Never Enough - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Never Enough
By Cali Canberra

August, 1983

Pick up the damn phone, she thought.

She paced her red clay tile floor, tightly gripping the receiver.

The hollow desperate feeling in the pit of her stomach was becoming way too familiar. If she could only take it all back - undo the chain of events - but no, it was too late now. Greed had set it all in motion. It wasn't her game. All she wanted was out. Now, her fierce brown eyes closed, holding back a rush of tears.

His answering machine picked up on the eighth ring. She drew in a deep breath, preparing to sound as calm as possible.

"Jared, I got your message. I can't believe you would leave me a message like that. If the police ever heard what you said! Please, I'm asking you to just give me a month or two. We discussed this yesterday. And last week. What do you expect me to do? I need more time."

She resisted slamming the receiver back into its cradle.

The bile rose in her throat, then slowly drained back down, making the burning sensation in her chest so intense she thought she might explode. She grabbed the bottle of antacids she kept handy on the kitchen counter. Her hands trembled as she opened the container and poured who knows how many tablets directly into her mouth. After chewing the chalky substance, she guzzled an ice cold Fresca, washing down the residue that coated her mouth and tongue.

She caught her reflection in the kitchen window. I'm disgusting, she thought. Even the reflection couldn't hide the defeated expression on her face. Was her groan all in her head, or had she made the noise out loud?

Get your act together, she told herself. She used cold water to moisten a paper towel, folding it into a small square, then patted her face and neck. In the presence of her current circumstances, she swallowed hard, corrected her posture, and faked a smile as she dialed the phone again.

"Mira Randolph?"

"Yes, this is she."

"Hi. This is Rene Killian. You called and left a message on my machine."

"What was it in reference to?"

"You didn't say. I'm a consultant and a broker in the Arabian horse industry. Could you have been inquiring about my services?"

"Oh. Yes, that is why I was calling. My husband saw your ad in Barron's."

In the August 1983 issue, the financial publication featured a special section with multiple articles about equine investments. A staff writer for Barron's called Rene, saying she needed more information for one of the articles that was to feature various people involved in the marketing and sales of upper echelon horses. Of course, Rene was happy to give a phone interview. Within the hour, the advertising department called. Relying on meeting people at social events wasn't bringing her enough business lately. The advertising sales rep convinced her that an ad placed, even if for only one day, would be worthwhile; she risked two thousand dollars for an eighth of a page.

"I appreciate your calling me. What part of the country do you live in?"

"We live in the Tahoe Keys. Are you familiar with the area?"

"Lake Tahoe area I presume?"

"Yes."

"What a coincidence! Have you heard about the Arabian Horse Fair in Reno? I'm flying up for it in the morning."

"No. We haven't read anything about it. You're the first call that we've made. My husband and I always talked about buying horses, but our children were never interested. Now, the last one is off to college, and I'm afraid that I've got empty nest syndrome!"

"Have you ever been around horses?"

"Casually. Wherever we see horses we stop and visit. At Sea World we love the Clydesdales, and when we go to the racetrack we walk around wherever they let us. When we were in Lexington we went to that fabulous Kentucky Horse Park!"

"So, you've never ridden, taken lessons or anything?"

"Not lessons, but when we vacationed in places that had rental trail horses, my husband and I rode when we could convince the kids. When they were younger, that is."

"Do you want to ride or to breed?"

"We hadn't thought that far. The Barron's article intrigued my husband, and he said I should call you. That's as far as we've thought. I don't know that we're a very good prospect."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you just need to learn more about Arabians and the tax advantages of owning top quality horses. I certainly wouldn't expect you to commit to buying horses until you've had a chance to understand the industry."'

"Good. I appreciate that. By the way, where are you located? I only have your phone number."

"I live in Scottsdale Arizona."

"We love Scottsdale. In fact, last winter we bought a condo at McCormick Ranch."

"I live right off Pima Road. When do you plan on visiting here again?"

"Not during the summer, I can guarantee you that."

"Well, as I said, I'll be in Reno tomorrow. Can you and your husband meet for dinner? I can tell you about my experience and my services, and answer any questions for you."

"I'm afraid we have plans tomorrow evening. Perhaps we could get together over the weekend."

"Would you and your husband have time to come to Reno? We could meet at the MGM Grand, where I'm staying, and get to know each other a little, then go to the Fair together."

"I suppose," she said hesitantly, not knowing if they wanted to spend that much time.

"It would be an ideal way for you to see first hand what the show horse aspect of the industry is like, how nice the people are, and see some of the most gorgeous Arabians on the West Coast."

"What exactly is this Fair?"

"People from all over the West gather together for this prestigious show and exhibition. I'm not sure what you expect, since it's horses, but let me prepare you - it's not a jeans and tee-shirt crowd its designer sportswear and fine jewelry."

"Sounds like our yacht club," she said, now getting enthusiastic at the prospect.

"Good. Then you know how to dress. I'll take you around and give you an education most people can't get right off the bat when they're considering buying investment quality horses. The coliseum exhibit hall has a huge area they call Stallion Row - they should have about 100 stallions."

"Sounds overwhelming…”

"It won't be if you're with me. You'll love it. The horses are living works of art that reproduce themselves. You'll see mares, stallions, yearlings - basically all ages and bloodlines. There's nothing like it." Rene sounded sincere, knowing the canned pitch would get their attention if they really had money.

"How exciting! I can't wait to tell my husband," she said, not letting on that she didn't know the terminology.

"I think you'll learn quite a bit. The farms display their stallions and their breeding programs as if they were Tiffany's displaying their fine jewels."

"I'm sure we can arrange to meet you."

` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `

As Rene packed her Louis Vitton bags for Reno, she prayed that Jared wouldn't call again before she left town. How many times did she have to assure him that she would sell his horses for the profits she projected? Was his threat real? A million emotions whirled through her body. Nauseous from apprehension, she second guessed the choices she had made.

Having a prospect for making a sale was somewhat of a relief, but it didn't diminish her anxiety. It was unlikely she would make enough profit in one transaction to bail her out of her predicament. Wasn't this how she drifted into this nightmare in the first place? Thanks to Jared, she felt like there was a time bomb ready to go off, but she didn't know the precise day it was set to detonate. If she couldn't dig her way out of the tunnel she inadvertently dug, she'd walk away from everything she had built up - if she even survived.

Given the market conditions, it was challenging for her to reconcile her conflicting feelings about being a broker of elite Arabian horses. The more money horses sold for, the more she made, which was good business. On the other hand, she was content to make a decent living. Okay, an exceptionally good living. What was wrong with making money by sharing her passion and love of Arabians?

She assembled a packet of marketing materials comprised of magazine and newspaper articles about the Arabian industry, and copies of recent auction results and private treaty sales prices. Mira would want substantiation about the strong market. As she thought about how high the prices had become, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Was she desperate to make a sale, or was it a guilty conscience? Either way, she hated the feeling. Now, it could be life or death.