The Stars Shine Bright by Sibella Giorello

my office is?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œPanel van,” he breathed. “Backstretch parking lot. Meet me after the final race. We’ll celebrate.”

Chapter Seven
    W ith sixteen minutes to post, the atmosphere felt like the moment between lightning and thunder. The moment when life seemed to balance on the brink, anticipating an uncontrollable force. Thrilling, almost frightening, it reminded me of the minutes in DeMott Fielding’s pickup truck, when snow silently fell around us and he asked if I would ever consider marrying him. They were the moments when the very next thing will change everything, forever.
    Running down to the bottom of the grandstands, I flipped open my umbrella and jogged along the white rail. The announcer’s voice crackled above me on the loudspeakers.
    â€œIn lane one, we have that brisk brew from Abbondanza, Cuppa Joe. Monday’s big winner. And in lane two, Loosey Goosey, a fine fresh filly from Manchester Barn.” His voice sounded vaguely British, like a fake English accent. “In lane three, it’s the mighty warrior known as SunTzu from the Hot Tin Barn.”
    I glanced across the oval. The eight horses were walking single file, heading for the starting gate. The jockeys hunched their shoulders against the soft rain.
    â€œAnd in lane four, Bubba’s Revenge . . .”
    I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes. Eleanor expected me back in the dining room by post time. I hurried down the backstretch and stepped around a clutch of smokers who stood outside the Quarterchute Café, faces as lined as topographic maps. Closing the umbrella and giving it a shake, I opened the door. And smelled heaven.
    Fries. Cheeseburgers. Grease.
    â€œFreddie,” said a tiny woman behind the counter. “Love of my life, pay up.” She turned to the man working the grill. “Raleigh’s here.”
    On my first day out here, after Eleanor reordered my breakfast, I ran into this place like a beagle following a scent. By my second day, I had learned that Birdie Bidwell and her husband, Freddie, had opened the Quarterchute Café thirty-plus years ago, providing cheap food for the backstretch trainers, grooms, pony riders, and an assorted clutch of old gamblers whose wagers had won them small percentages of racehorses, just enough to qualify them as part-owners. The jockeys came in too, but only to drink water.
    Birdie was a preternaturally tiny woman, almost childlike, with tourmaline-blue eyes and a round face. The cash register almost touched her chin. She held a Sharpie in one hand, carefully writing the day’s word, which she hung daily on a birch tree beside the entrance. Spanish-to-English translations, for the track’s many Hispanic workers. Today’s sign read Relaciones = Relationships.
    â€œThanks for the flowers,” I said.
    â€œHoney.” She capped the pen. “We were so worried about you we had to start a pool.”
    I took a jumbo cup from the soda dispenser. “What was the wager?” I hit the button for Coca-Cola. Breakfast of champion liars.
    â€œThe wager was ‘Would Eleanor Anderson set foot inside the hospital?’ That woman hates anything medical. But you know that.”
    I didn’t, but I nodded.
    â€œThen I remembered something,” Birdie said. “When your uncle Harry got sick, that pneumonia killed him? Eleanor went to the hospital every single day. So I took long odds—and I won!”
    â€œCongratulations.”
    â€œAh, it was easy. Any idiot can see how much your aunt loves you.”
    I looked away, staring at the heat lamp on the counter. Underneath it, two foil packages waited, each labeled Raleigh’s BnE . That acronym used to stand for breaking and entering. Now it was bacon and egg. I picked them up, feeling the warm, soft foil, and decided the worst part of being undercover was lying to the nice people.
    â€œThanks, Birdie.”
    â€œThose are on