She peels off her hat, releasing her hair. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. “The beer I had yesterday?” she says. With her loose, dark curls falling almost to her waist, her shining eyes, and her radiant smile, she is an exotic beauty. I’m beguiled. Totally and utterly beguiled. I can’t blame Jago for staring. “Half a pale ale for the lady,” I say without looking at him.

“What is it?” Alessia asks as she begins to unzip Maryanne’s quilted Barbour jacket. And I know I’ve been gawking at her. I shake my head, and she gives me a shy smile.

“Hello, Maxim. Or should I say ‘milord’ now?”

Shit.

I turn around, and Megan is standing in front of me, her expression as dark as her clothes. “Table for two?” she says with a saccharine tone and a smile to match.

“Please. And how are you?”

“Fine,” she snaps, and my heart sinks, my father’s voice ringing in my head.

Don’t fuck the local girls, boy.

I stand aside for Alessia to precede me, and we follow in Megan’s dour wake. She leads us to a table in the corner by a window that overlooks the quays. It’s the best table in the establishment. So that’s something.

“This okay for you?” I ask Alessia, deliberately ignoring Megan.

“Yes. It is good,” Alessia responds, with a confused look at a moody Megan. I hold out her chair, and she sits. Jago arrives with our drinks, and Megan saunters off, presumably to fetch menus…or a cricket bat.

“Cheers.” I hold up my pint.

“Cheers,” Alessia replies. After a sip she says, “I do not think Megan is happy with you.”

“No, I don’t think so either.” I shrug, brushing off the subject. I really don’t want to discuss Megan with Alessia. “Anyway, you were saying about religion?”

She eyes me dubiously, as if pondering the Megan Situation, and then she continues, “The Communists banned religion in my country.”

“You mentioned that in the car yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“But you wear a gold cross.”

“Menus,” Megan interrupts us, and hands us both a laminated card. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.” She turns abruptly and heads for the bar.

I ignore her. “You were saying?”

Alessia watches Megan’s exit through suspicious eyes but says nothing about her. She continues, “It was my grandmother’s. She was Catholic. She used to pray in secret.” Alessia fondles her gold cross.

“So there’s no religion in your country?”

“There is now. Since we became a republic when the Communists fell, but in Albania we don’t make so much of it.”

“Oh, I thought religion was everything in the Balkans?”

“Not in Albania. We are a…what is the word? Secular state. Religion is very personal. You know, just between a person and their God. At home we are Catholics. Most people in my town are Muslim. But we do not give it much thought,” she responds with a quizzical look at me. “And you?”

“Me? Well, I suppose I’m Church of England. But I’m not religious at all.” Father Trewin’s words come back to me.

We lead by example, my son.

Bloody hell.

Maybe I should go to church tomorrow. Kit always managed to go at least one or two Sundays a month when he was down here.

Me, not so much.

That’s another damn duty I have to fulfill.

“Are the English like you?” Alessia asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

“With regard to religion? Some are. Some aren’t. The UK is multicultural.”

“This I know.” She smiles. “When I traveled on the train in London, there were so many different languages spoken.”

“Do you like it? London?”

“It is noisy and crowded and very expensive. But it is exciting. I had never been to a big city before.”

“Not even Tirana?” Thanks to my expensive education, I know the capital of Albania.

“No. I have never traveled. I had never seen the sea until you brought me here.” Her glance out the window is wistful, but it gives me an opportunity to study her profile: long lashes, pert nose, pouting lips. I shift in my seat, my blood thickening.

Steady.

Megan appears with her pinched, angry face and scraped-back hair, and my problem subsides.

Boy, she is still bitter. It was one summer seven years ago. One fucking summer.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks, glaring at me. “Catch of the day is cod.” She makes it sound like an insult.

Alessia frowns and glances quickly at the menu.

“I’ll have the fish pie, please.” And, irritated, I cock my head, daring Megan to say anything.

“For me also,” says Alessia.

“Two fish pies. Any wine?”

“I’m fine with the beer. Alessia?”

