Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-seven
In the week following the storm, Skye tried not to dwell on her encounter with the journalist. There was no story, not really, not until the bones had been tested, and that would take at least another fourteen days.
“Often, when a Greek tells you it will be two weeks, you must add another six,” Andreas had joked. Skye was conflicted. Part of her longed to know the truth, though another, more cautious part was fearful of what could happen if her small house drew any more attention.
With most of the structural work now complete, the only major tasks left were plastering the exterior, decorating the interior, and tackling the garden, which still looked as if a herd of bison had trampled through it.
Certainly it constituted more than enough distraction from the dread that kept running its icy fingers along her spine.
Sunday rolled around. It was almost the end of June, and the persistent wind felt hair-dryer hot as it chased in through the open windows.
Skye had made the mistake of checking her email while drinking her morning frappé.
Her mother had been in touch again, insistent as ever, wanting answers about her disappearance, the length of her supposed sabbatical, and when exactly this “performance” would come to an end.
As she had with every other message, Skye replied that she was fine and not to worry, fully aware that her deliberate vagueness would only deepen Cassandra MacKinnon’s simmering displeasure.
She was in the process of sprinkling cat treats across the front doorstep for Tigri when the familiar shape of Joy came into view over the wall. Her friend was in head-to-toe turquoise, from her sequined bandanna right down to her bejeweled sandals, and was sucking on a white Popsicle.
“Made it myself,” she said, offering Skye a lick, which she declined with a laugh. “Mojito flavor, heavy on the rum. Probably a bit too heavy, truth be told, but you know me.”
Tigri padded over, purring as he crunched through his treats. Skye stared down at him, moony-eyed.
“You’re soft on that moggy,” Joy observed.
“I always wanted a cat,” Skye said. “I couldn’t have one growing up because my dad was allergic, then later, when I lived alone, I didn’t think it would be fair.
I was out so much at work and whatnot. And then there’s the worry that they’ll get into the road, be hit by a car, or stolen by a catnapper. ”
“Catnapping is what I do most afternoons here,” Joy said lightly. “Lay me on a beach towel and I’ll be snoring inside five minutes.”
She had crossed the front yard, and the two of them went inside, Joy slipping her Popsicle stick into Skye’s kitchen bin.
“I was thinking of digging some beds out there,” Skye said, motioning toward the back door. “But it’s so hot.”
Joy cast an eye around the small room.
“No offense,” she said, “but shouldn’t you focus on the indoors first?”
“I have paint charts,” Skye said lamely. “And I built the flat-pack wardrobe and bed without any help.”
“You need a sofa,” Joy said, folding her arms. “I don’t mind perching on that built-in seating bench, or whatever it is that Andreas calls it, but it’s not the most comfortable thing, is it?”
“I bought two cushions,” Skye said, leading Joy back into the main living area.
She had picked them up in Chora the previous day, having gone there to buy some deworming pills for Tigri.
The cat, she had discovered through conversations with several Ano Meria residents, had long been a stray.
Nobody seemed to know how or exactly when he had arrived in the village.
Skye liked that about the cat; it made him more of a kindred spirit.
Joy reached for a cushion. Both were patterned with a blue-and-white evil eye, framed by panels of coral and gold, the details picked out in soft velvet tufts.
“Love these,” she appraised, starting to rummage through her straw bag, “and it’s funny that you chose these colors because…”
Skye’s mouth fell open as Joy handed her a framed seaweed print, the blotted-ink design daubed in dusky pink.
“Is this for me?”
“I did a whole series and thought you might like one,” Joy said.
“I should pay you—” Skye began, only to be summarily cut off.
“Don’t be daft. It’s a gift. It’ll look lovely up on the wall over there. You can use it and these cushions to come up with a color palette for the house.”
“You don’t think I should leave it all white, then?” Skye said. “Andreas says it’s more traditional to—”
“Andreas isn’t the one living here,” Joy said.
“Your house, your decision what color to paint it. If you’re worried about going all out, just do a feature wall or paint yourself an archway behind the bed.
Have fun with it, experiment a bit. It’s only bloody paint after all; you can always go back to boring white if you change your mind. ”
“The last place I lived in, everything was white,” Skye told her. “White walls, white carpets, white tiles in the bathroom.”
“Where were you living, a bloody hospital?” Joy crowed.
Sky laughed in spite of herself.
“Try prison,” she said drily. Then, when Joy’s smile immediately fell into a frown, she quickly added, “Will you help me look through some paint charts, then?”
With Joy by her side, decision-making turned out to be surprisingly productive. By midday, Skye had chosen her interior palette. Joy had explained the color wheel, how to find complementary hues, and cheered the idea of an off-peach bedroom filled with plants, simple artwork, and pared-back linens.
“I don’t know about you,” Joy said as Skye moved from wall to wall with the seaweed print, “but I’m hungrier than a saltwater croc. How about we treat ourselves at the taverna?”
“Could do,” Skye said, giving up and propping the picture on the stairs, “or I could make us something. I’ve been meaning to attempt matsata.”
“Is that the flat pasta stuff?”
“A Folegandros specialty,” Skye confirmed. “Andreas says if I want to be a real Greek, I should eat like one.”
There she went again, mentioning him.
“Not to knock you off your perch,” Joy replied, “but I’m too hungry to wait for you to make pasta from scratch.”
