A Moment in Time

by Judith Gould

  "I've got to call Dr. Kramer," she said to Conrad. "Just to confirm that Layla's had strangle."

  Conrad nodded. "You want some coffee?"

  "That would be great," Valerie replied. "If it's not too much trouble."

  "Not at all," he said. "There's everything we need right here. I can do that while you're on the telephone."

  Valerie watched as he went over to the bookcases that lined one wall of the office and opened two narrow doors of "books," leather book spines that had been glued to the doors, making them appear to be part of the bookshelves. The open doors revealed a minibar, complete with a small refrigerator, microwave, coffeemaker, sink, and cabinetry.

  He started making coffee while Valerie held for information. She jotted down Dr. Kramer's telephone number when she got it, then dialed in his number. He surprised her by picking up on the first ring.

  "Hello?" he said.

  "Dr. Kramer," she said, "it's Valerie Rochelle."

  "Hello, my dear," the veterinarian replied. "How're you doing, or need I ask if you're calling an old man like me at this time of night? An emergency, eh?"

  She laughed. "You hit the nail on the head."

  She related the problems with Layla and her conversation with Mrs. Hurley. Dr. Kramer confirmed what Mrs. Hurley had told her. "It was right before I retired," he said. "Last October. So I imagine with the vaccination, antibodies are racing around in that horse's system, creating havoc."

  "Exactly," Valerie said.

  "Well," Kramer said, "I won't insult you by asking if you know how to handle it because I know better."

  "Yes," Valerie said, "I know what to do, but I do appreciate your help. Thanks a lot."

  "Anytime, Val," he replied. " 'Night."

  "Good night," she said.

  She hung up the telephone again and turned to Wyn.

  "Dr. Kramer confirmed what Mrs. Hurley told me," she said to him.

  He looked up from the minibar. "So how do you proceed from here?" he asked.

  "Massive doses of IV antibiotics and steroids," she replied. "And keep our fingers crossed." She smiled.

  He returned her smile. "It'll only be a minute till the coffee's made."

  "Great," she said. "I'm going to run back to the stall and see what I've got with me in the way of medication."

  "How do you like your coffee?" he asked.

  "Two sugars and a little cream," she replied on her way into the tack room.

  "It'll be waiting," he said.

  When she left the room, he poured their coffees, stirred in her sugar and cream, then set hers on the desk and sat down with his. He took a sip. It was hot and strong and tasted especially good tonight. In fact, he thought, it's been a long time since anything has tasted this good. But he knew why. It was because Valerie Rochelle had so quickly recovered from her shock. So she couldn't be that horrified by what she saw.

  Valerie came through the tack room door, her carryall in hand. "Well," she said, "it looks like I'm going to have to make a run to the clinic."

  "Why don't you have some coffee first?" he offered, indicating the cup on the desk.

  She sat down on the desk chair, dropped her carryall, and took a sip of the coffee. "Aw," she said, "this is perfect. Thanks."

  "Just what the doctor ordered," he joked.

  She smiled. "Exactly," she replied. "A horse doctor, anyway."

  They sipped their coffee in silence for a minute before Wyn broke it. "Do you think Layla's going to be okay?" he asked.

  "I can't promise anything, Mr. Conrad," she said without hesitation.

  "Hey," he said. "Back up there a minute. It's Wyn to you, please."

  Valerie felt herself redden slightly with a blush that she hoped he didn't see. "Okay," she said, "Wyn it is. And I'm Val, all right?"

  He nodded. "Val," he said, drawing it out as if testing the word on his palate. Then he smiled. "Sorry to interrupt you," he said. "Go on."

  "Well, I think Layla stands a very good chance if I get her on the antibiotics and steroids right away." She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked: "I guess Mr. Ducci, Santo, is going to be upset. Is he very attached to her?"

  Wyn shook his head. "I don't really know," he said. "I knew he'd picked up a horse for a bargain, but we never did get a chance to discuss it. He's gone out tonight, so I won't get the full story till later or tomorrow." He took a sip of coffee, then looked her square in the eye.

