Chapter 30 – Maura
MAURA
The afternoon sun turns the white Grecian rooftops a warm, yellowy shade that makes the blue sky even more intense.
We’ve just gotten off the jet, but already I'm so captivated by the beautiful views of the islands that I don't want to go inside again.
I wish I could just grab James's hands and drag him to the airport exit.
We could just walk until our legs were exhausted, exploring everything.
Unfortunately, James only has one destination in mind—the sleek black car, waiting on the tarmac.
“Come on,” he says, his eyes on his phone. “We’ll head straight to the villa. You can unpack while I have a meeting with one of my producers. Then the staff should have dinner ready for us, and we can get an early night before our hike tomorrow.”
I frown. “We’re not going out for dinner?”
“We should really rest up and catch up on sleep.”
The town car driver opens the back door. James gives him a nod before climbing in the backseat. When I don’t immediately follow, he looks expectantly at me.
“The staff will bring our luggage,” he explains. “We don’t have to wait.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
I should've expected that even on vacation, James would be a slave to his schedule. Just days ago, he told me he wasn't spontaneous. He hasn’t even put on his vacation clothes—he’s still wearing a suit, button-up, and tie. It’s another reminder that our enjoyment is on a schedule.
Our car moves smoothly over the island’s winding roads.
While James's eyes are glued to his phone, I take in the remarkable scenery.
I've seen photos of the Greek islands before, but I always assumed that they were somewhat Photoshopped. The sky and the buildings couldn’t really be such an intense contrast of blue and white, I thought—but I was wrong.
The contrast is only made more beautiful by the bright bougainvillea snaking over the whitewashed houses.
Every so often, I can make out the Aegean Sea glittering in the distance.
It's a short drive from the airport to the village just outside our villa. The car slows down as we move through the village streets. My eyes eagerly take in the mudbrick houses, the small domed churches, the cobbled streets.
Our car stops so a woman can lead her actual donkey across the street, and I catch sight of a tiny café just ahead of us. Its hand-painted signs and mismatched metal chairs are so charming, I can’t stop myself.
“Stop the car!” I gasp.
James’s head whips up. “Is something wrong?”
“No, I just want to stop there for a coffee.” I point to the café, and he frowns.
“We don’t have time, Maura.”
“Please? It'll be quick.”
He examines my pleading expression and sighs. “This isn't on the schedule.”
“I know. That's what makes it exciting.”
“I don't find deviation from schedules exciting. I find it stressful.”
“James. We're in Greece. On our honeymoon. If you can't deviate from a schedule here, where can you?”
He's quiet for a moment. “The café does look sort of nice…”
“Was that…was that you admitting I'm right?”
“It was me admitting the café looks nice. Don't push it.”
I mime zipping my lips.
“You can stop the car,” he orders the driver, and I practically leap out of the backseat.
The warm sun seeps into my skin, and the scent of the flowering magenta tree beside me lights up my senses. This place is everything I hoped for and more.
A bell tingles as I open the door of the café.
It's small inside, with a display case of pastries and a coffee bar set up behind the counter.
The menu written in chalk on the wall is in Greek, and I have no idea what it says.
The customers in line just in front of me are chattering away with the woman behind the counter in Greek.
Oh, well. If she can't tell me what's on the menu, I guess I'll have to point randomly and hope it's not something too bitter.
When the other customers leave, I step up to the register.
“Hi, do you speak English?” I ask.
The woman behind the counter nods. “Yes. How can I help you?” Her voice is only lightly accented.
“Do you have anything that's like caramel latte, but decaf?”
She smiles. “You should get a Freddo Espresso. Cold coffee and sweet milk.”
“If you can do a decaf, that sounds perfect,” I say happily. “James, what about you?”
“I'll take whatever you recommend,” he says, handing over a few euros.
As the woman makes her drinks, James goes back to his phone to answer more emails.
I take the opportunity to look around the café.
It's cramped and cozy, every table full of locals enjoying their drinks, not in a rush.
