Of All Places: Small Town Romance set in Europe

Book : Of All Hearts Series

by Lily Baines

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Small-town Romance

Synopsis

She's read all about romance but never found love. Can love be found in an unexpected place, time, and person?

Melanie Allen needs a change. Longing to escape her uneventful life, the introverted librarian jets off to picturesque Montenegro for a one-week tour. With little confidence in herself, she encounters a stunningly handsome man and acts impulsively for the very first time.

Theo Martinovic is gorgeous, self-confident, and a town local. Everything Melanie is not. Still unsure how she managed to capture his attention and sensing he's holding back wounds of his own, Melanie knows she must defy her self-conscious ways if she doesn't want to repeat the mistakes of her past.

With relatable characters, steamy chemistry, and breathtaking locations, this sun-drenched contemporary romance novel will pull you into every heartfelt moment.

★★★★★ "Lily Baines has written the perfect chick-lit, contemporary romance... 'Of All Places' is a wonderfully conceived and written story that flows effortlessly from page one. It leaves you with "all the feels" as most women can easily relate to Melanie... 'Of All Places' is an uplifting book that will stay with you for days after you finish, as you think on Melanie and are continually encouraged to take a few risks in life and see the places it will take you."- Lit Buzz

Release date: July 17, 2020

Print pages: 217

Content advisory: Not a clean romance

Sample

Of All Places

 

 

Lily Baines

 

© 2020 Lily Baines. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1  

It was there, in what seemed like never-ending curves of floral alleys that, for the first time in over a year, Melanie found herself breathing in and filling her lungs to the brim, despite the gaping void in her life.

Although it wasn’t the first picturesque European old town she had visited in her five days in Montenegro, it was in that little stone-built blossoming alley that the race of her heart slowed down, the noise of gushing blood in her ears silenced, and the twist in her stomach lost its tiring pull. She was swayed to that little winding alley by herds of tourists without knowing how far she walked, or which turns she had taken to get there.

There were two hours before she would have to rejoin the organized tour group she had come with at the main plaza, so Melanie decided to continue walking aimlessly in hopes that this newfound feeling would embed itself in her bloodstream and last a bit longer. She needed it.

Melanie raised her head and looked at the bright blue sky above the maze of beautiful alleys, at the stone-carved fronts of old buildings, hanging flowerpots everywhere, color, air, light. Breathe.

A few more turns, and she could imagine what it’d feel like to sit on one of the balconies above with a drink in her hand and no painful thoughts lodged in her mind. Another left turn, passing by small shops that only locals seemed to frequent, the music of their language pouring around her, and she felt like she didn’t want these two hours to end. This place, with its old houses, their colorful wooden shutters and flowery balconies, made her wish the day would never end and that she wouldn’t have to go back, not to the group, not to the bus, not to the hotel, and not back home to Cincinnati.

When she stopped to gaze at the window of one of the shops that exhibited vibrant coral and crystal jewelry, she caught a glimpse e herself in the reflection. In a broad plain T-shirt, a pair of loose, beige comfy pants, beige sneakers, and her auburn hair tied in a loose knot at her nape, Melanie thought she looked as unconnected to the atmosphere of this place as she could. She looked like she did back home when she went to Trader Joe’s to get milk at eleven at night.

Since she had landed in Montenegro, she had been envying the more in-tune women in her tour group that, regardless of their age and body shape, wore floral or white-laced, flowing dresses with sandals and coral necklaces, looking like seafront tourism itself. She had stuck to the clothes that she had brought from home, that were boring even there, that guarded her like a shell and made her unnoticeable. Maybe that was how she liked it. She’d never really felt light, at ease, at peace, beautiful, not for many years. All she wanted was to blend in the background.

Maybe she had always felt like a single, almost-forty-years-old librarian who had never been a beauty, who had lived with her ailing mother until she couldn’t take care of her alone anymore, and whose closest thing to a best friend announced months ago that she was dating the man that Melanie had been secretly infatuated with.

“Do you like?” A voice startled her. It belonged to a woman who stepped out of the shop and smiled at her. “Good prices. Please, come in.”

Melanie smiled back. “No, thank you. I was just looking,” she replied, embarrassed, as if she had been caught in an improper presumption.

