The Glory Game

by Janet Dailey

  “Before we made a decision of that nature, I would have to know more detailed information about it—the duration of the training, the time frame. And the costs involved—I’m sure you don’t do this for nothing,” she added cynically. “Many things have to be considered.”

  “I understand.” Raul’s expression had become very remote. “I have supplied your son with my address in Argentina. You may direct your inquiries there for information, or any arrangements you may wish to make. He also has the name of the man to contact regarding the school.”

  “I was under the impression it was your school. Do you actually do any instructing, or have you simply lent your name to it?” Luz challenged.

  “It is my school,” he stated firmly. “And I will be involved in the instruction of the finer points of the game, but there will be others teaching as well, so the young player will have the benefit of the expertise of others.”

  “I hope you don’t think I was accusing you of misleading us.” She smiled.

  His mouth curved in response, its line containing the same knowing expression as hers. “It never crossed my mind, Mrs. Thomas.”

  “Then you will understand when I say that I’m accustomed to dealing with the person in charge, and that appears to be you.” She wasn’t about to be shunted to some underling. “It seems only fair that if we are prepared to invest both time and money in your program, you take time to answer our questions personally.”

  “I would do so now, Mrs. Thomas, but unfortunately they will be making the trophy presentation shortly. And I have the feeling your discussion would be a lengthy one. Previous commitments will take me out of the country the first of the week, so I cannot be certain how soon I could arrange to meet you. I gave you my associate’s name as an alternative. It would be poor business practice—and rude—to indefinitely postpone supplying the information you seek before deciding whether Rob—your son—may wish to attend this year’s session.”

  “It starts the latter part of August,” Rob volunteered. “That’s less than two months away.”

  The obvious deadline irritated her. She felt she had to take a firm stand to establish some kind of authority. Her pride insisted on it.

  “Raul is going to France,” Trisha supplied.

  “Yes, I will be there approximately a month before I fly home to Argentina.”

  “Perhaps that’s our answer, Mr. Buchanan,” Luz stated. “We—that is, Trisha and I—will be in Paris for the next ten days. Rob will stay on here and join us later. Surely we can arrange to have dinner one evening.”

  “I am staying in the country.” He began what sounded like a refusal, then appeared to change his mind. “But I could arrange to come into the city for an evening.”

  “We will be staying at the Hotel de Crillon. What day would suit you? Our plans are flexible.” Again, she forced the issue, seeking a firm date rather than leaving it open.

  “Shall we say Tuesday, the week next?” he suggested smoothly.

  “That will be fine,” Luz agreed. “Dinner at eight.”

  “I will leave the choice of restaurant to you,” he replied. “If any conflict arises, I will leave a message at your hotel, but I anticipate none.” A movement on the field distracted his attention. “You will excuse me.” He collected the reins of his horse and swung onto the saddle.

  When Luz tipped her head back to look up at his now greater height she looked directly into the sun, its light no longer blocked by her hat brim. Not even the dark lenses of her sunglasses could shield out all the force of its blinding glare. She averted her face and instinctively raised a hand to cover her eyes.

  “In Paris, Mrs. Thomas.” The firm tone of his voice promised a future meeting. A second later, she heard the heavy step of the black horse, its shod hooves carrying him away. Wary of the sun, Luz chanced another look at the rider, this time careful to keep her head down, and watched him ride back onto the field to join the other members of his team.

  She was conscious of the silence on both sides of her. “Is anything wrong?” She glanced first at Rob, noting his moody dejection.

  One corner of his mouth was pulled down in a rueful line. “It didn’t sound as if you thought very much of his school. It really is a kind of polo college,” he asserted.

  “It may be, but I don’t have any of the facts. At this point, I have no opinion one way or the other,” Luz insisted.

