The country club was quiet except for the rhythmic thud of hooves on the polo field. We had taken four loungers under a striped awning when Eve appeared, hair newly glossed, her white tennis dress skimming her thighs.
“There’s a competition on the lower lawn,” she said. “Winner gets a prize. Come on.”
Elio lowered his sunglasses. “What kind of prize?”
“Does it matter?” She was already walking.
We followed.
It was archery. A row of gold-lacquered bows, a single target fifty meters out. A handful of guests in linen and Rolexes were taking turns missing spectacularly.
The host, a silver-haired count with the posture of a retired cavalry officer, clapped his hands once.
“Miss Eve Kavanagh! The club hasn’t been the same since you left for Dublin. You must shoot.”
Eve gave the crowd that
