9. Maximillian
— ? —
Maximillian
The applause follows us out of the arena, and I let myself feel it.
Giselle is grinning beside me, her cheeks flushed with the particular joy of having done something difficult in front of people.
She managed the whole pattern without freezing, kept her hands quiet through the turns, remembered to breathe when Sovrano asked her to trust him through the final transition.
For a rider with nine weeks of lessons, she did well. I’m proud of her progress, the way I’d be proud of any student who rose to the moment.
“That was incredible.” She brings Sovrano alongside Dante as we pass through the exit gate, and I can hear the relief underneath her excitement. “I didn’t forget anything. I thought I would forget something.”
“You were ready.” I gather Dante’s reins, feeling the familiar satisfaction of a pattern executed cleanly. “You did the work. That’s what matters.”
A cluster of people are waiting near the gate, faces I recognize from years of competition, hands already extended to shake mine.
I dismount and pass Dante’s reins to the groom who appears at my elbow, keeping hold of my helmet as I turn to accept the congratulations that come with finishing an exhibition people expect me to ride.
The groom leads Dante toward a water bucket near the stable entrance while another takes Sovrano from Giselle to begin cooling him down.
“Lovely to see the tradition continue.” A man steps forward to shake my hand, blocking my view of the grooms leading our horses away.
“Such a nice tribute to your wife,” someone else adds, clasping my hand between both of theirs.
I accept the sentiment and move on to the next handshake, already thinking about finding my phone.
I should let Elle know how it went. She’ll want to hear that Giselle managed the whole thing without incident.
I picture Elle at home, having the quiet day I thought would be easier for her than watching an exhibition she couldn’t ride. Perhaps she’s in the garden with her book. I reach toward my pocket before remembering where I left my phone.
“Max.” A familiar voice cuts through the pleasantries, and I turn to find Elena Marchetti approaching with her program tucked under her arm and an expression I can’t quite read. “That was a competent ride. Your sister-in-law has improved.”
“Thank you.” I accept her handshake, noting the slight emphasis on competent. Elena has never been generous with praise. “She worked hard.”
“I’m sure she did.” Elena’s gaze moves past me toward the arena, then returns to my face with something sharper behind it. “I had coffee with Georgina before the exhibition. Did you know she was here?”
The words don’t arrange themselves properly at first. I hear them, but they seem to belong to a different conversation, one I haven’t prepared for. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Georgina.” Elena lowers the program she has been holding against her chest, her attention sharpening on my face. “She came to find you before the ride. I thought you must have seen her.”
Elle is here.
Elle came to the championship, and I didn’t know.
My chest tightens as I try to work out what that means.
If she was looking for me before the exhibition, she might have made it to the arena entrance.
She might have been in the stands while I rode beside her sister on her horse, while the announcer explained her absence to people who might have recognized her standing right there.
“Where did she go?” I look past Elena toward the corridor, searching for pale hair among the departing spectators. “After you spoke with her?”
“Toward the stables, I think.” Elena tilts her head, studying me. “She said she wanted to find you before the exhibition started. I assumed she had.”
I’m already moving before she finishes speaking.
The stables. She went to the stables, which means she would have passed through the Costanzo section. Marco was there, securing the horses before we went into the ring.
Did she ask about Sovrano? Did she find out that way, from our groom, that I’d put her horse in the exhibition without telling her?
I push through the lingering spectators and make my way toward the stable section, my boots loud against the concrete. The corridor feels longer than it should. When I reach our row, I find Marco securing a hay net outside one of the stalls, his movements unhurried.
“Marco.” I stop in front of him, close enough that he has to set down the hay net and turn to face me. “My wife. Have you seen her?”
There is a shift in his expression, discomfort settling into the lines around his eyes. “She was here, Signor Costanzo. Just before you went into the ring. She asked about Sovrano.”
My stomach drops. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her he was in the warm-up arena with Signorina Giselle.” Marco meets my eyes, and I see him brace himself for what comes next. “She didn’t know, signor. About the horse. She said she wasn’t asked.”
Wasn’t asked. I think about the conversation I meant to have, the one I kept putting off because there was always another morning, another training session, another reason to wait for the right moment.
I was going to tell her about Sovrano. I was going to explain that he was steadier than the lesson mare, that he knew the patterns already, that it made sense for the exhibition.
I meant to do it. The intention feels hollow now, standing here in the aftermath of everything I didn’t say.
“Where did she go after she spoke to you?” My fingers tighten around the helmet, its edge digging into my palm.
“Toward the main arena, I think.” Marco moves the hay net out of my path, though I haven’t asked him to. “She asked where you were. She seemed upset. I’m sorry, signor. I thought she knew.”
I leave him standing by the stall and head for the hospitality suite.
My phone is still charging on the side table, and if Elle tried to reach me during the exhibition, I wouldn’t have seen it.
I need to call her. I need to find out where she is and explain that I wasn’t trying to keep this from her, that I was going to tell her, that the timing just kept slipping away from me.
The door to the suite is unlocked and the room is empty.
My jacket is still draped over the chair where I left it. My phone is still plugged in on the side table. Everything exactly as I left it, except for the small circle sitting beside the charging cable where nothing should be.
Her wedding ring.
I cross the room and pick it up before I’ve finished processing what it means.
The band rests across the crease of my palm, so small that I have to curl my fingers to keep from dropping it. But she didn’t hand it to me this time.
She left it here, beside my phone, where I would find it when I came back.
What did I think would happen when she found out? That she’d understand? That she’d see I was trying to protect her from pressure she didn’t need?