A group of teenage girls snap photos of each other in front of the colorful pink painting.
Four old men play cards at a back table, surrounded by empty coffee cups.
I suspect the table is kind of like their office, where they spend their days swapping stories of their youth.
Outside the front window, a woman in a long white dress walks hand-in-hand with her daughter. I feel a pain of happiness and longing in my chest. That's what I want for myself—an afternoon to stroll outside with my child.
I touch James's arm. “Would you mind going back to the villa without me?”
He looks up from his phone, frowning. “What?”
“I know you have a meeting to get to, but I'd like to explore the village a little. Maybe you can send the car to come pick me up in a few hours. We only get a few days here, so I want to take advantage.”
“No,” he says, looking back at his phone and typing.
My jaw drops. “What do you mean, no? This is my vacation, too. Just because you—”
He raises a hand to stop me. “What I mean to say is, I can cancel my meeting. I can have it on Zoom later.”
A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth. “Does that mean you're coming with me?”
“If that's okay.”
I link my arm in his. “It's preferred.”
My Freddo Espresso was just as delicious as I hoped it would be, sweet and frothy. It’s the perfect refreshment for wandering through the little cobbled streets. We only make it about a block before I spot a tiny shop with pottery in the windows.
“Oh, let's go in!” I chirp, tugging my husband toward the door.
Inside, I find dozens of shelves packed with artisan ceramic pieces.
There are gorgeous but practical sets of dishes, but also tiny, strange little statues—clearly modern, not traditional.
An elderly woman emerges from the back room to explain every piece I touch in heavily-accented English.
It seems like every cup, every vase has a story.
This one is made by an elderly man who was born in this town and glazed by his daughter, who moved to Athens.
These plates have been made the same way, by the same family, for over two hundred years.
Those tiles were taken from a local church before it was demolished and repainted by a young artist.
My favorite piece is a large cobalt blue bowl, sculpted and fired by the saleswoman herself, with tiny fish scales and a winding mermaid carved into it. James gives the woman his credit card and she wraps it up for him.
“Thank you,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his waist as we emerge back into the village. “I love the bowl.”
“I have a feeling this won't be the last thing I buy you today,” he says, humor in his voice.
He's right about that. By sheer luck, we started our walk in the village’s art district.
Every street has multiple shops that drag my attention.
At first, I feel a little bad making James stop so often.
I almost skip walking into a clothing store with piles of colorful scarves in the window. It’s James that stops me.
“I saw you looking at that pink scarf,” he says, almost accusingly.
I shrug. “It’s nice.”
“But you don’t want to stop and get it.”
“It would make a nice present for Cat, but I don't need it.”
He tugs me toward the shop door. “Come on. We're in no rush.”
“What about your schedule?” I can't resist asking.
“I think it fell in the Aegean and drowned,” he jokes.
Everything that catches my fancy, James buys without complaint, from a breezy blue sundress to a fresh baklava as big as my hand.
He also insists on carrying everything, telling me that since he’s skipping the gym all week, being my packhorse will be his replacement workout.
After loading up with his eighth shopping bag—this one full of little pieces of onyx I found at a small store—he politely suggests we turn around and head back to the car.
“I wish I could do this every day,” I sigh.
“Go shopping? You could.”
I shake my head. “It's not the shopping. It's the exploring. Other people who I would never have run into at home—all their stories, their arts—it’s like adding a new color to a paint palette.”
“So you’d like to travel more?”
“I wish I could have more of everything. More places, more experiences, more people. And I don't just want to see them, I want them to experience me. I want to leave a little part of myself everywhere I go, so I know that I’m leaving something behind.” I shake my head. “I guess that must not make any sense.”
“It does.” He hesitates a moment. “Sometimes, I think I’m lucky that my parents were famous. So many people knew them, or at least felt like they knew them. They’re gone now, but I'm not the only one responsible for holding their memories.”
“Sequel was their idea, right?” I ask, and he nods. “So in a way, you’re sharing them even more, bringing their dream into almost every household in Canada.”
