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)
Perhaps it’s stress.
Yes. That’s the most logical explanation. I’m grieving Kit’s loss and dealing with the aftermath.
Kit, you’re a bastard for leaving me with all this responsibility.
It’s overwhelming. Fucking overwhelming.
I push all thoughts of Kit and her out of my mind as I concentrate on my workout and count through my biceps curls.
And I’ve got lunch with my mother in two hours.
Shit.
* * *
Alessia is in the laundry room moving wet clothes into the dryer when she hears the front door slam again.
No! He is back.
Glad that she’s hidden away in the smallest room in the apartment, she sets up the ironing board and starts ironing the few garments that are ready. Surely he will not come in here. When she finishes the fifth shirt, she hears the door slam again, and she knows that she’s on her own once more. It irks her that he’s not shouted a good-bye like he did when he thought she was Krystyna, but she shakes off the feeling and finishes the ironing as quickly as she can.
Once done, she goes to check his bedroom to see if he has left it in a mess. Sure enough, his gym clothes are scattered on the floor. Gingerly, she picks up each item. They are all damp with his sweat, but to her surprise she doesn’t find this as repellent as she did before she met him. She places the items in his laundry basket and checks the bathroom. The fresh, clean scent of his soap hangs in the air. Closing her eyes, she inhales, and suddenly she’s transported back to the tall evergreens that surround her parents’ house in Kukës. She savors the fragrance, ignoring her pang of homesickness. London is her home now.
She wipes down the sink and is finished with half an hour to spare. She runs straight to the living room and sits down in front of the piano. As her fingers caress the keys, the strains of Bach’s Prelude in C-sharp Major fill the apartment, the notes dancing in vibrant colors into the corners of the room and soothing her troubled soul.
* * *
I stride into my mother’s favorite restaurant on Aldwych. I’m early, but I don’t give a fuck. I need a drink, not only to forget my brush with the new daily but I need some liquid fortification to face my mother.
“Maxim!” I turn, and behind me is the one woman in the world I adore. Maryanne, my younger sister by a year, is walking through the foyer. Her eyes, the same shade as mine, light up when I turn to face her, and she throws her arms around my neck, her red hair flying into my face because she’s only a few inches shorter than me.
“Hey, M.A., I’ve missed you,” I say as I hug her.
“Maxie.” Her voice catches in her throat.
Shit. Not here.
I hug her harder, willing her not to cry, and I’m surprised by the raw emotion that burns my throat. She sniffs, and her eyes are red-rimmed when I release her. This is not like her. She usually takes after our mother, who keeps her emotions under ruthless control. “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she says as she clutches a tissue.
“I know, me neither. Let’s sit and get a drink.” I take her elbow, and we follow the hostess into the large wood-paneled restaurant. The place has a classic old-fashioned feel: brass lamps, dark green leather upholstery, crisp white linen, and sparkling crystal glasses. The atmosphere buzzes with the chatter of businessmen and -women and the clatter of cutlery on fine china. I focus on the sight of the hostess’s shapely backside swathed in a tight pencil skirt and the sound of her stiletto heels clicking on the polished tiled floor as she shows us to our table. I hold out Maryanne’s chair, and we sit down.
“Two Bloody Marys,” I say to the hostess as she hands us each a menu and gives me a coy look, which I don’t return. She might have a fine arse and a cute smile, but I’m not in the mood to play. I’m preoccupied by my encounter with my daily and the memory of anxious dark eyes. I frown, dismissing the thought and turn my full attention to my sister as the hostess leaves with a disappointed pout.
“When did you get back from Cornwall?” I ask.
“Yesterday.”
“How’s the Dowager?”
“Maxim! You know she hates that term.”
I give her an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, how’s the Mothership?”
Maryanne glares at me for a moment, but then her face falls.
Shit.
“Sorry,” I mumble, chastened.
“She’s really shaken up, but it’s hard to tell. You know what she’s like.” Maryanne’s eyes cloud, and she looks troubled. “I think there’s something she’s not telling us.”
I nod. I know only too well. My mother rarely reveals a chink in her polished armor. She hadn’t wept at Kit’s funeral; she’d been the epitome of grace under fire. Brittle but gracious, as always. I hadn’t wept either. I’d been too busy nursing one hell of a hangover.