Chapter Eleven
From the moment the helicopter touched down on the small mountainous island she knew she was in for something special.
The helipad was in a clearing a mile or so in from the coastline and a sleek black SUV was waiting for them upon landing.
Aristotle kept a hand around Rosie, on her hip, as they disembarked and then walked, so she was tucked close to his side.
They were driven along a narrow road, through the forest, and then they began to wind their way up a steep mountain, the track clinging to the side, so for much of the time they had a spectacular view of the island, the water and the mainland in the distance.
‘Where exactly are we?’
‘Tharkos.’
She turned to face him then. ‘There are supposed to be some incredible Minoan ruins here, you know.’
‘Are there?’ he responded, but in a tone that told her he did indeed know. Not only that, he’d brought her here specifically.
As the car approached the top of the mountain, she remembered reading about a world-famous, impossible-to-get-into restaurant that had opened up on the island, catering to the very well-heeled tourist trade.
The thought literally came to her at the same time the restaurant came into view, and her heart skipped a beat.
Both with excitement at being here and at the fact he’d organised it.
‘Aristotle—’ she said, shaking her head a little, but not finishing the sentence because emotions were suddenly flooding her, making it hard to speak without crying.
‘I thought you’d like it,’ he said simply.
She nodded once as the driver came to open the car door. She stepped out, glancing down at her casual summer dress with a grimace.
‘You look beautiful,’ Aristotle said, unnerving her a little with how easily he could interpret her thoughts. Then he was lacing his fingers through hers and tugging her gently towards the large glass doors of the restaurant.
The restaurant itself was a spectacular design.
The walls were almost completely made of glass, to showcase the views, on three sides the ocean and on the fourth the mountain, covered in trees and being roamed, to Rosie’s delight, by goats.
The roof was skillion style, so the side of the building overlooking Athens had a particularly high window, and the furnishings were sleek and modern.
But it was the ruins the building was designed to maximise that had her heart turning over in her chest. The floor itself was tiled, but in various places, thick glass had been used to show what was beneath—carefully excavated and studied Minoan ruins, including amazingly coloured frescoes that set her pulse firing.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she murmured as they were seated at a table by the glass.
Despite the open-plan nature of the venue and the minimalism of the furnishings, indoor plants were used with great effect, to both soften the harshness of the interior and create small private areas.
Their table was mostly shielded from the others, and she was glad.
‘Did you ever come here with your dad?’ she asked. She was genuinely curious, but also, she was sure there’d been something in his tone in the helicopter, when he’d mentioned his father’s heritage.
‘No.’ There it was again. A tightening. A pushing away.
Curiosity deepened.
‘Was it built before he passed away?’
‘I believe it’s been here around ten years.’
‘Interesting that he never brought you here, given his love of history.’
His jaw clenched visibly. ‘We weren’t that close.’
She frowned. That was true.
‘You were away a lot,’ she said carefully, approaching this from a different angle.
He nodded once, and when a waiter passed, Aristotle lifted his hand to call him over.
They’d only been seated a minute or so. It was pretty clear he was looking for a distraction, to end the conversation.
Which only made her more determined. She waited as he ordered some water and bread, then, before he could start a new topic, she pushed on.
‘Were you always…not close with them?’
A muscle jerked in his jaw. He looked around, but there was no one else to rescue him.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘What does that mean?’
He expelled a harsh breath before turning back to her, his eyes landing on hers. His lips twisted downwards, as though he was lost in thought. She held her breath, waiting to see if he’d speak or not, with a sixth sense telling her that this was important.
‘When I was fifteen, I discovered I was adopted.’
Rosie sat up straighter, every cell in her body tensing with alertness. ‘I’m sorry—did you say adopted?’
His smile lacked humour. It was a ghastly stretching of his lips. ‘You said it yourself: I don’t look anything like my parents.’
‘You don’t,’ she admitted, shaking her head. ‘But you’re so like your father. In mannerisms and determination, even the sound of your voice…’
‘I was adopted,’ he said slowly, carefully. ‘I can only presume those are learned traits. That having been raised by him, I picked some of it up. I have no earthly idea who my biological parents are, nor why they gave me away.’
