by Janet Dailey
For so long, she had avoided volunteering the information, but this time she felt a sense of relief in admitting it. She and Drew had been frequent guests of the hotel. Some of the older staff, like Georges, were likely to ask about him, and she didn’t want to go through the act of letting them believe he simply wasn’t joining her on this trip. It would have been easy to do, and the divorce wasn’t any of their business. Still, it was better this way. Now the word would likely spread through the hotel staff, and no one would ask about him.
“I am sorry, madame. I did not know.”
“Apologies aren’t necessary, Georges,” Luz assured him. “You couldn’t know.”
“Mais oui.” He shrugged, then peered at her with a compassionate twinkle. “It is good you come to Paris. It is a place for the heart, non? A place to forget the old love and find a new.”
“I doubt it.” She laughed softly.
His hands lifted palm upward in an imploring gesture. “A beautiful divorcee such as madame will have all of Paris at her feet.”
“Non, Georges.” She shook her head, amused by his flattery. “It is likely to be my daughter who has all of Paris at her feet.”
“Oui, she is beautiful,” he agreed. “But French men prefer the mature women. It is only the foolish americains who want the blandness of youth.”
“Merci,” Luz declared with a wide, deeply grateful smile. “I always knew I loved Paris.” It made her feel like a woman, and it was a glorious feeling.
The clerk returned, and the concierge quickly reached for the large manila envelope in his hand and offered it to Luz. “This packet was delivered for you, madame.”
Frowning in surprise, she took it and glanced curiously at the writing on the envelope, but the sender wasn’t identified.
“Emile will show you to your suite, Madame Thomas. And I will see that your luggage is sent directly to you. Call me if there is anything you require during your stay with us.”
“Thank you.” She noticed the bellman standing to one side with the key. Her curiosity would have to wait until she reached her suite.
“S’il vous plaît.” The uniformed bellman bent slightly at the waist, directing them toward the elevators.
Luz hesitated, looking around. “Where’s Emma?”
“She’s coming.” Trisha nodded toward the hotel entrance and the round figure in the beige raincoat bustling across the lobby to join them, her stubby-heeled shoes echoing loudly in the marbled magnificence of the former private palace.
Luz nodded to the bellman to proceed, assured that her secretary was directly behind them. As they reached the elevators, the doors slid open. Luz stared at the couple who stepped out with startled recognition.
“Diana, you are the last person I expected to see in Paris,” she declared.
“Luz.” The platinum blonde embraced her with equal surprise, then stepped back. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in ages. It was the Fasig-Tipton sale in Kentucky, wasn’t it?”
“I think so.” Luz interrupted their meeting long enough to greet her husband, Vic Chandler. “It’s good to see you again, too, Vic.” They exchanged kisses on the cheek.
“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he insisted, but it sounded like an empty compliment after the concierge’s flattery.
“I called when I was in Virginia last February. I thought we could get together, but you were gone,” Luz said.
“California. I’m just sick about Hopeworth Farm. Every time we drive by and I see that beautiful old home all boarded up, I want to cry.” Diana Chandler looked compassionately at Luz. “I wish you could have talked Audra out of closing the place.”
“It was the only practical thing to do.” But Luz regretted it more than anyone.
Impulsively Diana reached out and caught her hands, clasping them tightly in a gesture of sympathy. “It’s been such a difficult year for you, Luz … losing your father in the fall, and now this mess with Drew.”
“It’s that time of life, I suppose.” She shrugged, rejecting the pity she saw in the eyes of her old friend. “You grow up thinking everything’s going to stay the same, the people you love will always be there. But everything and everyone changes, and there isn’t anything you can do about it. It simply happens.”
An uneasiness flickered in Diana’s eyes, so artfully shadowed to accent their china-blue color. Luz understood that involuntary shying away from such talk, that half-formed fear that maybe it was true and her emotional security might prove to be as tenuous as Luz’s had been.
“I suppose so.” Diana took a deep breath and deliberately looked bright. “What brings you to Paris?”
