5. Solenne #2
The clay launches. Ginevra tracks it, fires.
The clay flies on intact. The official marks it as a miss.
Eight out of ten. Still an excellent score, better than anyone else so far. Ginevra lowers the gun and allows herself a small, satisfied smile as she hands it off to the official. The spectators applaud warmly.
“Beautiful shooting,” someone says behind me. “She’ll be difficult to beat.”
I don’t respond. The remaining women in her rotation finish their turns. None beats her score. Mine is the last name on the board.
The wait feels longer than it probably is. I watch the other women shoot, trying not to let the gaps between turns make me impatient. When my rotation is called, I move to the equipment station, collect my chosen shotgun, and walk to the line.
The range looks different from this angle. The sky is pale, the trajectory markers clear against the grass, and beyond the spectator boundary I can see people turning toward the line. I stop looking for anyone I know.
“When you’re ready, Signora,” the official says.
I check that my eye protection and ear defenders are secure, then settle into my stance. The weight of the gun is familiar, comforting almost, the muscle memory of all those training hours rising up through my hands and shoulders. I nod.
The first clay launches.
I track it, lead it, squeeze. The disc shatters.
The second clay arcs left. I adjust, fire. Shattered.
Third, fourth, fifth. Each one breaks clean, the pieces falling like confetti against the sky. I’m not thinking anymore, just moving, letting the training take over, feeling the rhythm of load, track, fire, follow through.
Six. Seven. Eight.
My shoulder is starting to feel the recoil, but it’s a familiar sensation, almost welcome. Two more.
The ninth clay launches high. I catch it at the peak of its arc, and it disintegrates.
One more.
The final clay comes out faster than the others, angling sharp to the right. For a fraction of a second, I think I’ve misjudged it. Then my hands make the correction automatically, the muzzle swinging to track the target, and I fire.
The clay explodes.
Ten out of ten.
I open the action, lower the muzzle safely, and return the gun to the official.
Only then do I turn toward the spectators and lift my ear defenders.
People are applauding. It’s not the polite appreciation they gave Ginevra.
It’s genuine surprise, genuine admiration, the kind of response you can’t fake.
I’ve just won.
“Thank you for the loan,” I tell the official.
“Signora.” He’s looking at me with something like wonder. “That was… I’ve been running this event for fifteen years. I’ve never seen anyone hit all ten on their first competition.”
“I had good training.”
“I’d say so.”
The crowd is still buzzing as I step back from the line. People I barely know are congratulating me, shaking my hand, asking where I learned to shoot. I accept the attention gracefully, answering questions about the film, about my trainer, about the hours of practice that made this possible.
I feel like myself.
It’s such a strange realization to have in this moment, surrounded by people who have spent months treating me like an outsider. But standing here with my shoulder aching and my borrowed ear defenders tucked under my arm, I feel more like Solenne than I have since we arrived in Sicily.
I stop explaining that it was only for a film. When the next woman congratulates me, I simply thank her.
“Mama! Mama!”
Summer’s voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to see Valentin pushing toward me with our daughter on his hip. Her ear defenders are pushed back on her head like a headband, and she’s bouncing with excitement.
“You got all the oranges! Delfina said you got all of them!”
“I did.” I reach for her, and Valentin transfers her into my arms, her feet kicking impatiently toward me.
But before I can take her fully, he stops. His hands are still on Summer, steadying her, and he’s looking at me with an expression I haven’t seen in months. Wonder, pride, something that looks almost like the way he used to look at me on that rooftop in Los Angeles.
“Ten out of ten,” he says. “You hit every single one.”
“I did.”
“You told me to watch the ladies’ round.” He laughs at himself. “And I nearly missed you.”
“I did leave you a fairly large hint.”
He lets go of Summer and she settles into my arms, but he stays close, and he kisses my temple, gentle and deliberate, right there in front of everyone.
“That’s my wife,” he says, and his voice carries enough that the people nearby can hear it. There’s no embarrassment in his tone, no qualification. Just pride.
Summer wraps her arms around my neck, trapping my ear defenders between us. Valentin retrieves them before they fall and loops them over his wrist. He is still looking at me when I turn back to him.