  “He’s the best polo player I’ve ever met. I could learn a lot from him.” The stubborn jut of his chin reminded Luz of Drew, always so very definite about his ideas. “Remember when I changed horses just before the end of the next-to-last chukkar? Henry crawled all over me for that, because they scored a point while we were short. Raul told me, before you came, that I had made the right decision. I didn’t have control of my pony, so I was useless to the team anyway.”

  “What happened to the pony?” A frown flickered across Trisha’s face.

  “It was my fault, I guess.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I never checked over the equipment. The bit was too tight and it cut up his mouth. Henry isn’t going to be too happy about that either.”

  “It was a regrettable oversight. I’m sure Henry will understand.” Luz smiled with bland encouragement. “If he doesn’t, I’ll simply have to remind him of the time he was playing in a game with Jake and forgot to check the saddle girth. The first time he went to make a shot, the saddle twisted, and he did a rather ungainly swan dive onto the grass.”

  “I would have loved to see his face.” Rob laughed. “As red as he gets, it must have looked like a ripe tomato.”

  “Close.” The empty smile remained in place as she glanced at Trisha. “Fiona will be ready to leave. We’d better go back.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Rob said. “I want to check on the sorrel before I have to face Henry.”

  As she and Trisha left the picket area to retrace their steps, Luz felt the dampness of her armpits. Her palms were clammy with nervous perspiration, too. She realized how much the confrontation with Raul Buchanan had shaken her. She had to get control of herself and put last night’s performance behind her. It was best forgotten. All of it.

  Gradually she became aware of Trisha’s silence. Her expression was unusually pensive as she gazed at the little ceremony being conducted on the field, the presentation of the winner’s trophy. Any hope that the subject of Raul Buchanan had been dropped faded from Luz’s mind.

  As if sensing her study, Trisha turned to look at her. “It must have been embarrassing.”

  “What?” Luz looked to the front, pretending not to understand her reference.

  “I didn’t realize you didn’t know his name last night. I guess I thought he’d told you.” She stared at the ground as they walked. “It had to be really awkward for you finding out like that.”

  “Why should it? I don’t have to account for my actions to him—or to anyone,” Luz added stiffly to include her daughter, then went on the attack. “You seem to know him quite well.”

  Her head came up to meet Luz’s glance. “Not as well as I would like.”

  “Don’t get involved with him, Trisha. He’s too old for you.”

  “Luz, I—”

  “And don’t bring up your father. There is no comparison. You are barely eighteen, and that is too young to be getting involved with an older man. I don’t care who he is.”

  There was no answer from Trisha, but Luz didn’t expect one. Nor did she believe that her daughter was going to listen to her.

  Shortly after they returned to Seven Oak, afternoon tea was served in the relatively informal sunroom. Luz sampled the small sandwiches, avoiding the cucumber in favor of the lighter watercress, but concentrated mainly on the tea. Her stomach wasn’t up to digesting the sweet rich delicacies on the polished silver tray. It wanted to turn when Luz watched Trisha biting into one of the cream-filled brandy snaps, so she was careful not to look at Rob when he helped himself to a cream dariole, a custard tart topped with red currant jelly and
whipped cream.

  Her host ignored the light repast altogether, she noticed as a disgruntled Henry Sherbourne tossed down another swallow of Scotch, then hobbled away from the window overlooking the garden, nursing a sore hip and shoulder bruised in a fall during the polo match. Luz suspected that defeat had only added to the pain of his injuries. He was a stocky, florid-faced man with what Jake had been fond of calling “donelap’s disease,” meaning his stomach “done lapped” over his belt. His presently tucked-in chin and the downward droop of his mouth corners emphasized the jowling of his cheeks. As Fiona had predicted, he was in an ill temper and had said barely ten words since he’d joined them.

  “Excuse me.” The butler made one of his silent entrances; he was a properly sober-faced and formal man, young by the standard image, in his middle thirties, but exuding quiet authority. “There is a telephone call for Mr. Thomas.”

  “Me?” Rob said in surprise and question.

  “Yes, sir.” The dark head inclined in an affirmative nod. “A young lady, sir. Cynthia Hall.”

