CHAPTER 1
NINA MARCHESI
I press my lips together to hide my smile and keep hanging the Christmas cookies, nestled inside clear acrylic baubles, onto the shop’s tree.
With my back to the only two customers inside at the moment—Damalis, the blacksmith’s wife, and Melaina, the bakery owner—I listen to their conversation because, well, I may not be a gossiping shopkeeper, but I’m not a deaf one either.
“I heard the Karamanlis donated a mirror. A family heirloom, apparently. I doubt it’s worth anything,” the woman with the sharper voice—Damalis—says to her friend, and it’s hard not to laugh, but I am a determined woman.
“The way Cleantes Karamanlis is a con artist, he probably bought some cheap mirror at a corner shop and is calling it a family heirloom.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second,” Melaina replies, her voice deeper.
“That man is capable of anything.” There’s a two-second pause before she speaks again, now almost in a whisper.
“I also heard Eudora is donating five trays of baklava. After all these years, hasn’t she learned she should give up on desserts?
No one ever bids on the sweets she donates. ”
All right—maybe I’m not that determined, because this time I can’t swallow my laughter. It scratches my throat, trying to burst out of my tightly closed mouth, and I disguise it with a ridiculous cough. Ah, the Christmas spirit. Isn’t it delightful?
I glance behind the shop counter and find it empty.
Thank God Mom is in the back, in the storage room, or she’d probably be giving me a very serious look of disapproval—even though it’s not my fault that, all day long, every customer who’s stepped into this shop has talked about nothing but the association’s Christmas party or the charity auction that will take place during it.
“One of the boys always ends up bidding on everything in the end, out of pity,” Melaina says—and just like that, at the mere mention of “the boys,” my stomach flips. I roll my eyes at myself. Old habits die hard, right? But it’s not like they mean anything.
“They’re angels,” Damalis agrees, and I’m pretty sure that if either of them actually looked at me, they’d find my eyes lodged somewhere near the back of my skull, because my eye roll this time is intense.
And there it is—the villagers’ other favorite topic on any given day of the week: how perfect “the boys” are. Honestly, I was starting to get worried. Distracted by party gossip, not a single customer had mentioned them today, and it’s already nearly nine in the morning.
Over the past few days, I’ve noticed that all it takes for someone to bring up “the boys” is for me to open the shop. And because of tonight’s event and how every island resident is caught up in last-minute preparations, there’s been a much higher-than-usual flow of customers passing through here.
I’ve been back in the village for just over a week, and today has undoubtedly been the busiest day in the shop since I returned.
And considering how much people truly enjoy gossiping about “the boys,” it was extremely strange that they hadn’t been mentioned at all.
I don’t remember it being like this when I left four years ago.
It’s probably related to the fact that back then I was constantly thinking about them—daydreaming about one of them being my prince charming and testing their last names after mine on every scrap of paper I could find.
I mean, I suppose if they’re the hosts of the party every living soul on this island is talking about, then technically they are being mentioned anyway. It’s understandable. It really is.
The association’s party stirs up far more than idle chatter on the island.
Besides relying exclusively on local vendors for every detail—boosting the village’s economy during the time of year with the least tourist activity—it’s the one party the entire island is invited to.
So in addition to being a source of income for all families, it fuels gossip for the entire year to come.
Of course people are going to idolize the men responsible for it, especially since, from what I remember, they truly do look like what gods are supposed to look like.
And besides, even I—who’ve just returned home after years away—am caught up in the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement that saturates the streets of Khione.
It’s impossible to remain immune after spending the entire day hearing about the details of the lavish party the island’s owners host every Christmas—especially because this is the first time I’m here as an adult woman.
I blink and shake my head when I realize my arm has been raised in the air, suspended halfway between the basket of cookies and the tree for who knows how long, lost in my thoughts, without hanging the ornament I’m holding.
“I wish one of them would look at my Kayra,” the sharp-voiced woman says, and if this conversation continues, my eyes are absolutely going to roll right out of my head at some point. I swear they are.
“Miss,” Melaina calls to me, and I need a couple of seconds to swallow my snarky mood before turning around with a polite smile on my face.
I’m met with two pairs of very blue eyes staring at me.
Their gazes drop to my hands, settling on the colorful kitten ornaments I made this week.
Damalis blinks, and Melaina furrows her brows before speaking again.
“I need two bottles of Rosa’s special honey. ”
“Of course. Anything else?” I reply, nodding.
“And a hundred grams of the mixed dried fruits,” she adds.
“I’ll take a few vanilla beans,” Damalis says next, and I nod again as I move through the shop.
First, I grab Melaina’s fruit mix. Then Damalis’s vanilla beans. Finally, I step behind the counter and reach up to the shelf above my head, taking two bottles from the neatly lined row.
“Anything else, ladies?” I ask after packing their purchases along with everything they handed me in their baskets.
“I’ll take some of the cookies too,” Melaina says. “I promised myself I wouldn’t buy them this year because I’m on a diet, but they’re irresistible.”
She looks at the basket of decorative ornament balls on the counter almost sadly, as if the cookies themselves were actively coercing her into breaking her diet. Poor Melaina. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
Instead, I smile, because I understand the feeling—and the joy those cookies bring is absolutely worth the dietary slip. For most of my childhood, they were the reason Christmas was my favorite time of year.
Except for the four years I spent off the island attending college, I helped my mother make them every year—even back when she worked at the orphanage. Rosa Marchesi’s cookies are, without a doubt, irresistible.
“I’ll take some too,” Damalis announces, eyeing the basket with an expression completely different from her friend’s. While Melaina looks consumed by guilt for giving in to temptation, Damalis looks like she’s about to lick her lips. God, not laughing at them is becoming harder by the second.
I add the ornament balls to their bags and finish ringing up their purchases at record speed, determined to get them out of here before one of them says something irresistibly funny and I burst out laughing.
It wouldn’t be out of malice—but I doubt they’d understand that, and I’ve just come home.
The last thing I need is to become village gossip.
I let out a relieved breath when they walk out the shop door, leaving me alone—but the breath is quickly followed by a smile.
It’s good to be back.