2
Zina looked around the winter dining area, which doubled as the honesty bar. Champagne flutes polished, check. Santo Sparkling on ice, check. Non-alcoholic fruit punch in the fridge, check.
“Ekaterini!” The singing in the kitchen stopped. “I’m heading home for a quick break, unless there’s anything you need me to do.”
“Nothing at all. Without you under my feet I can finish the meze at my own pace.”
The guests all seemed nice enough, Zina thought as she set off down the track towards the farmhouse, although it had been hard to tell with poor Karmela. She’d gone very quiet in the car as they’d climbed the hairpin bends from the harbour, her skin taking on a greenish-grey hue as she explained that her motion sickness, which had started on the boat, had returned. So Zina had taken every turn extra-slowly, praying that Karmela wouldn’t actually throw up, and within minutes of arriving at The Retreat House she’d been tucked up in bed with a jug of iced water beside her to sleep it off.
Zina scanned the parched landscape for Lambros, but he was nowhere to be seen; not in the lower reaches of the pistachio orchard or the vegetable garden to her right, nor ahead of her, leaning into the enclosure to talk to his precious goats. What had he said he was doing this afternoon? Skatá! She didn’t know. She really should listen to him more carefully, but the retreat was occupying her every waking moment. It was hardly surprising as today was its most important day.
A few hundred yards down the valley stood her childhood home, screened from The Retreat House by one end of the small forest of pistachio trees her father had planted a few years before he gave up farming for good. The farmhouse had grown generation by generation, but had never run to a second floor, even though the rusting iron rods to build one stuck out from the flat roof of the extension her parents had added not long before she was born.
The earlier parts of the house were barrel-roofed in the traditional manner, and in desperate need of a lick of paint– or at least a jet wash to remove the grey-brown dust covering them. The windows, however, sparkled– kept that way by her mother– and behind them were the kitchen and living area, and a lean-to utility to one side. From this angle Zina couldn’t see the rattan-covered terrace, but it stretched along the far side of the house giving views towards Akrotiri’s famous archaeological site and beyond it, the sea.
Even before she opened the flyscreen which served as a kitchen door for most months of the year, Zina could hear her mother’s favourite radio station playing softly, and smell the heady mixture of onions, rabbit and cinnamon which meant she was cooking stifádo . The comforting sounds and aromas of childhood wrapped themselves around her, their magic loosening her knotted shoulders. Whatever the stresses and strains of moving back in with a parent, she still enjoyed coming home and sharing her day with her mother, just like they had when she’d been at school. It had been a precious time, just the two of them, before Babá came home and her mother’s focus turned to him.
“Mama! I’m taking a break. Where are you?”
“On the terrace, agápi mou . There’s a lovely breeze.”
Her mother sat in her favourite seat– one of a pair of old leather armchairs, Zina’s father’s looking awfully empty beside her. The loss of her husband had taken a physical toll as well as a mental one on her mother; she looked far older than her fifty-nine years, her hair definitely more salt than pepper in a long, loose plait that hung over the shoulder of her plain navy T-shirt. It broke Zina’s heart; Mama had always loved vibrant colours and now she didn’t wear them at all, and her face, once heart-shaped like Zina’s, now sagged, the sparkle almost entirely absent from her dark eyes. Oh, how Zina longed to see that sparkle again.
Mama patted the chair beside her. “ Ela! So tell me about your first guests.”
“Five women and one man, so he may feel a little outnumbered. He’s brought his dog, and even she’s female.”
“Well we must hope he doesn’t mind too much. Is he young? Old?”
Zina screwed up her nose. “Somewhere in between– about fifty? He’s been in the English air force and he’s using this as a break before finding another job. He’s not retired like the other English people.”
“So he’s the youngest as well?”
Zina shook her head. “That’s the professor from Zagreb. She was so seasick on the ferry that she went straight to bed to sleep it off.”
“Poor woman. You must tell her to take ginger for the return trip. Now what about the?—?”
Before Mama could finish her question, Lambros appeared around the side of the house and jumped onto the terrace, heeling off his dirty boots then flinging himself onto an old rattan chair, which creaked in protest at his muscular bulk.
“What a day! Exhausting, but good all the same.”