Megan turns to the lovely Alessia Demachi. “For you?” she snaps.

“The beer is good for me, too.”

“Thank you, Megan,” I grunt in warning, and she shoots me a look.

She’ll probably spit in my food—or, worse, in Alessia’s.

“Shit,” I murmur under my breath as I watch her march back to the kitchen.

Alessia studies my reaction.

“That goes back several years,” I say, and tug at my sweater collar, embarrassed.

“What does?”

“Megan and I.”

“Oh,” Alessia says, her tone flat.

“She’s ancient history. Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?” I ask, desperately trying to move on.

“No,” she says abruptly, and it’s obvious she’s still considering Megan and me.

“Parents?”

“I have a mother and a father. Like all people.” She raises a beautiful, arched eyebrow.

Oh. The delectable Demachi has teeth.

“And what are they like?” I ask, stifling my amusement.

“My mother is…brave.” Her voice becomes soft and wistful.

“Brave?”

“Yes.” Her expression turns somber, and she glances out the window once more.

Okay. This subject is definitely off-limits.

“And your father?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. “He is an Albanian man.”

“And that means?”

“Well, my father is old-fashioned, and I do not…how do you say? We do not see eye for eye.” Her face falls a little, and her troubled expression tells me this, too, is off-limits.

“Eye to eye,” I correct her. “Tell me about Albania, then.”

Her face brightens. “What do you want to know?” She looks up at me through those long dark lashes, and my groin tightens again.

“Everything,” I whisper.

I watch and listen to her, enthralled. She is passionate and eloquent, painting a vivid picture of her country and her home. She tells me Albania is a special place where family is at the center of everything. It’s an ancient country, influenced over the centuries by several cultures with differing ideologies. She explains that it’s both Western and Eastern-facing, but more and more her country looks to Europe for inspiration. She’s proud of her hometown. Kuk?s is a small place in the north near the border with Kosovo, and she enthuses about its spectacular lakes, rivers, and gorges, but most of all the mountains that surround it. She comes alive talking about the landscape, and it’s clear this is what she misses about her homeland.

“And that is why I like it here,” she says. “From what I have seen, the landscape in Cornwall is also beautiful.”

We are interrupted by Megan and fish pie. Megan plunks the plates down on the table and leaves without a word. Her face is sour, but the fish pie is warming and delicious, and there’s no sign that anyone spat in it.

“What does your father do?” I ask cautiously.

“He has a garage.”

“Does he sell petrol?”

“No. He fixes cars. Tires. Mechanical things.”

“And your mother?”

“She is at home.”

I want to ask Alessia why she left Albania, but I know it will remind her of her harrowing journey to the UK.

“And what did you do in Kuk?s?”

“Well, I was studying, but my university closed, and so sometimes I work in a school with the little children. And sometimes I play the piano….” Her voice tails off, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nostalgic or if it’s for another reason. “Tell me about your work.” It’s clear she wants to change the subject, and because I don’t want to tell her what I do yet, I fill her in on my DJing career.

“And I’ve done a couple of summers in San Antonio in Ibiza. Now, that’s a real party place.”

“This is why you have so many records?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“And what is your favorite music?”

“All music. I don’t have a favorite genre. What about you? How old were you when you started playing?”

“I was four.”

Wow. Early.

“Did you study music? I mean, music theory?”

“No.”

That’s even more impressive.

It’s gratifying to see Alessia eat. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes aglow, and I suspect that after two beers she’s a little tipsy.

“Would you like anything else?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Let’s go.”

It’s Jago who brings over our bill. I suspect Megan has refused or she’s on a break. I settle up and take Alessia’s hand as we leave the pub.

“I just want to make a quick detour to the shop,” I say.

“Okay.” Alessia’s lopsided smile makes me grin.

The shops in Trevethick are owned by the estate and leased to the locals. They do good business from Easter right through to the New Year. The only one that’s actually useful is the general store. We’re miles from the nearest big town, and it carries a huge range of items. A dulcet bell rings as we enter.