Sienna
After Giovanni left, I took a long, hot shower then decided to lie down and close my eyes for a few minutes. Now, as I open them in the almost pitch-black room, I realize I must have slept for hours.
I glance to the other side of the bed, but it’s not been slept in. I wonder what time it is but there’s no clock in this room. Pushing the covers back, I get up. I’m barefoot and the cold of the stone beneath the old carpet chills me.
I walk into the alcove thinking the walls must be three feet deep. I wonder if that’s for insulation or protection in times past. I look out the window at the utter darkness outside. The almost complete stillness.
The moon is full, the wind a whistle that urges the clouds across the sky, the light an ominous silvery ghost-like thing spilling over the water and the hills.
I think if I look hard enough, I’ll see ghosts out there.
Finding the latch, I push one of the heavy windows open and lean out. It’s a cool night and I inhale the clean, fresh air.
I think how I’d like to go outside, walk out there in the dark. Feel that quiet. You never have quiet like this in Las Vegas, not even in my neighborhood in the middle of the night. This is nature at its most primal. Undisturbed and serene and magnificent.
My stomach growls and I close the window. I switch on the lamp beside the bed and from inside my tote, I find my phone but it’s out of charge and I can’t tell the time. I don’t have a charger that fits these sockets.
I put on my jeans and a sweater and tuck the phone into my pocket hoping someone has a charger I can borrow.
Slipping on my shoes-a pair of ballet flats-I open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway.
The house is still, as quiet as the night.
As if on cue, I hear the tolling of a clock.
Three chimes.
Three o’clock.
I glance down the hall at all the closed doors, count five in addition to the master. I then head down the stone stairs, taking in a painting on the wall, the tartan of the man pictured the same as the one at Giovanni’s penthouse.
I remember thinking how generic the penthouse looked. This place, there is nothing generic about it. The opposite. There’s history and purpose and family in every square inch.
When I reach the first-floor landing, I see a dim light and walk toward it. It’s the living room, I think. A large room with a huge fireplace at the center. I can smell the wood of a recent fire but it’s not burning anymore.
I touch the stone of the fireplace and wonder how old it is. How old some of the paintings on the walls are.
Everything here is steeped in history, but all of it, it’s tired. Like it’s not been cared for and time is eating it away.
It’s strange. Sad in a way to lose the past like that but I can’t imagine what it costs to keep up a house like this.
Beside the fireplace is a basket overflowing with toys and children’s books. I didn’t realize there was a child living here. Strange that Giovanni wouldn’t have mentioned it.
I have to remember he’s under an immense amount of stress right now between the death of his father and having come back here, to a place that obviously holds a lot of emotions for him. Painful ones.
Emotions I’m sure he’ll refuse to feel or even acknowledge.
There’s a sconce along the wall that’s lit in the hallway and I follow it toward what I hope is the kitchen. I pass the front doors and peer out of the deep-set windows at that strange light coming and going as clouds obscure the moon.
I get to a door without a handle and push on it. It swings inward and there’s a light that’s been left on over the modern stove. I step into the large kitchen and it’s such a strange place with old and new, the countertops smooth stone, the long, heavy wooden table which looks like it’s as old as the house, the newer chairs, plush and comfortable, the appliances stainless steel and gleaming, the refrigerator a Goliath mounted into the wall.
A toy train is the only thing on the table. It looks old, not like the plastic toys you find in the shops these days. More like an antique.
On the wall, I see the light switch and I turn it on. The room is bathed in soft light and the windows become mirrors. Dishes are stacked on the drying rack beside the sink and the dishwasher hums as it runs.
There’s a large pot on the stove but I’m disappointed when I open it to find it empty.
I go to the refrigerator and there I find cheeses and meats and decide on a sandwich. Taking out a few things, I set them on the counter and find a loaf of bread covered by a tea towel on a cutting board.
Using the knife beside it, I cut two thick slices and set them on my dish to make my sandwich at the counter. I’m just sitting down to take my first bite when the swinging door opens.
I’m startled.
But so is he.
Declan. Giovanni’s brother.