The Mister

“Here.” I take the two plates out of the warming drawer and place them on the counter, ready for toast.

She grins as I serve up the rest of our breakfast.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” I abandon the frying pan in the sink, collect both plates, and usher her toward the dining table, where I’ve laid two places.

Alessia looks impressed.

Why does this make me feel like I’ve finally achieved something?

“Sit here. You can enjoy the view.”

* * *

“How was that?” Maxim asks.

They are seated at the large dining table, Alessia at the head, where she’s never sat before, and she’s enjoying the view, the seascape.

“Delicious. You are a man with many accomplishments.”

“You’d be amazed,” he says dryly, his voice a little husky. And for some reason his tone and the way he looks at her make her breath catch.

“Do you still want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Taking his phone, he dials a number. Alessia wonders who he’s calling.

“Danny,” he says. “No. We’re fine. Can you bring a hair dryer over…oh, there are? Okay. Then I need a pair of Wellingtons or walking boots….” He looks directly at Alessia. “What size?” he asks.

She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Shoe size,” he clarifies.

“Thirty-eight.”

“That’s, um…size five, and some socks if you have any. Yes. For a woman…It doesn’t matter. And a decent bloody warm coat…Yes. For a woman…Slim. Small. As soon as possible.” He listens for a moment. “Fantastic,” he says, and hangs up.

“I have a coat.”

“You won’t be warm enough. And I don’t know about the Albanian sock thing, but it’s cold out there.”

She flushes. She has only two pairs of socks because she can’t afford more—and she couldn’t ask Magda for another pair. Magda had done enough for her.

Dante and Ylli had confiscated her luggage, and when she’d arrived in Brentford, Magda had burned most of the clothes she’d been wearing. They were no longer fit to be worn.

“Who is Danny?”

“She lives not far from here,” Maxim says, directing his attention to the empty plates as he stands to clear the table.

“Let me,” she says, shocked that he’s clearing up. “I will wash them, too.” She takes the plates from him and places them in the sink.

“No. I’ll do this. There should be a hair dryer in the chest of drawers in the wardrobe in your room. Go dry your hair.”

“But—” Surely he’s not going to wash up! No man does that!

“No buts. I’ll do it. You’ve cleaned up after me often enough.”

“But it is my job.”

“Today it isn’t. You’re my guest. Go.” His tone is clipped. Stern. A frisson of apprehension runs up her spine. “Please,” he adds.

“Okay,” she whispers, and hurries out of the kitchen, confused and wondering if he’s angry with her.

Please don’t be angry.

“Alessia,” he calls. She stops at the foot of the stairs and studies her feet. “Are you okay?” She nods before she dashes up the stairs.

* * *

What the fuck?

What did I say? I watch her retreating figure noting that she deliberately avoids eye contact with me.

Shit.

I’ve upset her, but I don’t know how or why. I’m tempted to go after her but decide against it and begin to load the dishwasher and clean up.

Twenty minutes later, as I’m putting away the frying pan, the entry phone rings.

Danny.

I glance up at the stairs, hoping that Alessia will appear, but she doesn’t. I press the buzzer to let Danny in and turn off the music, knowing she will not approve.

* * *

The hair dryer’s high-pitched wheeze rings in her ears as Alessia brushes and brushes her hair beneath its heat. With each stroke her heartbeat settles to a more even pace.

He had sounded like her father.

And she’d reacted the way she’d always reacted to her father, by getting out of his way. Baba has never forgiven her or her mother that his only child is a girl. Though it’s her poor mother who bears the brunt of his anger.

But Mister Maxim is nothing like her father.

Nothing.

She finishes her hair and knows that the only way to restore her equilibrium and forget about her family for a while is to play the piano. Music is her escape. It’s been her only escape.

When she comes back downstairs, Mister Maxim has disappeared. She wonders where, but her fingers are itching to play. She sits down at the little white upright, lifts the lid, and with no preamble launches into her angry Bach Prelude in C Minor. The music blazes through the room in hues of brilliant orange and red, burning away any thoughts of her father and setting her free.

