Out of sight, not easily seen from either the house or what I guess you would call the main beach, it was a sturdy slab of wide, polished wood with an equally wide polished back, all sitting atop a pile of heavy stone. Set high away from where the tide would come in, it was safe from the sea, the large rock looming above it, set as it was in the shadow of a small, steep cliff, affording it a surprising amount of shade.
A dark I now felt as the sun dipped low.
Mikalo and I had returned from our afternoon spent wrapped in the confusing memory of the ramshackle stone house set at the top of a hill. He had gone to our room, laid on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Odd.
I'd never seen him like this. I'd been with him when he was quiet, when he was angry, when he was confused, when he was pondering his options, all emotional events leading to silence on his part.
But this? This was depression.
And I had no idea what to do.
Here I was, his soon-to-be bride, and I had no clue what to say or do to lift him out of this funk. A funk so dark he even passed on dinner, electing instead to stay in our room. At a loss, I brought in a small basket of fruit, hoping something there would entice him.
Still, my beloved is depressed and I'm standing there holding a basket of fruit.
Pathetic.
This "being a wife" thing could be harder than I think.
I closed my eyes, breathing deep, willing the sting of the sea air to wash away these doubts, these fears, the threat of dashed hopes. The small pang of hunger I felt in my stomach.
They, Mikalo's family, had had dinner. Faced with the prospect of sitting at a table without him surrounded by people I know didn't like me, I opted instead to grab a quick piece of bread and hit the beach.
And now here I sat, chilly, hungry, feeling unwelcome and confused.
Not exactly how I envisioned the days leading up to my wedding.
But what had I envisioned? What were my hopes?
I wasn't sure anymore. The first marriage had been a disaster, the wedding day forgettable. After that, I had stopped dreaming.
And then Mikalo happened. I found myself loving again. Hoping again. Even dreaming.
But not of this, a wedding. Everything happened so fast, I barely had time to think let alone dream. Regardless, I wouldn't have dreamt of this.
I opened my eyes, suddenly aware I was being watched. Was no longer alone.
There she stood several feet away, her impressive bulk having navigated the sand with ease, her face turned now to the waves slapping the shore at her feet.
Nona.
I was on her bench.
Shit.
She turned to me then, aware I now knew of her presence. A small smile on her lips, she began the small journey toward me.
I immediately stood, not sure what to do.
"It is a nice bench, this, yes?" she said as she approached, reaching for the polished wood of the back and gratefully gliding onto the seat with a sigh.
"It's lovely," I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was --"
She waved me quiet.
"The wood, the rocks beneath it, the sound of the waves, even the sun overhead, it all belongs to those who need it. I own nothing. It will all be here long after I am not."
And then she laughed.
Patting the seat next to her,
"Come," she insisted. "Sit."
I sat, the length of the seat holding both of us easily. Suddenly it occurred to me that this bench was built for two.
It wasn't a place of solitude. It was a place to share.
Nona began to speak, her heavily accented English surprisingly strong.
"This is difficult for you, yes?
I didn't respond, unsure of what, exactly, she was referring to.
"Being here," she continued. "Being here, alone, days before this wedding Mikalo would like, my family not so happy with his choice.
"This must be difficult," she repeated.
"Yes," I said.
A nod from her.
"It is not you. It is tradition. Generations of tradition. Mikalo, he was to find a girl, a nice girl, Greek perhaps, perhaps not, someone the family had known, had experience with, someone who was not a stranger. A girl born into success.
"And, here, Mikalo brings you. Has chosen you. A stranger."
She finished, growing quiet.
And then,
"It is difficult for us."
I could feel myself growing angry, my mind willing me silent, my pride, my sense of self, demanding I speak.
I spoke.
"What Mikalo brought to you is someone he loves and who loves him very much."
She started to respond, but I cut her off, my tone silencing her.
"You said 'It must be difficult for you', but you're wrong. It isn't, really."
Nona was watching me now, her hands resting on her thick knees as her eyes narrowed.
I continued, consequences be damned.
"I'm marrying the man I love. The man I'm spending the rest of my life with. If you, his family, decides to actively dislike me based on some bullshit criteria they decided for him, then that's your problem, not mine.
"He and I will walk down that aisle, say 'I do', and then continue our life in the States without you. Of course he'll still run the company, which I want no part of, by the way. And he'll be a part of your lives, yes.
"But me? If you've decided not to like me, it's your loss. I can live with that. It has nothing to do with who I am or my love for Mikalo."
I took a breath, quieting my racing heart.
I'd probably just ruined any chance of a relationship with his beloved Nona. But I'm sorry, I had to say something. To be silent would deny who I am and what I'd accomplished.
She turned away from me, rolling my words through her mind.
"I was like you once," she then said, quietly. "I had the same anger, the same rage."
Placing her hands on the bench, she pushed off, rising to her feet.
Her eyes on the water, she continued.
"Yes, a long time ago. I see me in you, somewhere. And I too thought if I spoke, if I shared my anger, my fear, life would change."
She turned to me, her words measured and slow.
