Chapter 3 - THE EAST WING
Three weeks into my marriage, I discovered the East Wing had once belonged to Elio's mother.
Teresa told me over tea.
“Signora Viera loved this part of the house.”
I looked around the conservatory.
The room was filled with sunlight.
Potted lemon trees.
White orchids.
A small fountain.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
Teresa's expression softened.
“She died when Elio was sixteen.”
I went still.
“How?”
Teresa hesitated.
“An accident.”
I studied her.
Something in her voice told me the story was more complicated.
But I didn't push.
That afternoon, I found a dusty shelf of art books in the library.
Italian Renaissance.
Baroque sculpture.
Florentine architecture.
My heart ached.
Florence.
The life I'd wanted.
I sat on the floor and opened a book about the Uffizi Gallery.
For an hour, I forgot I was married.
Forgot the estate.
Forgot my father.
Forgot Elio.
Then a shadow fell across the page.
I looked up.
Elio stood in the doorway.
“What are you reading?”
I closed the book.
“Art history.”
He nodded.
“Do you enjoy it?”
I stared.
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“Teresa said you studied it.”
I looked away.
“I wanted to study in Florence.”
Elio was silent.
Then asked:
“Why didn't you?”
I laughed.
“Because my father decided I should marry you.”
His expression changed.
For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised.
Then he said:
“I didn't know.”
I stared.
“You never asked.”
Elio looked down.
“No.”
He took a breath.
“I didn't.”
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he asked:
“Would you still like to study?”
My heart raced.
“What?”
“Art history.”
I stared.
“Of course.”
He nodded.
“Then perhaps we can find a program.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Here?”
“Or elsewhere.”
I froze.
“Elsewhere?”
Elio looked at me.
“Florence, perhaps.”
For the first time since our wedding, I couldn't think of anything to say.
He looked toward the books.
“I can't promise the timing will be simple.”
I nodded slowly.
“But I can promise we'll discuss it seriously.”
I studied him.
The man who had called me sheltered.
The man who had said he didn't want me.
Now standing in my library offering to help me pursue the dream my father had taken away.
I swallowed.
“Thank you.”
Elio nodded.
Then turned to leave.
At the doorway, he stopped.
“Ginevra?”
“Yes?”
He hesitated.
“I'd like to know what you're interested in.”
My heart gave a strange little twist.
I smiled faintly.
May you like
“Then ask.”
And for the first time, Elio Viera did.
