5. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
March arrives soft and uncertain, the kind of early spring that can’t decide whether it’s done with winter.
The mornings are still cool enough for a jacket, but by afternoon the sun breaks through with real warmth, and the gardens around Villa Belmare have started showing the first tentative colors of the season.
Today, though, is something different. The old families are gathering at the Ferrante estate for a clay shoot, a tradition that goes back generations according to everyone who’s mentioned it.
Valentin explained it over breakfast two days ago, rattling off names of families I’ve been slowly learning to place, describing the competition with the particular affection people reserve for customs they’ve known since childhood.
“You’ll enjoy it,” he said, which wasn’t quite the same as asking if I wanted to come. “The Ferrantes always put on a good spread afterward.”
Summer is excited about the outing, mostly because Delfina, who has come with us to help with Summer, promised her there would be horses on the estate and she might be allowed to pet one.
She chatters about this possibility for the entire drive, her stuffed rabbit pressed against the car window so it can see the countryside passing by.
“Bunny wants to ride a horse,” she announces. “A big one.”
“Bunny might have to start with a small one,” I tell her. “Build up to the big ones.”
“Bunny is brave.”
“Bunny is very brave. But even brave bunnies have to learn.”
Valentin glances at us in the rearview mirror and smiles, one of those unguarded moments that still catch me off guard. He looks younger when he smiles like that, more like the man I married and less like the Don he’s still learning to be.
The Ferrante estate sprawls across a hillside overlooking the coast, the main house visible from the road long before we reach the gates.
By the time we arrive, the grounds are already filling with families, children running across the manicured lawns, men in country tweeds gathering near what I assume is the shooting range.
Costanza is waiting near the entrance, elegant in charcoal gray, Ginevra beside her in cream wool. They make a striking pair, and I notice more than one photographer capturing the image as we approach.
“There you are.” Costanza greets Valentin with a kiss on both cheeks, then turns to acknowledge me with a nod that stops just short of warm. “Solenne. How nice that you could join us.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Ginevra steps forward to embrace Summer, who tolerates the attention with the particular patience of a child who has learned that adults require these rituals. “And how is my favorite little girl today? Are you excited to see the horses?”
“Bunny wants to ride one.”
“Does she? Well, we’ll have to see what we can arrange.” Ginevra straightens and meets my eyes with that polished smile. “Solenne. You look well. The country air must be agreeing with you.”
“It has its charms.”
We make our way toward the shooting grounds, a gentle slope of manicured grass with a pavilion set up at one end for spectators.
The range itself is beyond a rope boundary, clearly marked, with officials in green vests moving between stations.
The setup is professional, careful, the kind of organization that speaks to decades of hosting this event.
I spot the sign-up table near the pavilion entrance and pause to look at the list. Names I recognize, families Valentin has introduced me to at various gatherings. The women’s division has perhaps a dozen entries, with Ginevra’s name near the top.
Costanza notices me looking. “The ladies’ competition is always popular.
Ginevra has won the past three years running,” she says it with obvious pride, as if Ginevra’s accomplishments reflect on her personally.
“Though of course, wives don’t usually compete.
It’s more of a spectator occasion for married women. ”
“Is that a rule?”
“Not a rule, exactly. More of a custom.” Costanza’s smile doesn’t waver. “These events have their traditions.”
I look at the list again. There is no column for marital status. The entry requirements mention nothing about wives or customs or who is expected to watch from the sidelines.
“I’d like to sign up.”
Costanza’s expression flickers, just for a moment, before the pleasant mask settles back into place. “I’m not sure that’s… appropriate. You haven’t trained for this sort of thing.”
“Actually, I have.” I keep my voice light, conversational. “I did an action film. The director wanted the gunwork to look authentic, so I trained with a professional marksman. Eight hours a day for four months. It wasn’t all pretend.”
Costanza blinks. Beside her, Ginevra’s smile has gone slightly fixed.
“You trained with guns,” Ginevra repeats. “For a film.”
“For a film. But the skills don’t disappear just because the cameras stop rolling.” I step toward the sign-up table. “Excuse me. I’d like to add my name to the ladies’ competition.”
The official at the table, an older man with kind eyes and a clipboard, looks up with interest. “Of course, Signora. Name?”
