22. Maximillian #2
“I’ll be wherever she wants me.” I glance at Elle. “Probably holding things and staying out of the way.”
“He’s very good at that.” Elle squeezes my hand. “I’ve been training him.”
“I noticed.” Felicity looks between us with evident satisfaction. “You seem to have found a good arrangement.”
“We’re working on it.” Elle’s smile is warm when she looks at me. “Some days are better than others.”
“Then keep making time for the good ones.” Felicity picks up her glass again. “I hope lunch qualifies.”
“It depends what you’ve brought for dessert,” Elle says, and my mother brightens with the satisfaction of someone who has been waiting to be asked.
“There’s a cake in the car. I wanted to hand over the vegetables first, while there was still a chance either of you would appreciate them.”
“A sensible precaution.” I get up, and Elle releases my hand slowly, smiling at me as our fingers part. “I’ll retrieve it before you decide we haven’t earned it.”
When I return, Rosa is setting down a platter of chicken and a bowl of potatoes.
My mother has taken the breadbasket hostage while she explains a disagreement with her gardener about basil.
Elle is listening with the kind of intent expression that means she is about to take the other person’s side for sport.
“He might be right about the shade,” she offers, reaching for the bread. “You do tend to move things until they look pretty.”
“I move them until they look better. There’s a distinction.” My mother hands over the basket. “Ask my son. I spent years making it.”
“I’m staying out of this.” I set the cake box on the side table and take my seat. “I only came for lunch.”
“Coward,” Elle murmurs, nudging my knee beneath the table.
“Outnumbered,” I correct her, and reach for the potatoes.
Elle’s phone buzzes on the table. She glances at the screen, then picks it up with a small sound of surprise.
“The entry list.” She turns the phone so I can see. “They’ve posted it.”
I lean closer to read the screen. There’s her name, printed neatly in the roster for the amateur class she chose. Seeing it there, official and public, makes something tighten in my chest.
“They’ve put you in the class you wanted.” I point to her name. “G. della Rovere-Costanzo. Sovrano.”
“There I am.” She stares at the screen for a moment, then looks up at me with a smile that makes my heart skip. “It’s real now.”
“Would you like me to print the schedule?” I touch the edge of her phone. “We can take a copy with us.”
Felicity leans forward to see. “That’s wonderful, darling. I’ll clear my schedule for the day.”
“You don’t have to come.” Elle looks up from the phone. “It’s just a small class.”
“I want to come.” Felicity’s tone brooks no argument. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
“No, I’d like that.” Elle’s smile widens. “I’ll make sure you know where to find us.” She saves the list, puts her phone down, and returns to her lunch. A moment later she notices my plate. “Are you going to eat that, or are you waiting for an invitation?”
“I was listening.”
“You can do both. I’ve seen it happen.”
My mother laughs, and Elle leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. I reach for her hand under the table again, just long enough to squeeze it before she goes back to her knife and fork.
“How are the plans for the south terrace coming?” my mother asks her. “You said you wanted somewhere to work outside.”
“Slowly. The chairs have been rescued, and I’ve decided on cushions, which Max seems to consider the greater achievement. Now I’m looking at tables.” Elle points toward the wider patch of shade beside the wall. “Something big enough for the estate papers and a cup that won’t get knocked onto them.”
“Two cups,” I say.
She looks at me, her smile changing. “Two cups. And room for him to pretend he’s reading while he offers opinions about drainage.”
“An essential feature.” My mother follows the direction of her hand. “Have you looked in the smaller storeroom? You showed me a table in there once.”
“The round one? It’s lovely, but it needs refinishing.”
“Deus will know someone,” I suggest. “I can ask him when he comes back.”
“I’ll ask him.” Elle reaches for the water jug. “You already volunteered to help me carry the fabric samples back upstairs. I wouldn’t want you overwhelmed.”
She gives me a sideways look as she says it, and I recognize the one I had to sit through over breakfast this morning while Rosa stood three feet away. I take a deliberate sip of water. My mother looks at the two of us and mercifully returns to discussing the table.
After we eat, I carry the plates to the kitchen.
When I come back with coffee, Elle and my mother are examining the cake with a concentration that makes me suspect lunch was only a preliminary.
There is icing on Elle’s fingertip. She tastes it before reaching for a knife, and my mother pretends not to see.
“I could cut that,” I offer.
“You could.” Elle places the first slice on my mother’s plate. “But I remember what you consider a fair portion.”
“The accusations at this table are becoming very personal.”
“Then you shouldn’t have witnesses.” My mother takes her plate and settles back in her chair.
I stop trying to defend myself and accept the slice Elle gives me.
She brushes her fingers over the back of my neck as I sit down, a passing touch that makes me turn toward her.
She is already listening to my mother again.
I sit there for a moment with my fork in my hand, absurdly happy about something she did without thinking.
Her phone lights beside her plate. She reads the screen, and the smile leaves her mouth.
“What is it?” I set down my fork.
“Giselle.” She looks at the message once more, then turns the screen toward me.
You really think competing will fix anything? Everyone will be watching you fail.
The cake sits untouched between my plate and hers.
I read the words again, feeling my jaw tighten.
There was no question in them that her sister wanted answered, no opening for the retraction she had demanded at the gate.
She had seen Elle’s name on the list and wanted to take the pleasure out of it.
“Has she sent anything else?” I ask.
“Not today.” Elle lowers the phone. “I don’t intend to answer this.”
My mother looks from her to me. Elle tells her what the message says, plainly, without softening it for the sake of lunch. For a moment, Felicity is very still.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she says. “You shouldn’t have had to read that.”
“No.” Elle turns the phone face-down beside her plate. “But I’m not giving her the rest of the afternoon.”
I want to say something decisive enough to make the message disappear. Instead, I reach beneath the table, where she can take my hand if she wants it. Her fingers slide into mine almost immediately.
“Still eleven days,” she says to me, her chin lifting. “Still the same class.”
“And the same plan,” I answer. “We’ll work on the last turn tomorrow.”
“My turn or yours?”
“Yours, apparently.” I manage a smile, and she squeezes my hand. “I’ll bring a pencil so you can amend everything else.”
She takes a breath, then reaches for her fork. My mother asks whether she would like company for the course walk on the day, or whether she would prefer Felicity to find a seat and wait. Elle thinks about it before answering, giving the question the attention her sister’s message hasn’t earned.
“Come and find us afterward,” she says. “I’d like to tell you how it went before someone else tells you how it looked.”
“I’d like that very much.” My mother smiles at her. “I’ll wait for your version.”
I listen as they make the arrangement, noticing the way Elle’s voice warms again.
She wants lunch afterward, somewhere she can sit down without having to watch the clock.
My mother suggests a place she remembers nearby, and Elle asks me to check whether it will be open.
I take out my phone and make a note to call.
A table for three. A morning in the arena. My wife coming toward us with her helmet in her hand, ready to tell us everything. I can picture it easily, and when she asks whether I’m paying attention, I repeat the plan back to her just to make her laugh.
But I haven’t forgotten the words on her screen. At the gate, Giselle wanted the interview taken back and her own place restored. Today, Elle hadn’t said a word about her. She had entered a competition she wanted to ride, and her sister had answered with a wish to see her fail.
Elle turns toward me, still holding my hand beneath the table, and asks whether we have time to look at that old table before my mother leaves. I tell her we do.
Her happiness should never have needed defending from her own sister.