“Emerald color or coral blue to light up brown eyes,” the woman said, smiling, pointing at her own eyes, the coral necklace around her neck, and then at Melanie’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Melanie repeated. “Maybe another time.”

“Of course. Good day,” the saleswoman said with another smile, then walked back in.

Melanie turned and continued strolling. Her eyes were hazel, not brown, but maybe she should get one of those colorful jewels. Maybe it could light up her eyes and skin and soul. Maybe it could make her feel like someone else or like herself from years ago.

She hesitated for a few steps, and a couple who were walking behind her nearly bumped into her. She apologized and moved to the side, next to another shop’s window. She thought to go back and buy something from the nice lady. Maybe later. Maybe another day.

It was silly, really, she beat herself inwardly. Why couldn’t she get one of those necklaces or one of those dresses that almost all the shops in every touristic city that she’d been to here exhibit? She hadn’t noticed if the local women were wearing them, but she wasn’t local. She was a tourist. And maybe some women flowed naturally, whereas she needed a garment to make her feel like she could float on this blue sea air. A decade’s worth of long nights and weekends reading everything—eighteenth-century novels, romance books, thriller and suspense novels, memoirs, and other books that her real life couldn’t compete with—or watching television after her mother had gone to bed had weighed her down. She read her books and watched TV and went to work and lost interest in clothes, except those that made her feel comfortable.

Her only serious relationship had ended before she’d reached her thirtieth year in a way that made her realize that she wasn’t the kind to inspire excitement. Except for a few dresses that hung in her closet that she wasn’t sure even fit her anymore and were saved for special occasions, she didn’t own anything that could make her feel airy. Especially not the dress that she had worn the night she thought her boyfriend of three years was going to finally offer her to move in with him. Instead, he had used the restaurant that he had taken her to, to tell her that she didn’t make butterflies in his heart or stomach. She had been twenty-nine, and he, too, hadn’t created butterflies in her stomach or heart or anywhere else really. Nevertheless, he was nice, they had gotten along well, and she had thought she could pass through life with him.

Then had come the long years of concentrating on her work and on her mother, who needed her. The only diversions in those years had been the few trips she’d taken with her mother, mainly to the West Coast and to the South, and the few and far between dates she’d had with men who she couldn’t imagine herself with, and vice versa.

Oh, and Greg. There was Greg, almost always there, two floors below hers at work, whom she could laugh with during coffee breaks, talk with about books and movies, travels, her mother, his ex-wife, his dates and hers, even those she’d invented. Greg, who after years of work-friendship spent one night with her. She remembered it vividly. His touch, his smell.

It had happened during an incentive getaway to Miami for outstanding employees. She was one of the outstanding librarians of Ohio State Libraries and Greg of the Internal Audit Department.

Not long after that night, Beth, the girl she’d gone to high school with and had remained friends with, more out of habit, had told her that Greg had asked her out.

Beth worked in Human Resources and visited their building from time to time. Knowing that Melanie and Greg were work buddies, she’d asked if it was okay with her. And Melanie, shattered and humiliated, had told her that of course it was okay, that she didn’t mind, that she and Greg were just workplace friends. It was true. There was nothing between them, not even after that night.

She never fully confided in Beth, reluctant to bore her with her stories of the funny things that Greg had said and expose the weight she put on trivialities, like how he complimented her taste in books or hugged her on her birthday, while Beth had real problems with the men she dated, lived with, fought with, dumped or was dumped by. She considered telling her about that night in Miami after she had gotten back, but Greg had behaved as if it had never happened, so she kept it to herself.

As it was, for one of her birthdays, Beth bought her a T-shirt that said, “Mentally Dating Mr. Darcy.” And although Melanie had rebelled against the idea, she didn’t want to give Beth more proof, especially not after Beth had told her, “It’s all in your head,” when she noticed Melanie blushing in Greg’s presence. That’s why she had never told her about that night. And then it was too late.

Melanie continued her slow progress through the beautiful, paved, old streets and the bustling plazas that opened from them; a church here, a museum there, pubs and restaurants that she passed quickly by, laundry hanging on a balcony, two old women sitting on a stoop, tourists stopping to take selfies. It was good to be absorbed in all this. It made her feel as if nothing bad could exist.

