by Tillie Cole
“Like that of him and your mother,” she said softly. Her eyes were glistening, and the apples of her cheeks were pink.
“Yes.” I sighed. “He said that once you find that person, your split-apart, you are blanketed by such belonging, such desire, that you will never want to be without it . . . as Plato said, ‘and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.’”
We followed the direction of the track to a part of the dirt road bordered by tall, imposing cypress trees. We were almost back at my home. As I saw the chimney smoke from my wood burner rising into the darkening sky, I found myself wishing this ride could last just a little bit longer.
“I . . .” I met Caresa’s gaze. She blinked away the shine from her eyes and said, “I think that is the most poetic and heartrending view on soul mates I have ever heard.”
My heart pounded. My hands grew damp, and shivers darted down my spine. “You do?” When my father had told this to his friends over the years, most had ridiculed him as over-sentimental.
Secretly, I had always thought my father had been right. I saw the undying love he had for my mother in his eyes every day. She had been his everything.
Caresa’s hand went to her chest, right above where her heart lay. “To have someone feel that way about you. To have someone love you so much for so long.” She shook her head. “How could anyone ever wish for more?”
“The prince may feel that way about you.” I didn’t know why I said it. But at the mention of the prince, Caresa’s expression hardened and she cast her eyes away. The words infused my mouth with a bitter taste.
“We shall see,” Caresa answered after a beat, but even I, a man who had no experience with women, or even people, could hear the doubt lacing her words. She believed the prince was not her split-apart.
He would never make her spirit whole.
We turned the final corner onto a narrower track that led home. Just as we reached the gate, Caresa said, “How did your father live all those years without her?”
This time it was my turn to find water in my eyes. “He said a part of her soul lived within me. He saw her every day through me. I looked like her and had her personality. And he knew he would meet her again in the afterlife. He said that years on earth were nothing to wait through. Not when soul mates’ bound eternities were promised after this life. Until then, he was content to be a devoted loving father to me . . . to his vines.”
A lone tear had escaped onto Caresa’s smooth, tanned cheek. I wanted to reach out and wipe it away. Caresa chased it away with her hand. “It gives us all hope, does it not?” she whispered. “That we may even have a mere scrap of the same?”
“My father said you would know when you found it. It may not be apparent at first, but eventually, an overwhelming sense of peace would settle in your heart, and you would just know . . . know that you were bonded for life.”
“Abrielle,” she whispered my mother’s name, tipping her head up to the sky as though my mother could perhaps hear her in paradise. She must have read some of the articles my father had placed on the tack room wall. She dropped her head. “She was a national champion in dressage?”
“Yes. She rode until she fell pregnant . . . then she never rode again. She set her dressage routines to opera, symphonies or choral music.”
“So do I. When the competition calls for it,” Caresa remarked fondly. When I looked at her this time, it took us longer to break our locked stares.
We arrived at the paddock and drew our horses to a stop. I pointed to the small practice arena where my horses now grazed most days. “My father built this for my mother. He would tend the vines and she would ride. After her death, he taught himself dressage in her honor. He even trained Rosa to a high standard before he got ill. It helped him keep her memory alive, I think.”
Caresa smiled as she looked at the arena. I dismounted from Nico and took the reins over his head, ready to lead him away, when she said, “Achille?” I looked at her over Nico’s back. “Do you have the music you play in the fields nearby?”
My eyebrows pulled down in confusion, but I nodded.
“I don’t suppose you have “Sogno” by Andrea Bocelli, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
Caresa squeezed her legs and steered Rosa through the gate to the paddock. She turned to me. “Could you get it for me, please?”
I didn’t question her further. I tied Nico’s reins to the fence and ducked inside the barn. My old cassette player was on the counter where I always left it. I took the Andrea Bocelli cassette from its case and inserted it.
When I went outside and saw Caresa in the arena, I stopped dead. Caresa was schooling Rosa, warming her up.
She was doing dressage.
Only she was not only doing it, it was a flawless execution as she urged Rosa into a smooth extended trot. Caresa was sitting perfectly in her seat, even more so when she turned Rosa and brought her into a piaffe—an elegant and complex diagonal movement—directly across the paddock. The mare was slightly rusty in her movements, but I could see that she had retained some memories of my father’s training.
Caresa saw me watching and came over to the edge of the fence. “Press play when I give you the signal.”
I sat on a stone bench just behind the fence and watched her move to the center. She closed her eyes, leaning forward to run her hand over Rosa’s neck. It looked like Caresa was whispering something to her. When she straightened, she looked my way and lowered her head. I pressed play. The music began.
Then I sat, mesmerized, as Caresa began an obviously well-practiced routine to the slow tempo of Andrea Bocelli’s voice. Her movements were fluid and poised, like a prima ballerina on stage. Rosa responded to every subtle command Caresa gave, the Andalusian doing what her breed did best—dancing with breathless grace.
She was almost as beautiful as the angelic rider on her back.
Even in fitness clothes with her dark hair pulled back off her face, Caresa’s beauty was a shining light, a beacon. Her smile was soft on her lush lips as she executed each move with practiced ease. Her skin was flushed from the exercise. Or maybe it was from doing something she loved.
