AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Maryanne throws her arms around Maxim, and he hugs her. “Maxie,” she says, and she reaches out a hand to Alessia at the same time. “Congratulations, you two. I hope you’ll be very happy.” She releases Maxim and hugs Alessia. “Reformed rakes make the best husbands,” she whispers, but before she can respond, Alessia is distracted by Caroline, who’s touching Maxim’s lapel, a beseeching look in her big blue eyes.
“Congratulations.” Caroline gives him a quick kiss on his cheek.
Stony-faced, he nods. “Thank you.”
She flushes a little, and Alessia realizes that Maxim is still mad at her, and Caroline doesn’t know how to deal with his anger. She turns to Alessia, her expression cooler, and Alessia’s heart starts to pound.
“Congratulations, Alessia. And I’m so sorry. For what I said last night. It was graceless and utterly uncalled for.”
Alessia, acting on pure instinct, hugs her before she can say anything else. “Thank you,” she says and releases her.
Caroline, embarrassed, nods and moves on, leaving Alessia alone with Maxim.
“How was that?” he asks as he takes her hand.
“Okay,” she whispers, and he brings her hand to his lips.
“You coped admirably with my family. Congratulations, Lady Trevethick.”
She grins, blossoming under his praise. “We have to sit over there.” Alessia points to two gray velvet chairs set up beneath a small arbor, before a table covered in white linen, white roses, and fairy lights. Once they’ve taken their seats, two children—Alessia’s young cousins—present them with plates from the impressive buffet.
The party is in full swing. Alessia is giddy and a little tipsy from the wine. Maxim has removed his jacket and tie, his hair is tousled from all her female relatives ruffling it, and he looks so handsome. The men have started to dance, and her uncles are trying to persuade Maxim to join them.
“Vallja e Kukësit. Come! Chelsea!” her cousin Murkash goads Maxim. “You are Albanian now!”
Maxim rolls his eyes and turns to Alessia. “You didn’t mention dancing. With a bunch of men.”
“This is the traditional dance from Kukës,” Alessia says, grinning at him.
He flashes her a smile as he gets up to join them.
* * *
Man. What fresh hell is this?
“Okay! Okay, I’m coming. Joe, Tom, join me,” I call over to them at their adjacent table, where they’re sitting with my family.
Murkash puts his hand on my shoulder, then takes my hand, and several of his… no, our male relatives join us, linking hands, including Tom and Joe.
“This!” Murkash says, holding a red handkerchief aloft, signaling to Kreshnik, our DJ, and the music kicks in. A traditional ballad with a thumping techno beat, and a slightly off-key melee of strings accompanied by archaic voices, thunders through the room. It’s not something I’ve heard before. But more men get up and join us. It’s a real crowd-pleaser.
Murkash slowly shows me the steps, and I follow him step for step—it’s not as challenging as it looks. Soon we are circling the room, and a couple of the younger boys have joined us too.
Joe is grinning at me. Tom is concentrating on his steps.
We circle the dance floor once, twice—the men cheering and smiling, enjoying their collective camaraderie and the energetic dance.
By the time the music ends, I’m a little winded.
My bride joins me, looking as radiant as she did when I saw her standing, silhouetted against the window in her front room.
“We dance now.” She takes her handkerchief, holds her arms up as the music starts, and begins to sway, her alluring dark eyes on mine. I’m not sure what I am supposed to do. Our wedding party leaves their tables, forming a circle around us, so seizing the initiative, I take her hands, and we dance together, but then I pull away and just watch her because she’s entrancing.
My wife slowly twirls her wrists, handkerchief in hand, and turns in time to an ancient-sounding tune with a percussive beat. She’s utterly captivating to me and the audience. She beckons me forward again, and I surrender willingly and take another few turns with her before the music ends.
Mr. Demachi takes to the floor with his handkerchief, and the older men of his community join him. The DJ plays a different, traditional track, and Jak leads his fellow men around the venue.
I stand and watch with Joe and Tom. It’s… affecting, this expression of male kinship, one that we don’t choose to encourage in the UK. Vaguely, I wonder why that’s the case. Demachi signals for us to join the throng, and we comply, as do some of the women.
After a couple of hours of exhausting carousing and more dancing, we finally cut the impressive, highly decorated wedding cake and eat it with a glass of champagne. Our guests will continue into the night, but I’m done. I want out. I want to be alone with my bride.
