18. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
Max has his tongue caught between his teeth, which means Sovrano’s mane is giving him trouble.
I slow as I cross the yard. The groom is holding my horse near the rail, but Max has taken over the comb, and his concentration is so complete that I get within a few feet before he notices me.
He has separated a section of mane into three strands. The comb rests on the rail while he starts the plait again, easing the first crossing when Sovrano turns his head.
“Morning.” He keeps his hand steady on the section he’s holding. “You said nine. I have three minutes.”
“I did.” I come closer, watching the braid take shape between his fingers. “I didn’t expect you to remember how to do that.”
“You taught me.” He folds the end under and reaches for the small elastic the groom has left on the rail. “It took me three tries before I got the tension right.”
It is my loose little plait, the one I use to keep this section from tangling with the reins.
Max knows how to prepare a horse for the most exacting judge in the country, but when I first showed him this, he kept making it too neat and tight.
I had to undo it twice before he accused me of inventing rules just to keep him standing beside me.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Sovrano turns his head toward me, and I stroke his nose while Max finishes the braid. His coat is gleaming, his eyes soft and curious. The storm was two days ago, and the lane has had time to dry. I have been looking forward to this since I woke.
“That’s the only section you need.” I check the braid, finding it neat and secure. “He doesn’t like too much fuss.”
“I noticed.” Max steps back and lets me run my hand along Sovrano’s neck. “He gave me a very clear look when I tried to do a second one.”
“He’s particular.” I smile at my horse, feeling the familiar warmth of having him under my palm. “Thank you for doing it.”
Max nods, wiping his hands on the cloth hanging from the rail. He is dressed for riding, boots and breeches and a dark shirt that makes him look more at ease than he has in days. I let myself notice without commenting. Some things don’t need to be said out loud.
Once Sovrano is bridled, the groom brings out the steady gray Max rode beside me in the arena.
I fasten my helmet while Max checks his horse’s girth, then pulls on his own helmet and adjusts the strap.
The yard is peaceful, the only sounds the soft movement of hooves and the distant call of a bird somewhere beyond the garden wall.
“Ready when you are.” Max leads the gray toward the mounting block, then waits while I bring Sovrano alongside.
The groom holds Sovrano while I stand on the block and take a breath.
There is a nervous flutter beneath my ribs, stronger because today we’re going beyond the arena.
I wait for it to ease enough that I can loosen my fingers, then look toward the open lane.
I chose this route yesterday. I still want it.
I settle into the saddle and gather my reins. Sovrano shifts his weight beneath me, then stands quietly, waiting. Max mounts the gray beside me, and for a moment we sit together in the yard, adjusting stirrups and finding our balance.
“The hill lane?” Max looks toward the gate that leads away from the house.
“The short loop.” I turn Sovrano toward the path. “Walk only. I want to enjoy it.”
We ride out through the lower gate, past the paddocks where the other horses lift their heads to watch us go.
The lane climbs gently between dry stone walls, the footing firm and even after yesterday’s sun.
I can see the hills rising ahead of us, gold and green in the morning light, and beyond them the distant line of the mountains.
This is my father’s country. I grew up riding these lanes before I understood what they meant, before I knew that the house at the bottom of the hill would one day be mine. Now I feel the weight of it differently. Not a burden, exactly, but a presence. Something I am still learning how to carry.
“You realize the gray knows this loop,” I tell Max as his horse starts to edge ahead. “He’ll be delighted when we turn for home.”
“Are you suggesting he’s only tolerating my company?” Max shortens his reins a little, bringing the gelding back beside Sovrano.
“I’m suggesting you shouldn’t take it personally when he walks faster on the way back.” I look at the gray’s expectant ears. “He has a strong attachment to his breakfast.”
“Something else we have in common.” Max glances at me. “You should have seen what Deus calls an adequate breakfast.”
“I’ve seen what you call one. Rosa thought we had another guest when you first arrived.”
“I’ve been working.” He looks suitably offended, although the corner of his mouth gives him away. “Very hard.”
“I’ve noticed.” I mean it simply, and his expression softens before I add, “Especially on the bread.”
He laughs, and I look ahead while I enjoy the sound. I told Rosa and Deus about Giselle’s message yesterday; neither has arranged a visit.