As the music faded out, Caresa brought Rosa back to the center of the arena. My jaw dropped when Caresa worked her legs and Rosa dipped to bow. I saw the burst of joy take Caresa hold as Rosa completed the difficult move.
When Rosa righted her stance, Caresa directed an elegant bow my way. The only things I was aware of were her happiness, my awe and the singing birds nearby.
Caresa dismounted and removed Rosa’s tack. After Rosa had been turned out to graze, Caresa returned, carrying the saddle in her hands and the bridle over her shoulder.
When Caresa approached me, I had absolutely no words.
“She is an excellent horse,” Caresa commented. “Your father has trained her well. She is a natural at dressage, but then most Andalusians are.”
I nodded. I wanted to tell Caresa that only a rider of her caliber could get such a performance from a fresh horse. But I didn’t. Something inside me suddenly felt different, stealing my confidence.
I didn’t know what it was . . . it made me feel both empty and filled at the same time.
A roll of thunder sounded in the distance. Caresa looked at the approaching gray clouds. “There’s a storm coming. I had better go.” I still didn’t say anything as she took the tack into the tack room then, with a delicate wave goodbye, headed for the path toward the main house.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky. “Caresa?” She turned. “You . . . you are welcome to come back tomorrow . . . if you wish, if you don’t have any engagements to attend. To harvest, and maybe school Rosa, if you want? She . . . she has no one else to ride her.” I ducked my head, unable to look her in the eye. My heart was beating incredibly hard, so hard I rubbed my hand across my chest, searching for relief.
“I would like that,” she replied quietly. I didn’t look at her again. I didn’t watch her
leave. Instead I removed Nico’s tack and put the horses in their stables. I gave them fresh water and a hay net each, and then the heavens opened.
Taking the cassette player, I was about to go and crush the grapes in the barn. But when I looked over at the tack room, I changed my plan. I entered the small room, walked to the locked closet at the back and unlocked the door. A spray of dust and the distinct scent of stale leather assaulted my senses. I flicked on the light, my mother’s old horse equipment suddenly revealed.
I took the pieces out, one by one, assessing what I could salvage and what had perished beyond recall. Then I lit a fire and sat down beside it, saddle soap and wax at my feet.
Against the climbing orange flames of the burner and the pounding rain hitting the roof above, I began the hard task of restoring the tools of a lost dream, of bringing them back to life.
As the cassette player at my feet flooded the room with “Sogno,” I thought of Plato and vines. Of split-aparts and soul mates anew . . .
. . . and a single, solitary tear rolling down flushed and flawless skin.
Chapter Seven
Caresa
It was two days before I could get back to Achille. Maria had returned from Assisi early, and we had nothing but meetings to occupy each day. I had now chosen the silverware, the color scheme and the menu for the wedding.
The hours had dragged. Each minute that I spent in the great room, tasting the exquisite food and running my hands over plush velvets and silks, my mind had been back with Achille in his vineyard. I wondered how far he had got with the harvest.
I wondered how many times he had ridden out around his land. I wondered if he had missed me being there.
The very thought should not have ever crossed my mind, yet it was the single most occupying question I had.
“We’re done for the day,” Maria said. “The luncheon is tomorrow at noon. Some of the women from the biggest families are coming from Florence. There should be about twenty-five in total.” Maria stood. “Your outfit is in your closet.”
“Thank you,” I said and got to my feet. I walked Maria to the door. “Any word on when Zeno will be back? I’ve had no word from him since my arrival.”
Maria tried to hide the sympathy in her eyes. No, not sympathy, pity. Her hand gently landed on my arm. “He will be back for the Bella Collina grape-crushing festival, which is also the day the International Wine Awards will notify the winners. Then, that night, it will be his coronation dinner. The most important families from around the country will attend.” Maria released my arm. “We then have the masked ball to prepare for at the beginning of December, and the Christmas festivities later that month.” She gave me a tight smile. “Then your wedding. My advice would be to get your sleep now, Duchessa, while you still can.”
Maria left, and I shut the grand doors behind her. I pressed my back against the wood and closed my eyes. The grandfather clock began to chime three o’clock. My eyes opened and drifted to the oil painting of Achille’s land. Before I had even had time to contemplate my decision, I was darting up the stairs to my rooms, where I swiftly changed into my jodhpurs, boots and long-sleeved riding shirt I had brought with me from New York. Clutching my riding hat and crop in my hands, I decided to exit through my balcony’s double doors. The staff here never questioned anything I did, but for some reason I found myself wanting to keep my whereabouts from prying eyes.
The sky was overcast, and the sun was partially hidden by the clouds. I picked up my pace as I passed through a shortcut I had found. My walk was brisk, and in only half the time it usually took, I arrived at Achille’s home. I had been away only two days, yet when my eyes beheld the gray stone cottage and the majestic garden, the same sense of wonderment seized me.
