“YOU HAVE TO MEET TOM Buchanan,” Anabelle said, grabbing onto my arm and pulling me out onto her moonlit balcony.
It was the end of April, and the air was thick with the smell of azaleas. With Jordan away, I’d forced myself into a sudden and quite vapid friendship with Anabelle this past month. Everyone knew her daddy came from the wealthiest family in Louisville, and she threw the most decadent parties. But Anabelle also had a persistent and silly laugh that reminded me of air escaping too fast from a balloon, and it was hard to force myself to laugh along with her rather than roll my eyes. Even when she said Tom’s name now, she let out a hollow giggle. I sighed, missing Jordan again. But I allowed Anabelle to pull me out onto the balcony. It’s why I’d befriended her in the first place, why I was here at her party tonight.
The Marlins’ large balcony was crowded with handsomely dressed partygoers, but I instantly knew who Tom was, even before Anabelle stopped giggling and pointed to him. Anabelle had been telling me all week that Tom would be coming tonight from Chicago, that he was worth dressing for in my finest gown. He’s so rich he smells like diamonds, she’d said, with another giggle, and I’d thought that was a silly way to describe a man, right up until the moment that I first saw him. All at once I understood, there was Louisville society money, and then there was Tom Buchanan money.
Though he stood alone, quietly sipping his drink, he was strikingly tall with a large, muscular frame and was dressed in a white suit that caught the shimmer of moonlight and almost seemed to glow. His face was all at once serious and perfect, like his features had been chiseled by an artist creating the exact man who was supposed to swoop into Louisville and save me from everything. And his eyes were an arresting blue gray, the color of dusk. “He played football with Benny at Yale, and now he’s a horse man.” Anabelle was still talking.
A horse man? Daddy’s fixation on horses had gotten us into debt. Could Tom Buchanan’s possibly get me and Mother out?
Tom looked at us, suddenly, and I wasn’t sure what it was that made him understand Anabelle was talking about him. The mention of her brother, Benny, football at Yale, or the horses.
“I didn’t just play football, I was the star,” Tom said, approaching us. His voice was deep and easy, free of even the smallest trace of worry. “And, Anabelle, you know I prefer the term ponies.”
“Horses, ponies, is there really a difference?” Anabelle rolled her eyes, and Tom shot her a look that made her erupt into another fit of airless giggles.
Tom turned to look past her then, right at me. His eyes met mine for a second, before trailing slowly down the length of my body, then slowly back up. His roaming gaze was so intense that it made my face turn hot.
“Tell me, though,” I said, my voice escaping hoarsely, when his eyes reached mine again. “What is the difference between a horse and a pony, Mr. Buchanan?” In my head I thought, Horses will bankrupt you; ponies are for the divinely wealthy.
“In polo,” Tom said, “we call them ponies. I collect polo ponies.” I briefly wondered what a man did with such a collection. I supposed Tom played polo, but the amount of money he must have to own a whole slew of ponies specifically for that purpose? “It’s why I’m here, in Louisville,” Tom went on. “I’ve come down to the Derby the past few years to talk to the breeders and look for ponies worth buying.”
“And to visit us,” Anabelle added, finally recovered from her fit of giggles.
“Sure, if you say so,” Tom said, flippantly. He turned back to look at me. “Why is it that I’ve never seen you around here before… what’s your name?” he asked. “Anabelle, you didn’t even introduce me to your friend you were so busy going on about horses.”
“I’m Daisy,” I said quickly, before Anabelle could laugh again. “Daisy Fay. And I’ve always been here. Born and raised and spent my whole entire life in Louisville.” I tried to keep my voice as light and easy as his. “Maybe you just didn’t notice me before.”
The truth was, of course, I hadn’t made it to many parties last spring. Rose had still been recovering. And now it felt impossible that only a year later, Rose was gone, Jordan was away. I was trying desperately not to lose everything, and here I was, clinging to annoying Anabelle for dear life.
“No,” Tom said, finishing off his drink and resting the empty glass on the rail of the balcony, “I definitely would have noticed you. And your name… Daisy. I would’ve remembered your name. Daisies are the most beautiful flowers.”
“I quite agree,” I said.
“Those pure white snow petals…” Tom’s voice was husky, and his eyes dropped again, tracing my body greedily as he spoke in a way that made my skin feel hot. I had the sudden memory of Jay’s hands on my skin, and I worried Tom could tell. That he could see it there, written across my body. I’d been with a man, and there was nothing pure about me anymore. But his eyes kept going and he kept talking. “… with a vibrant beating yellow heart center,” Tom finished. His eyes traveled back up, met mine again, and we stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
“Daisy,” Anabelle piped up, interrupting the moment. I’d almost forgotten she was here, but then there she went again, giggling. “You’re blushing.”
* * *
I’D BEEN TO the Derby several times before, but never on the arm of a man like Tom Buchanan, who was so tall and handsome and well-dressed in his tailored pearl-colored suit that he commanded attention. We walked into Churchill Downs a week after Anabelle’s party, and it felt, impossibly, that all eyes went from the horses straight to Tom, this strikingly wealthy collector of ponies. A man like Tom, I wrote in a letter to Jordan last night, that’s exactly the kind of man who will always keep me safe. I’ll never want for anything.
Before I’d left Anabelle’s party, Tom had invited me to lunch, and after a long and lavish meal at the Seelbach hotel, Tom had invited me to accompany him to the Derby. He had his eye on a pony, and he said he could use my advice. I’d laughed and told him I knew nothing at all about ponies, but his mouth had simply twitched into an easy smile. You can be my good luck charm, Daisy.
Is that what I wanted to be, someone’s good luck charm? Did it matter anymore, what I wanted?