“I’ll do it for dinner, then. We can go to the shop now and buy lunch at the same time?”
Joy snatched up her bag.
“Consider my leg pulled,” she said.
Outside, the breeze persisted, sunlight streaking down through high, threadbare clouds.
There was little protection from the elements up in their village, which was why every garden came with tall walls, built there long ago to protect crops and livestock.
Far beyond the road, the sea stretched wide and dark, a sweep of blue so breathtaking it still caught Skye off-guard.
“Do you ever catch yourself thinking this might all be a dream?” she asked Joy. “I know this is our home now, but that feels absurd somehow. I mean, why us, of all the people who must’ve entered that lottery, how did we get so lucky?”
Joy smiled rather wistfully. In the light, her eyes looked every bit as green as her outfit.
“I don’t question the good stuff,” she said. “You know I went through it after Bobby. I suppose I see this as my reward. You lost your dad, didn’t you? Perhaps this is your peak after that trough?”
“That’s a nice idea,” Skye said, reluctant to commit further. “Or we could be about to wake up in our beds and find that the last year or so never happened.”
“If Bobby was in that bed, I’d go right now,” Joy said.
After that, they fell into a companionable silence, arriving at the mini-market ten minutes later to find Cora on her hands and knees outside, chasing down errant postcards.
“The children knocked over the display,” she said as Skye scooped up several cards bearing the image of a donkey in a sun hat. “They are bored, so they play. éla, how are you both?”
Before either woman could reply, two child-shaped bullets fired out through the shop door and ran squealing into the road, the eight-year-old Iris pursuing her younger brother, Ajax. Cora clapped her hands furiously, shooing them back inside. Skye and Joy followed.
“They are like monsters,” she exclaimed with an exasperated laugh.
Ajax slid open the lid of the freezer and helped himself to a Popsicle in the shape of a rocket.
“Stamata,” Cora admonished. “No more sugar.”
The little boy tore off the wrapper and let it drop to the floor, yelping as his mother made a lunge for him.
Iris, meanwhile, had crept behind the counter and was now scrolling through Cora’s phone.
Not wanting to let on that she’d witnessed such mischief, Skye moved down the aisles, putting semolina flour, olive oil, and fresh tomatoes into a basket, while Joy perused the bread selection.
They met by the fridge and agreed on a block of locally made manouri cheese, which was similar to feta only less tangy.
The mini-market had a section at the back for household items, and Skye found a rolling pin for six euros.
“It’ll save me having to use a bottle of ouzo to roll out the pasta,” she said to Joy, who was advancing with a bottle of white wine.
“You ladies are making matsata,” Cora said as she scanned each item.
“Mama.” Iris tugged her mother’s arm, her solemn gaze settling on Skye as she murmured in Greek.
“éla, agápi mou, you can ask her yourself.”
“Ask me what?” Skye smiled at the girl, but Iris buried her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“She is shy to speak in English,” Cora explained. “They have only begun it this year at school, and she does not have much chance to practice.”
“I’m shy to speak in Greek, too,” Skye told the girl, which Cora quickly translated.
Iris’s eyes widened, and then, haltingly, she said, “You are very pretty.”
“Why, thank you.” Skye jokingly flicked her windswept hair. “Efcharistó.”
“Parakaló,” Iris replied, and then, looking to her mum for reassurance, she asked, “A bag?”
“I have one, thank you—and your English is very good. Bravo.”
Ajax sidled up beside Skye, a Popsicle stick poking out from one side of his mouth.
“Geiá sou,” she said, crouching to greet him properly. Without warning, Ajax threw himself into her arms, squeezing her so tightly that she almost fell backward.
“What was that for?” she asked when he scurried away.
Cora stared after her son in bewilderment.
“He must like you,” she said. “Whenever his giagiá comes to visit, she always wants him to sit on her knee, but he refuses. Screams like a baby goat if we make him.”
Iris looked inquisitively up at her mother, and once again, Cora translated what she’d said.
“Soon it will be the school holiday,” she said with a sigh. “No peace for me.”
An unexpected lightness surged through Skye.
“I could give her some English lessons,” she said. “I’m already teaching George two days a week, so she’d have someone other than me to practice with. Ajax can come, too.”
Cora gasped.
“Are you sure?” she said, and when Skye nodded, Cora ran around from behind the counter to hug her.
“We will pay you,” she said, shaking her head when Skye began to protest. “óchi—of course. We must, and you must take something now, a gift.”
“Really, there’s no need to—” The words died on Skye’s lips as Cora hurried out through the open back door, returning a moment later with a bulging bag.
“Klodi caught two octopuses this morning,” she said as Skye and Joy peered down at a tangle of tentacles. “It’s been drying on the line, so the meat will be tender, perfect for your matsata. All you have to do is grill it, then mix it with the tomatoes, some garlic, a little herbs.”
Skye raised the bag, stepping back as water dripped onto the countertop.
“Perímene,” Iris said, taking a newspaper from the rack and peeling off the top few pages.
“Kaló karytsi,” Cora told her warmly, taking the bag and upending its contents.
Skye said nothing.
She didn’t hear the octopus being wrapped or the chatter of Joy, Cora, and the children. A low buzzing filled her ears. Words surfaced in fragments, though none she could grasp. Bile burned her throat, the hand she brought up to her mouth trembling as she stared down at the open newspaper.
At the story.
At the photographs.
At herself.