For this little stretch of morning, there is nothing I need to answer. There is only the lane, my horse, and Max trying to persuade me that a third helping is a necessary part of stable work.
The lane curves around a stand of old olive trees, their leaves silver in the light. I have ridden this path a hundred times, but today it feels different. Clearer, somehow. As though I am seeing it properly for the first time in months.
“Suppose you had an afternoon with nothing arranged.” I look at him as Sovrano carries me past a gap in the wall. “What would you do?”
“Sleep.” Max answers so promptly that I turn toward him, and he smiles. “You asked.”
“I was hoping for something a little more imaginative.” I shake my head at him, although the answer is so unmistakably Max that I’m smiling.
“Would you be there?” He keeps his eyes on the lane, asking as casually as if he wants to know which gate we’re using.
“That depends on how imaginative you become.” I glance ahead, letting him wait a moment for my smile.
“Then I withdraw sleep.” He considers for a few strides. “Lunch somewhere you haven’t inspected the menu in advance.”
“That only happened once.” I turn toward him, already knowing which lunch he means.
“You ordered before the waiter reached the table.” Max looks far too pleased with his memory.
“I was hungry.” I can still remember his face when I gave the waiter both orders and Max discovered I had chosen his dessert as well. “And you liked what I ordered.”
“I did.” He lets the gray come level again. “I’d like the opportunity to pretend I have a choice next time.”
Next time. He says it without stopping to see what I will do with it, and I find I like that. It leaves me room to imagine a table in the shade and the ridiculous pleasure of stealing something from his plate.
“You could choose the dessert,” I offer, making him look at me. “Provided you remember I don’t share the good ones.”
“Then I’ll order two.” His smile is quiet now, meant entirely for me. “I’ve learned a few things.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes. The lane opens onto a wider track, the hills spreading out around us in gentle folds. I can see a farmhouse in the distance, smoke rising from its chimney, and beyond it the orderly lines of a vineyard.
“I want to use the south terrace more,” I tell him. “There are two perfectly good chairs sitting in storage while everyone crowds onto the little bench by the kitchen.”
“Bring them out.” Max glances at me. “Unless this is a question about upholstery. I have no qualifications.”
“You have very strong opinions about ugly furniture.” I remember him inspecting a particularly ornate sideboard at my mother’s house and refusing to meet my eyes afterward.
“That isn’t a qualification. It’s a burden.” He sighs with such conviction that I almost believe him.
I laugh, and Sovrano flicks an ear back toward me. “I was thinking of a table as well. Somewhere to spread out the estate papers instead of shutting myself in the study all afternoon.”
“With enough room for coffee?” Max looks ahead as the lane narrows, bringing the gray slightly behind my shoulder.
“That’s the essential part.” I let him fall in behind us until the track widens again. “The papers are negotiable.”
When he comes level, he asks which chairs I mean. I describe the old cane pair with their faded cushions, and he immediately remembers the one that rocks if you sit too far forward.
“I thought you were going to pretend not to notice that,” I tell him.
“I remember nearly losing an argument with a chair.” He lifts an eyebrow at me. “I’d like a rematch.”
“You can carry them out, if you want.” I picture them in the sun, enough room for both of us. “I’ll find the cushions.”
“Today?” He asks without making it sound as though he has been waiting for an assignment.
“After our coffee.” I look over at him, suddenly conscious of what I’ve assumed. “If you’d like to stay for that.”
“I’d like that very much.” His voice is warm, and I let myself look at his smile for another moment before returning my attention to the lane.
The track curves downhill toward a small stone bridge. Below it, a stream runs clear and shallow over pale rocks. I remember swimming here as a child, the water cold even in summer, my father watching from the bank with a book in his hands.
“Can we stop for a minute?” I pull Sovrano to a halt near the bridge. “I want to look at the water.”
Max stops beside me. We sit in silence, watching the stream catch the light. The horses stand quietly, and I feel something in my chest ease that I didn’t know was tight.
“This is beautiful.” Max looks around at the hills, the water, the old stone arch of the bridge. “I can see why you love it here.”
“I forget, sometimes.” I stroke Sovrano’s mane, feeling the neat braid beneath my fingers. “When I’m in the house, thinking about everything else. I forget what it feels like to be out here.”