The Mister

“Trevethick. It’s a small village just over the hill. Popular with tourists.”

Alessia falls into step beside him.

“The photographs in your apartment, are they from here?” she asks.

“The landscapes. Yes. Yes, they are.” Maxim beams. “You’re observant,” he adds, and from his raised brows Alessia can tell he’s impressed. She gives him a shy smile, and he takes her gloved hand.

They emerge from the path onto a lane too narrow to have sidewalks. The hedgerows on either side are high but cut back from the road. The brambles and bare-twigged bushes are orderly and trimmed, and here and there they are covered in clumps of snow. They walk down and around a sweeping corner, and the village of Trevethick appears at the bottom of the lane. The stone and whitewashed houses are like nothing Alessia’s seen before. They look small and old, but charming nonetheless. The place is quaint—pristine—with no trash anywhere. Where she comes from, there is garbage and construction debris in the streets, and most of the buildings are built from concrete.

At the waterfront two stone quays stretch out to embrace the harbor where three large fishing boats are moored. Around the waterfront are a few shops—a couple of boutiques, a convenience store, a small art gallery—and two pubs. One called The Watering Hole, the other, The Two-Headed Eagle. A sign hangs outside, bearing a shield Alessia recognizes. “Look!” She points at the emblem. “Your tattoo.”

Maxim winks at her. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she replies. “That was a long walk.”

“Good day, milord.” An elderly man in a black scarf, a green waxed coat, and a flat cap is leaving The Two-Headed Eagle. He is followed by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed wearing a red coat with the name BORIS embroidered in gold across the back.

“Father Trewin.” Maxim shakes his hand.

“How are you bearing up, young man?” He pats Maxim on the arm.

“Good, thank you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. And who is this fine young lady?”

“Father Trewin, our vicar, may I introduce Alessia Demachi, my…friend, visiting from overseas.”

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Trewin holds out his hand.

“Good afternoon,” she says, shaking his hand, surprised and pleased that he would address her directly.

“And how are you enjoying Cornwall?”

“It is lovely here.”

Trewin gives her a benign smile and turns to Maxim. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that we’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow?”

“We’ll see, Father.”

“We lead by example, my son. Remember that.”

“I know. I know.” Maxim sounds resigned.

“Brisk day!” Father Trewin exclaims, moving on from that subject.

“Indeed.”

Trewin whistles to Boris, who has sat patiently waiting for their pleasantries to cease. “In case you’ve forgotten, service starts at ten sharp.” He gives them both a nod and heads on up the lane.

“Vicar is the priest, yes?” Alessia asks as Maxim opens the door to the pub and ushers her into the warmth.

“Yes. Are you religious?” he asks, surprising her.

“N—”

“Good afternoon, milord,” says a large man with red hair and a complexion to match, interrupting their conversation. He stands behind an impressive bar that is hung with decorative jugs and pint glasses. There’s a burning log fire at one end of the pub and several wooden high-backed benches on either side of a line of tables, most of which are occupied by men and women who could be locals or tourists, Alessia doesn’t know. From the ceiling hang fishermen’s ropes, nets, and tackle. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. There’s even a young couple kissing at the back. Embarrassed, Alessia looks away and sticks close to Mister Maxim.

* * *

“Hi, Jago,” I say to the barman. “Table for two for lunch?”

“Megan will sort you out.” Jago points to the far corner.

“Megan?”

Shit.

“Yeah, she’s working here now.”

Fuck.

I give Alessia a sideways glance and she looks puzzled. “Are you sure you’re hungry?”

“Yes,” Alessia replies.

“Doom Bar?” Jago asks, staring with overt appreciation at Alessia.

“Yes, please.” I try not to glare at him.

“And for the lady?” Jago’s voice softens, his eyes still on Alessia.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask.

She peels off her hat, releasing her hair. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. “The beer I had yesterday?” she says. With her loose, dark curls falling almost to her waist, her shining eyes, and her radiant smile, she is an exotic beauty. I’m beguiled. Totally and utterly beguiled. I can’t blame Jago for staring. “Half a pale ale for the lady,” I say without looking at him.

“What is it?” Alessia asks as she begins to unzip Maryanne’s quilted Barbour jacket. And I know I’ve been gawking at her. I shake my head, and she gives me a shy smile.

“Hello, Maxim. Or should I say ‘milord’ now?”

Shit.

I turn around, and Megan is standing in front of me, her expression as dark as her clothes. “Table for two?” she says with a saccharine tone and a smile to match.

“Please. And how are you?”

“Fine,” she snaps, and my heart sinks, my father’s voice ringing in my head.

Don’t fuck the local girls, boy.

I stand aside for Alessia to precede me, and we follow in Megan’s dour wake. She leads us to a table in the corner by a window that overlooks the quays. It’s the best table in the establishment. So that’s something.

“This okay for you?” I ask Alessia, deliberately ignoring Megan.

“Yes. It is good,” Alessia responds, with a confused look at a moody Megan. I hold out her chair, and she sits. Jago arrives with our drinks, and Megan saunters off, presumably to fetch menus…or a cricket bat.

“Cheers.” I hold up my pint.

“Cheers,” Alessia replies. After a sip she says, “I do not think Megan is happy with you.”

“No, I don’t think so either.” I shrug, brushing off the subject. I really don’t want to discuss Megan with Alessia. “Anyway, you were saying about religion?”

She eyes me dubiously, as if pondering the Megan Situation, and then she continues, “The Communists banned religion in my country.”

“You mentioned that in the car yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“But you wear a gold cross.”