Though the building was clearly impeccably crafted, she felt almost as though she’d been caught in a landslide and was slipping down towards the ocean in a cascade of rubble and grief. ‘Why they gave me away.’ It was such a simple statement, but she heard the hurt behind it, the pain.
‘Did your parents know?’
His eyes hooked to hers. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did they know anything about your biological parents?’
He frowned. ‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘You’ve asked them?’
He shifted in his seat, eyes moving back to the view. ‘My mother has no idea I know the truth.’
She gasped. ‘What?’
He turned back to her, his eyes awash with emotion. ‘When I found out, I confronted my father about it. He confirmed that I was adopted, told me it didn’t matter, and that I was never to bring it up with my mother. That was the end of it. He refused to discuss it further.’
Anger fired in Rosie’s veins. ‘That was incredibly selfish of him,’ she said. ‘This is your life. You have a right to know these things, if you want to.’
He dipped his head down once. ‘There was no sense pursuing it. He was adamant that the information was “closed”, the file that might provide answers non-existent. There was no sense in upsetting my mother when it wouldn’t give me the information I sought. So I let it go.’
She shook her head once, but before she could speak, the waiter returned with water and bread.
‘Would you like to order anything else?’
Frustrated by the interruption, Rosie turned to him and said, ‘Just bring us whatever the chef recommends. Oh, that’s safe for someone pregnant.’
The waiter smiled broadly. ‘Congratulations, madam, sir. Of course. Please, enjoy.’ He gestured to the bread and then, to her relief, departed swiftly.
She leaned forward, covering Aristotle’s hand with her own. ‘But you didn’t let it go, did you?’
He glanced at her, expression inscrutable.
‘You stopped coming home. You stewed on this; you fumed about it. And you’ve been reserved with your parents ever since.’
He reached for his drink with his spare hand and took a long gulp. ‘Do you blame me?’
‘No, I blame them,’ she said swiftly. ‘Your father should have supported you through this more. Finding out that you’re adopted must have shaken you to the core.’
He nodded once, his eyes sparking with something like appreciation. ‘It was as though the foundations of my whole life—my entire being—crumbled beneath me. I had no idea who I was any more.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. I lived with my parents yet no longer had a sense of belonging. I accept now what my father said: they chose to love me, to raise me as their own. In every way that matters, I am their son. But there is a huge part of me filled with unanswered questions. I hate that.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with heartfelt sympathy. ‘Is this why you were so adamant that our baby would know you?’
‘Would know that they are wanted,’ he corrected slightly. ‘I never wanted children,’ he admitted. ‘But from the moment I learned of your pregnancy, this—’ he gestured from himself to her ‘—has felt like the only option. The right thing.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. She’d agreed with him almost the entire time, anyway.
Not that two people who made a baby needed to get married.
It was the twenty-first century and in fact she thought generally it was a terrible reason for marriage.
But for Aristotle and her, and given everything they’d each been through, it was the only option.
‘Are you telling me your mother has no idea you know about being adopted?’
He nodded once.
‘I really think you should have this conversation with her.’
‘My father prohibited it.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Perhaps if he was alive, I would bring it up again now. But I cannot disregard his request. It was very important to him that my mother be protected from the pain of this discussion.’
Rosie’s temper flared. ‘And what about you? Who was protecting you?’
His lips pulled to the side. ‘I’ve done a good enough job of protecting myself,’ he pointed out, and Rosie’s heart sank.
Because, just like that, all of the pieces of the puzzle that was Aristotle whooshed together—fragments that suddenly formed a perfect image of the man across from her.
The way the discovery of his adoption had damaged him, so that he pushed everyone away, determined never to rely on someone again, to seek the sort of family and comfort he’d once known.
His whole lifestyle of ruthless independence was not predicated on anything other than having once been a devastated, hurt fifteen-year-old. Over a decade later, he still carried those wounds, and if he wasn’t careful, they’d ruin his life.