Free Mirage Beyond Flames (Coriola) by Melinda De Ross Page A

mother and Sophie are sharing auntie’s house. They’re both fanatical gardeners, they have some huge, impressive gardens and started a small business, selling floral arrangements. Both of them make sachets, and my mother is a true artist at handmade jewelry. She’s always trying to stuff my pockets with stones and other paraphernalia, which are supposed to protect my aura or something…”
    She smiled, smoothing her dress.
    “You don’t beli eve in these things?”
    “I believe in the individual’s self-protection. The rest depends on God, fate, you name it. But, first of all, I think our destiny depends on us.”
    “Inte resting point of view. I agree.”
    “In an y case, if mom gives you a charm or any other thing, accept it, even if it freaks you out and you’ll put it in a dark corner,” he advised. “Otherwise she’ll feel very offended.”
    “Thank God you told me!” she joked. “The last thing I want is to become your mother’s enemy or get on her bad side. Anyway, I’m not so rude as to refuse a gift. You really made me curious. Your mother seems like an extremely interesting woman.”
    “You’ll meet her right away,” he replied focusing his gaze ahead, beyond the windshield. “We’re almost there.”
    He took a corner, ge tting on a road – more like a country path – bordered by trees, at the end of which was a house.
    Linda noticed that, around here, houses were located at three or four miles distance from one another. That gave the entire area an intimate, even isolated appearance.
    The building toward which they were headed was simple, painted white. As they got closer, the house seemed stranded in the middle of a green abyss.
    “You weren’t kidding when you said she’ s got some impressive gardens,” she remarked admiringly. “The surrounding property is enormous!”
    He smiled, stopping the car behind another one, parked along the small driveway facing the house.
    “The property is not so big. I t just seems that way compared to the house, which is tiny. It’s got only two bedrooms and, as you can see, one storey.”
    “But it’s so pretty,” she said, studying the white building, with a dark red roof and matching windows and door-frames. “Looks like Snow White’s house!”
    Gerard got out of the car then opened her door. Hand in hand, they headed toward the little house. Linda was throwing curious glances all around, marveling at the sight of shrubs, trees, bushes and floral arrangements – veritable vegetation masterpieces.
    The door opened and a woman appeared smiling widely, exuding an almost palpable energy. She was short, a tad plump, with blonde unruly hair and inquiring brown eyes.
    “Welcome, my darlings!” she exclaimed, embracing first her son, then Linda. As she’d expected , the woman’s eyes watched her with interest, but not in the upsetting, analytical way she was used to. Linda was already starting to like her.
    “Mom, this is Linda Coriola. S he is…”
    “I know who you are, dear,” the woman interrupted. “I recognized you right away, I saw your picture in the newspaper a while back. I can see you’re a real beauty!”
    “Thank you very much, Mrs. Leon,” Linda replied smiling. “It’s a pleasure meeting you!”
    “Call me Chantalle, please, darling. Come on in!”
    Inside was cool and a sweet light revealed a somewhat exotic décor. The furniture, the rugs and drapes were old fashioned, but of an excellent taste and quality, just like the traditional chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Paintings and all sorts of decorative objects were strategically placed. Linda was sure Chantalle - perhaps her sister too - had manufactured them.
    Chantalle led the couple to the living room. In front of a window – beyond which laid their vast botanical garden – were two small sofas, a square table between them. This corner seemed to Linda like a piece of Heaven.
    Chantalle urged them t o have a seat, then brought some strawberry juice made by