[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
"The others will arrive in an hour," Art said. "I wonder what they'll bring."
"I've talked to them, trying to get things organized. Let's see..." She seized the maraca by its handle and tossed it up. It made its pebbly noise as it flipped over, its head landing safely in Monica's waiting hand. "Rashid said he'll bring a chicken dish and—"
"Bossi did that too... flipping the maraca." Monica's fiddling had triggered a memory in Art's head.
She shrugged. "Did she?" There was an edge in the words.
She tossed the maraca again, this time letting it do a double somersault.
Art decided to let the matter rest.
"Anyway, about the neighbors," Monica said. "The Meiers promised to cook rice and veggies, and Jake will bring dried meat from Oberippenberg and salad for starters. But most of all, they'll all bring... themselves."
"True." The thought of that lot crowding his living room was disturbing. "I'm curious if Jake has any news..."
"News about what?" she asked.
"About the money. As you know, the authorities have blocked access to his Aunt's funds, and he has to pay bills for renovating the hotel."
She flipped the maraca once more. "He told me they have released at least part of the accounts now. Even though there seems to be some doubt about the legality of the deals behind her wealth, most of them date to back to the seventies or eighties, and there's a... time-bar... to the claims the true owner could have made. So he's free to waste the cash now."
Art pursed his lips. "Not so sure about wasting. You know, when we were at the Bijou, the hotel, I had a vision of me spending some days up there... enjoying the scenery, the hiking, the spa, and some fine food."
She touched his cast with the instrument. "And... in that vision of yours... were you alone up there? The distinguished, solitary, middle-aged guest at a wellness hotel?" She tilted her head and watched him trough slitted eyes.
Art smiled. "Hmm... The vision was too brief. I can't tell."
She shrugged. "Well, if you can't tell, time may do that for you. Anyway, let's first face the dinner with the..." She formed her left hand into an ugly claw and showed her teeth. "... neighbors."
"Yeah. Let's hope there won't be any more murders. Or attempts to kill me."
"It can't be worse than what awaits us next weekend." She grinned.
Yes, there was that.
Meet the parents.
If the thought of dinner with their neighbors was disturbing, the prospect of dinner with her parents was outright scary. Art pressed his lips together, raised his eyebrows, thought of a stuffed bull's head, and nodded.
"You'll survive..." She smiled. "...Probably. My dad has a high opinion of your heroic, manly fight on that bridge." She air-quoted the words manly fight. He won't chew you up."
"Good to hear—"
"He may even invite you to a hunting party." Her grin was mischievous.
Art shuddered. "I'll need to think of a good excuse..." He took a long breath and pushed an army of tin soldiers from his mind. "But let's concentrate on tonight. Are we ready for the neighborly hordes?"
She nodded. "Yep, my hero."
"So there's nothing for us to do but wait?" he asked.
"Unless we find something better to do." She dimpled.
He stepped closer to her and took the maraca from her hands.
She moved a finger along his cast. "You were really lucky there."
"Yeah, I'm one lucky guy." He pushed a strand of hair from her face, the process taking his finger along her temple and all the way to a warm spot behind her ear. Then he stepped back. "And, I'm not only lucky, but I'm also famous for my maraca skills. Watch."
He flipped his wrist, sending the maraca up in the air on a noisy trip for a double flip. He had practiced the move over the last days and felt confident enough for a public performance. In its descent, however, the handle wasn't where the laws of physics should have taken it, and he missed. The instrument continued its tumbling fall and landed on the tiled floor with the ugly sound of something breaking.
"Oops." Monica looked at the fallen tool, then at him.
He stooped and retrieved it. A half-centimetre wide crack marred one side of its painted head.
She took the maraca from his hand and placed it on the table. "I always wondered what's inside these things." Before Art could object, she started to pry it open.
"I've read it contains dried fruits." He watched over her shoulder as she pushed a finger into the crack to widen it and then turned the instrument over.
A handful of small, translucent stones tumbled onto the table. Some of them were colorless, others had a yellow tinge. Their irregular surfaces glittered in the light.
He picked one up. It had the size of a large pea, but it was much harder. "Er..."
"Do you think what I think?" Monica was also fingering one of the small gems.
"Yes, I think I do." He took up a knife and moved its serrated blade over the stone. It didn't leave a scratch. "We... we should hand them over to the police."
"Hmm..."
"Er..."
"The police have closed the case," she said. "I doubt they'd be interested in an old maraca."
"You may have a point there."
She started to put the stones back into the instrument's head. "Let's get this out of the way before the neighbors storm the place."
"Yeah." He slid his own stone back through the crack. Then he pulled open the table's drawer. It held the flotsam and jetsam of his life—tangled strings, three chopsticks, a bent corkscrew, a set of birthday cake candles, coins of unknown origin, a voucher for an isotonic drink, a padlock without a key, a limpid balloon, keys without a lock, and other, more obscure items. In Art's experience, every household had one such drawer, somewhere. He was pleased to find an adhesive tape in the chaos, half-hidden under a scratched Estonian-for-beginners-CD, and handed it to Monica.
She taped the gap close and handed him the instrument. He stowed it away at the back of the drawer, behind a small, pink plush pig. Then he turned to face her.
A sweet, fruity smell hung in the air.
She smiled at him, dimply, her gaze searching his face. Black hair and dark eyes sparkled under the kitchen's fluorescent tube.
There and then, his heart and brain stopped working.
A second later, the heart resumed its duties.
And as for the brain, well...
He reached out to pull her close.
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The End... but before you go
have a look at the next chapter for an important annoucement. Crisis has hit Wattpad HQ.