“It’s my graduation present to Trisha, a shopping spree in Paris.” She angled her body slightly to include her daughter in the conversation while Emma remained to one side with the increasingly impatient bellman. “We have appointments at three haute couture houses.”
“This is Trisha,” Diana declared, then greeted her with an embrace, pressing her cheek to Trisha’s and stepping back to look at her. “So grown-up. She’s beautiful, Luz,” the blonde asserted with a quick glance in her direction.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chandler.” Trisha smiled politely, but there was a muted sparkle of irritation in her dark eyes.
“Where’s Rob?” Vic Chandler asked. He was a tall, thickly built man whose high forehead had become more pronounced as his hairline receded.
“Playing polo in England. He’s flying over to join us next week.” In time to be on hand for her meeting with Raul Buchanan. “You never said what you’re doing in Paris. Is it a business or pleasure trip?”
“Both,” Vic answered.
And Diana elaborated. “Do you remember that yearling colt we bought from Jake? The one you liked so well?”
“Sully Maid’s colt sired by the Minstrel?” Luz started to smile. “The ungainly chestnut Jake always referred to as the dud?”
“That’s him,” Diana admitted with a remembering laugh. “Well, Vagabond Song is racing at Longchamp this weekend. He didn’t do all that well as a two-year-old, but he’s really improved this year. His workouts have been exceptional, according to our trainer. So we decided we wanted to see him run. And I convinced Vic that if we were going to come to Paris, we might as well spend some time here and do a little shopping. If it had been August, I wouldn’t have suggested it. I swear all of France goes on vacation in August.”
“True. Vagabond Song. It certainly has a better ring to it than ‘the dud,’” Luz said. “I always thought he’d be a horse slow to mature.”
“Wait until you see him,” Vic advised. “He doesn’t look like the same horse. That ragged colt turned into a sleek, powerful horse.”
“You must come to the race with us and watch him run,” Diana insisted.
A Sunday afternoon spent in the atmosphere and elegance of Longchamp appealed to her, but the deciding factor was the chance to watch a colt foaled at Hopeworth Farm. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Trisha?” She turned to her daughter.
“Sounds fun,” she agreed.
“Then it’s settled,” Vic declared. “You’ll be our guests.”
“Listen, we’ll talk soon.” Luz moved toward the elevator doors, still held open by the pale, dark-haired bellman. “We’ve only just arrived. We haven’t even been to our rooms yet.”
“We have to run, too.” Diana edged in the opposite direction toward the lobby proper. “Don’t spend all your time on St. Honoré. There are some very smart boutiques in Les Halles.”
Acknowledging the advice with a smiling nod, Luz stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut the minute Trisha and Emma were inside, and they were whisked silently up to their floor. The bellman led the way to their apartment suite, unlocked the door, and showed them inside. Luz paused in the ornately decorated sitting room and temporarily laid her purse and the manila envelope on the intricately inlaid top of a marquetry table. Already familiar with the amenities in the suite and the view of the National Assembly bui
lding on the opposite bank of the Seine, she let the bellman point them out to Emma while she removed her hat and lightly pushed at the flattened crown of her hair with her fingertips.
“God, I hate it when people talk like that.” Trisha’s low explosion drew her glance as Luz picked up the manila envelope to satisfy her curiosity about the sender. “‘She’s beautiful, Luz.’” It was a stinging imitation of Diana’s voice. “I could have been a dress instead of a person. It’s a beautiful dress, Luz.’”
“She didn’t mean anything by it.” She ripped open the manila flap as Emma gave the departing bellman his tip.
“I know, but it irritates me anyway. I’m not an inanimate object that belongs to you. I think it’s rude to talk like that,” she insisted, then noticed the printed pamphlet complete with photographs that Luz removed from the envelope. “What’s that, a brochure?”
“So it seems,” she confirmed after a cursory glance at the contents, and the signature on the note clipped to the brochure and accompanying fact sheets. “Raul Buchanan sent them.” She removed the attached note to glance through the printed photographs in the brochure while Trisha tried to look at it over her shoulder. “It’s his polo school.” The pictures depicting practice sessions in polo were common, as were the “pretty” shots of ponies, provided for the students, grazing in a green pasture. It was the ones showing the buildings that attracted her attention. “It doesn’t look very impressive.”