Panora stood. “Then let me fetch you a beer. Zina, would you like anything?”
This was so typical of her mother, doing the things she used to do for her own husband for her daughter’s. If Zina let it, it might niggle her, although she wasn’t entirely sure why, but the important thing was it most likely brought Mama some comfort.
She glanced at the clock on her phone, then called over her shoulder, “I need to get back to work soon, but a sour cherry soda would be nice.”
Lambros reached out and took Zina’s hand. “It all went well today?”
“Yes. I was just telling Mama about the guests. But while she’s fixing the drinks, what have you been up to?” She still felt guilty that she couldn’t remember.
He raised an eyebrow. “The pistachios?”
“Of course. The pistachios. I’m sorry.”
“It was an important day for you too.”
“Are they ready to harvest yet?” She knew this first crop from her father’s rather neglected trees should have been ripe by now, and they couldn’t afford to lose them. Lambros and Yiannis, a local farmer who’d been mentoring him, had plans to dry them naturally in the sun to fully develop their flavours so they could be sold at a premium.
“Almost. Yiannis thinks they are ripening in September because the male trees were late producing pollen, most likely because of the harsh pruning they needed. I just hope to god he’s right, but his knowledge hasn’t let me down so far. I owe him so much.”
Zina nodded. “The farming community have been good to you.”
“Because I am trying to reverse the trend and make tourist land productive again; bring back some of the island’s traditional way of life before it is completely lost and everywhere flat is covered with buildings.” He could go on about this for hours if she let him. Best nip it in the bud.
“And what do they think of your wicked, wicked wife, encouraging more people to come here?” She put her hand on his thigh.
He laughed, leaning in to kiss her. “They don’t know how wicked you are.”
Zina’s lips responded to his, the tingles from his tongue pirouetting right to the pit of her stomach. Skatá! This was by far the biggest downside of moving back here: no slipping off for a quickie, no privacy for these intimate moments. Especially as the beads across the open door rattled, heralding her mother’s return with the drinks and a dish of their own small black olives.
Lambros sat back, mouthing the word “later”, but she was pretty sure by the time she finished serving the guests, then washed the glasses and stacked the dishwasher, he’d be fast asleep. But at least the spark was alive, even if it had been pushed to the back burner for the moment. She grinned at him, a warm glow spreading through her.
Her mother set the tray on the table and poured herself a generous measure from the bottle of ouzo. “So, Lambros,” she said, “tell us about your day.”
Hadn’t they been talking about hers? But Zina knew her mother meant nothing by it; it was a generational thing, putting the man first. It had been the story of her childhood. Much as she’d loved her father and he’d loved her, the only way to get him to pay her any attention at all had been to come top in something, or at very least to be on the winning basketball team. Luckily, she’d been very good at basketball.
As Zina sipped her soda, half listening to Lambros explaining in minute detail everything Yiannis had told him, her mind drifted back to The Retreat House. She had a good feeling about this month. Jessica Rose was adorable– the very last sort of person to be a demanding diva; full of smiles yet reserved to the point of shyness. If Zina could only break through, they might even become friends. Imagine… being friends with a famous writer. Not everyone could claim that.
She missed her friends in Athens. Of course they had all promised to visit, but they had such busy lives and there just wasn’t the money for Zina to go back to see them. Especially as they spent it like water on nights out. And anyway, she couldn’t exactly invite them to the farm. Maybe when The Retreat House was quieter in the winter– then there’d be something worth showing them.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t know anyone on the island, but these days she had little in common with the girls she’d grown up with, even her former best friend Resi who tried her best to involve her in their plans. Resi was on maternity leave and must have time on her hands. Not that Zina was a snob, but her schoolmates worked in shops or as waitresses, had hordes of children, and she wasn’t particularly interested in tales of sore nipples or rude cruise passengers. Just as well she was too busy to be lonely.
She downed her soda and, taking a couple of olives from the dish, stood. “Right, I’ll just freshen up then get back to the retreat. See you both later.” Although they looked up from their conversation and nodded, Zina had the feeling they’d hardly notice she was gone.
Wrong. She wasn’t fifty metres up the path before she heard Lambros calling her name.
“Zi! Wait up!”
She bit her lip as she turned. His day may be over, but she needed to get back to work. Hopefully whatever he wanted wouldn’t take too long.