“Solenne Varga-Caruso.”
He writes it down with careful precision, then hands me a numbered tag. “You’ll be in the last rotation. The course is ten clays, standard sporting sequence. I’ll take you through our safety briefing before your turn.”
“Thank you.” I accept the eye and hearing protection he offers with the tag. He points out where competitors wait and where the spectator boundary ends.
I pin the tag to my jacket and turn back to find Costanza watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Beside her, Ginevra has recovered her composure, but there’s something sharper in her eyes now, something calculating.
“Well,” Costanza says. “This should be interesting.”
The spectator area is set up with comfortable chairs under an awning, refreshments circulating on silver trays.
I find a spot where I can watch the range while keeping Summer in view.
Delfina has her behind the boundary with a group of children, all wearing ear defenders.
I can see Summer showing off her rabbit to a little boy who seems appropriately impressed.
The men’s competition runs first, and I watch Valentin take his turn at the line.
He’s competent, clearly familiar with the shotgun, hitting seven of his ten clays with clean precision.
Not the best score, but respectable. He hands off the gun and crosses to where I’m sitting, his face flushed with the mild exertion.
“How did I do?”
“Seven out of ten. Very respectable.”
“Respectable.” He makes a face. “That’s what people say when they mean average.”
“I said very respectable. There’s a difference.”
He drops into the chair beside me and accepts a glass of water from a passing server. Before I can tell him about my entry, one of the hosts calls him over. Valentin holds up a finger to the man, then turns back to me.
“Mother wants me to meet someone before lunch. Will you save me a place?”
“I might be busy by then.”
“With the horses?”
“Possibly.” I glance at the numbered tag pinned to my jacket, but he’s already standing. “Don’t miss the ladies’ round.”
“I won’t.”
I watch him join the host. I’d rather he stayed long enough to hear an answer, but I’m not running after him to deliver one. My name is on the board now. He can find it there.
The men’s competition finishes with polite applause. The official announces a brief intermission before the ladies’ division, and I excuse myself to check the borrowed shotguns available for competitors who didn’t bring their own.
The official from the sign-up table is overseeing the equipment. He shows me the available options, checking their fit before we settle on one.
“This one,” I say, indicating the one that feels familiar in my hands. “Similar to what I trained with.”
“Good eye. That’s a quality piece.” He notes the selection on his clipboard. “You’re in the last rotation, after Signorina Solano.”
“I know.”
He hesitates, then lowers his voice slightly. “The Signorina has won this competition three years running. Some of the regulars bet on her.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
His eyes crinkle. “It’s not a warning, Signora. Just information.” He sets it aside for my turn. “Good luck out there.”
I return to the spectator area to find Summer has left the other children and is now sitting in Delfina’s lap near the edge of the awning. Delfina is readjusting the bright pink ear defenders that Summer has managed to knock crooked.
“Mama!” Summer waves when she sees me. “Bunny needs these for the loud booms too.”
“Bunny can borrow them when the shooting stops.” I kneel down to check the fit. “How do they feel? Not too tight?”
“They make everything sound funny.” Summer giggles and presses her hands over the ear defenders, then releases them. “Like being underwater.”
“You keep those on until I tell you it’s safe to take them off, okay? Even if it feels silly.”
“Okay, Mama.”
Delfina catches my eye over Summer’s head. “I’ll keep her right here. She won’t go past the boundary.”
“Thank you.”
The first rotation of the ladies’ competition begins. I watch from the edge of the spectator area, studying the other competitors, noting their stances and timing. Most are competent, comfortable with the guns, hitting five or six clays out of ten. A few do better, managing seven.
Then Ginevra steps up to the line.
She handles the shotgun with obvious familiarity, her stance balanced and confident. When the first clay launches, she tracks it smoothly and fires, and the orange disc shatters against the gray sky.
She hits the second clay, and the third. The spectators murmur approval. On the fourth, she hesitates just a fraction of a second too long, and the clay sails past intact. She recovers quickly, hitting the fifth and sixth with clean precision.
Seven, eight, nine. All hits. The crowd is watching closely now. If she hits the tenth, she’ll have scored nine out of ten, an excellent round.