Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
I had a feeling I was going to have a lot of free time on my hands.
Finally, I went inside and returned to the kitchen. I told Marcus I was going to lie down after I ate, and he nodded, disappearing down the hall. Mrs. Armstrong presented me with a lovely salad, loaded with chicken and cheese, and sat talking to me while I ate. She told me Matteo was a pasta lover, preferred meat to chicken, occasionally ate fish because she made him, and had a sweet tooth.
“I love to bake cookies,” I told her.
“I’ll see the pantry has all the supplies,” she assured me.
“Have you been here long?”
“Oh.” She waved her hand. “Many years. I was with Mr. Campari before he moved here as well. Going on twelve years.”
“That is a long time.”
She nodded. “He works too hard. What he does—” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I’m glad he found you. I’ve been praying he’d find his own angel to help him. He needs his own life.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. It was obvious she was fond of him and knew what he really did for a living. But I didn’t question her.
She was pleased when I told her to carry on with her normal routine. I had no experience running a huge house like this and wasn’t sure Matteo really wanted me to butt in. When she told me she had the weekends off as well as every second Monday, I assured her I would happily cook on those days. She beamed at me. “Good. I will not have to cook ahead for Mr. Campari, then. I usually go see my daughter and grandkids, and I always worry he won’t eat, otherwise.”
After lunch, I returned to our room, not surprised to find all the clothes and items Roza had purchased were put away. I peeked in the massive walk-in closet, feeling as if I was trespassing as I stepped in, looking at the contents. Matteo’s suits, shirts, and pants hung in rows of military alignment along one side. There were pull-out drawers of T-shirts and other items, and a full-length mirror at one end. The other side held my new clothing, and I ran my hand over the items, smiling at the softness of all the fabric. Not a black piece of clothing in sight. Greens, blues, pinks, and other pastels filled the hangers. Pretty skirts and blouses were hung up, more soft yoga pants and casual clothing filled some of the drawers. Lacy lingerie occupied another. A new robe hung on a hook, the brilliant green silk soft under my touch. My half of the wardrobe looked empty still, yet I had never had so many clothes to choose from. The bathroom held a dizzying array of lotions, makeup, and other toiletries. I wandered back to the bedroom, sitting on one of the chairs, and looked around. Unbidden, tears sprang to my eyes, and I held my face in my hands and sobbed.
Strangely enough, they were tears of gratitude and relief and nothing else that I shed.
The next two days went by, equal in their passage of time. I swam in the pool, enjoying the unexpected luxury of having the whole pool to myself. I did laps, floated a little, and splashed around like a kid since there was no one to tell me to stop.
I saw Matteo only occasionally during the day. People came and went. I heard him talk, yell, curse, often in Italian. I caught glimpses of him pacing, entering his office or the other room, always shutting the door behind him. He issued orders, and they were never questioned. Long silences happened, and Lila confirmed they were studying information on a case. That was all she would tell me when she popped in for coffee, instead talking about the house or the weather.
However, when I did see him in person, he was patient and steady with me, never losing his temper. On the second day, while Mrs. Armstrong was out on an errand, I made him a sandwich, noting his usual lunchtime had come and gone. I had also noticed he yelled more when he was hungry and thought it might make things easier on his men if he ate now instead of waiting for Mrs. Armstrong to return. Unsure what he liked, I made him a sandwich the way my dad always liked it. Piled high with meat and cheese, fresh tomatoes, thinly sliced red pepper, and slathered with mayo.
I gave it to Marcus, asking him to deliver it to Matteo, and I sat down to eat a much smaller version of the sandwich at the table by the window.
I was surprised when the door opened and Matteo walked in, holding the plate and the untouched sandwich. I felt a flash of disappointment, which evaporated when he set down the plate and bent to kiss my mouth. “My wife made me lunch. How utterly…delightful,” he murmured.