A Moment in Time

by Judith Gould

  Finally, he ground out his cigarillo and turned to look into her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Arielle," he said. "I should've told you before. I just didn't want you to worry about it."

  His expression was so genuinely contrite that Arielle melted. "Oh, darling Lolo," she said softly, placing her hands on his cheeks. "Nothing you could do would worry me." She leaned toward him and kissed his lips, then sat back and looked at him lovingly.

  He tried to smile, but the effort was too much. He looked down at the bed hopelessly.

  "Tell me how this happened," she said, stroking his cheek with a long magenta-lacquered fingernail. "I thought you paid for the Ferrari when Palmer gave you the bonus for signing up to play for his polo team."

  Lolo shook his head slightly, then his downcast eyes rose to meet hers. "No," he said. "I made a down payment with part of it," he said, "and they let me finance the rest."

  Arielle slumped despite herself. Jesus, she thought, what's this going to cost? And where the hell did the rest of the money go? "What happened to the rest of the money, Lolo?" she asked calmly, trying not to sound distressed.

  "It's all gone," he said.

  "All of it?" she replied in astonishment.

  He nodded.

  "But. . . but what the hell did you do with it?" she asked, her voice becoming strident in spite of herself.

  "I had to pay some bills," he said sheepishly. "You know. Clothes and stuff."

  "What?" She looked at him in amazement. "Clothes and stuff? Jesus, I've charged a fortune in clothes for you. In every fucking shop in Palm Beach! What the hell could you've bought that took that kind of money?"

  He looked at her with a sulky expression. "Shit, Arielle," he said irritatedly, "you know what custom- made polo gear costs? One pair of new boots over two thousand—"

  "Why the hell didn't you get Palmer to cover those costs?" she snapped angrily. "You're playing for him, for Christ's sake!"

  "You know I can't ask that of him," he replied, the irritation gone from his voice and a softness replacing it. "I'm expected to have all of that or get it with my bonus."

  She looked at him, studying his face, his splendid torso, and those hard-muscled, inviting arms. She knew that his machismo would prevent him from admitting to Palmer—or any other man—that he couldn't afford new polo boots, or anything else for that matter. Hell, she thought, he could hardly afford a polo shirt, but he would never let on. She also knew that this wasn't unusual in the rich and rarefied world of polo. Like many South American players, Lolo was one of those penniless, uneducated guys who'd learned to play on the estancias of the very rich, then been recruited by wealthy American team owners who brought them north and kept them on a very tight rein.

  "I understand," she finally said, nodding her head. And she did, too. Lolo wanted it all, just like she did, and he wanted it now, not tomorrow or the next day, also like her.

  She ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, then reached over and idly began running them through Lolo's. He was looking at her expectantly, but she was silent, lost in thought, twirling his damp black curls around her fingers. Then she leaned in and placed her smeared, collagen-enhanced lips against his.

  "I'm sorry, Lolo," she said. "I really didn't know. I just assumed—"

  "You think I do nothing to contribute," he said. "That I just use you."

  "Oh, no," she cried in a pleading voice. "That's not true. You make me so happy. Oh, my God, I don't know what I'd do without you." She leaned over and kissed his lips again. "Please. Let's don't argue, Lolo. I'm sorry. I just wasn't thinking. Please forgive me."

  Lolo remained silent for a moment, his eyes averted from hers, then he turned his gaze to her. "Okay," he said, nodding. "But that still doesn't solve the problem of the Ferrari."

  "No," she said with a sigh, "it doesn't." She swiveled around and lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully for a minute. "I guess I could pawn some jewelry," she finally said.

  "No!" Lolo said. "I won't let you do that, Arielle."

  "I don't mind," she replied, stroking his face. "Not for you, Lolo. It'll only be for a little while. Till that shit Wyn comes through with my money."

  "It always goes back to him," Lolo replied. "The stingy bastard."

  "Yes," she said, nodding her head. "It always goes back to him." Her features suddenly screwed up into an ugly, angry mask. "God, how I hate him!" she cried furiously. "He's the cause of all our problems. If it weren't for him—" She slammed a fist against the bed.

