Chapter 2
Three Months Earlier
Wren received the assignment in May: Santorini, nature and travel photography, sunsets, black sand beaches, glowing waves, and beautiful people. She was in Thailand at the time, but a return to Europe for the summer sounded like a blast, so she booked her flight right away.
Goodbye, Thai food. Goodbye, motorbikes. Goodbye, the loneliness she’d felt on that tropical island, drinking mango smoothies and tanning herself to a golden brown.
The Santorini assignment was from her longtime editor and sometimes friend, Max, who worked for a travel magazine.
Four years ago, he’d discovered Wren’s photographs on social media and written her out of the blue, asking if she might want to work on commission.
Since then, Max had been instrumental in securing most of Wren’s yearly photography wages.
It meant she could continue to travel from place to place, highlighting some of the world’s most beautiful spots and gorgeous people.
She adored her career. She adored her freedom.
On the flight from Bangkok to Athens, where she would take a ferry to Santorini, Wren looked over her most recent photographs: elephants in Thailand, food markets in Hong Kong, and monkeys in Sri Lanka.
Throughout the past year or so of travels, she’d ramped up her work considerably, selling more photographs than ever while also monitoring her Graves’ diagnosis.
The schedule had demanded a tricky balance.
But, she reasoned, the diagnosis and the fear around it had only instructed her to live more and say yes to all that life offered rather than to hold back and stay in one place, like her sisters.
When she landed in Athens, she went through customs, where an officer asked, “When was the last time you were in the United States?”
She wanted to laugh at that even though she knew it was inappropriate. “I’ve been away for more than a year, I think,” she said.
The officer raised her eyebrows and stamped her passport.
Although Wren knew that she could only be in Europe for ninety days without a visa, she was ready to make the most of this time.
After that, who knew what life had in store?
Maybe she’d go back to Asia. Maybe she’d head to South America and wait out the winter months, dancing tango and photographing jungles. The world was hers.
Wren had perfectly arranged the times of the flight landing and the ferry taking off.
When she reached the port, she boarded the ferry immediately and grabbed a seat on the top deck.
The balmy seventy-five degrees felt fresh and breezy after so long in Thailand.
Abandoning her backpack briefly, she went to the little onboard kiosk and grabbed herself a Greek beer called Mythos.
She cracked it open and tipped it into her mouth. She was celebrating.
But that joie de vivre didn’t last long.
The ferry from Athens to Santorini was eight hours, which meant that Wren’s jet lag crept up on her and then crashed in, making her droopy-eyed and exhausted by the time they docked at the port.
To make matters worse, Santorini’s port was at the base of what was basically a steep cliff.
Getting to the top was not a task for the faint of heart.
But because she traveled only with a backpack rather than a rolly suitcase, she told herself to buck up and not pay someone to carry her bag for her—not even someone with a bag-laden donkey—and get to the top.
When she reached it, she felt euphoric, but her legs shook beneath her.
She needed to find her hotel, get something to eat, and collapse.
Tomorrow would be a big day of photographing if she could get out of bed.
Wren’s hotel was in the town of Oia. Walking through the whitewashed alleyways while concurrently gazing down at the glinting ocean beneath the most beautiful sunset she’d ever seen gave her the impression that she’d died and gone to heaven.
The town felt like an impossibility, like it shouldn’t have been built so high up, like humans should have abandoned it long ago, or like some kind of natural disaster should have destroyed it.
Thank goodness nothing like that had happened.
But there was a sense, here, that it wouldn’t last forever, that she was privileged to see it before it disappeared. She thought of Atlantis, that lost city that had supposedly plunged into the sea.
Her hotel was tucked away in an alley. It wasn’t the cheapest, but it wasn't the most expensive in the area, which meant her view from the window in her room was the little parking lot outside. At check-in, the wife of the husband-wife team entered her name into the computer, while Wren willed her to speed up. The woman’s husband stomped in, speaking a fast, crazy-sounding Greek, and his wife stopped talking and answered back, as if they were fighting about something.
