“Maxim, I’m a widow. I’m twenty-eight, and I’m a widow. This wasn’t part of the plan.”
I take her hand in mine. “I know. It wasn’t in any of our plans. Even Kit’s.”
Pained blue eyes meet mine. “I don’t know,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
She leans forward so she’s facing me and in a conspiratorial whisper says, “I think he meant to kill himself.”
I squeeze her fingers. “Caro. That’s not true. Don’t think that. It was just a horrid accident.” My eyes meet hers, and I’m trying for my most earnest look, but the truth is—I’ve had the same thought. I can’t let her know that, though, and I don’t want to believe it either. Suicide is too painful for those of us left behind.
“I keep going over that day,” she says, searching my face for answers. “But I have no idea why…”
Alas, neither have I.
“It was an accident,” I reiterate. “Let me sit.” Releasing her, I slump into the chair opposite hers, facing the fireplace.
“Do you want a drink? After all, this is your house.” Her words have a bitter edge that I ignore. I don’t want a fight.
“Blake already offered, and I declined.”
She exhales and turns back to stare at the flames. We both do, each of us lost in the pain of losing Kit. I had expected the third degree from her, but she’s not forthcoming at all, and we sit in an uneasy silence. After a while the fire dies down. I get up and place another couple of logs in the grate and stoke the flames.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
Okay, then.
I sit back down, and she tilts her head to the side, her hair falling across her face until she tucks it behind her ear. “I heard about the burglary. Did you lose anything important?”
“No. Just my laptop and my decks. I think they smashed my iMac.”
“People are shitty.”
“They are.”
“What were you doing in Cornwall?”
“This and that….” I’m trying for humor.
“Well, that’s illuminating.” She rolls her eyes, and I glimpse a flash of the spirited Caroline I know. “What were you doing in Cornwall?”
“Escaping from gangsters, if you must know.”
“Gangsters?”
“Yes…And falling in love.”
* * *
Alessia explores the kitchen cupboards and drawers, look- ing for something to cook for supper. She’s not examined their contents in any comprehensive way before. But as she goes through them, she notes that the utensils are all clean and the pots and pans are pristine. She suspects they’ve never been used. Two of the pans still have the price stickers attached. She finds a few groceries in the larder: pasta, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, some jars of herbs and spices. Enough to make a meal, but these ingredients don’t inspire her. She eyes the kitchen clock. Maxim will be a while yet. She has time to go to the local store to find something a little more enticing for her man.
A silly grin spreads over her face.
Her man.
Her Mister.
At the bottom of the armoire, she finds the Ziploc bag that she’d stuffed in Michal’s old rugby sock—the bag that holds her precious savings. Taking out two twenty-pound notes, she slips them into the back pocket of her jeans, grabs her coat, sets the alarm, and leaves.
* * *
“What?” splutters Caroline. “You? In love?”
“And why would that be so improbable?” I note that she doesn’t continue her line of questioning about “gangsters.”
“Maxim, the only thing you love is your dick.”
“That’s not true!”
She cackles. And it’s good to hear her laugh, but not so good that it’s at my expense. Noticing my less-than-enthusiastic reaction, she tries to bring her amusement under control. “Okay, so who’s been on the sharp end of it?” she says indulgently.
“You don’t have to be quite so crude.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I gaze at her, and the warmth and humor slowly fade from her face.
“Who?” she presses me.
“Alessia.”
She frowns for a split second, and then her eyebrows shoot up. “No!” She gasps. “Your daily?”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Maxim. She’s your fucking daily—literally!” And a dark cloud crosses her face; a storm is brewing.
I shift in my seat, irritated by her response. “Well, she isn’t my daily anymore.”
“I knew it! That time when I met her. In your kitchen. You were so weird and attentive toward her.” She spits each word out like venom. She’s horrified.
“Don’t be so dramatic. That’s not like you.”
“It is like me.”
“Since when?”
“Since my bloody husband upped and killed himself,” she hisses, her eyes glassy with animosity.
Shit.
She went there. She’s using Kit’s death in an argument.
I gulp down my shock and grief as we glare at each other, the air between us ripe with our unspoken thoughts.
Abruptly she turns her attention back to the fire, her contempt evident in the stubborn line of her chin. “You should just fuck her out of your system,” she grumbles.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get her out of my system. I don’t want to. I’m in love with her.” My words are softly spoken, and they hang in the air as I wait for Caroline’s reaction.
“You’re crazy.”
“Why?”
“You know why! She’s your fucking cleaner.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, it matters!”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“QED. You’re crazy if you don’t think it matters.”
“Crazy in love.” I shrug. It’s the truth.
“With the help!”
“Caro, don’t be such a snob. You can’t choose who you love. Love chooses you.”
“Bloody hell!” She stands suddenly, looming over me. “Don’t give me some bullshit clichéd homily. She’s just a grimy little freeloader, Maxim. Can’t you see that?”
“Fuck off, Caroline!” I stand up, bristling with a sense of injustice, and we’re practically nose to nose. “You know nothing about her—”
“I know her type.”
“From where? From where do you Know. Her. Type, Lady Trevethick?” I enunciate each syllable, my words echoing off the blue-painted walls and framed artwork of this small drawing room.
I’m furious.
How dare she judge Alessia? Caroline, like me, has led a life of utter fucking privilege.
She blanches and steps back, looking at me as if I’ve just slapped her.
Fuck.
Mate! This is getting out of hand.
I run my fingers through my hair.
“Caroline, it’s not the end of the world.”
“It is to me.”
“Why?”
She glares at me with a look that’s both wounded and enraged. I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“What about us?” she asks, her voice wavering, her eyes wide.
“There is no ‘us.’ ” God, she’s so annoying. “We fucked. We were grieving. We’re still grieving. I’ve finally met someone who makes me step up and think about the life I lead, and—”