27. Georgina #2
“The vet checked him again at home. She didn’t find an injury.” I rub my thumb over the handle of my cup. “He was interested in his breakfast before I’d stopped shaking.”
Her mouth softens, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“What did you work on?”
“Walk and trot,” I say. “Through the poles. Working on rhythm, on staying balanced. Max adjusted the distances when I asked.” I pause. “It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a breakthrough. It was just… normal. Quiet.”
“But you did it.”
“I did it.”
“Sovrano was patient,” I say quietly. “When I asked him to walk, he walked. I could take a minute without feeling I was spoiling the whole morning.”
“Was Max worried?”
“A little. So was I.” I wait for her to explain why I shouldn’t have ridden. When she doesn’t, I continue. “But he let me decide what I wanted to do. I asked for another pass through the poles before we finished.”
“You wanted to keep going.”
“Yes. That was the good part. I wanted to.”
My mother looks toward the stable roofs beyond the garden. “I told you riding was a distraction. Before you were married. I thought there were better things for you to spend your time on.”
“More useful things.” I remember the distinction perfectly. “I was allowed to watch. Actually wanting to do it was the problem.”
“It wasn’t a problem.” She looks back at me. “I made it one.”
For a moment I can’t answer. I remember coming home from stolen morning rides and thinking that if I could get upstairs without being seen, I could keep the happiness a little longer. Years later, I was still choosing what to tell her by how much it would hurt to hear her dismiss it.
I pick up a biscotto and turn it between my fingers. “I don’t want to hide the good things from you because I’m afraid you’ll spoil them.”
“I don’t want you to have to.” She stops, then adds, more quietly, “I know saying that doesn’t mean you’ll believe me.”
“What else did you do this morning?” she asks. “With the poles.”
“We worked on a figure eight. Changing direction through the center.” I find myself warming to the subject despite myself. “I wanted to keep the same easy pace through the turn instead of hurrying to get to the other side.”
“Did it work?”
“Eventually. The first few times he rushed it. But by the end, we were getting a nice rhythm.”
“What will you work on next?”
“Transitions,” I say finally. “Walk to trot, trot to walk. Getting them smooth, so he doesn’t hollow his back or rush forward.”
“How long will that take?”
My hand stops on the cup. She sees it.
“I’m sorry,” she says before I answer. “That sounded like a deadline.”
“It did.”
She nods once. “Tell me when you want to tell me.”
I study her for a moment, then finish breaking the biscotto in half. “I will. I don’t know how long. I want to enjoy it.”
“All right.”
Two words, and she leaves them there. No advice follows. I take a bite and discover that I’m hungry.
We talk for a while longer, about small things and larger ones. She asks about the house, and I tell her about the table, the cushions, the work I’ve been doing to make this place my own. She doesn’t criticize my choices or compare them to what she would have done. She just listens.
When the hour is nearly up, I find myself facing a decision I hadn’t expected to make.
“I can’t forgive you yet,” I say. “I need you to understand that. What happened between us, the years of feeling like I wasn’t enough… I can’t just set that aside because you’ve apologized.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“But I can give you a chance to do better.” I meet her eyes. “Call me before you visit. Don’t bring me messages from Giselle, or ask me to do things for her. Don’t tell me what I should feel or how quickly I should heal. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Then call me next week. We can meet for coffee somewhere. Talk more.”
“I’d like that.” She doesn’t reach for more, doesn’t try to bargain for a larger concession. “Thank you, Georgina.”
We walk together to the front of the house, where her car is waiting. The driver opens the door, and my mother pauses before getting in.
“The morning ride,” she says. “Will you tell me how the next one goes? When we have coffee?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”
She gets into the car, and I watch it disappear down the drive. The afternoon is quiet around me, the garden warm and still.
I find Max in the study, as promised. His sleeves are pushed up, and there are two sheets of notes beside the open laptop. He looks up when I appear in the doorway.
“She’s gone?”
I nod and cross the room. He pushes his chair back as I reach him, and I catch his hand before he can stand.
“Stay there a moment.”
I lean down and put my arms around his shoulders. His face settles against my blouse, his hands warm at my back. For a few breaths I just hold him, feeling the steady pressure of his arms, the relief of not having to choose the next thing to say.
“She apologized,” I tell him. “And she asked about the ride. I told her about the poles.”
“Did she listen?”
“She did.” My voice catches on the answer. “I kept waiting for her to stop.”
He rubs his hand once along my back. I draw away enough to look at him.
“I wanted to hug her when she left. I wasn’t ready to do it.”
“But I’m getting one?”
“You were conveniently placed.”
His mouth curves. “I’ll remember to keep this chair here.”
I kiss him, briefly at first, then once more because he follows when I start to pull away. When I straighten, he keeps hold of my hand.
“She can call next week,” I say. “We’ll see about coffee.”
Through the open window, I can hear Rosa speaking to someone in the garden.
The afternoon has continued while I was trying to decide how much of my mother I could let back into my life.
I look at Max’s notes and the pencil resting across them, then at our hands.
I don’t need to settle anything else before I can sit beside him for a while.
Next week, I might have something to tell my mother that doesn’t need defending.