  "You know what surprises me the most about you, especially being a doctor of sorts, is that you've shown the restraint not to ask what happened to me."

  Valerie didn't know how to respond to his comment.

  "Don't you want to know?" he asked.

  "I want to know what you want to tell me," she said.

  He nodded. "Good answer."

  "But before you tell me what you want to, if you want to, I'd better run to the clinic and pick up that medication," she said.

  "Of course," he said.

  "Want to come along?" she asked.

  "No," he said emphatically, shaking his head. "I'll stay here with the horse."

  She rose to her feet and picked up her carryall, then went to the door. "I'll hurry," she said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Santo stood, his back leaning slightly against the bar, his legs spread wide apart, his huge arms across his massive chest, a beer clenched in one meaty paw. Even in the dim light, his shaved head shone, his gold earrings twinkled, and his tattoos—bands of barbed wire around his right biceps and chains around the left— were real attention-getters, rippling with even the slightest movement of the powerful muscles in his arms. His T-shirt revealed only a hint, but a tantalizing one, he thought, of the tribal tattoos that decorated his shoulders, chest, and back.

  He knew he wasn't flattering himself to think that he'd attracted a lot of attention in the bar. The women have been coming on to me ever since I walked through the door, he thought.

  He took a long swallow of his beer, emptying it, then turned and put the bottle on the mahogany bar. The place was packed, but the bartender immediately caught his eye and came his way. Santo shoved his empty bottle of Heineken toward the bartender and threw a five on the counter. The bartender nodded wordlessly, retrieved another bottle from the cooler, opened it, and placed it in front of Santo with a fresh napkin.

  Santo turned back around, facing out toward the crowd in the bar again. Everybody seemed to be having a great time, but he knew better. Many of them were just as lonely as he was, of that he was certain, eagle-eyed and on the make.

  Nothing like a night of hot sex, he thought, to drive that lone wolf feeling away.

  He was definitely feeling it tonight. Working for Wyn had been a lot easier in Palm Beach. The town, while so very proper, immaculately clean, and morally upright on its surface, had a filthy underbelly. There was a lot of money there, and a lot of idle people.

  He missed it, and although he understood why Wyn had done it, he wished that his boss had never decided to make the move up here to the hinterlands. He missed the glamour, the flash, the constant stream of parties and clubbing, and that whole underclass of servants like himself who often had very interesting lives of their own, intertwining as they did with the rich and powerful. He missed Arielle with her incessant teasing, her unreasonable demands, and her spoiled bitchiness. She'd been a real pain at times, but she flirted with him constantly.

  Damn, he thought, if only all this mess with Wyn and then the divorce hadn't happened. He knew he could've gotten another job in Palm Beach like the one he had now. It would've taken all of about fifteen minutes with his experience. But there was one drawback to that, and it was a major drawback. Wyn Conrad had written him into his will—for his faithful service, he'd told him—for sticking with him through thick and thin. Now the son of a bitch had him hooked like a fish on a line.

  What was he going to do? Walk away and give it up? No way. When Wyn kicked, Santo would be able to buy a little condo down on Lake Worth or someplace close by.
He'd be set for life. He didn't know how long that would be, but the way things were going, Wyn might kick at any time. He might OD on drugs. Stoned as he got, he might fall down the stairs or drown in the swimming pool. He might even off himself. He wouldn't put it past him or blame him if he did. Wyn was a very unhappy man, and living up here, the way he did, it was hell. Shit, he thought, I might even accidentally give him too much one day. Or not be there to drag his ass out of the pool. Or pick him up off the floor.

  He smiled to himself. He might be a fairly well-off man sooner than he'd thought. In the meantime, he had to do something to keep his sanity intact, to stay cool and bide his time.

  The blonde he'd been talking to earlier sidled up to him. "Got a light?"

  Santo shook his head. "Matches at the bar though," he said. He twisted around and snagged a book of them, then turned back around and struck a match.

  The blonde looked at him, then took Santo's big hand, stuck the cigarette into the flame, lighting the cigarette, eyes never leaving his.

