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“Ah.”
“And Bleriana,” she whispers as if she’s confessing a great evil.
“Even though I asked you not to.” Maxim’s mouth flattens, his eyes frost, and she knows he’s irritated. She nods, trying and failing to feel guilty. He shakes his head and, taking her hand, hauls her into his lap. “What the hell, Alessia? I don’t want you involved in that world, even from a distance. Tom’s on it. Admittedly he hasn’t got very far. Call the private investigator and ask him to stop. Let Tom deal with it. Someone I trust. Please.”
“Okay,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m just anxious to find her.”
Maxim sighs. “I understand. But why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your great-uncle? I would have come with you.”
“I didn’t plan to meet him. I was going to deliver a letter. We learned about correspondence and letter writing today in class. But I saw the baby grand in his living room through the window, and once I saw that… It was…um…fate.” She shrugs, trying to convey that she felt compelled to knock on the door after seeing the piano.
Maxim sighs again. “I see. Well, if you have any other hidden relatives, I’d be happy to take you to meet them. Let me. Please?”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about him.”
Alessia kisses his cheek. “Thank you for not being too mad at me.”
“I am still a little mad at you. And we say ‘angry.’ ‘Mad’ is American. And I was fucking incandescent earlier. With worry more than anything.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Shall I cook? Are you hungry?”
Maxim sits back, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I’m famished.”
She smiles and caresses his face. Her husband is hangry. “I’ll cook and tell you all about him.”
* * *
“So he was just across the river when you lived in Brentford?” I ask as I watch Alessia stir a tomato sauce. “So near, and yet so far.”
“Yes. It is a grand house. He is a musician too, but he was a teacher. At Oxford. A professor in music. He has synesthesia like me, but calls it, um…chrom…chromesthesia.”
“Wow.” What are the odds? “Is it genetic?”
“I think so!” She beams as she stirs in some capers. Whatever she’s concocting, it smells delicious. It smells so good—it deserves a glass of full-bodied red.
“Wine?” I ask Alessia.
“Please. He wants to meet you. And my mother!”
“Has he not met your mother?” I grab a bottle from the rack.
“No. He’s never been to Albania. And my mother doesn’t know he exists. My grandmother was shun…shunned by her family for marrying an Albanian.” Alessia’s voice fades, and she stirs the sauce.
Shit.
My family haven’t shunned her.
Have they? My mother— “That’s awful,” I mutter, immediately shutting that thought down.
“But he knew about me. She would write occasional letters to him.”
“He should go and meet your family. I can recommend it, in spite of your scary father. Have you told Shpresa?” I uncork the wine and, giving it zero time to breathe, pour two glasses.
“No. But I will after dinner.” She drains the spaghetti and adds it to the sauce, stirring it in. “This is ready.”
* * *
Alessia places the last of their plates in the dishwasher, wipes down the countertop, and retrieves her phone from her purse. Setting it down, she plugs in the charger. Maxim is in the living room at the piano. She hasn’t heard him play since he duetted with her. She leans against the doorjamb, unseen by him, and listens for a moment. He’s improvising a melody in A minor. The notes sparkle across the room and through her head in a vibrant blue, sounding upbeat and full of warmth and hope, unusual for a minor key.
He sounds… happy.
Alessia smiles. The theme is a complete contrast to his melancholy composition that she played for him not so long ago in the Hideout in Cornwall. He turns, noticing her, and she sidles over and sits beside him at the piano.
“This is a happier tune.”
“I wonder why that is?” Maxim smirks, and she smiles. “It’s from Interstellar.”
Alessia frowns.
“The film?” he asks.
“I don’t know it.”
“Oh. We’ll have to watch it. Amazing movie. Great soundtrack by Hans Zimmer.” He stops and puts his arm around her. “That reminds me. I spoke to Leticia today.”
Alessia tenses—despite the fact that she likes Ticia, she doesn’t like him talking to women he’s bedded.
Alessia! Stop.
Maxim continues either because he doesn’t notice her tension or chooses not to. “She says we should keep a low profile and avoid the press. So when you’ve finished your course, I think we should go to Cornwall. I have work to do at the Hall anyway. I know we were going to pack the flat up this weekend so we can move. But maybe we can get someone to do that for us. Or we can wait.”
