Page 58 of Perfume Girl
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I was getting on great with him.”
“How great?”
“You know, we respect each other. Strictly professional. ” She lowered her voice. “He’s certainly not the marrying kind.”
“I got that impression.”
Taylor leaned forward. “Penelope was in the house, too, when the thing went down.”
“What thing?”
“The reason Astor was sent away. She would have been eleven.”
I wondered just what it was that had changed their lives so irrevocably.
“Don’t tell Astor we talked,” she said nervously. “He’s deeply private.”
Something happened in that house.Taylor’s words hung in the air
What probably happened was Astor’s mother was so wracked with grief she couldn’t cope with a strong-willed son. My heart ached for him, losing a father and then being sent to a monastery at such an impressionable age.
Still, why Havana? Why so far away?
Taylor gestured to the door. “Wanna take our drinks and go for a walk?”
“I’d love that.”
We strolled through the center of the market, perusing the stalls on either side as we sipped our coffee. There were so many things to capture our attention, from the local painters who were selling their art, to jewelry makers and carpenters showcasing their skills. There seemed to be something for everyone.
From somewhere came the sound of cheering and clapping and it reminded me of those lazy Sundays back in England when I’d watched my dad play cricket. I tried to cling to those happy memories of him instead of remembering how he’d walked out on us. I’d forgiven him, but that didn’t mean he was welcome in my life.
Taylor had stopped and was conversing with a middle-aged woman behind a stall. She paid for a small picture frame and the lady put her purchase in a paper bag.
“What’s that cheering?” I asked as we strolled away.
Taylor flashed a smile. “How are you with horses?”
“Love them.”
“There’s a match.”
“Match?”
“Polo.”
Vaguely, I recalled Astor mentioning something about his fondness for the sport. I wondered if Vedado was a polo horse—his thoroughbred stature certainly qualified him and he was agile enough. Not that I knew very much about it…though somewhere I’d read that the horses needed to be able to turn on a dime.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she said.
We made our way around the corner and beyond us lay a wide-open green. Eight horses were galloping around each other, all ridden by men who were driving them hard. I marveled at their tenacity to navigate so fast around each other, all of them wearing helmets and kneepads over their jodhpurs.
Cheers rose from the spectators as one of the polo players made a mad dash for the other end of the green. The other riders galloped after him.
We continued toward an impressively large white tent and after five minutes of trudging down a path made it to what was clearly a private event. A few hundred people mingled about, all of them sipping from flutes of champagne and making lively conversation. It was a contrast to the family atmosphere we’d just left.
But I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with obviously affluent strangers showing off their glitzy clothes while I was wearing a sundress from Target.
