Page 54 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I was about to gaze out the window but this information makes my head spin and eyebrows reach into my hairline. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She’s brilliant, and very nice.” Viola avoids my glare by continuing to tap at the screen of her tablet. “Signor Corioni still sees her occasionally. He had a lot of history to make sense of, as I’m sure you know.”
My mouth opens and closes again like a fish. I know nothing of my new husband’s past, but that’s not why I’m stunned.
“What is Doctor Nowak’s specialism?”
“Psychology,” Viola replies, lightly. “She worksmainly with childhood traumas, bereavement, depression…”
“I’m not depressed,” I snap. “And my mother’s death ismybusiness, not that of some stranger with a psychology major.”
Viola places the tablet on her knees and turns to fix her gaze on me, patiently. “No one is diagnosing you, signora. But Signor Corioni believes she can help you.”
My face screws up in disbelief. “Why does he care?”
Viola just stares at me, her eyes moving side to side over mine like she can’t figure me out.
Leaving my question unanswered, she continues. “Twice a week you will be visited by the best spa therapists in the entire state.”
I open my mouth to object but she beats me to it. “Non-negotiable.”
I roll my lips inwards, annoyed that I have no say in any of this, although the idea of having regular spa treatments does sound pretty nice.
“You will have a personal trainer three times a week.”
Anger infuses me. “I don’t want to lose weight. It’s my body. He can’t tell me how to l?—”
“Weight loss is not the objective,” Viola replies, patience simply oozing from her. “Signor was very clear about that. A trainer will help you improve your cardiovascular health and your muscular strength. It will boost your overall wellness and self-esteem.”
“My self-esteem is just fine,” I mutter, fixing my gaze back on the passing landscape.
Viola doesn’t reply, leaving my interpretation of her response—“I beg to differ”—to hover about my shoulders.
“Your sisters have been invited to visit one month from now, and every two weeks thereafter, if schedules permit.”
A thread of gratitude warms my heart, then I remember that having my sisters visit would help advance Andreas’ agenda anyway—they will no doubt accompany Cristiano and Benito, Andreas’ colleagues in this alliance.
“Here we are.”
Viola’s sudden announcement sends my gaze shooting ahead to the enormous white gates opening smoothly for our arrival.
The short drive leads to a large, white colonial style house with a grey slate roof and sage green shutters. The sash windows remind me of those in the Hamptons and the sight tugs at my heart. It isn’t a mansion-come-compound like the Di Santo residence. It’s smaller, less ostentatious, more tasteful.
Viola opens the front door and the entrance hall cuts my breath. Hardwood floors stretch right through the house and a grand staircase sits at the very heart. A gorgeous antique table, oval-shaped with an enormous vase full of tumbling roses, is positioned at the foot of the staircase.
I follow the housekeeper on a brief tour, taking in abasement gymnasium and cinema room, a dining room with oak table and chairs, a vast kitchen with spotless cabinetry. Tudor-style balustrades flank the staircase and landing, and a real fireplace forms a centerpiece of the family room.
We bypass a locked door behind which I’m informed is Andreas’ office. Then we go upstairs to the guest bedrooms and bathrooms. They are each tastefully decorated with clean white woodwork, and luxury sheets atop oak sleigh beds.
Just when I think the tour is over, Viola prepares me for the primary wing.
Thewhat?
She leads me off the landing to a south-facing part of the house and immediately I suck in a gasp. The walls are glass, looking out over a decent acreage of lawns and woodland. A swing set is positioned beneath an old oak tree. I agree that this would be the perfect family home, if only a perfect family lived here.
A carved wood four poster forms the focal point, and I catch a glimpse of my favorite astrology book sat atop one of the bedside tables. An intricate crystal chandelier hooked to the high ceiling presides over the entire room. Butterflies flicker about my stomach, only picking up speed when Viola says, “Welcome to your new home.”
I gulp loudly then try to mask it with a cough. It is stunning. But my heart begins to sink. This ‘home’ will never be mine.