A squeal of laughter and playful voices made her look ahead. A boy, about six or seven years old (she could never tell), was walking with his parents, holding a ball, when a shop owner who leaned against the doorframe at the entrance to his shop smiled at him and said something that included the word “football.” The child, immediately understanding, rolled the ball toward the man, who laughed and gently kicked the ball back to the child. The child then caught the ball and sent it rolling again with his foot. His parents stopped and smiled. His father pulled out his phone to film it, and his mother looked between her child and the very handsome man he was playing with.

The man left his post at the shop door and quite masterfully kicked the ball back to the boy. They were now in the middle of the alley, playing soccer, calling to each other in two different languages and laughing. The man was tan and wore a white, open-collared, buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the contrast with his golden skin was mesmerizing. His fitted khakis revealed muscular, tan, hairy legs that ended in matching sneakers.

Melanie stopped a few yards behind and watched the scene, as did others. The shopkeeper said something in English to the mother, who smiled radiantly. A few more kicks of the ball, and the mother thanked the man and called her son to finish up. The man extended his hand and the boy high-fived it. He patted the boy’s hair affectionately and said something that contained the name “Ronaldo” before the child and his parents waved and continued down the alley. The local still stood in the middle of it, gazing after them. Then, with a pensive grimace on his face, he turned and disappeared into his shop. It all lasted a few minutes, but there was something about it that had made people stop, watch, and smile.

Melanie stalled for a few moments; she couldn’t walk away even after the boy, his parents, the man, and the onlookers were gone. She glanced at the windows of the shop that the man had gone into. It was a clothing store, one of many she had passed by. The same white-laced or light, flowery dresses she’d seen, the same accessories and sandals. The sign above it read “Alexa.”

An urge rose in her to go in, wanting to see the man again. She couldn’t remember his face, but she remembered it was tan and that he had a wide, beautiful smile under the ruffled black hair that a wisp of fell over his forehead as he played with the boy. Maybe she could look at the dresses, maybe she could ask to try one on.

Ridiculous.

Melanie took a deep breath and started walking faster than before. She tried to peer inside the shop as she passed it, but she couldn’t see a thing.

What was she thinking, anyway? This man and this town, these dresses and this blue air were just a view in a temporary pause from her real life. At home, she had a library full of books that she could read forever, she had a job that she liked, she had her mother’s house, she had a… That was about all she had.

At the next juncture of alleys, she turned, and then again, until a crowd flowing onto the street from the open doors of a local bar with loud music blocked her fast pace. She stopped. That urge again, to go back, to return to that alley and that shop.

Melanie felt a pang that made her swallow. It was a pang of emptiness, of needing to belong somewhere, to something, to someone.

“Pardon,” someone said as they bumped into her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled back.

A few more steps, and she stopped again and turned around, making her way through the groups of tourists who stood or sat at tall tables outside a bar and then at a small coffee shop at the corner with the next alley.

What was she doing? She wouldn’t have the courage to go in. Maybe she could try on a dress in another shop—they all looked the same.

But she wanted to see if that fleeting expression that she had caught on that man’s face when he had turned around after the boy was gone was still there. And did he have green eyes? She thought she had seen a glimpse of green.

Does it really matter? she asked herself as she turned right, back to where the shop was located.

There it was, a few yards away.

Melanie hesitated. She started turning back on her feet again, as if escaping once she reached it, when a man from behind her ran into her. It seemed that all she did was stand in people’s way. She apologized, and he side-stepped her.

She took a deep breath. What could be so bad? It was about time she started acting like a real tourist before the week was over, and she was only going in to look at the dresses. It was a shop, after all; many people probably went in every day.

A few more steps, and she reached it. Don’t stop. Just go in, she told herself, then followed through.

After the sunlight outside, Melanie had to squint her eyes in the darker interior of the shop. It wasn’t so small. In front of her were carousels and racks of clothes and farther ahead, along the back wall, there were shelves with more garments and displays of accessories. There was also an opening that led to another room where she saw dark, long curtains that covered the fitting rooms. Several feet to her right, at the other end of the shop, a big, old ornamented desk stood and was used as the cash register stand.