“Luz, it’s a school, not a luxury hotel,” Trisha reminded her and reached for the brochure. “May I see it?”
“Of course.” Luz handed it to her, then read the handwritten note that had been clipped to it.
Dear Mrs. Thomas,
I have enclosed a brochure and an information sheet listing the available courses and their prices. I thought you would wish to study it before we meet on Tuesday.
Raul Buchanan.
The brevity of the note did not surprise her, nor its forthright tone, lacking any embellishing salesmanship. It seemed in character. But she frowned at the handwriting. She had expected a bold, slashing style, Although there appeared to be strong pressure on the pen, the lettering was tightly formed, almost crude in its style.
“What did he say?” Trisha asked.
“Nothing.” She quickly wiped away the small frown and shifted the note underneath the fact sheet to peruse it. “He just thought I’d want to look over this information before we met.”
“I heard Henry tell you that he talked to some players who highly recommended Raul’s polo school.”
“Yes.” It seemed that a lot of professional players went there to refine their skills and work on their particular weaknesses in the sport.
“Do you think Rob will end up going there?”
“It’s too soon to say. After all, it isn’t the only one of its kind. And Argentina is awfully far away—-at the other end of the world. I don’t know if I like the idea of Rob’s going there alone when the area is politically so unsettled. There are so many kidnappings in those South American countries.”
“That happens all over. Look at Italy. With that kind of reasoning, what are we doing in Europe?”
The logical argument irritated Luz. It sounded so much like something Drew would have said. “I’ll study this later.” She reached for the brochure in Trisha’s hands and returned it all to the brown manila packet. “Emma, would you ring down to room service for coffee? And we’ll need a maid to unpack the luggage.”
The light drizzle pattered softly on the umbrella as Luz paused at an intersection on the Champs Élysées and waited for the traffic light to change. Trisha stopped beside her, their umbrellas overlapping. The gentle shower was just steady enough to send the umbrellaless pedestrians scurrying between the drops, holding newspapers, shopping bags, or jacket shoulders over their heads.
Car tires made a squishing sound as they traveled down the rainwashed streets. Luz glanced at the set of traffic lights fastened to the street post, positioned shoulder-high to a pedestrian so drivers in their low-built cars could see them and their view wasn’t blocked by the car roof. The first time she’d ever seen them, it had been in Paris. They had become a distinctive feature that she always associated with Paris in her mind—like the water towers in Manhattan.
The light changed, and Luz stepped off the curb, avoiding the narrow stream of water washing the litter of street and sidewalk into the city’s famous sewers. She was briefly separated from Trisha by the oncoming flow of people hurrying across the crosswalk. They met again on the other side and turned toward the striped awning of a café terrace.
All but two of the sidewalk tables were empty, all the rest of the café’s patrons choosing to be inside out of the warm drizzle. Luz found two dry chairs close to the building and sat in one of them, closing the umbrella and propping it against the side of the chair. Trisha checked the table before she set her small paper bag on top of it, a purchase she’d made when they had ducked into an English bookstore to escape a sudden heavy shower. It had been years since Luz had been in a bookstore, and she had browsed idly through the various sections separately from Trisha.
A waiter stalked out of the café and approached their table, a look of “those crazy americaines” on his face. “Que voudriezvous, madame?” he asked curtly.
“Vin blanc.” Placing her order for white wine, Luz ignored his rudeness. Big cities seemed to breed it. She had encountered it just as often in New York as she had in Paris.
“The same,” Trisha said.
“Deux.” The waiter pivoted stiffly and walked away. The iron-legged chair scraped across the concrete as Trisha scooted it closer to the table. “The more I think about that dress you selected, the more I like it,” said Luz. “Its line is simple and elegant. You can achieve all sorts of looks with it by varying your accessories. A well-designed dress can be a permanent part of your wardrobe. I’m still wearing the Dior gown I bought the year after you were born, and I don’t think anyone has ever noticed.”
“I thought the dress was chic,” Trisha replied.
