7. Georgina #2
“And did Marco listen?” Elena pulls out a chair for herself, evidently prepared to stay until she has the whole story.
“He did, actually.” I think about watching from the kitchen window a few days later, seeing Marco pause at the stable threshold while the gray studied the courtyard before walking forward on his own. “The horse is calmer now. Still needs work, but calmer.”
Elena nods with satisfaction. “Good eye. I always said you understood horses better than half the professionals on the circuit.” She gestures me into a seat at one of the small tables and signals for coffee.
“Your husband’s lucky to have someone with your instincts at home. Does he ask your advice often?”
The question lands harder than she probably intended. Does Max ask my advice? He listened about the gray without making me explain why my opinion mattered. I wish it had been that easy to be heard about the exhibition.
“Sometimes.” I accept the coffee a server brings and wrap my hands around the cup. “When he remembers to.”
Elena’s expression sharpens, but she doesn’t push. We drink our coffee and talk about the horses in this year’s program, about which riders have improved and which ones are coasting on reputation.
When she dismisses a rider I admire, I disagree, and she makes me explain myself. By the time our cups are empty, I’m leaning across the table to point at a name in her program. I’ve stopped wondering how I look sitting here. I’m enjoying myself.
“They’re getting ready for the pairs exhibition.” Elena checks her watch and sets down her cup. “Are you planning to watch?”
“I’m planning to find Max first.” I stand, smoothing my skirt. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“He might still be in the stable area.” Elena rises with me. “I saw them bringing horses through earlier. The Costanzo section is in the east wing, near the main warm-up arena.”
“Thank you.” I lean in to kiss her cheek. “And for the coffee. Though I still think you’re wrong about that rider.”
“Then come back afterward and tell me so.” Elena taps the folded program against my arm before putting it in her bag. “I’ll buy you another coffee if you’re right.”
I leave her at the refreshment tent and make my way toward the stables.
The crowd thins as I move away from the main arena, the noise fading into the quieter sounds of horses and handlers preparing for their events. I know this path. I’ve walked it dozens of times, heading to find Max before an exhibition, stealing a few minutes together before we had to perform.
The Costanzo stable section is easy to find, the green and gold colors familiar even from a distance.
I walk down the aisle, scanning for Max’s dark head bent over a horse, for some sign of where he might be preparing.
The grooms I pass nod politely, and I nod back, but I don’t stop to ask.
He’s probably in the warm-up arena by now, running through final preparations.
I’m almost past the row of stalls when a name on an identification card catches my eye.
Sovrano. And beneath it, in smaller letters, G. della Rovere-Costanzo.
I stop beside the empty stall. Why is he here? Giselle has been practicing on the pale lesson mare for weeks. I assumed that horse would travel for the exhibition, not Sovrano. I expected to find him in his paddock when I got home, as I did yesterday.
“Signora Costanzo!” I turn to find Marco approaching with a lead rope over his shoulder and a genuine smile on his face. “I didn’t know you were coming today. It’s good to see you here.”
“Marco.” I gesture at the stall, at my horse’s name on the card. “Why is Sovrano at the grounds?”
“For the pairs exhibition, signora.” Marco hooks the lead rope over the stall partition, still smiling at the sight of me here. “He’s in the warm-up arena now with Signorina Giselle. They’ll be entering soon.”
“I thought she was riding the lesson mare.” I look back at the card. My name is printed beneath Sovrano’s, and for a moment I can only stare at it. How can I be the last person to know where he is? “That’s the horse she’s been practicing on.”
“She was, for the early training.” Marco turns toward the aisle that leads to the warm-up ring. “But Signor Costanzo decided last week that Sovrano would be better for the actual performance. Steadier horse, knows the patterns already. Made sense for the exhibition.”
Last week. Max changed the horse last week and said nothing. We sat together on the terrace yesterday evening. He asked about my book and listened when I answered. There was time to tell me then.
“I wasn’t asked about this.” I turn away from the card and make sure Marco can see my face. “No one consulted me about Giselle riding my horse.”
Marco’s expression shifts as he processes what I’ve said.
The easy warmth fades into something more uncomfortable, a man realizing he’s stepped into the middle of a conversation that should have happened somewhere else.
“I’m sorry, signora. I assumed you knew.
Signor Costanzo gave the order, and I thought it had been discussed. ”
“It wasn’t.” I let go of the stall partition. Marco has done what he was told; the explanation I need isn’t his to give. “Where is my husband right now?”
“The main warm-up arena, most likely. Or checking in with the stewards before they enter.” He gestures toward the far end of the stable block. “Through there and to the left. They should be preparing to go on soon.”
“Thank you, Marco.” I turn and walk toward the exit he indicated, my heels clicking against the concrete aisle. The noise of the crowd grows louder as I move, chairs scraping and voices calling to one another beyond the stable doors.
Sovrano turns his head toward my voice when I visit him at home.
He nuzzles my palm looking for the apple slices I used to bring before every ride, and he stands perfectly still when I rest my forehead against his neck and breathe in the familiar smell of horse and hay and something that has always meant safety to me.
I’ve been visiting him in the yard for weeks now, working up to the moment when my body might finally let me climb into the saddle again.
Sometimes I leave disappointed in myself, but he still comes to the door the next time I call.
He hasn’t become a stranger to me just because I can’t ride him yet.
Max knows what Sovrano means to me. I haven’t told him about every visit, or the morning I couldn’t get my foot into the stirrup, but he was there for the years when riding that horse beside him was my favorite part of the day. How could he decide I had no say in this?
I reach the end of the aisle and turn toward the route Marco indicated.
There are people between me and the warm-up arena, and I search their faces for my husband’s, no longer thinking about whether he’ll be pleased to see me.
I came hoping we’d find each other here, somewhere we used to be good together. I imagined his arm around my waist while I told him about Elena, the pleasure of having something to share that wasn’t another account of how I’d spent the day without him.
Now my hands are cold, and I press them against my skirt until I can feel the silk beneath my palms. I still need to see him, but underneath the hurt, my anger is beginning to hold.
For once, I don’t want him to kiss this better.