The Glory Game (32 page)

“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 glass 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.

“Here he comes.” Diana Chandler laid a hand on Luz's forearm to claim her attention.

Luz glanced down the line of horses being led into the saddling area. The only chestnut-colored horse she could see was a tall animal with a bright golden coat and a white streak running down the center of its delicately shaped face. She remembered that “the dud” had a white facial marking, but the three-year-old bore no other resemblance to the gangling colt she remembered.

“See him?” Diana said excitedly. “That's Vagabond Song.”

All doubt vanished when Luz saw the Chandlers' trainer, an Englishman renowned on the European racing circuit, walk forward to meet the groom leading the chestnut stallion. “He's magnificent,” she exclaimed.

“Isn't he?” Her friend beamed with pride.

As the groom and trainer brought the horse to its assigned saddling spot, where Luz waited with Trisha and Diana while Vic Chandler stood to one side with the French jockey, she had a chance to observe the horse more closely. The young stallion exhibited none of the agitation shown by other prancing, sidestepping horses. Its ears were pricked forward, interested in the commotion of the crowd, and its large, wide-spaced eyes looked calmly about the paddock.

“Look at the chest and shoulders,” she said to Trisha as the groom walked him up to them. “He's built like a Greyhound. Bred for speed and long distance.”

The chestnut horse curiously pushed its nose toward Trisha. “He's spectacular,” she murmured, smiling as she rubbed the velvety muzzle.

“Bloody fine horse he is, mum,” the grizzled groom asserted. “Tractable, too.”

“He gets that from his dam.” Luz stroked the sleek neck. “She has a wonderful disposition and the heart of a lion.” Scratching the horse's poll, she murmured, “I wish Jake could see you now. Wouldn't he be surprised at the way you turned out? Some dud you are.”

Conscious of the trainer hovering anxiously by his charge, Luz stepped back to let them get on with their preparations. The call to saddle up would soon be made. Trisha moved back with her.

“I think we should place a bet on him for good luck,” Trisha announced and hooked an arm over Luz's. “Come on.”

“How do you know it won't be bad luck?” Luz countered, but she let herself be guided out of the paddock. “You aren't supposed to bet on your own horse.”

“But he isn't our horse,” her daughter reasoned.

“But we bred him.” Theoretically, she had been involved in the decision only to a very minor degree, but a Kincaid had bred him and she was a Kincaid, so it amounted to the same thing. “Smart horsebreeders know better than to bet on the horses they raise. It's enough of a gamble bringing them into the racing world.”

“I'm going to put some money on him even if you don't.” Trisha directed her through the milling crowd of onlookers outside the paddock, propelling her in the direction of the betting booths.

“Go ahead. I'll wait here for you.”

It was well in advance of post time, and the line of bettors was short. Trisha rejoined her within minutes, wagging the win tickets she'd purchased. “All or nothing,” she said, laughing.

“I hope it's all,” Luz replied, then noticed a bright green hat in the crowd. A minute later, Diana Chandler saw them and came over.

“Ewan is superstitious about owners being in the paddock when the horses are saddled,” she explained.

“Where's Vic?” She glanced behind Diana to see if he was coming.

“He went to the bar. I told him I'd find you and we'd meet there.” As they started in the direction of the champagne bar nestled under the trees, Vic approached, awkwardly juggling four glasses of champagne. Trisha hurried forward to rescue two of them before he spilled all four. She gave one to Luz.

“I thought we should drink a toast to the winner.” Vic lifted his glass.

“Aren't you being premature?” Luz chided, carefully holding the glass away from her to keep the wine that had spilled over the rim from dripping onto her dress.

“To Vagabond Song, then.”

“To Vagabond Song.” She raised her glass in an agreeing salute, then carried it to her mouth, cupping a hand underneath it to catch any of the drips.

Trisha never got hers drunk. “Luz, look. Isn't that Raul?”

She turned to look in the direction Trisha was staring, certain she was mistaken until she saw him walking under the trees. There was no mistaking the figure in the light gray blazer, his shirt opened at the throat. Trisha hurried forward to intercept him, the sudden action breaking the invisible grip that had held Luz motionless.

“Who is he?” Diana murmured, tilting her head toward Luz in a secretive fashion.

“Raul Buchanan, a professional polo player from Argentina,” she managed to reply evenly.

“Is he a boyfriend?”

The question startled Luz; the first thought in her mind was that Diana meant hers. “Pardon?”

“Has Trisha been seeing him?” Diana patiently repeated her question.

“No.” Her answer was quick. The minute she said it, Luz was not altogether certain of her facts. “At least, not to my knowledge. We met him in England.”

“R
aul, what are you doing here?” Trisha's voice carried clearly across the intervening space to Luz. He showed no surprise at meeting Trisha. “You weren't supposed to be in Paris until Tuesday.”

“My plans changed,” he replied, and Luz noticed his glance travel past Trisha to make an apparently idle sweep of the crowd, but it stopped when it located her. Briefly unsettled, she wished she didn't have the damned champagne glass in her hand.

Trisha followed the shift of his attention, then asked, “Are you here alone?” to reclaim it for herself.

“I am.”

“Then you must join us.” She possessively linked an arm with his and led him across the grassy lawn. The familiarity of the action seemed to confirm Luz's earlier suspicion that there was more to her daughter's relationship with this man than she knew. She didn't like it.

“This is a surprise, Mr. Buchanan,” she greeted him coolly when he reached them. Trisha continued to hold his arm and stand close to him, further enforcing her claim, with no objection from him. “Vic and Diana, I'd like you to meet Raul Buchanan from Argentina, a polo player
extraordinaire
. Victor Chandler and his wife, Diana, friends of ours from the States. They have a three-year-old running in the next race.”

After Raul and the Chandlers had exchanged pleasantries, Luz said, “It's somewhat unexpected seeing you here at Longchamp, Mr. Buchanan. I wouldn't have been surprised if
we were at the polo fields near Bagatelle. Weren't you supposed to be playing somewhere this weekend?”

“I was,” he admitted. “But a sprained wrist prevented me from taking part.” The slight movement of his right hand drew her glance to the bandage visible below his jacket sleeve.

“Is it serious?” Trisha's concern was instant as she shifted her hand to support his lower forearm and inspect the injured area.

“No, but it will keep me out of active play for a while, so the team found someone else to take my place.” His glance shifted to Luz. “The injury does mean that I will be returning to Buenos Aires sooner than I had planned. I hope we can reschedule our meeting so we can conclude our business before I leave.”

She sensed Diana's curious glance. “Mr. Buchanan gives advanced training courses to polo players. Rob is interested in attending his school,” she explained.

“How wonderful!” Diana exclaimed.

“Rob is flying in tomorrow morning. I know he wants to be present when we talk. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon at the hotel.”

“That will be fine,” he assured her.

“It's such a coincidence running into you here,” Trisha declared, then shrewdly guessed, “Have you been by the Crillon? Did they tell you we were here?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I left a message for you at the desk.”

The riders-up call sounded in the paddock, creating a stir of activity and heightened tension. “They'll be making the parade to the post soon. We'd better be going to our box,” Vic Chandler said and raised his champagne glass in a final toast. “To the race.”

“To the race,” Luz echoed faintly and self-consciously lifted her glass. A second later, she reminded herself that it didn't matter what Raul thought of her behavior. In a gesture of defiance, she downed all of the champagne in her glass, aware of his steady regard.