“Yes.” It's just a single word, but the way he says it feels enormous. Like maybe nobody else has ever understood that. I wonder if it’s true.
No—I must be imagining that. I'm sure he's talked about that with his best friends before. He wouldn't have saved it to confide in only me.
By the time we get back to the car, the sun has lowered enough that the sky is streaked with gold and pink. The driver helps James unload my bags into the truck before starting the short drive to the villa.
I love the building the second I see it. Perched high above the sea, it looks like a seashell with its white stucco and blue shutters. We drive into a lovely courtyard framed with olive trees and park in front of a small fountain.
We’re greeted at the door by a tiny, ancient Greek woman who comes up to about my shoulder. The driver informs us that she’s the housekeeper and chef, as well as that she doesn’t speak a word of English.
Neither James nor I speak Greek, but that doesn't stop the housekeeper from chattering on extensively as she shows us around the place. She leads us through a large, open living room with cool stone floors and glass windows, looking out at a wide terrace and an infinity pool. She gestures down a hallway to a kitchen, but I can’t tell whether she’s inviting us to go there or asking us to stay out of her way.
She ends her tour in our bedroom. It's massive, easily twice the size of James's room at home.
One end of the room has a small sitting area, with a little desk facing the window that would be perfect for sketching at.
The other end contains a gigantic bed covered in white linens.
Sliding glass doors open onto the terrace we saw earlier.
From here, I can see that a tall line of shrubs blocks the pool and terrace from being viewed from the kitchen.
James and I will have plenty of privacy.
I can’t help but think it’s exactly the kind of place a person might fall in love, if they were the type.
Once she’s pointed to our bags, set down just next to a large wardrobe, the housekeeper leaves us, closing the door behind her.
I glance at the large bed. James and I have never just slept together before. Of course, the housekeeper would assume we’d stay together as husband and wife, but that’s not us.
“Are you sure you want me to stay here?” I ask.
James raises a brow. “Where else would you stay?”
“I don’t know, a guest room or something.”
“Is that what you want?”
His expression is inscrutable. I have no idea if he wants me to sleep with him, or if he’s just indifferent. I examine his eyes and the set of his mouth, trying to figure out the answer he wants.
“No,” I say finally. “I want to stay with you.”
His eyes flash with pleasure. “Good.”
Blood buzzes through my brain as I stroll around the room, taking it all in. Today was exhilarating, but also exhausting. I'm dying to explore, to go out and look over the edge of the terrace, but I'm exhausted and more than a little sweaty.
“I’m going to go shower,” I tell James.
“Good. I have to check a few emails.” He pulls off his suit jacket and loosens his tie, finally ready to relax, as much as he’s capable of doing.
The shower is heavenly, hot, steamy, and with water pressure so strong, my skin feels massaged. I happily turn my face up to the water and let it wash away the plane smell and any dust from the village streets. It’s so soothing, I could probably fall asleep standing up if I’m not careful.
Finally, I emerge, wrapped in a fresh white towel with my hair damp around my shoulders. I half-expect to find James on the phone with Taylor, carefully rescheduling every item for the next few days of our trip.
Instead, I find him sprawled out on top of the duvet, asleep. His cuffs and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, but otherwise, he’s still completely clothed, save for his shoes and socks. His chest rises and falls with long, even breaths.
I walk to the edge of the bed, gazing down at him. His lips are slightly parted, his face more relaxed than I’ve ever seen it. He looks years younger than he usually does, without his sharp, composed expression.
My lips curl up, and I’m struck with the sudden urge to get out my sketchbook and draw him. I want to remember how he looks when he’s fully at peace. Somehow, though, I get the feeling he wouldn't appreciate waking up to find me staring at him with a pencil in hand.
Instead I open my suitcase and slip into my pajamas.
I slide open the terrace door, letting in the cool night air.
In the distance, I can hear the crashing of the sea waves.
Once I’ve turned off the lights, I crawl into bed beside James.
Within minutes, I drift off to sleep with his warmth at my back, surrounded by the quiet sound of the sea.