And it is mine.
I wind my way through the house and push through the heavy mahogany doors to my study. Each door is carved with the dignified crest of the Knights. Although my family has never belonged to the order, we have left their imprint on Chessarae in homage to their rich history. It gives the house character.
I walk straight to the bar that sits behind my desk. If I am visiting my mother today, as I always do on Fridays, I will require sustenance. My particular brand of sustenance comes in the form of forty-year old Scotch. I pour a glass, neat. I down it in one gulp. I savor the familiar burn in my mouth and then pour another.
“Don’t,” Adrian says from the door. He is uncharacteristically somber as he watches me drink. “Don’t do this to yourself, Luca. She doesn’t have the right.”
“Leave me,” I instruct him. “You know I have to go. I’d just as soon do it alone.”
“But you don’t have to do it at all,” he insists. “You don’t have to allow her to treat you as she does. It isn’t right. You don’t deserve it.”
“Ah,” I answer, as I swirl the amber liquid in the glass. “But therein lies the problem. You know that I do.”
I gulp it down, then thump my glass down on the antique wooden sidebar. It makes a satisfactory clang in the silence and I turn to Adrian.
“Don’t you have a car to service?”
I am being an ass and he doesn’t deserve it. I know that, so I smile at my oldest friend.
“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”
Adrian nods and reluctantly leaves the room. He knows me well enough to know not to push it, particularly on Fridays.
Even still, I find that I don’t want to leave. This study is my solace, my own fortress. The ceilings are extraordinarily tall in here, the walls paneled with cherry and framed with stone. It is dark, it is quiet and it feels like the safest place in the world. It was my father’s before it was mine and his father’s before his and so on. The idea of what these walls have seen, the secrets they must be keeping, is intriguing. And there are days, such as today, that I would just as soon never leave here.
But there are days, such as today, when I have unpleasant tasks to attend to.
I stride quickly out and down the halls to get this particular thing over with.
It takes almost five full minutes to walk from my study doors to my mother’s wing. She has an entire wing of the house all to herself, and many nights, I can see the lights flickering on and off in the various rooms as she is up throughout the night.
Ever since my father died, since he committed suicide, my mother has not been well. Not that she was ever well to begin with. Not truly. But she is worse now than she has ever been. Now, to put it less than eloquently, she is fucking insane.
I stand for a moment outside of her doors, and I take a deep breath as I pull the key from my pocket and turn it in the lock. I am scared of nothing in this life. But I am not fond of my mother.
I push the doors open and find her rooms dark. Very dark. Her drapes are drawn and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absence of light. But once they do, once I can see the silhouettes and shapes from within, I still don’t see her.
“Sophia?” I call out. My mother’s personal attendant has been with us for years. She has tolerated more than any one person should ever tolerate, years of verbal and physical abuse from my mother, yet she still remains. I can’t imagine why. I would have left long ago. “Sophia?”
“Yes, Mr. Minaldi?” She appears from nowhere, from the door leading to my mother’s sitting room. She looks tired, as though she hasn’t slept in a week. Her graying hair is disheveled and her clothing is rumpled, which is very unlike her. Sophia is not a pretty woman but she is always perfectly groomed, perfectly professional.
“Where is my mother?” I ask. Something passes over Sophia’s face and I can’t read it so I ask. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing, sir. I just don’t know that today is a good day for you to visit. Mrs. Minaldi has not had a good week.”
“How so?”
I look around and everything in the suite seems to be in place. There have been times when my mother has completely thrashed the place during violent tantrums. Nothing appears to be broken now, which is a good sign.
Sophia sighs.
“She is hallucinating again,” she tells me tiredly. “She thinks that she sees your father. It’s all I can do to keep her contained in this wing.”
“But you keep the doors locked,” I pointed out. “Even my mother cannot escape a locked door.”
“There are windows,” Sophia answers grimly.
I startle as I stare at the walls of windows that line this room. Every room in the suite has similar windows. My mother insisted upon it when she was moved to this wing. Although her wing is located on the ground floor, the windows are still too high up to climb through. She would probably break every bone in her body if she attempted it. She is frail in her older age.
“What do you suggest?” I ask. “Bars on them?”
Sophia shrugs. “I don’t know,” she answers. “But she is desperate at times to escape, to find your father. She wants to save him.”
“Her medication isn’t working?”
Sophia shrugs again. “It is more effective at times than others. There are moments when nothing can touch her hysteria. I don’t know what the answer is.”
“Dr. Bianchi is on vacation,” I tell her. “He won’t return for two weeks. But we’ll call him when he gets back and see if there is anything we can do.”
“Perhaps a change of environment would be good for her,” Sophia suggests. “There are homes in town where she can receive twenty-four hour care. Perhaps if she is in a place where Nicolas never was, it will ease her mind. Dr. Bianchi has already recommended this.”
I’m already shaking my head. “No. My mother would never want strangers to see her in such a way.”
She would rather be dead than that.
