “Not alone.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Well, um.” He pauses to cough. “It’s haunted.”

I purse my lips so I won’t burst out laughing. Cedar Hill is not haunted.

“Whose ghost is it?” Abby asks.

“Um, there are three ghosts?” Jack says.

“Three. Hmm.” She playfully narrows her eyes at him.

“Yeah, there’s a woman in a white dress. Um, her name is Moaning Myrtle.”

“You stole that from Harry Potter.”

“Damn,” he mutters.

She glances over at Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Winchester, who are busy arguing about who makes better trucks: Ford or Chevy. “You could protect me from the ghosts,” she says, and leans toward Jack. His face suddenly goes stark white. I was wrong. Maybe we do have ghosts at Cedar Hill.

Is she touching him under the table? Jesus Lord.

“How long have you owned Paradise Park?” Jack rushes to ask Mr. Winchester. His voice sounds squeaky.

Mr. Winchester stirs his cocktail. “The racetrack has been in my family since 1877.”

“It’s amazing that it hasn’t been sold and resold over and over again,” Jack says.

Mr. Winchester seems impressed by the observation. “Many tracks do change ownership, yes, but my racetrack is an important part of my heritage.”

“Then why do you want to sell it?” Jack asks Mr. Winchester.

He wants to sell Paradise Park! How can he just give up a track that’s been in his family for more than century? That’s crazy. If Mr. Goodwin suddenly decided to give up Cedar Hill, I’d cart him straight to a psychiatrist.

I pause and stare. Mrs. Goodwin clears her throat and nods her head, indicating I should get back to work. I set the wine bottle on a sideboard and begin helping Paula pass out salads.

Mr. Winchester smiles at Jack. “None of my kids want to take over the business and I want to retire. I want to play golf and spend time with my kids and my grandkids.” He reaches out and touches Abby’s hand. “I’ve spent too much of my life away from my family. There’s nothing more important.”

“I agree,” Jack tells Mr. Winchester, and Abby swoons so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t melt into a puddle.

I go back into the kitchen to get another bottle of wine and a breadbasket. When I reenter the dining room, Mr. Winchester is speaking again.

“I want my track to go to a family that has integrity,” Mr. Winchester goes on. “I want somebody who will treat it as his own and take care of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, sneaking a glance at his father. Mr. Goodwin’s face is stoic, unmoving.

“Honor is important, wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Winchester asks as he shakes his glass, rattling the ice. I can’t believe a man like Winchester has honor if he allows his son to treat girls like shit.

Jack looks up at my face before saying, “I agree, sir.” Abby sees him looking at me and scrunches her eyebrows together.

“I remember when I met your father,” Mr. Winchester says to Jack. “It was at my track, and he was a teenager. Your father kept saying how much he loved Churchill Downs and how he wanted to own his own racetrack. I liked that. And that’s why I’m willing to entertain your family’s offer for Paradise Park.”

I suck down a gasp. Mr. Goodwin and Jack sit there with impassive looks on their faces, quintessential businessmen.

So the business deal is that Mr. Goodwin wants to buy a commercial racetrack. Wow. I can’t even imagine owning my own horse and they want to buy an entire track? Is this why Jack has to suck up to Abby Winchester all the time?

What if Mr. Winchester wants Abby to marry Jack, so they can keep Paradise Park in the family, so to speak?

That’s when Mr. Winchester snaps his fingers and points at his wine glass. After I’ve refilled his glass, he doesn’t thank me. Marcus gives me a lewd glance, licking his lower lip. Perv.

The Winchesters are the epitome of rich people.

How do the maids serve people like these assholes all the time?

* * *

Later that night back in my room, I carefully dig my memory box out from my top dresser drawer, open the lid, and pull out a weathered envelope that’s spotted yellow with age. Before she died, my mother wrote me a letter and asked Dad to give it to me on my sixteenth birthday.

She told me how smart and beautiful I am, and that I can do anything I want if I work hard enough, that I can go down in history.

I needed to hear those words after everything that happened today.

All I can think about are Marcus’s eyes staring down my dress. Mr. Goodwin basically telling Jack I’m not good enough for him. Why is it, when something bad happens to you, you can never forget about it no matter how much you want to?