"It did not."
And then she turned to go, her feet trudging through the sand as the sun went down.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning came, the sun bright, the sky blue.
I sat at the breakfast table, defiantly eating my eggs, not caring if my presence was unwanted.
Mikalo sat beside me, the darkness having passed.
Nona remained in her room.
Yeah, I had probably really fucked things up.
I needed to tell Mikalo. Certainly before I left for Paris this afternoon.
Ah, yes, Paris. Caugina's idea. Leave Mikalo and Nona here to plan a wedding no one in the family wanted while she and I "took the jet", as she said, to Paris to buy a dress from a designer I would probably detest, the memories of Caugina's wedding picture in Deni's European gossip rag unfortunately vivid, her dress an awkward explosion of beads and diamonds and glitter, the fabric as stiff and uncomfortable as she and Silvestro, the not-so-happy couple.
But it wasn't a fight I wanted and it was Paris. Frankly, this island thing wasn't working for me.
And I was meeting Deni in Paris, her and her new boyfriend Lucas traveling back with us to Greece.
Deni.
I could not wait to see my Deni.
"I have to go into the town," Mikalo was saying between bitefuls of crispy toast. "Would you like to join me?"
Town?
"Sure," I said and then swigged down the last of my rich, dark tea. Now the constant supply of groceries was starting to make sense. I'd always wondered where they were getting things, apples, rice, potatoes, tea, bread. I mean, some of it was done here, at the house. The eggs coming from hens, the bread baked in the kitchen, the olives coming from the olive groves.<
br />
But now I'd get to see a town.
Not sure what that meant, but at least I wouldn't be wandering the halls avoiding everyone or losing the sunburn battle on the beach. Not even a 70 SPF sunblock was keeping my skin safe these days.
We rose from the table, he and I, a last bite of toast being tossed into his mouth as we left.
Down the hall, out the door, large hat on my head, my poor shoulders and arms screaming at the thought of more sun as we crossed the very wide patch of earth separating the garage from the main house.
Where we waited.
The old man who took care of the garage, who'd done so for decades, I guess, stood apologetically with a very handsome younger man, someone I assumed was his son.
Mikalo spoke with them in Greek.
A shrugging of shoulders ensued, much to the amusement of Mikalo.
He laughed, his arm wrapping around the younger man as they set off into the dark of the garage towards the Jeep.
Which left me standing with the older man.
Awkward.
I smiled. He smiled back. I extended my hand to shake his.
"Ronan," I said, slowly and distinctly.
My hand now in his, his skin leathery and rough, his grip kind, his smile beaming.
"Olo," he said, his English heavily accented.
I smiled.
"Hello, Olo," I said, and then laughed.
He joined me.
We then grew quiet as we waited.
I wasn't sure how much English he spoke, his life being lived on a postage stamp-sized island nestled in the Aegean Sea among those who spoke Greek.
"You go ..." he started, stopping as he struggled for the word.
He made a small square with his hands, miming walls, a roof, his fingers pointing toward the hills.
"The house?" I asked. "The stone house?"
He smiled, relieved, nodding his head eagerly.
"You go back?" he then asked.
I shook my head.
"No, no," I said. "To town."
He nodded with a smile, understanding me.
Another awkward silence.
Just where was Mikalo?
"Sad," Olo then said.
I cocked my head, listening, not sure what he meant.
He continued.
"The house," he said. "Sad."
"Sad," I repeated. "Why?"
Pausing, Olo pursed his lips, thinking, his mind racing for a way to explain.
He put his hand to his heart and then, taking it away, it joined its twin as he indicated something breaking.
His eyes watched me, wondering if I understood.
I did.
I nodded.
"Mikalo?"
His head shook emphatically.
"No, no, no," he said.
And then he glanced toward the house before returning to look at me.
"Nona," he whispered as he quickly crossed himself.
"Nona's heart?" I asked, my hand on my heart.
He nodded and then put a finger to his lips.
I nodded in return, promising him my silence.
Around the corner they came, Mikalo driving the familiar Jeep, the young man riding shot gun.
They glided to a stop in front of Olo and I, the handsome stranger jumping from his seat and expertly, and very strongly, lifting me into the Jeep in one easy movement.
"My Grace," Mikalo was saying, "this is Damen."
The young man, Damen, smiled, his hand absentmindedly patting my thigh.
Suddenly aware of the intimacy of the gesture, he stopped, pulling his hand from my leg like he would a hot burner, his sun-kissed cheeks blushing an even deeper red as he shook his head, his eyes suddenly on the ground beneath his scuffed work boots.
Mikalo burst into laughter, Olo choking on his guffaws from beneath the hand covering his mouth.
Not sure what to do, I laughed as well.
"She is mine, good friend," Mikalo teased between tears.
Damen, lifting his head, grabbed my hand, pressing it to his lips in apology.
"Please," he said, his voice low, his eyes stunning in their blueness, his hair thick and falling just below his ears to graze the tanned, rounded muscles of his shoulders, the inkling of an elaborate tattoo on his chest peeking from beneath his grease-stained white t-shirt. "Forgive me."
