and explored central Verona repeatedly, becoming familiar with a few of the vendors at the markets she frequented. She never crossed paths with anyone else in the rear courtyard of the apartment, and the only sign of life she saw on the long stairway to her home was her own shadow. Surely, there must have been other people living in the four-story building. It would be a waste of space and loss of money if there weren’t. But if there were any other tenants, she certainly never saw or heard them. She’d even wandered around to the front of the building one evening, but there was no trace of anyone else. There was a front entryway, but it was locked. Through the glass in the door, Eva could see a staircase.
It made no sense. “Why am I living on the fourth floor of an empty apartment building?” Eva wondered, feeling like Rapunzel hidden away in the tower. “There’s a perfectly good staircase inside, but my apartment is accessible only from a private door. Why is it so disconnected, like it’s a secret hiding place?”
She cupped her hand over her forehead, peered through the front door and knocked on the wood. Nothing. She knocked again and waited. Still nothing. Eva was curious and had plenty of time on her hands to get to the bottom of the situation if she wanted. But it was probably better to wait; she’d be sure to ask Marcello about the locked door and the other apartments as soon as he was better.
The first two weeks in Verona flew by once she knew Marcello was okay. Eva slowly enlarged her comfort zone, walking farther away from her apartment or venturing down different cobblestone streets or stone pathways each day. At night, she elected to stay in and spend her time quietly while she waited for Marcello to return to her.
One night toward the end of those two weeks, she found herself standing in front of the tall bookcase in her living room, searching for a book to read on her balcony. The books were packed so tightly on the third shelf that she had to push and pull the one she’d selected back and forth to jimmy it out of its space. The book inched forward. And just when she thought she’d be able to extricate it, she accidentally applied too much pressure and pushed it back so it landed with a “ thunk ” on the floor between the bookshelf and the wall.
Her slender fingers barely fit in the narrow gap, but she was able to slide the book toward her. As she did, she felt something jutting out from the wall. There was no way to see what it was in that dark space. If she wanted to know, she’d have to figure it out by touching it. She removed her hand from the gap and turned it so her palm faced the wall. Slowly, Eva slid her hand back along the floor until she could feel the bump. Once the palm of her hand was lying against the bump, she began to move her hand upward. The bump continued beyond the point she could reach while squatting on the floor, so she stood up and continued running her hand along the bump until she was standing tippy-toed and her hand reached what felt like a corner.
“I know this feeling,” she kept thinking, “I know what it is.” She stood there thinking aloud to herself with her hand resting against the bump on the wall before glancing over toward the front door. It was then she realized what she’d found. Her hand was resting over a door frame; hidden behind the tall, heavy wooden bookcase was a door.
“I wonder where it leads,” Eva thought out loud as she began to take books off the top shelf and pile them on the floor.
***
The first two weeks had been endless exploration for Carlisle, and she’d written barely a sentence of her novel, much to her agent’s chagrin. Life was far too exciting and, for the first time in seven years, Carlisle felt as if the dark cloud she’d been under was finally dissipating. “Thank goodness,” she’d often thought as she awoke in the morning feeling happy and expectant instead of filled with gloom and dread.
Toward the end
It made no sense. “Why am I living on the fourth floor of an empty apartment building?” Eva wondered, feeling like Rapunzel hidden away in the tower. “There’s a perfectly good staircase inside, but my apartment is accessible only from a private door. Why is it so disconnected, like it’s a secret hiding place?”
She cupped her hand over her forehead, peered through the front door and knocked on the wood. Nothing. She knocked again and waited. Still nothing. Eva was curious and had plenty of time on her hands to get to the bottom of the situation if she wanted. But it was probably better to wait; she’d be sure to ask Marcello about the locked door and the other apartments as soon as he was better.
The first two weeks in Verona flew by once she knew Marcello was okay. Eva slowly enlarged her comfort zone, walking farther away from her apartment or venturing down different cobblestone streets or stone pathways each day. At night, she elected to stay in and spend her time quietly while she waited for Marcello to return to her.
One night toward the end of those two weeks, she found herself standing in front of the tall bookcase in her living room, searching for a book to read on her balcony. The books were packed so tightly on the third shelf that she had to push and pull the one she’d selected back and forth to jimmy it out of its space. The book inched forward. And just when she thought she’d be able to extricate it, she accidentally applied too much pressure and pushed it back so it landed with a “ thunk ” on the floor between the bookshelf and the wall.
Her slender fingers barely fit in the narrow gap, but she was able to slide the book toward her. As she did, she felt something jutting out from the wall. There was no way to see what it was in that dark space. If she wanted to know, she’d have to figure it out by touching it. She removed her hand from the gap and turned it so her palm faced the wall. Slowly, Eva slid her hand back along the floor until she could feel the bump. Once the palm of her hand was lying against the bump, she began to move her hand upward. The bump continued beyond the point she could reach while squatting on the floor, so she stood up and continued running her hand along the bump until she was standing tippy-toed and her hand reached what felt like a corner.
“I know this feeling,” she kept thinking, “I know what it is.” She stood there thinking aloud to herself with her hand resting against the bump on the wall before glancing over toward the front door. It was then she realized what she’d found. Her hand was resting over a door frame; hidden behind the tall, heavy wooden bookcase was a door.
“I wonder where it leads,” Eva thought out loud as she began to take books off the top shelf and pile them on the floor.
***
The first two weeks had been endless exploration for Carlisle, and she’d written barely a sentence of her novel, much to her agent’s chagrin. Life was far too exciting and, for the first time in seven years, Carlisle felt as if the dark cloud she’d been under was finally dissipating. “Thank goodness,” she’d often thought as she awoke in the morning feeling happy and expectant instead of filled with gloom and dread.
Toward the end
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