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)
This explains a great deal.
Alessia is cooking downstairs. Whatever she’s making, its savory aroma is enticing. I get up and stretch and head downstairs to see her.
She’s still dressed in her white top and jeans, and she has her back to me at the stove, mixing something in a pan. My mouth waters; it smells delicious.
“Hi,” I greet her, and sit down on one of the barstools at the counter.
“Hi.” She gives me a quick smile, and I notice she’s plaited her hair. I plug my phone into one of the charging sockets beneath the counter and fire up the Sonos.
“Is there any music you’d like to hear?” I ask.
“You choose.”
I select a mellow playlist and hit PLAY. RY X blasts out of the speakers overhead, making us both jump. I turn it down. “Sorry about that. What are you cooking?”
“A surprise,” she says with a coquettish glance over her shoulder.
“I love surprises. It smells good. Can I do anything to help?”
“No. This is my thank-you. Would you like to drink?”
I laugh. “Yes. I would like a drink. Do you mind that I’m correcting your English?”
“No. I want to learn.”
“ ‘Would you like a drink?’ is what we say.”
“Okay.” She flashes me another smile.
“And yes, I would. Thank you.”
She sets the pan aside and from the counter takes an open bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.
“I’ve been reading about Albania.”
She whips her eyes to mine, her face lighting up like the early dawn. “Home,” she whispers.
“Tell me more about life in Kukës.”
Maybe it’s because she’s distracted while cooking supper, but she finally opens up and starts to describe the house she lived in with her father and mother. It’s beside a vast lake, surrounded by fir trees….And while she’s telling me, I watch and marvel at how she moves about behind the counter with such ease and grace, as if she’s been cooking in this kitchen for years. Whether it’s grating nutmeg or adjusting the timing on the oven. She’s like a professional. And as she cooks, she tops up my wine, washes dishes, and gives me insights into her claustrophobic life in Kukës.
“So you don’t drive?”
“No,” she answers as she lays the table for us.
“Does your mother drive?”
“Yes. But not often.” She smiles when she sees my consternation. “You know that most Albanians did not drive until the mid-1990s. Before the fall of the Communists. We had no cars.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“I would like to learn.”
“To drive? I’ll teach you.”
She’s taken aback. “In your fast car? I do not think so!” She laughs as if I’ve suggested flying to the moon for lunch.
“I could teach you.” We have enough land here, we don’t need to be on the public highway. We’ll be safe. A vision of her driving one of Kit’s cars, maybe his Morgan, comes to mind. Yes. That would be suitable for a countess.
Countess?
“This will take another fifteen minutes or so to cook,” she says, and she taps her lips with her finger. There’s something on her mind.
“What would you like to do?”
Alessia chews her bottom lip.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’d like to talk to Magda.”
Of course she wants to talk to her. Magda’s probably her only bloody friend. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Sure. Here.” I unplug my phone and find Magda’s contact details. When the call connects, I hand the phone to Alessia, who gives me a grateful smile.
“Magda…Yes, it’s me.” Alessia moves to sit down on the sofa while I try and fail not to eavesdrop. I imagine that Magda is relieved to hear that Alessia is still in one piece. “No. Fine.” Alessia glances up at me, her eyes shining. “Very fine,” she says with a wide grin, and I find myself reciprocating.
I’ll take “very fine” any day.
She laughs at something Magda says, and my heart swells. It’s so good to hear her laugh; she doesn’t do it often enough.
As she talks, I try not to watch her, but I can’t resist. Unconsciously she winds a lock of hair that’s escaped from her plait around her fingers as she tells Magda about the sea and her impromptu dip in it yesterday.
“No. It’s beautiful here. It reminds me of home.” She looks up at me again, and I’m caught in her all-consuming gaze.
Home.
I could make this her home….
My mouth dries.
Mate! You are getting way ahead of yourself!
I look away, breaking the spell of Alessia’s stare. I’m troubled by where my thoughts are heading and take a sip of wine. My reaction is all too new and too presumptuous.
“How is Michal? And Logan?” she asks, hungry for news, and she’s soon lost in a lively conversation about packing and Canada—and weddings.
Alessia laughs again, and her voice changes, becoming softer…sweeter. She’s talking to Michal, and I know from her tone that she’s exceptionally fond of him. I shouldn’t be jealous—he’s a kid—but maybe I am? I’m not sure I appreciate this new and unwelcome feeling.