Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Have you never wanted to check it out?”
“Are you kidding? There are ‘No Trespassing’ signs all over the place, and the road leading up to it is treacherous to say the least. So narrow, I’ve heard of people getting stuck and having to abandon their cars because recovery trucks cannot go up. No way I’m taking my lovely BMW on that dirt path.”
I frown. “If the road is so narrow how did all the building equipment go up… the lorries, the cranes, the sandstones.”
“No idea,” he confesses.
“So… he just lives up there alone?”
“Staff. Lots of them. I’ve seen a few around town shopping, but they are not a friendly lot. I’ve heard they will give you a blank stare and walk away if you try to engage them in any kind of chit chat or conversation.”
“Why do you think he lives up there?”
Larry shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do you think he might be a fugitive from the law or something?”
Larry smiles. “Don’t be so dramatic, Autumn. I imagine he is just an eccentric European aristocrat, one of those recluses who jealously guard their privacy.”
“He doesn’t have a European accent though,” I note.
“No, he doesn’t. I must admit I’ve never given it much thought. Perhaps he was born in this country. Anyway, I better go do some work. Marion wants me home early today.”
He goes upstairs and spends a bit of time filing away some invoices. Thirty minutes later Larry leaves. At five I put the closed sign on, change out of my work clothes and into my jeans and sweatshirt.
Then, I pull my painting out from the cupboard, put it back on the easel, and study it. It does not have the fire and raw passion of the painting I did last night, but it is haunting. There is something about this painting that feels real. As if there were once real people living in that gray castle until terrible things happened to them and they abandoned it and left it to rot away.
I paint for a couple of hours, but my thoughts keep returning to Rocco Rossetti. My research has revealed that the etymology of the surname Rossetti links back to the word red. It was a name given to people with red hair. Rocco is pure blond though. The kind of blond that shines like spun gold. Extraordinary, really. In fact, everything about him is extraordinary. Living in isolation up on an inaccessible mountain. Offering me all that money for an unfinished painting. His looks. His piercing eyes. Even his unexpected appearance at the shop.
It’s close to eight when I put all my paints and brushes away. Tonight, I’m tired. I cycle home, warm up a can of macaroni and cheese, then curl up on the couch to eat it. It’s not great, but tomorrow I get paid and I will treat myself to a feast, a massive Chinese take-out. The whole works. There will even be leftovers which I will leave for the raccoons.
Once the food is gone, I feel so exhausted I go to bed without even bothering with a shower. But I don’t sleep soundly. I keep dreaming of him. Strange, confusing dreams. In them, I am afraid of something as I keep looking behind me as I run through unending, twisting, dark forests. Something is chasing me, but I do not know what. It feels as if I am running towards him for safety and refuge, but I never get to him.
I wake up suddenly.
It is three in the morning. Feeling restless and ravenous I go to the freezer and take out a tub of ice cream and remove the plastic lid. I put it into the microwave. I grab a spoon from the washing rack and ten seconds later the microwave pings. With one hand clutching my duvet around myself and the other holding the ice cream and spoon, I pull open the door and go outside into the night. There is a half-moon in the sky and it paints the field in front of me silver. A deer walks quietly across the field and I watch the way it picks its delicate legs over the long grasses until it disappears into the dark of the woods.
All the other caravans are in darkness. Only the old gypsy woman’s windows glow with yellow light.
It is so cold my breath mists as I sit on the plastic chair under my window and begin to eat my ice cream. The ice cream tastes and feels incredible as it melts in my hot mouth. With the Count in my heart like a delicious secret, I close my eyes and relish the sensation of the cold liquid sliding down my throat. It’s so great to be alive. So damn great.
Right at that moment I wouldn’t have changed places with anybody else on earth.