Wildalone by Zourkova Krassi

Author:Zourkova, Krassi [Zourkova, Krassi]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I will know you

even in my death

What kind of a promise—or threat—was this? And who in their right mind would make it? Maybe one of the inexplicably missing parents had written a love note to the other, years back. Or what if the handwriting was Jake’s? This was his house too. His books. He had probably figured that I might browse through them, once Rhys brought me here. And so, just like that open Chopin score on the piano, the Rilke volume had ended up strategically at the end of the shelf, where I was most likely to find it.

“Food is served.” Rhys pulled the book from me and slipped it back among the others. “You must be starved to death.”

“Death seems to be the theme today. I just read about—”

“I know what you were reading.”

“Even the handwritten note?”

He shrugged. “Books go through many hands. People scribble.”

“It was more than just a scribble.”

“We collect old editions, Thea. And old editions come with baggage.” Everything about him seemed to come with baggage. He kept dodging my questions, even now. “By the way, I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

“Some of it.”

“Who are your favorites?”

“Neruda, Rumi, E.E. Cummings.”

“You’ve read my namesake? Cummings would have been pleased to know he’s big in Bulgaria.”

“That’s your last name?”

“Rhys Cummings? No, God no! It’s Estlin.”

I recalled the second E in E.E. Cummings: Estlin. Brief and stunning, like the sound of icicles clashed together by a wind.

“How about your favorites?”

“We’ll save those for dessert. Now let’s eat.”

Eating wasn’t in the stars that day. We had barely started when the doorbell rang.

“Carmela is here! Come, she’s been dying to meet you.”

Everything about the woman radiated cheer: the flowing clothes, wrapped in blocks of color around her bursting figure; the wrinkles projecting laughter away from the quick black eyes; and more than anything—the bubbly exuberance of an accent that carried her voice to every corner of the house.

“¡Hola! How are you, Señor Rhys?”

“Very well, thank you, Carmelita.” He plunged into her arms for the longest hug I had seen him accept from someone, then turned to me: “Carmela is a very dear friend of the family. She was born on the Costa del Sol, but now lives here on the island. Keeps an eye on the house for us, which we greatly appreciate.”

“Then stop chasing the pretty college girls and come to see us more often!” Her smile grew into a wide crescent as she looked me up and down. “Ay, Señor Rhys, she is so beautiful, your girlfriend!”

Girlfriend?

He didn’t correct her, just put his arm around me. “Yes, isn’t she? But now it’s up to you, Carmelita, to make her look devastatingly Spanish for me tonight.”

“Claro, she’ll make a perfect bruja.”

“And that,” Rhys snapped, as if she had committed a sin known only to the two of them, “is exactly what I don’t want.”

“I’ll make a perfect what?”

“A perfect you.” He kissed my cheek. “Now go get ready. I’ll be back at six.”

THE MAKEOVER FROM “SO BEAUTIFUL” to “devastatingly Spanish” was a challenge.

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