“Chic is passé.” Luz mockingly reproved the use of the overworked adjective. “C’ est trés élégant. And elegance never goes out of style.”
“I’m not sure whether I should have bought that silk blouse, though.” Trisha frowned, chewing on an inside corner of her lip.
“As I told your father in the past, you can never be too rich or too thin—or have too many silk blouses,” she joked.
The waiter returned with their wine and set the glasses sharply on the table, then left just as abruptly. As Luz sipped at the dry wine, she realized how infrequently she’d thought of Drew in the last three days. She had been afraid being in Paris would bring back painful memories of past visits she’d made to the city with Drew. But her time had been too crowded with things to do—shopping, concerts, son-et-lumière, festivals—and Paris had its own forceful personality that dominated the senses. She was slowly breaking the habit of making mental reminders to tell Drew about this or that. Perhaps, Luz thought, that was it more than the other things. And there was distance. No people around to remind her about the divorce or Drew’s quick remarriage.
Resting her elbows on the table, she absently held the wineglass in both hands and gazed at the passing pedestrians. She liked Paris when it rained. The low gray skies blended with the old buildings and the mirror-wet streets shined like onyx. The air smelled fresh, rinsed of its exhaust fumes, and the gentle shower washed the city dust from the trees and shrubbery, revealing the green brilliance of their leaves. As she looked down the Champs Élysées through the blur of the drizzling rain, the scene reminded her of a painting by Pissarro, all impressionistic and indistinct yet capturing the essence.
The rustle of paper distracted her, and she turned her head as Trisha removed a book from a sack. Still holding the wineglass, she rested her forearms on the table and watched Trisha scan the first few pages.
“What’s it about?” she asked curiously and lifted the gl
ass with one hand to take another sip of wine.
“It’s a travel book on Argentina,” Trisha replied without looking up.
Luz frowned. “Why did you buy that?”
“Just curious.” She shrugged and continued to read. “There’s been so much talk about it lately I thought I’d find out more about it.”
“I see.” She took a swallow of wine and held it in her mouth for a short minute before letting it flow down her throat.
“Did you know Argentina is the eighth-largest country in the world, behind India?” Trisha looked up.
“No, I didn’t.” Luz smiled tightly.
Trisha read on. “It says here, the population of the country is ninety-seven percent white, nearly all of European descent.”
“That’s very fascinating.” She unsnapped the clasp on her purse and took out francs to pay for their drinks. “Since it’s raining, why don’t we spend the rest of the afternoon at the Louvre? We could wander through the Grande Galerie.” Luz preferred to visit the museum by sections; otherwise she became overwhelmed by so many priceless paintings and sculptures and ceased to appreciate any of them.
“Raul told me there were many similarities between Argentina and America. Listen to this. The Parana River is the equivalent of our Mississippi, and the pampas are like our Kansas prairies. The Andes are their Rockies, except they’re a mile and a half higher.”
Breathing out a sigh of resignation, Luz adjusted the knot of the silk Hermes scarf higher on the side of her neck. She stopped listening and started remembering what Henry had told her about Raul Buchanan. He came from a working-class background and owned a small ranch, about the size of Hope worth Farm, on which he raised horses and cattle and operated his polo school. He was solvent although hardly wealthy. There was nothing earth-shattering in any of it. The only problem with him was of her own making, and she could hardly hold that against him.
* * *
The famed Longchamp racetrack was located in the sprawling, tall-treed Bois de Boulogne inside the city of Paris. Luz stood in the restricted-access area of the inner paddocks where all the prerace excitement took place and watched the sleek Thoroughbreds being led by their grooms into the white-railed enclosure. The spreading limbs of the towering trees created a leafy canopy, blocking out the sun and adding a shady coolness to the light breeze that flirted with the loose folds of her skirt, blowing softly against the material, then dancing away. It was an idyllic setting, lush green grass carpeting the ground, a champagne bar under the trees, a lattice-pillared glass booth for the weighing in of jockeys, betting windows and closed-circuit television for the exclusive, well-dressed crowd. The atmosphere of old-world aristocracy was strong.