“You are a good son, Mr. Minaldi,” Sophia tells me. I can see the admiration on her face but I don’t deserve it. And since I don’t deserve it, I don’t acknowledge it.
“You never said where she was.”
Sophia is hesitant. “She is resting in her sitting room.”
“Sleeping?” I am hopeful. But Sophia shakes her head.
“No.”
“Sedated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank God for small favors.”
Sophia smiles at me.
“You can take a break,” I tell her. “I’ll sit with her for a bit.”
“Are you certain?” she asks and her hesitation is back. “You might need me.”
“If I do, I’ll call you,” I assure her. “Go. You deserve a break.”
She nods and slips away and I decide to just get this over with.
I find my mother curled on her side on a sofa. She is partially covered with a cashmere throw and her dark eyes are fixed in front of her, staring at nothing. She is small and slight, and the only things I have inherited from her are her dark eyes. My father’s were green.
I sit down in the chair next to her.
“Mother, how are you feeling today?”
I have to force the words. I honestly have no wish to speak with her.
She doesn’t answer and at first, I am hopeful that I can simply sit here in silence with her and then slip out unnoticed.
I have no such luck.
Her dark eyes turn toward me, slowly and eerily. I fight the shivers that ripple up my spine. She is a small woman, this woman who gave birth to me. There is no need to feel such trepidation around her. Yet, I do. When she looks at me, she sees through me, to the very depths of me. No one else can do that and it shakes the hell out of me.
“You came back.”
Her words are throaty and simple.
“I always do, mother,” I tell her. I start to reach for her hand, but change my mind. I am safer over here. I don’t w
ant to feel her skin. She will feel like ice, as she always does.
She turns her head more and now she is looking at me squarely. Her eyes are lucid and clear today and I wonder at what she is thinking.
I do not have to wonder for long.
“You left me here with that bitch. You don’t love me.”
I sigh. My mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. But she does have a wretched form of dementia that causes her to be cruel.
“She’s not a bitch, mother. Sophia is good to you. You should be nicer to her.”
My mother sniffs and then delicately sits up, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. I eye her warily. She could fly into motion at any time.
She watches my hesitation and her mouth stretches into a grotesque smile.
“You are afraid of me?” she asks. And her voice is ragged and edgy in this quiet room, this giant room that feels so much like a mausoleum. “Little Lukey, are you afraid of your mother?”
I steel myself against her and I can’t help but resent her. She sometimes called me Lukey as a boy. Sometimes it was lovingly and sometimes it was mockingly. Even back then, you never knew what you were going to get with her. One moment she was kind and the very next, she was bitter and cold. The constant was that she was always detached. She never wanted to get that close to me, which might be exactly the reason why I do not feel close to her now.
“No. I’m not afraid of you, mother. Is there a reason why I should be?”
As soon as I ask the question, as soon as the words pass my lips, I know it was a mistake. A light ignites in her eyes, an eerie, unnatural light, and I unconsciously lean away from her.
“Why, yes,” she answers. “Yes, there is, Lukey. You should always fear me because I know what you are.”
And then she opens her mouth and begins to scream and twist and rock in her seat and I grit my teeth. This is the mother that I know now, the one who may or may not be feigning insanity. This is my life and she is but a piece of it. I close my eyes and let her scream.
Chapter Seven
Eva
What should I wear?
I ask myself this question as I look into my small closet. It’s not that big of a question, because it’s not that big of a closet. I didn’t bring a lot of clothing. I choose a simple pair of khaki shorts, a black button up shirt and a pair of black slip-ons. I pull my hair into a low ponytail and slide on some lip-gloss. When in doubt, always go with a classic look. It’s something my mother taught me and it’s always held true.
I check the time. 6:55. Adrian should be here any moment.
For some reason, I feel a little nervous. It’s silly, but true. I haven’t had time for dates in so long, first because of medical school, then because of my residency. My personal life took a hard hit, I’ll be the first to admit it. And even though I’m not truly interested in Adrian, at least not long term, it will still be nice to sit down with someone charming for a dinner. And that makes me nervous because I’m out of practice. I’ll have to make an effort not to psycho-analyze him. Men tend to dislike that, if my memory serves me correctly.
There is a knock at the door and I glance at the clock. 6:59. He’s right on time, early in fact.
I open the door and Adrian is smiling at me already.
“Hi,” he says easily. And he hands me a bouquet of wildflowers. I laugh, because I recognize them from my own lawn.
“These look familiar,” I tell him. “So you have good taste.”
He laughs too because he knows he’s been caught. “It’s the thought that counts, right?” he tells me. “I’m sorry. I just left work. I wanted to stop and get you flowers, but I didn’t want to be late.”
“Now that is a quandary,” I agree. “Just a second, let me put these in water.”
“You look lovely,” he calls from behind me as I turn and leave the room.
“Thank you,” I call back over my shoulder.
I grab a tall glass because I can’t find a vase and I fill it with water, then set the flowers on the table.
“I’m ready,” I tell him as I grab my purse.