  “Oh.” He appeared vaguely flustered.

  “Would you care to take it in the library, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, Tobin.” Recovering, he set aside his Haviland plate with the half-eaten cream dariole and dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin.

  “Hurry, Rob,” Trisha teased. “You don’t want to keep Cyn-thia waiting.”

  His look glittered with brotherly irritation as he rose from his chair, then he pointedly ignored her to follow the butler out of the room. Trisha stared at the door through which he’d gone, a bemused expression on her face.

  Then she stirred, announcing generally, “It’s time I was getting ready.”

  “For what?” Luz frowned.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” She paused on her way to the door. “Don Townsend is coming by to pick me up. We’re going dancing somewhere. With him, who knows where we’ll end up? It is likely to be Annabel’s in Berkeley Square. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Luz knew she wasn’t really seeking her permission. “No. But try not to be too late,” she called after her.

  With Trisha gone and Rob on the telephone in the library, that left just the three of them in the room. “A quiet evening at home seems to be in store for us,” Fiona remarked, then glanced in her husband’s direction. “It’s probably just as well.”

  Luz smiled wanly in agreement, although she knew there were a couple of things she had to do before she could enjoy that implied peace. “Henry, what do you know about Raul Buchanan?”

  There seemed no better time to begin gathering background material on the man. She knew little about him beyond his surface credentials as a high-goal polo player, and Rob was too prejudiced in the man’s favor for his judgment to be reliable. And there was the problem of Trisha’s interest to consider. Personally, she wanted nothing more to do with him, but she wasn’t likely to succeed in imposing her dictates on Rob and Trisha. Since a decision had to be made after she met him again, she wanted it to be a rational one. To do that, she needed information from sources other than Raul Buchanan.

  “Don’t mention his name to me!” Henry took another swig of his Scotch, trying to wash out the bad taste.

  “I wasn’t trying to rub salt into your wounds.” She had her own smarting memories of him, although it was her own behavior that was to blame for them. “But I understand he has a polo school in Argentina. You know how interested Rob is in improving his game. He has been talking to Buchanan about attending his school. Most of my experience, personally and through Jake, has been in club polo—the lessons and occasional seminars they give. I felt you would know more about the professional level of play, and advanced training of this nature, specifically Buchanan’s and how well it’s regarded.”

  “I see.” It was a harrumphing response, grudgingly accepting the subject matter. “I can’t tell you much about the man personally, but I know our British pros are keen on him. There are some good training schools around. As a matter of fact, there’s one in Ireland. But I can’t speak specifically about his. However, there’s no doubt Argentina has some of the best players in the world. One would think that would be the place to learn. I could make some inquiries, if you like.”

  “Please. I’ll be meeting with Mr. Buchanan a week from Tuesday to talk about his schooling program. I would like some information beforehand.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you, Henry. I do appreciate it.”

  After tea, Luz went up to her suite. In the hallway, she met Rob coming out of his room. The smell of his after-shave was so strong, she wondered if he had splashed the whole bottle on his face.

  “Going out?” she guessed.

  “Yes. Cyn is on her way over now. Cynthia Hall, the girl who phoned earlier,” he added quickly. “We’re just going out for a couple of hours.”

  “Enjoy yourself.” She didn’t want Rob to feel guilty for leaving her alone. Since the separation and divorce, he’d been very sensitive about that, often making sure she had plans of her own.

  After she went by him, he seemed to hesitate before continuing down the hall. As she entered her rooms and turned to shut the door, she couldn’t help thinking that everyone was paired. Fiona and Henry were downstairs. Trisha was off with her date, and Rob was meeting his. Now Drew and Claudia.

  “Two by two,” she muttered.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say, Luz?”

  Emma’s voice startled her. She pivoted around to face the room and saw Emma sitting at the small desk by the sitting room window. “Nothing.” She walked forward, her attention resting thoughtfully on the plump woman who seemed so well adjusted to her own single status. She frowned curiously. “How do you cope with loneliness, Emma? You’ve been a widow for ten years or more.”

