AFTER THE hackamore fiasco, to Destin’s relief, Tonio gave up on the new equipment experiments. He also dropped the cocky attitude, professionalism overtaking his normally colorful personality like a drab, gray moth emerging from a gaudy cocoon. Professionalism was good. It meant Tonio focusing his full attention on Destin’s problem, just as he had been hired to do. But brushing by him in the aisle, or speaking with him in the office for a few minutes a day about Sam’s progress, felt more like estrangement than progress. Destin found himself sifting Tonio’s words and parsing his body language for—what? Encouragement? Hope? Maybe it was there and he just couldn’t see it, but outwardly, at least, Tonio remained cool and preoccupied.
Tonio had every excuse for being preoccupied. On a good day, when Destin trained his field glasses on the practice arena from the office, Sam and Tonio looked like a Longines commercial, black horse and black-clad rider ticking over the jumps like fine-tuned clockwork. On bad days, brightly colored rails lay strewn across the arena like a game of pick-up sticks. When Al stopped by to chat and catch up on Sam’s progress, he and Destin made a morbid game of betting on the exact moment Sam would stop jumping. Over the course of the next week and a half, Destin came to excel at this game.
For most of that time, as though Tonio had brought Miami with him, the weather remained warm and fine. Destin daringly pulled his pleated khaki shorts out of storage and wore them to the office with polo shirts and loafers, and Tonio appeared out in the open with only his jersey hoodie to protect him from the elements. But those little bursts of Indian summer never lasted, and one morning, after a cold, drizzly night, Destin woke up to a world white with frost.
Tonio strolled into the office that morning, armored to the eyeballs in insulated nylon.
“You riding today?” Destin asked.
Tonio unzipped his jacket enough for his mouth to show and made a beeline for the cheery gas logs burning in the old office fireplace. “Yeah,” he said. “I had a couple of ideas last night. I’d like to try them out.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
Invite him to the house when he finishes riding.
Destin blinked. Where had that come from?
Light the fireplace. Make coffee and warm up some cinnamon rolls.
“Uhh…,” Destin added. The invitation balled itself up in his throat, a choking tangle of optimism and uncertainty. Maybe, with both of them relaxed and comfortable, they could open up to each other a little. Or maybe it would turn into a repeat of their first dinner together, complete with embarrassing silences and botched advances.
Tonio looked up from the fireplace, eyebrows raised, his angular face expectant.
Uncertainty won out. “Never mind,” Destin said. “Good luck with Sam. I hope your ideas work out.”
Why did this seem so easy with Tom? The question ran through Destin’s mind as Tonio walked out of the office. Maybe because Tom was a colleague and they spent so much time together. Tom was always approachable, not prickly and volatile like Tonio. Calm. Familiar.
Boring.
No, that wasn’t fair. But yes, it was. Destin had liked Tom because he was boring, and Tom liked Destin for the same reason. Because boring was safe. They both understood boring. Boring was so deeply ingrained in both their natures that it felt like home.
Coffee by the fire is boring.
My stupid khaki pants are boring.
Destin strolled over to the trophy case and peered at his reflection in one of the engraved silver trays. Everything it reflected—Destin’s hair, his face, his jacket—was beige.
I am boring.
Destin pushed away from the display of silver and wandered over to the fireplace. The heat felt good on his legs, and he put one foot up on the stone hearth. Over the mantel, the hunters rode through their eternal autumn forest.
I need to get out of here. Even with the large window overlooking the pasture, the office had turned into a claustrophobic cell. No, a dungeon filled with electronic instruments of torture. Phones that jabbered legalese in his ear. Computers that poured out financial problems like rivers of molten lead. The Spreadsheet of Woe and Despair. If there had been a way to crawl up on the mantel and fall into that long-ago hunt in the painting, Destin would have done so.
But I could….
Destin spun on his heel and peered out the window.
And maybe Tonio would like it too.
Destin held up his inspiration and examined it from all sides, looking for flaws. He saw none, and gleefully slipped his idea into his mental pocket, waiting for the right moment.