  Lolo grabbed her arm and pulled it to him, kissing her hand, trying to placate her. "Don't worry," he cooed. "It won't be much longer. Maybe I can hold off the car dealer long enough." Then he looked into her eyes. "I've been thinking about something," he said.

  She looked at him with curiosity, her eyes brightening. "What?"

  "If you like," Lolo said, "when we go up to Saratoga, I could go and see Wyn and try to talk some sense to him."

  She jerked up. "I'd forgotten about Saratoga," she exclaimed. She ignored him for a moment, her eyes seemingly focused on the Venetian mirror atop her dressing table, as if its baroque beauty held the answer to all of their problems.

  "What?" Lolo asked, tugging at her arm. "What is it, Arielle? I can tell you're thinking of something important."

  "I'm just thinking," she replied. Then she slowly turned to him. "Yes, maybe seeing him in Saratoga is a good idea," she said.

  "I would like that very much," he said. "We could have a man-to-man talk."

  "I'm sure that Bibi and Joe Whitman will fly up in their jet," she said excitedly. "We could hitch a ride with them. Or the Connollys. Even if I can't stand that bitch Peggy Connolly." Her eyes began to brighten even more, and she rubbed her hands together.

  Lolo watched the transformation in her demeanor, and his eyes began to widen. "What—what do you have in mind, Arielle?" he asked quietly.

  "Oh, I don't know," she replied cagily.

  "Arielle," he said. "I know that crazy look." He tugged at her arm again. "What are you thinking of doing?"

  She turned to him and smiled widely. "Me?" she asked innocently. "Why would you think I would be up to something?"

  "Come on," he cajoled. "What have you got on your pretty mind? What are you thinking of doing?"

  Her eyes glittered with an intense flame that seemed to Lolo to be a mixture of excitement, wrath, and perhaps a little madness, and it frightened him, for he knew that Arielle was capable of doing really crazy things.

  "It's not what I'll do," she said evenly, staring into his dark eyes steadily. "It's what you'll do, Lolo." She jabbed his muscular chest with a painted fingernail.

  He stared at her curiously for a moment, then sat up beside her. "Wait a minute," he said. "Tell me what you have in mind."

  She smiled secretively, then lay back on the pillows and stretched out on the bed. "Let's have another drink," she said, her hands reaching down between his thighs to stroke his much-talked-about equipment. "And have some more fun." She stroked him gently, pleased to see that her hands could excite him as they did. "Then we'll talk about it."

  Lolo expelled a deep breath, his eyes running up and down the length of her magnificent body. All thoughts of his Ferrari and Saratoga were swept out of his mind as if by magic, his body surging with renewed desire.

  He smiled and began stroking her breasts, slowly and gently, then more urgently as he felt her rise to his touch. "Ah, what a future we'll have, Arielle," he whispered as he fell on top of her.

  If you only knew, she thought. If you only knew.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dusk was settling and Wyn Conrad walked alone toward Stonelair's stable block. It's a perfect late summer evening, he thought.

  He approached a bend in the path and heard footsteps and soft-pitched voices nearby. Helmut and Gerda Reinhardt, he thought, taking an evening walk. He rounded the corner, and there they were, walking briskly along the path that led from their cottage to the parking area at the sta
bles. Gerda had changed out of her customary uniform and was wearing a big flowery print blouse and shorts. Helmut wore baggy shorts and a pale short-sleeve shirt. Both of them wore sandals. They were holding hands like teenagers, he observed, though they were well into their sixties.

  "Ah, good evening, Mr. Conrad," Gerda called to him, her English, like her husband's, heavily accented with the inflections of her native German.

  "Mr. Conrad," Helmut said, nodding respectfully.

  After all these years, Wyn thought, they still insist on being so formal, so Old World in manner. He'd asked them repeatedly to address him by his first name, but he'd long since learned it would never happen. They considered themselves employees, and he was their boss. Apparently, never the twain would meet.

  "Hi, Gerda," Wyn said, "Helmut. Taking a walk?"

  "We're going to a movie," Gerda said.

  "Have you got my medication?" Helmut asked his wife.

