26. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
The table looks better than I expected.
I circle it slowly while the craftsman waits by the garden door, taking in the way the refinished wood catches the afternoon light.
The grain is darker now, richer, the years of neglect stripped away to reveal something I hadn’t noticed when I first found it buried under dust cloths in the storeroom.
“You’ve done beautiful work,” I tell him. “The color is exactly right.”
He nods, pleased, and begins gathering his tools. Max appears from inside the house carrying two of the green cushions I chose last week, the ones that took us twenty minutes to agree on because he insisted the darker shade would show dust.
“I still think you were wrong about the color,” he says, setting them on the nearest chair.
“You think I was wrong about everything.” I take the cushions from him and arrange them properly, smoothing the fabric. “And yet here we are, with the cushions I chose, on the chairs you said were beyond repair.”
“I said the leg needed work. Which it did.”
“You said it would collapse under anyone heavier than Rosa.”
“I was being cautious.” He watches me adjust the second cushion. “You’re very particular about angles.”
“I’m particular about everything. You should know that by now.”
The craftsman excuses himself, and I sign the delivery confirmation while Max brings out coffee.
By the time I’ve finished, there are two cups steaming on the new table and my husband is sprawled in one of the cane chairs, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who claimed to have correspondence to finish this afternoon.
“Weren’t you supposed to be writing to someone?” I settle into the other chair and pull my cup toward me.
“I was. Then you started criticizing cushion placement, and I lost interest in everything else.”
“I wasn’t criticizing. I was improving.”
“You were being impossible.” He says it with such warmth that I almost don’t notice I’m smiling. “Which I find oddly appealing.”
“Oddly?”
“I’m trying to be honest about my limitations.”
I laugh and drink my coffee, letting the afternoon settle around us. The garden is warm and still, the kind of quiet that used to make me restless. Now I find I want to stay in it, to let the hours stretch without counting them.
It has been four days since the competition. Four days since I watched my sister escorted to a police vehicle while people I’ve known for years stood silent along the path.
We checked on Sovrano before leaving the showground, and I watched Deus and the groom prepare him for the journey. By the time Max drove me home, I had answered so many questions that I was grateful he didn’t add another. The following day, we gave our fuller statements separately.
Sovrano arrived home the evening of the competition, and the vet examined him again the next morning without finding an injury. I’ve spent part of every day since then with him.
Yesterday I stood brushing his shoulder long after the mud was gone, until he turned to investigate my empty pocket and made it quite clear that gratitude ought to come with carrots.
“What are you thinking?” Max asks.
“That I should probably do something productive this afternoon.” I set down my cup. “Instead of sitting here enjoying furniture.”
“You could ride tomorrow. If you want to.”
“I might.” I look toward the stable, thinking about it. “The new tack arrived yesterday. Everything’s been checked twice.”
“By Deus and the groom. And you, this morning.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“You like to be certain.” He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “There’s no rush.”
“I know.” I turn my hand over beneath his, threading our fingers together. “I’m not pushing myself. I just miss it. The rhythm of it. Having somewhere to go that isn’t inside my own head.”
“We can see how you feel tomorrow.” His thumb moves along the edge of my palm. “I’ll set poles if you’d like company.”
“I’d like yours.” I squeeze his fingers, and he lifts my hand to kiss my knuckles.
My phone buzzes before I can argue further. I pull it from my pocket and see the number of the lawyer Valentina introduced me to three days ago. She handles criminal cases; Valentina still handles the divorce. I hadn’t expected to need two lawyers to disentangle myself from people I love.
“The lawyer about Giselle,” I tell Max.
He releases my hand and leans back, giving me space. I answer the call and press the phone to my ear.
“Signora Costanzo.” The voice is brisk, professional, the clipped tones of a woman who has no time for pleasantries. “I have an update on your sister’s case.”
“Go ahead.”
“The court has ordered her to remain in custody while the proceedings continue. The examination of the equipment has confirmed deliberate damage consistent with the witness statements. Combined with her admission at the venue, the case is moving forward.”
“And the original incident? The fall last year?”