“After you,” he bows low at the door, exaggerated and gentlemanly. I have to laugh again. There is something about Adrian’s easy manner that is just so likeable. We laugh and chat all the way to Marianne’s and when we walk through the door, she greets us with a warm smile.
“Mia bella,” she says as she kisses my cheeks. “I see you’ve met our resident rogue!” And then she kisses Adrian’s cheeks too.
“Don’t listen to Marianne,” Adrian tells me in an exaggerated stage-like whisper. “It’s all unfounded rumor. I am no such thing.”
“Pish,” she tells him. “You’ve left more broken hearts behind you than a street-sweeper. You had better not hurt my new little friend.”
“Me?” And Adrian looks completely offended and puzzled. “I would never. And besides. Since when does a street-sweeper break hearts?”
Marianne leans up and smacks Adrian on the shoulder.
“You know what I mean, you rascal. A street-sweeper bowls over everything in its path, much like you do.” And she smiles again. “Let me show you to a table. I’m happy that you will be here to keep Eva company. As long as you behave yourself, that is.”
And she turns to show us to our table and Adrian leans toward me.
“I see you have a fan club already.”
I shrug. “People like me.”
He grins and I grin back.
“I’m kidding. She’s a very nice lady. She felt sorry for me last night since I was in here alone. She doesn’t realize that where I’m from, that’s very normal. A woman can eat alone and it’s not a tragedy.”
Adrian shakes his head. “Not true. Anytime you are eating alone, it is a tragedy for mankind. You should never be alone. There should always be someone with you to appreciate your beauty.”
I have to shake my head again at his blatant and sugary flirting and I can see what Marianne means. I’m quite positive that Adrian has broken more hearts than he knows what to do with and probably completely by accident. Thankfully, I know that I’m not interested in a relationship with him. I know that because when I’m ready, it will be with someone who turns my heart inside out.
Someone like Luca Minaldi.
The thought pops unbidden into my head, just as thoughts of him have been springing up right and left since I met him. I shake them away. This is ridiculous. I’m here with a handsome and charming man. I’m going to enjoy it, not spend it thinking of Luca Minaldi.
So I do.
We talk and sip at wine for hours.
I eat more breadsticks than I know what to do with. Adrian laughs because I’m so skinny but can apparently eat my weight in bread.
“I don’t know where you put it all, Eve,” he tells me, his eyes sparkling.
“My name isn’t Eve,” I tell him. “It’s Eva.”
“I know,” he answers. “But you are beautiful enough that you could tempt me into anything, even eating from the Tree of Life. So to me, you will always be Eve.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” I tell him and I know my cheeks are flushed from the wine. “You’re comparing me to someone who was the fall of mankind.”
He laughs and lifts his wineglass. “Here’s to temptation.”
I laugh and toast with him, but honestly, this conversation makes me a little uneasy. I feel a strange pressure now to return the admiration that he feels for me. And honestly, I just don’t.
It’s not that I don’t think he’s attractive. Clearly, he is attractive. And he’s charming and sweet. And I like him. But when I think of him, I think of a golden retriever. Happy, loyal, not too deep. I think I need a man with substance.
Like Luca Minaldi.
Ugh. There he is again. My thoughts are not safe from him, night or day. I dreamed of him last night and today he has been running rampant in there. I once again put him out of my mind as I make polite small talk with Adrian.
I feel suddenly
rude, suddenly fake.
I hope that Adrian hasn’t noticed that I am not as engaged in our conversation now as I was. I can’t help it. I can’t help what I feel, but I can help how I act. So I smile brightly as Adrian tells me about growing up in Malta.
“It was a lovely childhood,” he tells me. “I grew up on an estate outside of town. It was peaceful and very quiet and I had the full run of the place. But it was a little too quiet, you know? I like city life.”
“See, I’m just the opposite,” I answer. “I love the country and the quiet. I love people, but I like to return to my empty house at the end of the night and re-charge. I guess I’m an introvert in that way. You’re an extrovert through and through. Being with people feeds your energy.”
“You are right on the money with that,” Adrian laughs. “I do love to be with people. My boss, who happens to have been a childhood friend, is just the opposite. He would never come out if he can help it, a total introvert. I don’t really understand it.”
Marianne comes back to our table with another bottle of wine, but I stop her before she can open it.
“I can’t,” I tell her, as I look at my watch. “I’ve still got work to do tonight and I need to get up early tomorrow. I really should go.”
She smiles. “Will I see you tomorrow, sweet one? I’ll save you a table.”
I nod. “Of course. I can’t eat my own cooking, trust me. I’ll be here for dinner.”
She kisses me and I marvel in the fact that she has accepted me so quickly. It’s refreshing. People back home are slightly more suspicious and hardened toward strangers and I know that that is a cultural thing on both counts.
Adrian picks up the check, even though I try to insist that I would like to buy my own. But he is insistent, so I allow it this time. Once he pays it, we are once again out in the night breeze.
“I love this,” I say as I sniff at the brisk and salty sea air. “I could breathe this for the rest of my life. It makes for such a good night’s sleep.”