  "Ja, Helmut," she responded. She lifted an arm. "Right here in my Beutel." She held up a small vinyl bag with drawstrings. It looked almost as old as she did. "The cell phone, too, Mr. Conrad," she said, nodding at Wyn. "We always have it with us in case you need us, just like you've told us."

  Wyn smiled. "You two have a good time."

  "I'm sure we will," Gerda said.

  "We'd better hurry," Helmut added, "or we're going to miss the beginning."

  "See you later," Wyn said.

  He watched them hurry on toward the lighted parking area, feeling a twinge of envy. They were a taciturn, thrifty, and childless couple with little if any sense of humor, and they seemed to get little joy from life, at least that he could see. He was surprised that they were allowing themselves a trip to the movies. But, he realized, they were also exceedingly hardworking and loyal to him. They were also devoted to one another and had been for over forty years, something of a record among the people he knew.

  He shot a last glance in the direction of the parking lot, where they were already driving out in their old Volkswagen, then resumed his walk, trying to shake the sense of loneliness that had come over him. Gazing out in the direction of the surrounding forest, toward a clearing to the north, he noticed that Santo's cottage was in darkness, except for a dim porch light. He'd probably gone into town to the gym to work out as he sometimes did, even though there was a well-equipped gym here. Or maybe, Wyn thought, he'd gone out to a bar in one of the nearby towns. He wasn't really certain how Santo spent his free time, other than working out, but he imagined that he went out seeking company. Santo might appear to be nothing more than a muscle-bound steroid freak, practically inhuman to strangers, but Wyn knew that he must grow tired of the monotonous days and nights of virtual imprisonment at Stonelair. He never discussed it with him—in fact, he'd never given Santo's personal life much thought—but he trusted him implicitly. He'd stayed by his side through thick and thin for the last decade, never asking questions, never making demands, and always doing as he was told. Loyal, like the Reinhardts, he thought dismally, but then that was part of what they were all paid for, wasn't it?

  He reached the stable office and flipped on the lights, then went on through to the tack room. He flipped on the lights there, revealing all the mementos of polo seasons past, artfully arranged on the pine-paneled walls: crossed mallets, team photographs, and trophies. He walked over and looked at an old framed polo shirt of his, hunter green, the letters and numbers in white. On the sleeve was his number, 1, and on the chest the TC logo, for Team Conrad. The shirt was ripped nearly to shreds and was stained a dull brown all over. Dried blood.

  He averted his gaze and looked at some of the team photographs. A few of the familiar ones from the more recent years were missing because Santo had carefully edited out those that had Arielle posing with the team as well as those in which Lolo appeared with Team Conrad or the opposition. His eyes swept over some of the photographs briefly: the Paris Open at the Polo Club of Paris at Bagatelle, the Prince of Wales Trophy at the Royal County of Berkshire Polo Club, the Royal Windsor Cup, and the Queen's Cup, all in England, shots from Greenwich, Houston, Sante Fe, Santa Barbara, Wellington, Saratoga, and on and on. In most of them he was soaked with sweat, splattered with turf, and smiling with utter joy.

  Those days are over, he thought bitterly. The loneliness that had descended on him earlier only became more acute. Any magic these mementos might have held for him turned to nothing more than a terrible reminder of the drastic changes in his life. There's no one to share the beauty of the summer night with, he thought sadly, but then there's nobody who could stomach living with what I've become.

  He looked longingly at the saddles and tack, all of it polished and displayed, ready for immediate use. He remembered the feeling of the air on his face and the exhilarating sense of freedom when he rode. Damn, he thought, I'm sick of being bored, sick of being cooped up, sick of all of my problems. And I'm the only person who can do anything about it.

  With that he turned and strode over to the dressing room, flung the door open, and flipped on the light. He sat down and took off his sneakers, then stood up and pulled off his Levi's. This is crazy, he thought giddily, but I'm going to ride. It's been far too long.

  He quickly slid into riding jodhpurs before he could change his mind, then grabbed boot hooks and a pair of the custom-made riding boots that had been gathering dust. He sat down and slid the boot hooks through their loops and pulled them on, then stood back up to ease his feet completely into the boots.