When she opens her eyes, Maxim is watching her.

“That was incredible,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” she says.

He takes a step closer and strokes her cheek with the back of his finger, then tilts her chin up so she’s lost in his magnetic gaze. His eyes are the most spectacular color. Up close she notices that the irises are a darker green around the edge—the color of a Kukës fir—while toward the dilating pupil they’re lighter, like a fern in the spring. When he leans down, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what I did to upset you,” he says.

She puts her fingers over his mouth, silencing him.

“You did nothing wrong,” she whispers. His lips purse into a kiss against her fingertips, and she removes her hand.

“Well, if I did, I’m sorry. Now, do you want to go for a walk on the beach?”

She beams at him. “Yes.”

“Okay. You need to wrap up warm.”

* * *

Alessia is impatient. She practically pulls me down the stony path. At the bottom we step onto the beach, and Alessia can contain herself no more. She releases my hand and runs toward the raging sea, her hat flying off and her hair whipping in the wind.

“The sea, the sea!” she cries, and twirls around, her arms in the air. Her earlier pique is forgotten, her smile is wide and her face bright, lit from within by her joy. I stride across the coarse sand and rescue her discarded woolly hat. “The sea!” she shouts again above the roar of the water, and she gesticulates wildly, her arms like a crazy windmill, welcoming each wave as it crashes to the shore.

It’s impossible not to smile. Her unbridled enthusiasm for this first-time event is too appealing and too affecting. I grin as she squeals and dances back to avoid the breakers on the shoreline. She looks ridiculous, dressed in oversize Wellingtons and an oversize coat. Her face is flushed, her nose pink, and she is utterly breathtaking. My heart clenches.

She runs toward me with childish abandon and grabs my hand. “The sea!” she cries once more, and drags me to the crashing waves. And I go willingly, surrendering myself to her joy.

Chapter Thirteen

They walk hand in hand along the coastal path and stop by an old ruin.

“What is this place?” Alessia asks.

“It’s an abandoned tin mine.”

Alessia and Maxim lean against the chimney stack, staring out at a choppy sea that’s crested with white surf as the chill wind whistles between them. “It is so beautiful here,” she says. “It is wild. It reminds me of my home.”

Except I’m happier here. I feel…safe.

That’s because I am with Mister Maxim.

“I love this place, too.

It’s where I grew up.”

“In the house where we are staying?”

He looks away. “No. My brother built that quite recently.” Maxim’s mouth turns down, and he seems lost.

“You have a brother?”

“I did,” he whispers. “He died.” He digs his hands deep into his coat pockets and stares out at the sea, his face bleak, carved like stone.

“I am sorry,” she says, and from his pained, raw expression she suspects that his brother’s death is a recent event.

Reaching out, she places a hand on his arm. “You miss him,” she says.

“Yes,” Maxim whispers, turning his face toward her. “I do. I loved him.”

She is surprised by his candor. “Do you have other family?”

“A sister. Maryanne.” His fond smile is brief. “And then there’s my mother.” His tone becomes dismissive.

“Your father?”

“My father died when I was sixteen.”

“Oh. I am sorry. Your sister and mother, do they live here?”

“They used to. They visit sometimes,” he says. “Maryanne works and lives in London. She’s a doctor.” He flashes her a proud smile.

“Ua.” Alessia is impressed. “And your mother?”

“She’s mostly in New York.” His answer is curt. He doesn’t want to discuss his mother.

And she doesn’t want to discuss her father.

“There are mines near Kukës,” she says to change the subject, and she gazes up at the gray-stoned chimney stack. It’s like the chimney on the road to Kosovo.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What do they mine?”

“Krom. I don’t know the word.”

“Chromium?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know the English.”

“I think I’d better invest in an English-Albanian dictionary,” Maxim mutters. “Come on, let’s walk into the village. We can have lunch.”

“Village?” Alessia has seen no sign of any dwellings on their walk.