 She felt his presence over there by the desk. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed his movements as his white shirt seemed to glow in the darker interior.

She took a step forward and started fumbling with some of the dresses that hung on the carousel closest to her without really paying attention to what she was doing, just until her heart would slow down and her eyes would get used to being out of the sunlight.

“Hello, may I help you?” she heard the man’s voice coming from her right. It was deep and had a little rasp to it.

She turned. He was still by the desk but was looking at her with a smile. His accent made the words sound warmer.

She gazed at his figure but didn’t direct her eyes to his face. She felt her own face flushing and the self-consciousness of it made the blush deeper. “No, thank you. I’m just looking,” she said, her voice coming out hoarse.

“Okay, let me know if you need help,” he said, moving his eyes back to the computer screen on the desk.

She moved to her left, to another carousel that stood farther away, and ducked her head so he wouldn’t see her face from where he stood. What the hell am I doing? she rebuked herself. Why am I so embarrassed? And why am I behaving like a teenager?

Her eyes now were well used to the light inside, and she could now appreciate the colors of the dresses that she browsed through. They were the kinds that she wanted to try on—light blue with tiny red flowers, ancient pink with leaves printed on, delicate flowers sprinkled on pale yellow or green fabrics.

Melanie raised her head toward the white lace dresses that hung for display on a rack along the back wall. She moved next to it and looked up at them. They were higher than she could reach, but she touched the hems and felt the cotton and the French lace.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a white apparition approaching. She turned her gaze and saw the man sailing from his stand at the desk toward her. She opened her mouth to reject his assistance, but it was too late. In a moment, he stood next to her.

He was gorgeous.

She couldn’t stare back into his face, but she saw it. His skin was tanned olive, his black hair was rather smooth and short and beautifully ruffled. He was tall and well built; she noticed the contours of the wide shoulders and chest, the muscular biceps underneath his shirt. His forearms were hairy, tan, and looked strong.

“Do you want to see a size?” he asked.

She averted her gaze back to the white dresses. “Um, size?” she asked and turned again to face him. This time, she dared to look into his face.

He had too many edges to his face to be beautiful, but he was handsome in a masculine way. Though she hadn’t dared yet to look directly into his eyes, she noticed their green color. Her own eyes were stuck on his mouth and the strong jawline.

“Small, medium, large?” he asked with that rasp in his voice. His smile lit up his face and crinkled his eyes that had laugh lines at their edges. He seemed to be in his late-thirties.

Melanie swallowed the lump in her throat. “Oh. Large, I think.”

To her amazement and embarrassment, he glided his gaze down her body. “Medium, I think,” he said when he brought his eyes back to hers. He then leaned toward her, and her breath caught, but he was only reaching for the dresses.

He removed a dress that hung a bit farther in on the high rack, and Melanie took a deep breath. He smelled good, too, like the sea—fresh and watery and clear.

The dress flowed from the hanger he held, and she took it from him.

“The changing rooms are in the back,” he said.

“Yes, thank you,” she mumbled, chastising herself for being so foolish. She darted toward the back room and abruptly drew the curtain of one of the fitting booths.

There was a small wooden stool in the booth, and she sat on it, her bag and the dress jumbled in her lap. She took a deep breath, dropped the bag onto the floor, straightened the dress, and then gazed at it. I will look like a cream cake in this.

She stood up and looked at herself in the long mirror that hung there. It couldn’t be worse than what she was wearing now, could it? Melanie sighed, then took her shirt off. She looked down at her sneakers and stepped out of them, then slid the beige pants down her thighs. She straightened up and only then looked at herself in the mirror again. Her bra was white, and her cotton panties were pink, and she swore for the millionth time that, from now on, she’d wear only matching undergarments, preferably prettier than these. Her body glimmered white in the small booth; she hardly caught any tan in her few days under this sun. Her lack of exercise showed.

Melanie closed her eyes and raised her face toward the ceiling. Sometimes, she wished she could be someone else; someone better, sexier, prettier, more confident.