I put the ring in my pocket and grab my phone, then pull on my jacket as I move toward the door. Her number is already on the screen as I push back into the corridor.
The call goes to voicemail after four rings, and I hang up without leaving a message.
I try again as I head toward the trailer bay, where the drivers wait beyond the horse boxes.
If she’s leaving, she has to get to a car.
The call goes to voicemail again. I think about the night after her mother’s dinner, the way Elle looked at me when I promised her another day like the one we’d had under the olive tree.
Just us, no interruptions. I’d meant it when I said it.
That was nine weeks ago. Since then I’ve worked Giselle’s lessons into my mornings and adjusted our training until she could manage the exhibition. When the lesson mare proved less steady, I arranged for Sovrano to come.
Each thing needed doing, so I did it. Our afternoon kept being something I could arrange next week, when there would be less to do.
How many times did she hear me say I’d make time, and then watch me make it for someone else?
The trailer bay comes into view, and I scan the row of vehicles for any sign of movement. The Costanzo trailer is where it should be, green and gold colors visible through the rain that’s starting to fall.
A female groom is leading Sovrano up the ramp, his coat still damp from being wiped down. Near the stable entrance, another groom is walking Dante in slow circles, cooling him down. He’s still wearing his saddle and bridle, water dripping from his mane where the rain has started to soak through.
Then I see the car.
It’s pulling away from the far end of the bay, a dark sedan moving slowly along the private access lane that leads to the main road. The rain blurs the windows, but I can make out a figure in the passenger seat.
Pale hair. Something light colored, maybe cream.
My own car is parked on the other side of the grounds. By the time I reach it, this one will be gone. I push my phone into my pocket and look at Dante, still saddled, the groom just starting to loosen his girth.
“I need him.” I’m already reaching for the reins. “Now. Just for a few minutes.”
The groom’s eyes widen, but she hands over the reins without argument. I fasten my helmet, check the girth, and swing into the saddle. Dante sidesteps, and I settle my weight before asking him forward. I need him listening to me. I cannot let the panic in my chest reach my hands.
Rain lashes my face as Dante lengthens his stride beneath me.
The car is already halfway down the access lane.
For a moment, all I can see is the red blur of its taillights through the rain, and the distance between us makes something seize in my chest. I lean forward and ask for more. Dante answers, his hooves driving against the ground, the pounding rising through my legs until I can feel it in my teeth.
“Elle!”
The wind tears her name away.
I draw level with the rear wheel, then the passenger door. Water flies from the tires and strikes my boots. Through the rain-streaked glass, I catch a glimpse of Deus at the wheel, his head turning toward me before he looks back at the road.
Elle is facing forward.
“Elle!”
I gather the reins into one hand and reach across the gap. My knuckles strike the window twice before Dante’s next stride carries me out of reach.
She turns.
Her eyes are red. Even through the glass, even with the rain blurring her face, I can see that she’s been crying.
I almost lose the breath I need to call her name again.
“Please!”
Her hand moves toward the door. The window lowers a few inches, letting rain and the thunder of Dante’s hooves into the car.
“I’m sorry!” I have to shout to make her hear me. “Elle, I’m sorry. Come home.”
She looks at me, her mouth trembling, and for one desperate second I think she might tell Deus to stop.
“I tried, Max.”
The car keeps moving.
I press Dante forward to stay beside her, my arm reaching toward the open strip of window before I realize there is nothing I can take hold of.
“Tomorrow. I’ll cancel everything!”
I see her swallow. Her bare hand closes around the edge of her bag.
“I asked you weeks ago.”
“I know. Please, just…”
“Let me leave.”
She says it quietly. I hear it anyway.
The glass begins to rise.
“Elle, please!”
My fingers meet the outside of the window as it closes. For a moment, my hand is there beside her face, separated from her by the glass. She looks at it, then shuts her eyes.
The car pulls ahead, and my hand slips away.
“Elle!”
I urge Dante forward, desperate to reach her again. Rain blows into my open mouth. His hooves pound beneath me, but the passenger window is already beyond my reach, her face disappearing behind the reflection of the darkening sky.
I keep watching for the brake lights.
They don’t come on.
The gate rushes toward us, and beyond it a lorry passes along the main road, throwing water high from its tires. I gather the reins and sit back, bringing Dante down from his gallop. He fights the change for a stride before answering, his hoofbeats breaking their rhythm beneath me.
The car carries on through the gate and onto the road, pulling farther away with every stride Dante takes beneath me.
He slows to a walk, his breathing harsh in the space between us, and I bring him to a halt just inside the grounds. I’m still leaning forward as though there’s somewhere left to go.
“Please.”
There’s nobody close enough to hear it now.
Thunder cracks across the hills. Dante shifts beneath me, and I steady him with a hand against his wet neck while the rain comes harder, washing across the road until I can barely distinguish the car from the gray beyond it.
Its taillights are still there.
I hold on to those two small points of red, following them around the long curve beyond the gates. She is inside that car with her hands in her lap, or her face turned toward the window, and I no longer know which. I don’t know whether she’s crying again. I can’t reach her to ask.
Her ring presses against me through my pocket.
I want her back so badly that I can almost convince myself she’ll turn around. That the car will stop farther down the road, that she’ll change her mind and let me take her home.
I would clear tomorrow. The day after. I would sit beside her and listen until she had nothing left she needed me to hear.
But I’m making plans for her again, and she has already told me what she needs.
The car grows smaller.
I stay in the rain, watching until its lights vanish around the bend, then keep staring at the place where they were.
For weeks, she waited for me to come back.
I don’t know how to bear that she might stop.