18. Georgina #3
The terrace is warm when I reach it, the morning sun falling across the table where Max has set out cups and a pot of coffee. Rosa has added a plate of biscotti, and I make a mental note to thank her later for knowing what I needed before I did.
“Rosa says the cushions are ugly.” Max pours as I reach the table. “Apparently she has been waiting for you to reach that conclusion yourself.”
“She bought the last ones.” I pull out my chair, wondering how long she has been waiting to replace them.
“That may explain why she was so certain.” He sets the pot down and slides the biscuits toward me. “I’ve brought out the chairs. The one with the uneven leg is beside the wall until I’ve had a look at it.”
“That’s remarkably diplomatic of you.” I glance toward the rescued chairs beside the wall.
“I’m trying to impress the woman who owns the terrace.” Max sits across from me. “She has very high standards.”
“She also has excellent coffee.” I take a sip and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun against my face. When I open them, he is watching me with an expression that makes it difficult to remember the next clever thing I meant to say.
“I enjoyed this morning.” I say it simply, without qualification. “The ride. The talking. All of it.”
“So did I.” He holds my gaze. “I’ve missed this.”
“Which part?” I rest my cup in its saucer and give him my full attention.
“Being allowed to flirt with you over coffee.” He sets his cup down. “You keep looking at me as if you might let me get away with it.”
The words land somewhere soft, somewhere I’ve been protecting. I reach across the table and lay my hand over his, enjoying the way his attention drops to our fingers before returning to my face.
He turns his palm up beneath mine, his fingers curling gently around my own. We sit like that for a moment, not speaking, just touching. The coffee is strong, and I can feel the warmth of his palm against mine. There is nowhere else I want to be for the next few minutes.
“Tomorrow.” I squeeze his fingers. “Coffee again? Even if I decide not to ride.”
“Coffee again.” He squeezes back. “I may have to earn my biscuits by repairing that chair.”
“I think you’ve earned the first one.” I smile and move the plate closer to him with my free hand.
“High praise.” Max lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles, so briefly I might have imagined it. “I’ll try to live up to it.”
I am about to answer when Rosa comes through the garden gate. She hesitates at the edge of the terrace, and I know before she speaks that she isn’t here about the cushions.
“Your sister is at the main gate.” She keeps her voice low. “Deus has told her you aren’t receiving visitors. She won’t leave.”
Max’s fingers remain around mine. He doesn’t tighten his grip or begin telling me what he will do. I look at our hands for a moment, then at the half-finished coffee and the chairs we have brought out into the sunshine.
“Thank you for keeping her outside.” I set my cup down. “I’ll speak to her.”
Max rises when I do. I could ask him to wait here, but I don’t want to approach that gate alone simply to prove that I can.
“Come with me?” I hold out my hand again, and he takes it.
We follow Rosa around the side of the house.
Beyond the closed main gate, Giselle stands beside a parked car, looking past Deus toward the drive.
When she sees us, her gaze drops first to our joined hands, then travels over my riding clothes.
Something changes in her face before she arranges it into a smile.
“There you are.” She steps closer to the bars. “I was beginning to wonder how long you were going to leave me standing here.”
“I told you not to come.” I stop on our side of the gate, a few feet from her. “You read the message.”
“I read it.” Her eyes move to Max, then return to me. “I also saw the interview. You seem to have found plenty of ways to make yourself heard lately.”
Beside me, Max goes still. I feel the change in his hand, but my attention stays on my sister. I have heard her sound hurt before. This is sharper, less interested in persuading me than in making sure I feel it.
“Apparently I needed one more.” I keep my voice level. “You weren’t invited, Giselle.”
“No, I can see that.” Her smile thins as she looks at my boots. “Back on your horse, holding hands with your husband. How lovely that everything’s worked out for you after all.”
For a moment, the old impulse rises: explain the morning, soften what she thinks she has seen, assure her that things are still difficult enough that she needn’t resent them. I know how to make myself smaller in a conversation with my sister. I’ve had years of practice.
Then I remember Max concentrating over that little braid, and the steady sound of Sovrano’s feet on the lane. My coffee is still warm on the terrace. I had begun making plans for tomorrow before Giselle arrived to tell me what today was allowed to mean.
I release Max’s hand and step closer, resting mine against the gate. He stays beside me, and I am glad of it, but I look directly at my sister when I draw breath.
I am not going to apologize for having a good morning.