  She was a real exception to the rule up here. This number could even pass muster in the dens of iniquity down in Palm Beach, he thought. Up here, he hardly saw a soul, except for Wyn, the Reinhardts, and Tiffani, the girl who helped out in the office.

  "You said you had a place to go, right?" Santo asked.

  "Yeah, I got a place. Not too far away, either," the blonde said.

  "Why don't we take a ride?" Santo said.

  "Let's split."

  The blonde took his great bear paw and led the way out, through a throng of watchful eyes, some of them registering surprise, many of them envious.

  In the parking lot she put an arm around his waist, and he let himself be guided toward what must be her car. When they reached it, the blonde turned to him. "Get in."

  "Shouldn't I follow you?" Santo asked.

  "No. You ride with me," she said. "I'll bring you back to get your car."

  Santo nodded. "Okay."

  The blonde unlocked a big Range Rover with a remote and opened the passenger side door.

  "Nice car," Santo said. "You must be loaded." Like I'm going to be someday before too long.

  The Reinhardts had returned from the movie, and they both became terribly upset and embarrassed when Wyn, alone in the stable, had asked them why they hadn't answered his telephone call.

  "Ach, Gott in Himmel!" Gerda had cried, her hands flying to her face. "The cell phone was in my Beutel."

  She brandished the ancient vinyl drawstring bag that she carried with her everywhere. "I left it in the car when we went into the theater."

  Wyn calmly assured them that it was okay, but he made it clear that he didn't want it to happen again. Tonight, he'd told them, it so happened that he hadn't needed their help after all. The future might be another story.

  They walked on to their cottage, Wyn listening to their argumentative voices carrying on the wind.

  Shortly afterward he heard Valerie drive in, and they headed for Layla's stall immediately. Finally, after Valerie reexamined the horse and started her on massive doses of antibiotics and steroids, Valerie and Wyn sat down in the stable office. He offered her a glass of wine from the minifridge, and she accepted.

  "I can't believe I'm doing this," Valerie said with a laugh.

  He smiled. "I'm glad you are."

  "But I've got to be up early in the morning," she said. "I've got a lot to do."

  "Stay for a glass," Wyn cajoled. "I haven't gotten to talk to anybody on the outside in a long time." Then he laughed. "I don't think I've ever gotten to talk to anybody like you, for that matter."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Valerie asked, her voice one of mock anger. "I'm some kind of freak or something?"

  "No," he said. "You're different, and in a most delightful way, but you most definitely are not a freak." He paused and looked down into his glass, then back up at her. "I'm the freak. I've been one ever since I was in a polo accident and got dragged across the field."

  Valerie shook her head and then, unbelievably, she let out a short laugh.

  "What?" he asked, intrigued with her reaction. He'd expected sympathy, assurance, pity, anything but a laugh.

  "No, Wyn," she said, finding it easier to use his first name now, "you're not a freak at all. You're just a very unlucky polo player who let a polo pony practically plow a field with him. And now you look a little bit like the creature from the black lagoon."

  "Creature from the black lagoon, huh?" he responded, smiling now. "That bad, eh?"

  She nodded. "Only uglier."

  "You . . . you . . . ," he began, but then he laughed and didn't finish.

  Valerie laughed again, too, then became more serious. "At first I didn't know quite what to think," she said honestly. "With that black mask covering all the bandages on your face, it looked almost like you were wearing some kind of gruesome S&M mask like you see in the movies. All I could see were your eyes and your mouth peeking out."

  "Very spooky, I know," he said.

  "Very spooky," she agreed. "I think you should dispense with the mask, Wyn. Black, I might add, was a bad choice of colors for it."

  "Maybe I should go for something flesh colored?"

  "Maybe," she said. "Or just get rid of it. The bandages couldn't look worse."

  "Maybe you're right," he said.

  "Anyway, then I noticed the scar tissue on your neck and arms and hands. I thought maybe you'd been in a horrible fire or something. To top everything off, there was your secrecy and your gruff attitude. I guess I was prepared for the worst."