She grabbed the dress and slid it on. It clung to her at first, but when she pulled it down and straightened it, it felt more comfortable. Melanie smoothed it and peered into her reflection in the mirror. Yes, a cream cake, was the first thought that crossed her mind. But it wasn’t too bad. It reached just above her knees. The size fit—the man had been right that she needed the medium size. Still, the whiteness of it made her look paler, and she felt strange in it. She took another look, turning from side to side, knowing already that she wouldn’t buy it.

“Is it fit?” she suddenly heard his voice from a distance.

“Um, no. I’m sorry,” she replied, not sure what she was apologizing for.

To the sound of footsteps approaching, his voice was heard again. “Try this,” he said a few yards away from the curtain.

With a beating heart and an awkward feeling, Melanie stuck her head out from the curtain and saw him standing there with a floral green dress in his hand. “Sure,” she mumbled.

He took another step and stretched his arm toward her. She outstretched hers and took it from him. Then he walked away, and Melanie closed the curtain and turned to peer at the mirror again. She was flushed.

She took the white dress off, placed it on a hanger, and put on the green one.

When she looked at the mirror this time, a much better sight greeted her. The dress fit well on her body, clinging nicely to her breasts and flowing from the waist down. The straps were wider and framed her chest and shoulders better, and the color and flowers made her look alive. She turned around and again, checking her reflection from all sides. It still looked good. She looked at her clothes and didn’t feel like she could put them back on now.

Melanie reached for the price tag. It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t expensive, either. She pursed her lips, put her hands on her waist, and pondered the issue as if she was about to buy enriched uranium. It was just a dress.

She shoved her feet into the beige sneakers and looked again. It wasn’t a bad fit for the dress. It still looked nicer, airier, and younger than what she had come in with.

She grabbed her clothes, then determinedly drew the curtain aside and walked out. The man was at the cash register, talking to a woman who was just paying for a necklace. Melanie pretended to be looking at a carousel of blouses until she heard the thanks and goodbyes of the other woman. Then she looked up just as he looked toward her and, with a smile on his face, asked, “Good fit?” He couldn’t see beyond her face behind the carousel.

She nodded as she walked from behind it with her heart in her throat. “I think so,” she said quietly.

He nodded once when he saw her. “Yes, very good fit,” he said.

This made Melanie bite her lower lip and look down at her body.

She walked toward him and stopped in front of the desk. “I will take it,” she said, hating that her throat felt raspy. She was being ridiculous.

The man took a pair of scissors from the desk. “Here,” he said, “for this,” and pointed at the price tag hanging on Melanie’s shoulder. She nodded, and he reached, cutting the label from the dress, his fingers brushing her skin in the process.

“Thank you,” Melanie said, then fumbled inside her purse, breaking eye contact, feeling that she was becoming red again.

She handed him her credit card; he took it and started handling the cash register. She used the opportunity to run her eyes over him. He was so handsome and masculine that she felt a pang in her lower belly, along with her heart that skipped a beat.

“How did you know?” she heard herself asking.

He raised his eyes and looked at her.

“The dress,” she continued.

“I grow up with three sisters,” he said, smiling, the laughter lines at the sides of his eyes making her stomach clench.

He then turned his attention back to the computer, and Melanie found herself smiling at his profile. She slid her gaze down his body. On his exposed forearm was a simple black anchor tattoo. He was wearing a watch with a brown leather strap. His fingers were devoid of any ring, and his palms were big and looked roughened by labor, which seemed out of place in this shop.

He turned to her again and handed her the credit card with a smile. “Enjoy. Maybe come again,” he said.

“Thank you.” Melanie swallowed the lump in her throat.

As she was walking toward the door, a large man came in through it. “Dobarden, Theo,” his voice boomed a “good day.”

“Niko,” she heard the shopkeeper say from behind her, greeting back.

A few words in Montenegrin were exchanged, and then, “Miss, a bag for your clothes.”

She turned to find him following her with a logoed white plastic bag that he handed her.

“Oh,” she exhaled embarrassedly. She had been confused enough to walk out holding her old clothes balled up in her hands. “Thank you. Bye.”

“See you,” he said, smiling.

She turned once again to walk out.

Theo. She took in the name, as well as the feeling of the light breeze caressing her bare legs and arms and the sunrays’ warmth upon her skin.

