A Kiss Stolen

I find myself suddenly hungry so I head over to the fridge to see what I can forage. It is bursting with smelly cheeses, cured meats, sausages, jars of fat, and so much foreign food, I become truly overwhelmed. I immediately shut the door, and as I do, notice a basket of baked goods sitting on the counter. Taking the whole basket with me and snatching a bottle of red wine sitting next to it by the neck, I go and plop on the couch.

The house is eerily quiet, but I’m a bit hesitant to switch on the small TV in case it keeps me from hearing what is going on outside. To my delight I manage to find an English book amongst a collection of novels on a shelf, and begin to read while digging into the basket of baked goodies. Whoever baked them did an amazing job. The butter cake was to die for, and that was before I started on the pastries.

Chapter Thirty

Brand

I walk in with Mark a few minutes after midnight, our coats dotted with falling snow.

“The second twin was awfully quiet,” he comments, referring to the men we met earlier to do some business with, “do you think they'll be able to pull it off?”

“They better,” I respond, my eyes already searching around the house. “They fucking better.”

Perhaps she’s upstairs, I think when there is no sight of Liliana.

“Anyway, Antoine called earlier but you couldn’t take the call. He said they have a man who takes care of the house each day. He will be here tomorrow so you’re free to give him your instructions. The fridge is fully stocked and there’s a complimentary pastry basket from his wife waiting for you in the kitchen.”

I turn to Mark, my eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot of talking for you at a go.”

He grins. “I’ll be on standby in the cottage next door. Unless you have something else you want me to do?”

“No, it’s all right. Get some rest.”

With a quick nod he exits the house, and I am left alone.

Walking as softly as I can so that I can mute my approach, I head into the living room. And lo and behold! Liliana is sprawled carelessly across the sofa and fast asleep. Her hair is sweeping onto the floor and there are crumbs of cake around her face and on the floor. There is a book on the floor. It looks as if it has fallen out of her hands. I move around to the front of the couch, pick it up to place on the coffee table. Ah, the obligatory bottle of red wine.

Then I take a deep breath and … let my eyes take in the splendid sight of her.

She is creeping into my heart. Slowly but soon it will be impossible to let go. Whether it is infatuation or love, it doesn’t matter. All I know is that she is constantly on my mind. I hate to admit it, but the excitement of her presence in my life adds a livened gait to my step. It’s now harder to get my blood boiling at the least thing.

I look down at her deep in slumber. She looks so sweet, so innocent.

I know her father must have started actively searching for her ever since I sent him the message, so this little getaway at an acquaintance’s cottage is the best location while I plan what to do next.

I reach out my hand to touch her silky hair, but then stop myself. Until I sort out my feelings towards her, minimal contact is necessary. Turning around, I start to walk away. Then I stop. I can’t leave her sleeping there. She would get up with a stiff neck.

I find myself carefully lifting her into my arms. She makes a little purring noise and burrows closer against my chest. Then with superhuman strength, I place a cushion under her neck, cover her with a blanket, and walk away.

Chapter Thirty-One

Liliana

I feel wonderfully warm when I wake up the next morning.

The taste in my mouth however is quite unpleasant thanks to all the cakes, pastries, and wine I stuffed myself with. It put me in such a stupor that I actually drooled during the night. Wiping the corners of my mouth, I look through a window and see it is full on snowing outside. It is only then I notice the thick blanket spread over me.

My heart skips a beat when I realize Brand must have arrived last night. Instantly, my feet land on the floor. Throwing off the blanket I rush up the stairs, only slowing down to inspect each room as discreetly as I can. I don’t exactly want to show my eagerness to see him again. When every closed door has been searched with no signs of him, only a black suitcase and another smaller one with my name on it, I feel surprisingly deflated.

As I brush my teeth I look into my eyes and I can see the disappointment there. I freeze when I hear the front door opening. Hurrying back to the banisters, I peek down. A guy in snow boots and a furry hat is standing at the threshold. His hands are filled with grocery bags. He doesn’t see me and heads straight to the kitchen. I run my fingers down my messy hair and follow him. My bare feet make no sound and I stand at the doorway and watch him unpacking the fruits and ready-made meals from his bags. He seeks out a fork, opens a container of what looks like potato salad, and helps himself to a piece.

Tossing the fork into the sink, and chewing noisily, he takes off his coat and throws it onto a chair, only to turn around and almost jump out of his skin in terror at the sight of me watching him.

“Oh putain!” he curses.

“I’m sorry,” I immediately apologize, somewhat amused at how startled he is. He looks no older than me, and just a few inches above my height too. His cheeks are full and his effort to grow a beard most probably to cover his acne is not paying off at all. There’s bits of disconnected facial hair everywhere and it all makes him seem so animated. I instantly know I will like him.

I dig up my rusty French and quickly introduce myself with a smile. “Bonjour, Je m’appelle Liliana.”

“Bonjour,” he greets, his hand still on his startled heart. “Je suis Pierre.”

We stare at each other … all awkward smiles and stances until he cracks up in laughter. It brings one out of me too, but when he attacks me with a splattering of French my amusement immediately disappears. “Oh, I'm sorry I don’t speak French all that well.” I crinkle my forehead. “Didn’t pay attention during French classes. I think the only word I still remember is merci.”

“And bonjour and Je m’appelle,” he adds with a twinkle to his eye.

I grin. “And … où sont les toilettes.”

“Yes, very useful phrase,” he agrees gravely.

“Oh, excellent. You speak great English.”

“Not really, but I do know a little more than thank you, hello and where are the toilets?”

“It will be enough for me,” I say with a smile and head over to the counter to inspect the food he has brought into the house. As he makes us thick strong coffee, I soon learn that he is the house and grounds keeper for the owners of the house. “They only say that a close friend come here for a short time so I am to help him out.”

“Mmm,” I exclaim, with the fork still in my mouth at the delicious salad. “This is really good. Did you make it?”

“No. I can only cook eggs. Antoine’s wife made it.”

“Hmm … Did your employers tell you how long the guest will be staying?”

He shakes his head in response and downs his coffee.

“Monsieur Abe told a man would be living here. That is why I am so surprised to see you.”

“You are his daughter perhaps?”

“Ah ... No … We’re just ...well, friends.”

He looks at me with a knowing look. “Ah … friends.”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Of course.” He rises then and heads over to the sink to wash the dishes.

“Will you be here all day?” I ask.

“No,” he replies, “I’m here just to put the food, and wash a little, and then I go.”

“Okay,” I say foreseeing yet another gloomy day alone. With a sigh I take a long sip of my glass of kiwi juice and look on, my thoughts filled with Brand. I wonder if Brand will decide to come back while I am still awake. I keep thinking of the end of us. It isn’t long now, I can sense it, but how are we to part ways? With o

ne of us dead, on civil terms, or … I don’t have the confidence to consider it but I note the brief flutter of my heart before I am called again by Pierre.

“What events do you have lined up today?” Pierre asks.