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eyes scanned the young woman’s face.
    “I think animals have their own language.” Renata, friendly, paused.
    “Sit down,” Harry offered. “We have hot coffee, lemonade, or iced tea, and I bet if you want to spike it there are any number of people in these barns to help you out.”
    “Thanks. I’d love a lemonade.” Renata smiled at the suggestion of spiking her morning drink and sat on the oilcloth, demurely crossing her legs. “I don’t drink.”
    “Me neither.” Harry liked Renata, wondering if someone in her position could ever hope for a fulfilling life.
    It wasn’t the actress’s fault so much as everyone wanting something from her: her body, her time, her money, her work for a good cause. The reality, which eventually smacked every intelligent person cursed by fame, was that few people really wanted
you.
They only wanted what you could do for them.
    The cats stared at her. She stared back, then laughed. “Who’s the cannonball?”
    “Pewter.” Fair grinned.
    “I am not fat. I have big bones.”
This had become the gray kitty’s refrain over the years.
    “And who is the one with the incredible green eyes?”
    “Mrs. Murphy. Both of these girls used to work for the federal government.” Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears while Pewter kept staring at Renata, trying to decide whether to do something hateful after the cannonball remark.
    “In the post office,” Fair added. “They helped sort the mail, they rolled the mail carts around, they knew everyone’s mailbox.”
    “Is this their vacation?” she asked.
    “No. We quit when a big new post office with lots of rules was built. Before that, the P.O. was a small building with a counter and brass mailboxes.” Harry sighed. “It was so cozy. Well, I digress. Sorry. Anyway, new post office, new rules, no cats or dogs in the building.”
    “I’d leave, too.”
    “My wife was the postmistress.” Fair liked saying “my wife.”
    “Aren’t you kind of young for that?” Renata smiled a gleaming, megawatt smile.
    “Uh,” Harry faltered, “I’m about forty. Almost,” she hastily added.
    “Forty for an actress is tough. Roles dry up. Magazines run articles on the star’s fitness routines. It’s unbearable. I don’t mean turning forty, I mean the way everyone reacts.”
    “Miss DeCarlo, in your case people will react no matter what your age. The only reason you aren’t mobbed around here is this is a horse show, and horse people are different,” Harry responded.
    “Thank God.” She leaned against the trunk. “What wonderful lemonade.”
    “Mother’s recipe, and she said it was her mother’s recipe, and so it goes.” Harry smiled, pouring more lemonade into Renata’s waxed-paper cup. “Where did you learn to ride?”
    “Kentucky. Lincoln County. Saw my first Saddlebred before I could walk and, I swear, that was that.”
    “It’s a different seat.” Harry mentioned the type of riding. “We ride hunt seat. We foxhunt, so it’s not exactly the hunt seat you see in the show ring, but close.”
    “Never tried.”
    “It’s a big thrill, but anything you love is exciting. Saddlebreds are like ballerinas; I can see why you fell in love.”
    Booty Pollard sauntered by, dug his boot heels in, and stopped. “Fitting right into the Kalarama family, Renata.”
    Miss Nasty flipped the bird at Pewter. The monkey wore a light green halter top with a matching short skirt, the green being the same color as Booty’s mint-green polo shirt.
    Fair stiffened. “Booty, I know you wouldn’t want a client like Renata in your barn, now, would you?”
    Booty was direct. “I’d kill to have a client like Renata. I’d kill for Renata.” He grinned.
    “You’d have to,” she fired back, which made all of them laugh, for Booty could take a joke on himself.
    “Pay attention to me.”
Miss Nasty clenched her jaws together.
    “Drop dead,”
Pewter replied to the monkey, which set off more chatter.
    “Coffee? Iced tea? Lemonade?” Harry