We fall into a pattern of sex and absence. He spends most of the night inside me, moving, thrusting, pulsing in the clasp of my body. In the daytime he’s mostly gone, either working in the office or visiting one of the businesses.
I feel changed in some elemental way. Maybe because I’m married. Or maybe because I’ve fallen in love. Either way, dread creeps through me every hour I spend alone.
My sister is coming for me on Saturday. Romero still shadows my every movement, more vigilant now after my first escape attempt. And I think he’s mapping the tunnels of the house. I’ll have to think of a new method to get away from him on Saturday.
No matter how Giovanni has changed me, no matter how much I love him, I’ll meet my sister in that pool house. Because of all people, I know that love doesn’t conquer everything. Living as a prisoner in the house of my nightmares isn’t a foundation for a marriage.
All I have to do is wait until Saturday night.
In the meantime, I need a new way to escape from Romero.
But Giovanni fights against my plan without even knowing it.
On Tuesday he takes me to one of the sitting rooms in the guest wing. The dusty furniture has been cleared out, the floor replaced with hardwood, heavy draperies torn from the windows and replaced with breezy white linens.
On one side of the room, large blocks of stone of various sizes and colors catch the light. I recognize soapstone and granite, and a particularly large prism of red alabaster that takes my breath away.
“I didn’t know what kind of stone you prefer,” Giovanni says, sounding hesitant. “If you like any of them, I can get more.”
Distantly I see an antique wooden hutch with gleaming tools arranged inside. My eyes are all for the stones. Most of them come only to my ankles, a few to my knees. They’re small pieces, but even a cursory inspection tells me they’re rare—and this variety could never be local.
Granite and sandstone are plentiful at a quarry about an hour south of here. I went there before on a rare outing with Honor. But all of these types and colors and striations couldn’t be found in one place. Even the selection at my art school isn’t this wide.
It would take me years to sculpt all these pieces, and I can’t wait to start.
I turn to face him, heart beating wildly. “Gio, these are amazing. Where did you get them?”
One large shoulder lifts, dismissing the effort. “Here and there.”
Circling the red alabaster piece, I see the remnants of a sticker. El Amarna, it says. Customs. There’s no way he sourced this stone and had it flown in since I’ve been in this house. “You ordered this before I got here,” I say, running my finger along a jagged edge, deep red striated with black.
His cheeks darken faintly. “I started collecting them when you entered art school.”
* * *
On Wednesday we take his Shelby convertible to the Rock Canyon National Park, Lupo in the backseat beside a wicker basket. A thirteen-mile scenic drive with the top down puts a thousand knots
in my long hair and a goofy smile on my face. Giovanni doesn’t quite smile—I’m not sure he’s capable of regular emotions like happiness anymore. But he does seem far more relaxed than he does at the mansion.
We take an easy hike route and avoid a large rainwater pond. I give him a questioning look.
“I don’t like the sound of water,” he answers.
When our legs are tired we find a plateau overlooking the valley and eat chicken-salad sandwiches while a gray northern harrier glides high above us. Lupo chases a chorus frog into the brush and comes back with nettles in his fur. These are the moments I would have dreamed of when I imagined the old Gio and myself together.
It’s almost, almost enough to make me stay.
Except that we have to go back to the mansion, to the life. To everything I despise.
He gets a phone call on the way back. I only hear his half of the conversation. “Hello? Tell him no, absolutely not. He knows what the alternative is. I wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly. If he wants to commit suicide, that’s his business.”
* * *
Every night he teases and tortures me with an ever-increasing erotic skill set. And I surrender with abandon, forgetting what he does during the day, ignoring the violence, pretending not to know who used to sleep in this room. It bothers me, though, especially in the clear light of day. I try to spend most of the time Giovanni is away from me in the studio, sculpting or sketching.
On Thursday brown paper bags stuffed with acrylic paints and high quality brushes appear in Giovanni’s bedroom. I unpack the colors with glee, running my fingers over the cream hog bristles.
“I love them. But why did you put them here?” I would have thought he’d put them in the studio.