“Today’s a special one, and I want to mark it. I will never, ever forget that you came here to stop me falling apart, that you agreed to something you maybe weren’t sure about… so I bought you these.”
As he held out his gift, she noticed his hand was trembling. She took it between both of hers.
“You’re all right?”
“Of course I am– thanks to you. I’m just sorry they’re not real gold, but one day…”
Zina opened the box to reveal a pair of stud earrings in the shape of roses. Roses for love. It didn’t matter at all that they were coloured metal; what meant so much was his desire to make her special day even more wonderful, and a happy glow spread through her.
“They’re beautiful, Lambros. They don’t need to be gold. I have everything I need now I’ve got my husband back.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Zi… that’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever said to me. Here on Santorini, I am back. I really am. With you at the centre of my world.”
Oh god, she loved this man so much. Despite all the niggles along the way, despite his terrible timing now, she loved him and she wanted to stay right here in his arms. She hated that she had to go, even for the retreat’s opening night. But go she must.
She fiddled with the diamond studs she was wearing. “Come on, quickly. Help me put them in, then I’ll carry a little bit of you with me all evening.”
* * *
Annoyed as she was to have missed the introductory session, Karmela knew she had needed to sleep and at least she had woken an hour later completely refreshed. Refreshed, and rather hungry. Checking her watch, she leapt out of bed, stripped off her sweaty clothes and hopped into the shower, delighted when the enormous square head gushed copious amounts of warm water. Warm, slightly salty water, and she remembered reading in a guidebook it was the same all over the island. But nevertheless it felt good on her skin, and along with the zesty body wash brought her senses fully to life.
Already she could hear conversation from the courtyard outside, so she searched her suitcase for her plain beige shift dress and sandals, an outfit she had bought for teaching but had discovered was perfect for any situation when she was unsure what to wear.
Her room was directly opposite the dining terrace and the moment she closed the door behind her, Zina rushed over, a tray of delicious-looking meze in one hand.
“How are you feeling?” she asked anxiously.
“So much better, thanks to your kindness, and really rather hungry.”
Zina took the hint and held the tray in front of her. “Grab a couple of these spanakópita ,” she said. “Then I’ll get you a drink and introduce you to everyone.”
As Karmela looked around, her gaze was drawn by the only man in the group, who looked more than familiar.
She gazed at him, motionless and trying not to gape, until he stepped towards her, grinning. “Well this is a pleasant surprise. Seasickness got the better of you in the end?”
She rolled her eyes. “It became car sickness, and I have never been car sick in my life. But I had a sleep, and I must be better because now I am starving.” To emphasise the point, she popped one of the triangles of filo pastry into her mouth, an explosion of feta cheese and mint assaulting her taste buds.
“You know each other?” Zina asked.
“We met on the ferry, but we haven’t been properly introduced.”
Karmela was grateful he had replied, as she chewed and swallowed rapidly.
“Karmela Simic, this is Iain Sinclair,” said Zina. “And now I must take Karmela to meet everyone else.”
After a whirlwind of introductions fuelled by some excellent sparkling wine, Karmela found herself with the two Americans, who were clearly a couple.
“I am so sorry,” she apologised. “Zina went so fast I could not work out who is the writer and who is the artist.”
Susan, blonde with glasses, and the shorter of the two, smiled warmly. “I’m neither. I’m a librarian and I’m here to research my family history.”
“I thought being on a retreat might encourage her to write it too,” added Ellen, a striking, serious-faced woman with an impressive collection of stylised flower and butterfly tattoos on her left arm. “And there was no way I was going to let her come to Europe on her own; I’d have been insanely jealous.”
“We’ve only been once before and that was years ago,” Susan added. “London, Amsterdam, Paris– for the art galleries.”
“Not to mention the Fawcett Society Conference in London. That was certainly the highlight of my trip.”
“The Fawcett Society?” Karmela frowned at the unfamiliar name.
“The cradle of feminism, still fighting for women’s rights.” Ellen snorted. “As if we should need to in this day and age.”
“But unfortunately we do,” Karmela agreed, earning herself an approving look from Ellen’s coal-black eyes.