After turning into the next alley, Melanie saw her reflection in the display windows of other shops and didn’t hate the sight. There were tourists and locals around, and she felt like she was part of it all and not protruding like an alien. Two men who walked toward her smiled, and she flushed, her palm sweating around the plastic handle of the bag that Theo had given her.

Theo… She rolled the name silently on her tongue.

A few more minutes, and she reached a plaza abounding in restaurants and bars. Her two hours of freedom would soon be over. The realization was like an iron fist around her heart. In twenty minutes, she would have to go back to the bus and the fifty other members of the organized tour and drive away from this little old town forever.

She wanted more of it. More of this air that filled her lungs, more of this strange, newfound freedom from the heaviness in her heart. She didn’t know why, of all the places they had visited until now, this little town made her feel like that.

Maybe the next village they would visit would make her feel the same, or the town after that. But she somehow knew it wouldn’t. Just the thought of the bus, the hotel, and the other places they had visited made her feel like crawling back into the safety of the clothes that were now rumpled inside the white plastic bag.

“Stephanie! Stephanie!” she heard a woman calling loudly from one of the restaurants. And then again, “Stephanie!”

Melanie looked around. A woman was waving at her. Oh no.

She waved back and smiled.

Then the woman waved her hand in a clear invitation for Melanie to join her and the others seated around a table.

Melanie shook her head, but the woman rose to her feet and yelled again, “Stephanie, come here.”

Reluctantly, and with a smile plastered on her face, she started toward the table of six people from her tour group.

“Stephanie, hi,” they greeted her. She couldn’t remember their names, either.

They were three couples in their sixties, nice people who reminded her of the parents of her childhood friends.

The husband of the yelling woman drew a chair for her at the head of the table, and Melanie took a seat to the sounds of the three older women all chanting together, “What a pretty dress,” “I like your new dress,” and “You should wear more dresses, dear.”

The table was still covered with the remnants of a big lunch and half-empty white wine and beer glasses. Another man reached over to a set table behind them, took a clean glass, and poured Melanie wine from a sweating bottle. She took it and thanked him. They were nice people, really.

One of the women told her about the shopping she had done, and another complained of the heat, while the men held a separate conversation among themselves.

“The bus is almost here. Did you eat, dear?” one of the women asked.

“Yes,” Melanie lied.

“Good, good,” the woman mumbled back.

“We have a two-hours’ drive before we reach… What was the name of that place, George?” One of the women turned toward her husband.

“Podgorica,” George replied.

“Ah, yes, yes, the capital city,” answered his wife.

Another added, “The guide said there’s a nice mall there, but I haven’t seen any brands in this place.”

Melanie sipped her wine. The cold drink smoothed its way down her throat, warming her stomach while cooling her brow. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture herself back on the bus, on the long drive to a city she would not come back from to this little alleyed town with the sea and port at the foot of it.

The day before, they had cruised around and visited the beautiful villages at the Bay of Kotor, right across the Adriatic Sea from the Italian Boot, slept in a hotel in the overly designed Porto Montenegro, and came for a morning visit in the town of Kotor today. And now they had to leave the area and drive inland to the capital.

She didn’t want to leave. She couldn’t explain why exactly, but that feeling had crept upon her almost from the first moment she had entered the walled town, following their guide with his raised, red umbrella, looking around her, absorbing the beauty of the old houses and blooming alleys at the foot of the mountain, knowing that the bay sparkled behind the town’s walls. The atmosphere here was relaxed, unassuming, and somehow still unscathed by the masses of tourists; the bars and restaurants didn’t look like tourist traps yet, the shops, the air…

And Theo. It was entirely absurd. He was a complete stranger, and all he had done was sell her a dress. Even before she had laid eyes on him playing soccer with a foreign kid in front of his shop, she hadn’t wanted to leave this place. After she had seen him, though, spoken to him, and had bought the dress that he had chosen for her, a stirring in her heart, in her body—the nether region of her body, the cynic in her mocked—gnawed at her, pulled her.

Maybe come again.

If she could, she would stay here for just a little longer. But she had to go. Their flight was tomorrow night, from the capital. She had nothing and no one waiting for her here. She had to go back home, though no one was waiting for her there, either.