  Suddenly a woozy feeling overcame him, and he sat down again for a moment to wait for it to pass. It must be that last shot, he thought. He took several deep breaths and wiped away the beads of sweat that had popped out on his brow. I really must be crazy, he decided. In my condition, with all the drugs in my system—

  He wouldn't think about that now. No, he was going to do this no matter the consequences. He got back to his feet and snatched the first helmet he saw, put it on, and went back out to the tack room, where he grabbed a bridle, reins, and girth off wall hooks, then took an English saddle and quilted saddle pad off a rest.

  In his weakened condition the saddle was heavy, but he manhandled it through the door to the horse stalls, eased it down on the bench there, and flipped on the light. He would saddle up Demon. It had been too long since he'd been on the old hellion. He began walking down the length of the stalls, peering in at the horses, stopping to talk to them and stroke their necks, some¬thing he used to do on a daily basis, but lately had neglected.

  He took his time, lingering at one stall after the other, until he finally reached Demon. He eyed the magnificent Arabian admiringly, then began stroking him as he had the others, talking to him in almost a whisper. Demon had been his favorite for a long time now, and he couldn't wait to saddle him up.

  He had started to open the stall door when a sudden noise made him stand still and listen. After a few seconds of hearing nothing more than the usual sounds of the stable at night, he reached for the stall door again. And heard the strange noise again.

  What the hell? he wondered. He stood listening once more. He walked down past Demon's stall, being as quiet as he could in his riding boots, and heard the sound again, unmistakably to his right this time.

  He looked into the stall from which the sound had emanated. His eyes grew wide with alarm and then growing disbelief and horror as he stared at the horse that stood staring back at him from within the stall. It was a horse that Santo had purchased only a few days ago, Layla by name, and she was in acute distress, of that there could be no mistaking. The sounds had been her whinnies of pain.

  Opening the stall door, he stepped in for a closer look. Her nose was bleeding profusely, and her legs were horribly swollen, as was her neck. Then he noticed something else. Her coat was covered with a wet, slick- looking secretion. I've never seen anything like this in my life, he thought. What the hell could it be?

  He went down on one knee to get a closer look at her swollen legs. They were white, and he could c
learly see where she was hemorrhaging beneath the skin. He felt her swollen throat. It was as if she had the mumps.

  His mind began to race, and his heart was sick, for he knew the horse must be in great pain. He stroked her neck for a moment, then backed out of the stall and closed the door.

  Gone were all thoughts of riding tonight as he ran toward the office telephone. He would have to call the vet immediately to see to Layla. Then it occurred to him that he was alone here at Stonelair. Santo was gone. The Reinhardts were gone.

  It's okay, though, he thought. They'll have their cell phones. I'll call Santo first and get him back here as quickly as possible. Then he can handle the vet. He reached the office and lunged toward the telephone there. He picked it up and punched in Santo's number. It began to ring.

  Darkness was descending, and Valerie had spread out on a chaise longue on the screened-in porch at the back of her house. Elvis was curled up on the floor beside her, sleeping soundly. She idly gazed out at the pale moon's reflection on the small pond in the garden. It's such a perfect late summer night, she thought.

  Her eyes shifted to the approach to the pond and the flower beds bordering the stone steps that led down to it. The whites and silvers of the moon garden she had planted were beginning to reflect the moon's light, as the pond reflected the moon itself. She'd worked hard planting it, not quite believing that it would be as effective as Colette had sworn it would be. She'd been delighted to discover that Colette had not only been right, but that it held a magic she would never have anticipated. It was like looking at a particularly complicated painting, mysterious and secretive, not wanting to give up all of its details, compelling one to delve deeper to discover what lay hidden in its combination of darkness and light.

  She squeezed herself with her arms, aware of the fact that she felt somewhat lonely, despite the beauty of the night. She didn't have to be alone tonight. Teddy had called to tell her that he was coming up and was going to stay over a couple of nights since he couldn't be here over the weekend. He had to spend another weekend with important clients, this time in Connecticut. He'd wanted her to come over and stay with him, but she'd begged off.