  "Gruff attitude, you say?" he said grumpily.

  "For sure," she replied. "You haven't exactly been the most polite and charming customer up to now."

  "Can you blame me?" he asked. "My so-called friends don't want anything to do with me, even a lot of the longtime ones. They think I'm some kind of monster now. Hell, even my wife couldn't stand being around me. She didn't want to have to look at me."

  "Can't say as I blame her," Valerie joked.

  He smiled. "You're a tough broad, aren't you? You don't pity me at all, do you?"

  She shook her head. "I think what happened was horrible," she said, "but with time and operations you'll be good as new. Maybe not as handsome as you look in those polo pictures I saw in the tack room, but I think you'll be fairly presentable. At least in appearance."

  "What does that mean?" he asked. " 'At least in appearance.' "

  "I think you could work on your manners a little bit," she said. "Maybe not come on to people like some kind of authoritarian dictator or something."

  "Well, you haven't seen the way people react to me," he said seriously. "I freak them out. They stare at the bandages or the mask, if I'm wearing it. They stare at my arms and neck and hands. It makes me feel like . . . well, it makes me feel like Quasimodo or somebody. Like something in a sideshow at the circus. And I'm serious when I say my best 'friends' abandoned ship after this happened."

  "That's terrible," she said sympathetically, "but I don't doubt it. Most people don't want to face the possibility of what could happen to them. Just look at Christopher Reeve. A lot of people wish he wouldn't make personal appearances. He's too painful for them to look at. Part of it's because of their own fears, I think, and part of it is because it's really not a pretty sight."

  The expression in his eyes was understandably glum, but he didn't say anything.

  "The bright side," Valerie went on, "and there really is one, is that with a few more operations, as painful, time-consuming, and tedious as they may be, you're going to have a lot of your old self back."

  "That's what the doctors in New York told me after the last operation," he said. "But I don't know, Val, I really don't. It's so slow and painful. Sometimes I feel like giving up, you know? Sometimes it doesn't seem like it's worth it. I mean, even when all these great doctors are finished, I'm still going to look like one big skin graft. My face. My neck and arms and hands. Some of my chest and thighs. When I fell, that
polo pony dragged me from one end of the field to the other, and after it was all over I'd lost nearly all the skin on the front of my body. Down to the bone, Val. They couldn't even suture me up in most places because there wasn't anything to suture." He grimaced with the memory. "My nose ..." he began.

  "You'll have a nose," she said. "It's amazing what they can do nowadays, and it sounds like you've got the best surgeons money can buy."

  He hung his head, staring down into his glass again. "I know you're right," he finally said. "It's just so damn hard to have to accept the fact that I'm never going to look like I used to. To have to deal with walking around with scar tissue and grafts for the rest of my life."

  "Yes," she said softly. "It's not going to be easy to accept that. In a way it's like aging, Wyn. We have to come to accept what our bodies inevitably become because none of us, no matter how hard we fight it, will remain the great-looking eighteen-year-old kids we once were."

  He looked at her. "You really are one tough cookie," he said.

  She reached out and touched his hand, and he jerked slightly. "And so are you," she said, patting it. "You're too much of a man to let this defeat you."

  From a dark corner of the parking area, someone had been watching and waiting, biding time. Now, after seeing them part company, the watcher felt blood boil in heated veins. From outside, the interloper had listened to part of their conversation, catching bits and pieces of it, easily filling in what couldn't be heard. Then witnessed their sweet, reluctant parting at her Jeep.

  Still as a statue, a white-hot anger raging inside, the interloper saw Wyn make his way toward the house. Quickly processing this new development, wondering how it might change things, having to figure a new person into the equation so carefully worked out, well, it was infuriating and scary, and the interloper didn't like it at all.

  No! I don't like this business one bit, and I might just have to see what I can do about it. Fists clenched into tight balls. Goddammit! Nobody's going to fuck up my chances! Nothing and nobody's going to come between me and what I want. I've worked too hard to get it!