“I don’t want to take your cup,” Wendy said.
“Marge doesn’t drink coffee anyway. Never has,” Harold said.
“I used to,” Marge said primly. “Don’t you remember? When we first got married, I drank six cups a day. I stopped when I got pregnant with Shane. The obstetrician said caffeine wasn’t a good idea. He was considered very advanced in those days.”
Wendy nodded blankly. Were they doing this on purpose, to torture her for being such a bad wife to their darling, perfect son? How much did they know? Probably everything—they were here, weren’t they? They had to be in on all of it.
“Where are they?” Wendy asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee from a white pitcher.
“Who?” Marge asked.
Oh, come on, Wendy thought, giving her a look. You’re not that old. You know who. “Shane. And the kids.” She took a sip of the coffee and burned her mouth.
Marge screwed up her face in concentration. “What was it, Harold?” she asked. “The Palm Beach something . . .”
“The Palm Beach Polo Club,” Harold said, being careful not to look at Wendy.
“Yes, that’s it,” Marge agreed. “It’s supposed to be very famous.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence, which was finally broken by Marge. “You’re not thinking about going to meet them, are you?” Marge asked.
“Of course,” Wendy said. “Why wouldn’t I?” She put the cup carefully back in the saucer.
“I’m not sure I would do that if I were you,” Harold said. Marge gave him a look as if to silence him, which Harold ignored. “I think you’d better call first, at least. Shane said something about needing a special pass.”
“To buy a pony? I don’t think so,” Wendy said.
She went down to the lobby and got directions from the concierge. The Palm Beach Polo Club wasn’t technically even in Palm Beach. It was in Wellington, Florida, thirty minutes west.
She got back in the car.
When she got to the Polo Club, she discovered that Harold was right—you did need a special pass to get onto the grounds. She bribed the guard with $200 cash, the last of her travel money.
She walked through a narrow opening in a wall of hedges, dragging the suitcase with the presents for the kids behind her, still hopeful of success. As she passed through to the other side, she paused in despair. The grounds appeared to be enormous, about the size and scope of a golf course. To her right was a long barn with a fenced pasture in front of it, but in the distance were several more barns and paddocks, and large white-and-blue tents. How was she ever going to find them?
She approached the entrance to the first barn. Inside, it was dark and cool, like a tunnel, but like a tunnel, she imagined it might be filled with unpleasant surprises. Peering cautiously into the half-light, she saw a large horse tethered to the wall; the horse looked at her, lowered its head, and stomped its foot. Wendy jumped back in fear.
A young woman came out from behind the horse. “Can I help you?” she called. Wendy took a tiny step forward. “I’m looking for my husband. And my kids. They’re here buying a pony.”
“From which stable?”
“Excuse me?”
“From which stable?” the woman repeated. “There are hundreds here. They might be anywhere.”
“Oh.”
“Can you call them?”
“Yes,” Wendy nodded. “I’ll do that.” She began backing away.
“What’s the name of their trainer?” the woman asked, determined to be helpful.
Trainer? Wendy thought. “I don’t know.”
“You can always try the office,” the woman said. “Just follow that path. It’s around the corner.”
“Thank you,” Wendy said. She walked around the side of the barn and was nearly run over by a golf cart containing two women wearing sun visors. The golf cart screetched to a stop and the woman who was driving stuck her head around. “Wendy?” she asked. “Wendy Healy?”
“Yes?” Wendy asked, taking a few steps forward.