His English was beautiful, his voice even more so, deep, rumbling through his chest, the accent unique and enticing. The kind of voice made to whisper in the dark after a night of unbridled passion.
"Stop," I teased.
"I do not know, my Grace," Mikalo said, still teasing, his cheeks stained with tears. "He may steal your heart."
Damen put a hand to his chest, the fingers long and thick, the nails stained dark with oil and dust and dirt, and took a step back.
"No," he promised, his eyes boring into me, their beauty capturing me, not letting me go, forcing me to listen, to hear his words and take them into my very soul. "We will be the best of friends, for life."
And then he smiled. A small smile. Almost shy. Boyish.
Damn.
I could feel my throat tighten as I tried to dispel the highly inappropriate thoughts I was on the verge of having.
I mean, Mikalo was my heart, my soul, my to-be husband.
But this Damen? He was definitely swoon worthy.
And I was only human.
Very human.
But Damen, my goodness ...
Tall, dark-haired, strong jaw, strong nose, thick dark eyebrows set low over these impossibly blue eyes. A deep blue. Not a bright, pale blue. No, these were dark. Like a gem, perhaps. A sapphire. Yes, absolutely. Deep and rich and dark and stunning like a sapphire.
Add to that a gorgeous, sincere smile and muscles to die for. Not the lean, strong muscles of Mikalo. These were the thick, rounded muscles one got from lifting tires, working wrenches, pounding nail with hammers, building houses, throwing boulders or something. Whatever he did, these were muscles earned in a sea of sweat under a broiling sun.
Whoever this man loved would be very lucky.
Very lucky indeed.
Still, despite my completely healthy and quite normal appreciation of this man's utter beauty, my heart belonged to Mikalo.
"Yes," I finally said, flashing this Damen a sweet smile. "Any friend of my Mikalo is a friend of mine. Always."
Damen almost sighed with relief.
We were driving away now, Mikalo still smiling.
I glanced back.
Olo and Damen stood watching us go.
A house of sadness, I suddenly remembered. Nona's sadness.
It was time to tell Mikalo what happened last night.
Chapter Eighteen
There really was a town.
Climbing yet another small hill, we came over the top and turned, the small collection of buildings, all centered around a town square, spreading themselves before us.
Five minutes later, we were gliding to a stop in front of a small store. From the looks of it, beyond this square, a fountain anchoring the center, there was the store, an even smaller restaurant, and, within a stone's throw, perhaps half a dozen houses.
"This is where some of our people live," Mikalo explained as he walked around the front of the Jeep and joined me on the passenger side.
"But there isn't anyone here," I found myself saying. "How does anything stay open?"
He smiled.
"It is a thing we, my family, support. They have a life, a community, not built around what happens at the house, no? It is a good thing for them."
Taking my hand,
"Come, walk with me."
And we set off, talking as we walked.
"Mikalo," I began, "I spoke with Nona last night."
He held his tongue, waiting for me to finish.
"I was polite. I was honest. I did my best to reach out and connect with her. I really did. But she's never going to agree to our marriage. Or even allow us to marry."
His si
lence was deafening.
We walked on a quiet street paved with very smooth, large stones. Much as you would find centuries ago, perhaps, in cities like Rome or Athens. Perhaps even Antioch.
Before us waited the gentle upward slope of the hill, the jagged rock lost in the yellowing brush.
We turned, wandering the opposite way, past the same small stucco houses, over the same flat paving stones.
I could feel the ocean breeze on my face, smell the salt in the air, feel the air change as we approached the shore.
We were once again in the town square, the fountain turned off, the ornately carved concrete having not seen water for who knows how long.
Inside the restaurant, a small group of men sat, smoking and drinking and talking. It was nice to see, this little peek into a private moment, my heart growing happy that people did live here, drink here, laugh here. Until now I hadn't seen any signs of life, a fact which had began to haunt me.
Noticing me glance into the restaurant, the group of older strangers briefly holding my attention, Mikalo spoke.
"This is a favorite spot of mine. They have a wonderful sardine dish that is wonderful, one I really enjoy, and there are times when those men, the ones talking now, will bring their instruments and play, people, those who live here, those visiting, sometimes tourists, dancing and laughing. It makes my heart very happy."
"There are tourists?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Of course, yes. We are not adverse to having visitors. They stay on this side where those who live here will benefit from their company, show them the few sites, help them down the rocks to the water. Even take them out on their boats for a few coins.
"They just do not come to the house, of course."
Of course.
Taking a breath, my hand in his as we left the square and started on a path toward the water, he returned to the subject of Nona.
"This I know," he began. "I know you shared words and I know it did not go as nice as you and she had hoped."
She had hoped it would go well?, I felt like asking. Instead I stayed silent, allowing him to continue.
"She and I, we speak," he explained, "and there is a great desire to see me with someone who is Greek, who is like me. This you now know. She wants what she believes is best for me, my Grace. And her ears will not hear that you are the one I love, the one who is best for me.
Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) Page 6