As the others started collecting their belongings and preparing to leave, the familiar heaviness returned, settling into Melanie’s chest and stomach.

Drudgingly, she got to her feet and followed them out of the plaza and toward the town’s gates and the port, where the bus was waiting.

The sun was high in the sky as Melanie stood in the slow-moving line of mostly elderly people who boarded the bus. Every step she made toward those stairs that would swallow her into the air-conditioned vehicle made her wither inside. She didn’t look around; she only looked down at the ground and the legs of the person in front of her. When she finally made her way up the stairs and took her seat, she was the Cincinnati Municipality librarian again and was cold in her new dress.

She peered through the large window at the port and the huge cruise liner anchored there, the blue sea, the green mountains on the other side of the bay, and the sun unabashedly lighting up everything in sight. Melanie drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. She then reached for the pocket in the seat in front of her and took out a book that she was reading for the umpteenth time. A Jane Austen novel. Northanger Abbey. It used to be her least favorite, but, with the years, she liked it better.

She opened it on the marked page and started reading.

People around her were talking as the tour guide finally boarded. “Everyone, I hope you had a great time in Kotor,” he said.

Melanie listened when he detailed their next route, but a moment later, he stopped. “The Collinses aren’t here. Has anyone seen them?”

Melanie returned to her book. Her heart raced for some reason, battling with the heaviness that reinstated itself in her body and dragged her down. It was as if her heart wanted her legs to run and match their pace to its fast rhythm.

“There they are,” someone called, and Melanie raised her head to look at the apologizing Collinses who boarded the bus.

Her book slipped and dropped to the floor. She picked it up, and it opened at a random page. She skimmed her eyes over the familiar text.

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”

She read it again, caressing the text with her forefinger, feeling her heart thumping against her ribcage.

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”

She ceased her finger’s movement and shot her head up to look at the guide but saw nothing; the words from the book danced before her eyes and her ears felt as if she was holding a seashell against them, hearing the sound of the sea.

Melanie stood up.

“Miss, please be seated,” the guide said into his microphone, but she heard him as if from a distance.

Melanie grabbed her purse and, with the book in her hand, she squeezed out from the seat and made her short way down the aisle and toward the guide at the front of the bus. People were too busy conversing and arranging their belongings to notice her.

“Miss,” the guide said without the microphone this time. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” She smiled apologetically. She was on autopilot, not knowing exactly what she was doing, just operating on impulse.

“You forgot something?” the guide asked, looking frustrated.

“Yes,” she replied. “I can’t go. I… I forgot something… I need to…”

The guide mumbled something in the local language to the driver, then asked her, “What is it? Is it something you can leave behind?”

“No. I… It’s me… It’s… I need to stay.”

“Here?” he asked, sounding baffled.

Melanie felt that people were now boring holes into her back with their eyes.

“Yes,” she replied.

“We cannot wait for you. You will have to find how to get to Podgorica,” the guide said, looking a bit flustered.

“I know, I know. It’s okay, I will,” Melanie half-mumbled.

“Okay, miss, do whatever you want.”

Melanie nodded, then turned toward the back of the bus, to find everyone staring at her.

“Is everything all right, Stephanie?” asked the nice lady who had waved at her earlier at the restaurant.

“Yes,” Melanie replied, smiling apologetically. “I’m staying here.” She wasn’t stammering anymore.

“Staying?” “What did she say?” “She said she was staying,” and “Are you all right, dear?” were all heard in a chorus from various people.

“I’m okay, I’m fine, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” Melanie said. “Bye, everyone!” And before she could regret it, she turned around. “Can you open the luggage compartment for me, please?” she asked the driver, who shook his head as he pressed a button.

“Wait,” the guide said. “Take this.” He put a printed map in her hand with advertisements of local establishments all around it.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, then started descending the steps.

The heat outside warmed her as Melanie stooped, fumbling through the many bags and suitcases until she found her forest green suitcase and pulled it out laboriously.

She pulled out the handle and walked with it to the entrance of the bus. “Thanks,” she called.

The guide smiled, nodded, and waved. The driver then closed the door and the luggage compartment, and Melanie stepped back as the bus soon drove away.

 

 

To continue reading:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08CJ9FGYD