“I didn’t know,” Valentin says, quieter now, just for me. “I saw the film, but I thought… I don’t know. I thought they edited it somehow. Made it look better than it was.”
“They didn’t have to.”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “Clearly not.” He rolls the numbered edge of my tag straight where it has folded under my jacket lapel. “I should have known. I should have asked more questions about your work, about what you actually did.”
“You can ask now.”
“I want to hear everything.” He waits for my answer, even when someone behind him calls his name. “The training, the film, all of it. I want to know how you learned to do that.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it anyway.”
Summer squirms in my arms. “I want down. I want to see the horses.”
“In a minute, sweetheart.” I shift her to my hip, but she’s getting heavy, and Valentin reaches out to take her.
“Let me. You should enjoy this.”
He lifts Summer easily, settling her against his chest, and she immediately starts undoing the top button of his coat. Summer chatters about the horses and the loud booms and how Bunny was scared but she wasn’t, and Valentin listens with genuine attention, nodding at all the right places.
“She says Bunny was scared,” he tells me solemnly. “I think we should respect Bunny’s privacy.”
“Bunny can hear you,” Summer informs him.
“My apologies, Bunny.”
He tips his head toward the rabbit. Summer makes it nod back, accepting the apology, and I laugh before I can stop myself.
Valentin catches it. He doesn’t comment or tell me how long it’s been. He just moves closer so Summer can make the rabbit apologize to me too, though none of us can establish what for.
“Valentin.”
Summer is still explaining on Bunny’s behalf when Costanza steps between us and the pavilion.
She’s approaching from the pavilion, Ginevra close behind her. Costanza’s expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tightness around her mouth.
“Mother.” Valentin turns to face her, Summer still in his arms.
“The fiesta committee has scheduled a preview for this afternoon. Ginevra has made a very generous donation to the children’s arts program, and they’d like the family representatives to review the plans before the public announcement.
” Costanza’s eyes flick to me, then away.
“The car will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll drive myself later. I want to stay with Solenne for a bit.”
“That won’t work, I’m afraid. They’ve gathered especially to welcome you. I told them we were leaving together.” Costanza’s voice is smooth, reasonable. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
“Then Solenne can come with us.”
“The car is rather small.” Costanza manages to sound regretful. “There’s barely room for three adults as it is, with the driver. And someone should stay with Summer.”
I watch Valentin’s face as he processes this. He wants to argue, I can see it, but I can also see the familiar calculation happening behind his eyes, the weighing of obligations and expectations that has become second nature to him.
“We have our car,” I say. “We could come together.”
Costanza barely pauses. “The visit has already been arranged. Three representatives. We shouldn’t keep everyone waiting while we change it.”
I look at Valentin. He knows how many of these events I’ve attended alone. For once, I want him to be the one who says that three is the wrong number.
He looks toward the drive, then back at me. “Will you be okay here?”
Summer has gone quiet against him, occupied with working Bunny’s ear through his buttonhole. I free it before she pulls too hard.
“Summer and I will stay for the horses. Leave me our keys.”
He takes them from his pocket. “I wanted to hear about the training.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
His fingers close briefly around the keys before he puts them in my palm. Behind him, Costanza is already thanking the host for a lovely morning. Ginevra has collected her coat.
He transfers Summer back to me, waiting until I have her securely before he steps away. “I’ll find you when I get back.”
“Okay.”
I watch him walk toward the cars with his mother and Ginevra, the three of them falling into step together. Costanza says something that makes Ginevra laugh, and then they’re climbing into the waiting vehicle, Valentin in the front seat, the two women in the back.
The car pulls away from the estate, gravel crunching under the tires. Summer points toward the paddock, where Delfina is waiting for us by the gate.
“Horses now, Mama?”
“Yes. Horses now.”
I settle her more comfortably against me. Our car keys press into my palm. I unpin my numbered tag, fold it once, and put both into my jacket pocket.
Through the rear window, Ginevra turns. She finds me still standing beside the shooting grounds and holds my gaze as the car rolls toward the gates.
Then she smiles.
She doesn’t need to check the scores.