“That investigation is ongoing. Her admission provides a starting point, but they’ll need to establish the facts independently. It may take time.”
I close my eyes for a moment. Time. Everything seems to require time now, patience I’m still learning how to find.
“Is there anything I need to do?”
“Not at present. The statement you gave the day after the competition covered the relevant points. I’ll contact you if anything changes.
” She pauses. “I should also tell you that the sporting federation has issued a formal suspension. Your sister is barred from all competitions and affiliated facilities pending the outcome of the case. Written notice has gone to her lawyer and the affiliated clubs.”
“I see.” I don’t know what else to say. The words feel hollow, inadequate for what they mean.
“Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”
“No. Thank you for letting me know.”
I end the call and set the phone on the table. Max is watching me, his expression carefully neutral, waiting for me to tell him what I want to share.
“She’s staying in custody,” I say. “The evidence supports the charges. And the federation has suspended her from everything.”
“Good.”
“Yes.” I look down at my cup. “I don’t want her anywhere near my horse. Or me.”
Saying it doesn’t make me feel cruel. That almost surprises me. I can picture her sitting in a cell and hate that this is what has become of us, but I can still remember the broken rein in my hand. I won’t ask anyone to look away from it.
“It’s strange,” I tell him. “Knowing she’s there while I’m here, drinking coffee and arguing about cushions.”
Max reaches for my hand. “We don’t have to put the afternoon away.”
I look past him at the open garden door, where the craftsman’s packaging is still stacked for collection. I chose those cushions before the competition. I wanted this place before I knew what my sister had done. It would infuriate me to give her this as well.
“Good,” I say. “Because I haven’t finished enjoying being right about the green.”
“I’d noticed.” He tugs gently on my hand. “Come here.”
I let him pull me from my chair and onto his lap, settling against his chest with my legs draped over the arm of the cane chair. It creaks slightly under our combined weight, and he wraps his arms around me before I can comment.
“Don’t say anything about the structural integrity.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think many things.” I rest my head against his shoulder. “Not all of them require comment.”
He laughs quietly, his breath warm against my hair.
I close my eyes and let myself be held, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
His shirt is warm from the sun. I slip my fingers beneath the fold of his collar, touching the back of his neck, and feel his hand settle more firmly at my waist. I like knowing I can still distract him this easily.
I like it even more when he turns his head to kiss the wrist I have left within reach.
“I had a letter from Benedetto this morning,” Max says after a while. “About next season’s competition dates.”
“What did he want?”
“To confirm which events I’m considering. I need to be back in Umbria next week.” His hand moves slowly along my arm. “There’s preparation work that needs doing before the new season starts. I want to spend some time working with Dante myself.”
“He’ll be selective about how much effort he makes for you.”
“That’s one way to describe taking every shortcut offered.” Max shifts beneath me, settling us both more comfortably in the chair. “I’d like to spend three days there. Tuesday through Thursday.”
I lift my head to look at him. “Then you should go.”
“I’d like to.” He meets my eyes. “But I haven’t settled how we do it yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
Something in my chest loosens. I had been preparing, without realizing it, to tell him I would manage.
To offer the words I’ve used so many times before, the ones that mean I’ll be fine alone, you don’t have to worry about me.
The old pattern, the one where I make space for him to leave and pretend it doesn’t cost me anything.
“What were you thinking?” I ask instead.
“A few options.” He traces his finger along my collarbone. “You could come with me. Bring Sovrano, use the arena together while I’m there.”
“I’m not ready to stay overnight there.” The words come easily, without the defensive edge they might have carried months ago. “Not yet. And I want to get back to normal with Sovrano here first.”
“I thought you might say that.” He doesn’t look disappointed, just thoughtful. “Then I’ll come back Thursday evening. We can plan the next visit once we know how this one goes.”
“You’ll be tired after training.”
“It’s a few hours. I’ve done worse.”
I study his face, looking for the signs I’ve learned to read over the years.
The slight tension around his eyes that means he’s worried about my reaction. The way his thumb keeps moving against my shoulder, as though he doesn’t want to stop touching me while we discuss being apart.