Lucky Thirteen Read Free Page A

that?”
    “The horse’s thirteenth win would be a lucky number.”
    The woman started to make a noise that emanated from deep in her throat. At first, I thought she might be choking or about to be sick. Eventually, the sound worked its way to her mouth where it burst forth as a resonant barking chuckle. I couldn’t help but laugh along.
    “I like you, Chloe Boston. I like the way you think.”
    “Thank you,” I replied, trying not to blush.
    “What do you say we find your husband and have some lunch?”
    “Oh, Alex! I nearly forgot.”
    Miss Hightower produced a telephone handset from beside her and requested that a page be sent to the turf club in search of Alex. While we waited, she regaled me with even more stories of races past. I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. Her descriptive powers were such that she made me feel that I was there by her side, watching each race as it originally occurred. I was sorry that the stories stopped when Alex appeared at the door.
    “Am I in the right place?” he asked tentatively, poking his head through the door.
    I noticed that he was carrying a martini glass in his hand. He’d been waiting in the bar for me, and I knew that he’d had a long wait.
    “Alex, you made it,” I said, jumping to my feet to embrace him.
    “I’m glad I found you,” he said in my ear. “I was beginning to worry.”
    “It’s entirely my fault,” Miss Hightower said, rising gracefully from her seat.
    “Alex, I’d like you to meet Miss Elizabeth Hightower,” I said, breaking our embrace. “Miss Hightower, this is my husband, Alex Lincoln.”
    Alex stepped carefully forward and accepted the proffered white-gloved hand. Miss Hightower smiled demurely.
    “Please, won’t you have a seat?”
    Alex was busy looking all around at the grand décor of the private box. I could just imagine what he was thinking. Something akin to, now what has she gotten me into? He accepted a seat and addressed me as I took mine.
    “So, Chloe, what have you been up to?”
    “Your wife was almost killed this afternoon,” Miss Hightower provided.
    “What, again?” Alex squawked. “What happened this time?”
    “She was saving my dog, Flying Miss Lady, when she was struck by a tour bus,” Miss Hightower explained.
    “Oh, is that all,” Alex replied in relief.
    Miss Hightower looked surprised by Alex’s response, but she didn’t understand. Alex had either seen or heard of me nearly being murdered so many times that he was most likely relieved that this time my death would have been due to a mere traffic accident. I considered explaining, but realized that any explanation I could come up with would only lead to additional unwanted questions. So, I clammed up.
    “Your wife and I were about to order lunch,” Miss Hightower said, breaking the awkward silence. “Are you hungry, Alex?”
    “I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”
    I blanched at this gauche reply. Just how much had he had to drink? I wondered.
    “I thought we might begin with the crab Louie and gazpacho soup.”
    “Will there be bread?” Alex interrupted. “I like to dunk my bread in my soup.”
    I nearly gasped at these words.
    “You know me, Chloe. I can’t eat soup without bread.”
    Again, that deep rumble came from deep within Miss Hightower’s throat, culminating in an eruption of laughter.
    “I am so enjoying myself,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Chloe, you and Alex are such refreshing company. I’m so glad I ran into you, or more accurately, that the bus did.”
    We all burst out laughing at this statement though it wasn’t really all that funny.
    “About the bread,” Alex reminded her as soon as the levity had settled.
    “Of course, Alex. There must be bread. Now, why don’t you leave it to me to iron out the rest of the details of the menu with our steward? I’m sure you’ll be more than satisfied with your repast.”
    No truer words had ever been spoken. The meal was exceptional, and Alex