When I arrived at the barn, there was no opera music playing, no Verdi blasting like a siren to signal where Achille worked. I searched the vines, yet I could not see him anywhere. Eventually I saw Rosa alone in the paddock; he must have been out for a ride.
I decided to take the opportunity to school Rosa. I turned for the tack room, and then I heard the sound of galloping hooves beyond the trees. As I ducked through the branches, my feet instinctively carrying me forward, I didn’t realize there was a smile on my face until my cheeks ached in a cool snap of the wind. The trees were on a slightly raised hill, and the elevation awarded me a perfect view of Achille racing Nico toward home.
Like every other day, Achille was shirtless, his uniform of faded work jeans cladding his legs. But what held me captive was the happy expression on his face as the wind whipped through his black hair. Every well-toned muscle was flexing as he controlled the reins. So much so that the sensation of butterflies swooping in my stomach stole my breath and parted my lips. The grip on my riding hat’s chinstrap became impossibly tight, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks.
Achille drew Nico back to a canter, then to a slow sitting trot. As he turned right toward the closed gate to the residential part of his property, his eyes collided with mine, and he jolted in his saddle.
He must have thought I had decided not to return.
I waited beside the path on the inside of the gate for him. He came toward me and dismounted, dropping only inches from where I stood. I shifted on my legs when they actually weakened at his close proximity. His scent assaulted me, all fresh air and an earthy musk.
“You came back?” he said, his voice cracking. His handsome face was drawn into a serious expression. My heart stuttered.
He was beautiful. Achille was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.
I must have been staring at him too closely or for too long, because his eyebrows rose and he began rocking awkwardly on his feet. I pushed my hair back from my face in an attempt to break the sudden tension. Yet my hand shook as it ran through my shoulder-length strands.
I didn’t know if he meant to do it. By the lost expression on his face afterwards I assumed he did not. When I dropped my hand, Achille reached out with his and caught a strand of my hair between his finger and thumb. His full lips parted and a slow breath escaped. “Your hair is down,” he said with such reverence that I was in no doubt that he liked it better than my jogging bun.
I stood motionless, fighting my body’s natural pull to his—like magnets, I thought. This close, my body was drawn, striving to get closer. I . . . I had no idea what to do with this startling truth.
Achille must have realized what he was doing. He dropped my hair like it was a naked flame. He took a step back, his tanned face flushed. He turned and led Nico toward the paddock. I held back for a few seconds to steel my frayed nerves. I stared at the grass beneath my feet. But when I looked up and saw Achille’s tense, naked back highlighted so perfectly in the afternoon sunlight, my heart raced anew.
You can’t do this, Caresa, I told myself—no, commanded myself. At that very moment, Achille glanced over his shoulder. As his gaze locked on mine, my instruction to myself fled with the last of my good sense.
His nostrils flared and his biceps tensed, I allowed myself a moment to admire him—guilt-free and uncensored. I could see he was doing exactly the same with me.
It took an impatient whinny from Rosa to release us from the spell.
Deciding to act like the grown-up woman I was, I pulled myself together and went to the paddock. I leaned against the fence as Achille went to release Nico. Before he did, he asked, “Did you come to ride Rosa?”
“I did,” I replied. “But if it’s too late, I understand. I have been kept away the last couple of days with meetings. This was the first chance I got to escape.”
It was slight, but I saw Achille’s expression soften. I realized I must have answered his unspoken question: why had I not returned sooner?
“It’s not too late,” he said softly, steering Nico away from the paddock’s gate and toward his stable instead. He led the gelding inside, then carried his tack toward the tack room. I followed to retrieve Rosa’s.
I moved toward the saddle and bridle I had used on Rosa
a couple of days before. Then, to the left, I saw a set I hadn’t seen before. The light was dim in the dark room, so I moved closer. My hand flew to my mouth. On a wooden plinth were an exquisite dressage saddle and bridle. They were old, but their condition was immaculate.
I kneeled down to examine them further and spotted the Savona royal crest embossed onto the saddle’s skirt. I sensed him close by. I didn’t have to look around to know he was there.
“Achille, these are stunning.”
I heard him take a deep breath. Then I felt his body heat as he came closer. It took him several long seconds to say, “They were my mother’s.”
My heart melted at the gentle edge to his deep rasp. When he said the word “mother’s” it was more pronounced than the rest, as if he was unused to saying that word aloud. I supposed he was. He had never known her.
Not even a little bit.
“This was her championship tack?”
“Yes. My father kept it all these years. He took care of it every week for as long as I can remember—soaping, waxing and oiling the leather. I have not touched it since his death . . . but then . . . when you . . . the other day . . .” He stumbled over his words, and I looked up. His arms were crossed over his chest, his tense posture exuding discomfort.
“It’s beautiful.” As I looked back at the tack, his previous words finally sank into my brain. I have not touched it since his death . . . but then . . . when you . . . the other day . . .
A sudden pulse of emotion swept over me like a cresting wave. My fingers trembled as they ran over the cantle of the saddle. He had not touched it in several months . . . until now.
Until me.
“I . . . I thought that if you liked dressage, you might want to use this.” He shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. “Or not. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, I—”