  They worked so closely together, their lives entwining, yet they had never become confidantes. Luz doubted that there was much about her private life that Emma didn’t know, yet they never talked about it. And she knew nothing about Emma’s, beyond the names of a few friends and relatives, and odd bits about her late husband—superficial information.

  “I stay occupied, involved in my work and interested in people and places,” she answered matter-of-factly. “It’s a matter of keeping busy at something, I guess.” As if to prove it, she reached for the note pad on the desk. “I have verified our airline reservations to Paris, and a limousine will be waiting for us at the airport when we arrive. They have our flight number and our scheduled time of arrival, so there shouldn’t be any mix-ups.”

  “Good.” Luz crossed to the window and looked out at the tree-shaded lawn, so vibrantly green in the light of the latesetting sun. She supposed Emma was right. That fine line was better not crossed. Someday it might prove awkward to both of them.

  CHAPTER XIII

  As the long limousine entered the whirl of traffic around the Place de I’Etoile, renamed Place Charles de Gaulle, where twelve avenues converged like spokes of a wheel, Luz was certain the sight could be enjoyed only from the luxury of a rear seat. From the window, she glimpsed the majesty of the Arc de Triomphe rising from the center of the star, the flame to the unknown soldier of the First World War flickering at its feet.

  A moment later, the limousine was swinging onto the wide boulevard, the Champs Élysées. This was Paris. Each time she saw it, she knew she had arrived in the City of Light. The busy avenue seemed to symbolize everything Parisian with its crowded streets and sidewalk cafes. It widened at Rond-Point, and chestnut trees shaded either side of the street, planted long ago to create a fashionable promenade for ladies in horse-drawn carriages when the Champs Élysées was a garden stretching to the Louvre.

  As they approached the end of the avenue, Luz looked for the famous horse statues of Marly and saw them emerge from the green foliage. But there wasn’t time to admire again their graceful power and beauty. The perfectly refined symmetry of the Place de la Concorde was before her, the ancien
t Egyptian obelisk piercing the heart of the large square, harmoniously balanced by two Roman fountains, two Grecian temples, and eight statues. Beyond lay the Tuileries, the entrance marked by a pair of equine statues by Coysevox to match those of Marly.

  It was impossible to take in all the familiar landmarks at once. Sighing, Luz settled back in the velvet-upholstered seat and glanced at her traveling companions. Trisha and Emma appeared only mildly interested in the scene, indifferent or immune to the sights of Paris that always excited her.

  The limousine slowed to a stop in front of the hotel’s unpretentious entrance. Luz gathered her purse from her lap and waited for the door to be opened for her. Extending a hand to the uniformed doorman, she let him assist her from the rear seat. As soon as Trisha joined her, she left Emma to make certain all their luggage was unloaded from the trunk and entered the lavishly marbled lobby of the regal hotel, the building formerly part of two palaces commissioned by Louis XV and sold to the Comte de Crillon, from which it took its name.

  The concierge recognized her and came forward to greet her. “Bonjour, Madame Thomas. Welcome to Paris. It is good to have you with us again.”

  “Thank you, Georges.” She smiled warmly. “It is wonderful to be in Paris, as always.”

  “Your suite is all prepared for you.” He escorted her to the desk and spoke in rapid French to the clerk, testing Luz’s fluency in the language. The registration slip was presented for her signature, all the necessary information already supplied. Luz signed it and passed it back to the clerk. “Monsieur Thomas will be joining you on the weekend, non?” the short, friendly concierge stated when the clerk stepped away to get her key.

  “Non” Luz realized she had never changed the original reservations, which had included Drew for the latter part of their stay. “There will only be myself, my daughter Trisha, and Emma Sanderson, my secretary. My son will be joining us, as planned, this weekend, but not my husband. We are divorced.”