At that moment Zina clapped her hands together, then asked them to take their seats for dinner. The long table was decorated with jars of fragrant herbs, and Karmela was delighted when Iain sat down next to her.
“Where is your dog?” she asked.
“Sybil’s in my room. Her table manners aren’t the best so I fed her first. I expect she’ll be fast asleep by now.”
“Not whining and pining for you?” Karmela teased.
“I hope not. And thankfully she isn’t a chewer, either. When my sister Jen’s dog was a puppy she had to put all the books in the bookcase the wrong way around or the dog would pull them out and have a go at them. The little devil started with the recipe books when she was shut in the kitchen. Chewed right through a vegetarian healthy eating one, apparently. Perhaps it was a protest.”
Karmela laughed so much she almost spat out her wine. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth with her napkin, “but that was so funny.”
“It’s fine,” he replied. “In fact, I’m going to take it as a compliment.”
Iain had such an easy manner about him and those eyes, oh, those eyes. She had not known eyes could be that green, and with such a sparkle too. A sparkle that made it hard for her to tear her own gaze away.
“As you missed the ‘getting to know each other’ session earlier, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” he suggested.
“Yes, please do,” added Sophie, the thin English lady with high cheekbones and a rather excellent haircut who was sitting opposite.
“You said on the boat you live in Zagreb?” Iain prompted as Karmela gulped her wine. Why did people always ask a question when her mouth was full?
“Yes. There is not much to tell, really. I am a professor of Medieval History at the university there. My specialist subject is the Ragusan period and I recently spent almost a year in Dubrovnik studying the women of the time.” She could not help but smile. “I had the best year of my life; I made so many friends. And it is where the inspiration for my book comes from. I am going to write an historical novel about them.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Sophie. “I do admire the amount of research in that sort of thing. My friend Diana and I are here to write a romance, but we’ve decided on contemporary for that very reason. Mind you, a lot of people would say that in our late sixties we’re rather too old to be first-time writers anyway.”
“That’s hardly positive thinking,” said Susan from the other side of Iain. “What about Anne Youngson? And Bonnie Garmus? Not to mention your British Mary Wesley. I loved The Camomile Lawn so much.”
“They just happen to be supremely talented,” Sophie snapped, although she immediately apologised for her tone, explaining she was tired.
“I do not expect anyone will want a late night after travelling. And I guess we have an early start tomorrow,” said Karmela, looking at Jessica who had so far contributed nothing to the conversation. Her skilful mask of make-up made her appear doubly remote; her almond-shaped grey eyes were smoky at the edges, thin lips stained perfectly the palest apricot. It would be unfortunate if she was going to be standoffish.
But then she smiled and her face lit up. “Nine o’clock. A little earlier if you want longer for free writing. How about you and I take ten minutes after dinner, Karmela, and I can explain the timetable? I’m so glad you’re feeling better now.”
“Thank you, that would be great.”
Jessica sat back, and Karmela did the same, allowing the conversation to flow around her, trying not to look at Iain more than she did the others. But it was hard; he had a handsome profile and the terribly short haircut accentuated it, making something deep inside her fizz with attraction. He turned and glanced at her, grinning as their eyes met.
Before she could think of anything to say the food arrived, and as she picked up her knife and fork to cut into the chicken, which was topped with a foamy lemon-scented sauce, she wondered if they had just shared a moment of intimacy, as perhaps they had done on the boat. With so little experience of anything close to dating, she could not be sure, but whatever it was it felt fresh and new and exciting.
Not to mention potentially disruptive to the business of writing, and she was here to write, after all, especially with her mother having paid for the retreat. But surely she could dream a little? There was no harm in dreaming, and even though love was a total stranger, there was a tiny part of her, a part liberated by her experiences in Dubrovnik, that longed to abandon herself to passion in all its forms.
But the larger part was still sensible Karmela. Karmela who analysed everything logically, broke problems down, then built an entirely rational solution. Karmela who still, despite everything, thought first and felt afterwards, and was perhaps just a little scared of putting herself out there– in a romantic sense, at least.
Her train of thought was broken by Susan eulogising about the chicken, and Zina asking if she wanted a second helping. Oh, she should be enjoying the here and now, getting to know these people, not thinking about herself. So she turned to Diana, sitting on her left, and asked her what book she was currently reading.