The walks were followed by a shower and laundry. Because I had so little with me, I killed time every day by hand-washing my stuff from the day before in the bathroom sink, and hanging it to dry on the shower rod.
When I’d asked him for some detergent, Fitzpatrick told me the staff would be “more than happy” to do my laundry for me, but I’d declined. I had so little with me that the thought of anything going missing made me anxious.
After the shower and laundry, I spent a few hours in the library. I was reading my way through a very fancy, leather-bound collection of Agatha Christie stories. Each book crackled when I opened it, which made me wonder if I was the only person who’d ever actually used this library.
Lunch was next. That was followed by “rich people recreation.” I tried to pass the time by playing solo billiards or croquet, then doing laps in the pool. I was a mediocre swimmer, so that always turned into floating on my back and staring up at the clear August sky while questioning all my life choices.
Then it was time to take another shower and get ready for dinner, which was always at seven sharp. In the evenings, I watched movies for a few hours before taking a book to bed with me and reading until I passed out.
All in all, I was going totally, completely, and utterly stir-crazy.
I didn’t know how to be idle, not for hours at a time, and definitely not for days on end. At one point, I was so desperate for something to do that I went to the kitchen and tried to beg Mrs. Silva to let me help her cook. She screamed at me in Portuguese, which caused three men with shoulder holsters to come running. I didn’t try that again.
The only variation in my day was when Fitzpatrick made an appearance. I couldn’t figure out where he came from. I was pretty sure he didn’t live in the mansion, but the few times I’d asked the housekeeper to pass along a request (toothpaste when mine ran out, the aforementioned laundry detergent, a stack of puzzles), he’d appeared within minutes.
He also showed up whenever I got a text message. They usually came in at odd hours because of the time difference. If it was during the day, he’d bring my phone right away and type a reply for me. Otherwise, there was a bit of a delay. Apparently he clocked off of his henchman shift at nine p.m. each night.
Not that any of the messages were urgent. Javier checked in with occasional updates. He and Cami were having no problem running the diner in my absence. That was great, obviously, but it was also slightly depressing. It made me feel like the place I’d devoted so much of my life to didn’t actually need me.
Kit checked in too, but he and Devon were busy helping his in-laws, so they were little more than quick hellos. Still though, those texts were the highlight of my week.
Meanwhile, Salvatore was having a very different experience than I was.
In an odd sort of way, we’d traded lives. Suddenly I was the one with free time, while he was working incredibly long hours.
By the time he joined me for a quick breakfast each morning at eight, he’d already been painting for two or three hours. He always worked through lunch, so I got into the habit of filling a plate and taking it to him. He didn’t pause to eat, but he’d pick at it throughout the afternoon.
It was fascinating to watch him paint, and to see the canvas slowly evolving. But he seemed to have a hard time concentrating when I was in the studio, so I never stayed for more than a minute or two.
I saw him again for about ten minutes at dinnertime. He always asked if I was okay before quickly wolfing something down and going right back to work.
Every night on my way to bed, I saw the light was still shining under the studio’s closed door. I had no idea when he quit for the day because we were sleeping in separate bedrooms, but judging by how tired he looked, he had to be working late into the night.
When I suggested taking a little time off to rest, he’d said, “I can’t. I need to get this done, so you can get out of here.”
“You mean, sowecan get out of here.”
“Yes, but if it was just me, I wouldn’t care if this took six months. I’m trying to get you back to your life, your diner, and all the people who depend on you, as soon as I possibly can.” When I pointed out that everyone was actually doing remarkably well without me, he’d muttered, “I still need to hurry. You’re not safe here.”
I obviously got why he was concerned, but to me, it was sort of like living beside a pond full of alligators. I’d been nervous at first. But after several days of this, I was confident that if I stayed where I was supposed to and didn’t do anything to rile them up, they weren’t going to hurt me.
So, that was my life at the mansion. I found ways to pass the time, I stayed out of trouble… and I spent a hell of a lot of time thinking about Tory and me.
The way I felt about him hadn’t changed. I knew that for a fact. But there were a lot of emotions involved with everything that had happened, and I was trying to sort through them.
We obviously needed to talk, but he was totally focused on finishing that painting and getting us out of here. It felt like we were in limbo, and I wasn’t sure how to get us back on track.
On Saturday, a full week after arriving at the mansion, an intense dream woke me up in the middle of the night. I always slept with a small lamp on because this place was creepy in the dark, and I turned on a second one before rolling onto my side and pulling the blanket up to my chin.
It hadn’t been a nightmare. Not exactly. Salvatore and I had been running to catch a plane, and there was a real sense of urgency. I didn’t know where it was going, just that we had to be on it, and we were very late. I’d turned my head to look at a monitor, because I wanted to make sure we were heading for the right gate. When I turned back, Salvatore was gone. A wave of panic shot through me, and that woke me up.
It was pretty easy to figure out what that dream had been about. The plane probably represented us trying to get back home. But the part that rattled me was the feeling that Salvatore and I had lost each other—obviously not in the way we had in the dream, but in the sense that what we’d had was gone forever.
I’d thought I needed some time to put everything into perspective. Even though we’d left everything up in the air, I’d always assumed we’d be able to talk this out and fix what was broken.
But what if we couldn’t find our way back tous?
I sat up in bed as a cold feeling of dread ran through me. What if we’d waited too long to talk, and now everything was ruined?
