Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
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.
“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.