Wren had been two when her mother died, but she’d heard from her sisters that her mother and father (who’d also run an inn together back in Bluebell Cove) had fought like this, too.
She wondered if they’d fought in front of the customers.
All Wren wanted was the key to her room! All she wanted was some dinner! Couldn’t they resolve this problem later, at home?
But then, a man in his late thirties stormed down the stairs. He scowled, as though he wanted to yell at the two older people who were squabbling. But instead, he fixed his face into a smile and looked at Wren. “Can I help you with something?”
Wren blinked at him. His English was perfect.
After traveling for so long, it was invigorating to see such a strong and handsome Greek man, a man who felt grounded and looked muscular with hair that was rich and curly and textured.
Almost immediately, she told herself to stop thinking of him like that.
She knew it was wrong to objectify anyone. But still! Look at this man!
“I’m here to check in,” she said.
The man clapped his hands at the married couple, who promptly stopped arguing. Both threw up their hands and left the lobby, maybe escaping to wherever they could argue.
“Sorry about them,” the man said, getting in front of the computer. “They’re my parents, and I love them, but I don’t always know if they should have gone into hospitality. They aren’t that great with people.”
Wren laughed. “We have that in common. My dad could be a difficult man when he wanted to be. He owned his own inn, too.”
The Greek man raised his eyebrows and stopped typing. “Your family has a hotel?”
“We do,” Wren said. “My parents are gone, but my older sisters take care of it these days. They transformed it into an Eco-Lodge.”
“An Eco-Lodge.” The man said the words as though they were beautiful and unfathomable. “That’s really something. But you got out of working there? I suppose it's because you have siblings to take it on. You’re lucky.”
Wren nodded and blushed. Maybe if she looked within herself extra hard, she sensed guilt that she hadn’t stayed behind to help with the inn.
“I am an only child,” the Greek man said, shaking his head. He turned around and grabbed a key off the wall, an ancient-looking one that had real weight to it. “Here is your key. Room 307.”
Wren tilted her head. “I haven’t told you my name yet.”
“I just upgraded you from your tiny room with the parking lot view. It’s not good,” the Greek man said. “We are not fully booked tonight. You can imagine that is another reason my parents aren’t happy.” He smiled wider. “But my computer tells me you’re probably Wren Harper. Am I right?”
Wren’s cheeks felt hot. She took the key and pocketed it. “That’s right. I’m Wren Harper.”
“The only woman traveling alone to Santorini,” he said. “What are you looking for here?”
“I’m a photographer for a travel magazine,” Wren stated.
“Oh! So you are not looking for love in Greece,” the Greek man said.
“Never,” Wren said. “As far as I can tell, it only brings trouble.”
The Greek man extended his hand and shook hers. “I don’t believe truer words have ever been spoken.”
Upstairs, Wren turned the key in the lock of her room, which turned out to be the honeymoon suite.
It was bigger than any hotel room she’d ever stayed in.
A king-sized bed sat on glowing hardwood floors, and french windows opened out onto the most gorgeous view she’d ever seen.
It was twilight now, and the ocean looked the same dark blue color as the sky.
Chilly, she changed into a black dress with tights and a leather jacket, then made her way back downstairs, hoping to catch the Greek guy and ask his name before she grabbed dinner.
But his mother was back behind the desk, mumbling to herself, probably about her husband.
Wren made up her mind to forget about him and went outside.
Everywhere she looked, tourists strolled beneath the moonlight, calling out to one another and ducking into restaurants and bars.
Wren’s stomach flipped over with hunger.
Eventually, she stepped into a less expensive and more traditional taverna, where a broad-shouldered and pot-bellied Greek man in his fifties or sixties smiled at her and said, “Take a seat! I bring you a menu!” Wren liked him immediately.
Wren chose a table near the railing overlooking the view.
From there, she could see other restaurants and bars that lined the edge of the town.
They looked far more ornate than this one, often featuring tiny plates with tiny pieces of food that probably did not cost tiny prices.
Wren ordered a feast of moussaka and red wine for herself.
As she sipped her wine, she pulled out her journal and wrote a few lines about the joy she experienced now.