by Ann Nichols
“Didn’t you stay the night in Athens?” He’d assumed that she had flown into the city the previous day.
She shook her head. “I arrived from the States this morning.” She paused and looked at her watch. She still hadn’t set it to local time and it showed 9:00 a.m. “At least,” she smiled sheepishly, “I think it was this morning. I picked up the car at the airport and drove straight here.”
“Straight—?” The thought of her being in a car accident scared him to his core. “Don’t you know that you shouldn’t drive when you’re tired?”
“I slept on the plane, Luke. I wasn’t tired while driving,” she pointed out logically, calmly.
But Luke wasn’t listening. His attention was taken up with trying to get a handle on his wildly churning emotions. At one moment he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and be fully reconciled, but in the next instant he was so angry with her he could spit. Right now he was at the spitting end of the swinging pendulum. With a wide, dismissive wave in the direction of the pendant around her neck, he fired out, “Is this the reason you risked life and limb to get here?”
She glanced down and cringed when she saw the cross on the outside of her dress. She hadn’t wanted him to see it yet. She’d envisioned giving it back to him so many times. But not like this. Never like this. Not with anger ruling the moment. She wasn’t about to return it the same way she had received it.
“I wasn’t risking my life,” she responded with a self-controlled calm that took all of her concentration to accomplish. Sitting up, she pushed her hair to the side in order to slide the chain over her head.
Luke stopped her. “No. I don’t want it.”
She paused in midmotion, leaving the chain dangling halfway over her head. “Luke, it’s your cross. I told you that I would give it back to you when I could explain—”
“I don’t want the cross and I don’t want to hear about it,” he cut in. Reaching abruptly for her suitcases, he changed the subject. “Let me show you to your room.”
With a sigh, she let the chain fall back into place and stood up to follow him into the house. Picking up her guitar case, she trailed behind him as he went through the French doors and into the house’s cool interior.
The living room was long and wide, white and cold. Meticulously decorated in a contemporary Mediterranean style; it looked like it should enhance the pages of Beautiful Homes magazine. But somehow, like her aunt’s house, it lacked the feeling of a true home. Melissa ran her hand across the white fabric of one of the three sofas and wondered if it had ever felt the warmth of a human body. She found herself daydreaming about how she would add some warmth, some life—if she ever got the chance.
When she snapped out of her reverie, she found Luke waiting for her at the south end of the long hall.
“What a lovely home,” she said automatically, but her sweet southern accent made it sound like a genuine compliment.
“Thank you.” His reply was formal and distant.
She walked into the room he indicated. It was dark, but when Luke brushed past her and opened the shutters a few inches, she was happy to discover that it was a friendly room with a lived-in feeling. Decorated in soft blue and ecru with a patterned parquet floor, the room was regal, but comfortable.
“We keep the shutters closed against the heat of the day,” Luke said. “This room gets the afternoon sun.” He pointed to the ceiling fan and then toward the switchplate on the wall near the door to the adjoining bathroom. “There’s the switch should you need it.”
She nodded and crossed to the shutters. “Is it still too early to open them completely? I don’t want to miss the show.”
“What show?”
“The sunset.”
“As I said, this room gets the afternoon sun. But if you want to swelter, be my guest.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Dinner is at 8:30,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he walked back into the hall.
“Eight-thirty!”
He poked his head back into the room. “This is Greece, Melissa. People eat much later here.” His mouth quirked in a dry line. “But in deference to your eating habits, I will ask Soula to set out a plate for you at six on the veranda.”
It sounded to Melissa like he was offering to leave a bowl out for the dog. From the way his mouth moved, she knew he was trying to annoy her. She didn’t rise to the bait, but answered sweetly and honestly. “Thanks. I’ll wait. My tummy is completely confused as it is. I may as well get on the Greek schedule immediately.” Peering out through the partially opened shutters she said, “Besides, I think I’d like to take a swim in your famous Ionian Sea.” Turning to face him, she asked silently with her eyes—as she had so many times before at Lake Breeze—for him to accompany her.
Luke ignored the invitation. “Fine. But the bay is deep, so be careful,” he warned, just before clicking the door shut.
“As if you care?” she said under her breath, unable to stop her self-pitying thought. She was relieved that the thick door stood between her words and him.
But Luke had heard her and as his hand left the door handle, he flinched. My problem is I care too much, he thought angrily as he walked down the hall. He stopped to listen at a door ten feet from Melissa’s. There was no sound from within. There never was. Not even a radio or television left running for company. He glanced down at the crack under the door. Dark as expected. It was obvious that Anastasia wasn’t anticipating a sunset “show.”
As always, the silence bothered him and he was tempted to peek inside to make sure his sister was okay. But seeing her sitting listlessly in her chair or sprawled inelegantly on the bed was worse than wondering, so he kept on moving.
Taking the steps two at a time, he headed for his home office and the blessed relief—blessed oblivion—of his medical texts.
Twelve
Melissa didn’t go swimming. As wonderful as the sea looked, the bed looked even better. She set the blue alarm clock on the Swedish pine night table for 7:00, switched on the ceiling fan, and fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She didn’t awaken until the tooting of the clock forced her eyelids apart.
She awoke refreshed and remembered immediately where she was. She smiled, and swinging her legs to the side of the bed, she raked her hair back from her face and padded on bare feet over to the cracked shutters. Placing one hand on each leaf she pushed the wooden panels wide and a breath of wonder escaped her as her eyes took in the magic of the summertime evening that was laid out before her like a set from a play.
The bay of Saint Andreas was washed by a rainbow of muted colors. The cobalt blue water shimmered with the light of a million little diamonds that seemed to have been tossed upon its surface, and the sky glowed all red and pink and orange. An island of volcanic stone caught Melissa’s eye. Long and skinny, a natural breakwater, it lay on the seaward side of the bay.
Feeling rested but lazy, she turned back to her room, which was painted in violet and pink by the light of the setting sun. She plunked herself back down on the bed. After a moment of stretching and yawning, she rolled over to the foot of the bed, where she could reach her luggage, where Luke had abandoned it on a bench. She rummaged around in her large suitcase for her blue silk dress. Pulling it out, she was relieved to see that the steam from a shower would easily remove the few creases in it.
The water coursing down her body refreshed her in a way that only a shower can after a long journey. She stood directly under the spray for a few moments before lathering herself and washing away the grime from her dusty trip. While she bathed, she prayed that the Lord would wash away the hardness of heart that was so evident in Luke and give her the grace and the courage to speak honestly with him about the new joy in her life.
Wrapping herself in a thick bath towel, she unpacked her luggage while her hair dried in soft curls around her shoulders. When her clothes were all put away in the stately armoire along the side wall, she slipped into her dress, applied a tinge of blush and a streak of pe
ach lip gloss and brushed out her hair. Then, stopping just long enough to retrieve her guitar from its pink carrying case, she answered the call of the setting sun and stepped out onto the veranda outside her room.
Balancing her guitar against a chair, she stood at the railing and inhaled the beauty of the sea and the sky and the land. Glancing up toward the little castle of Beauvoir, she reminded herself that she had to visit the ruins. After all, it was her excuse for traveling to see Luke. The western wall was bathed by the red light of the sun, a timeless spotlight on the scene, and Melissa heard herself whisper the words of Psalm 91: “ ‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” ’ ” She smiled again at the fortress, picked up her guitar, and seated herself on a patio chair. Lovingly, her fingers moved over the guitar’s sound hole and neck as she started softly fingerpicking the tune to Martin Luther’s ageless hymn, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” After a moment, her deep, feminine voice added the lyrics to mingle with the melody of the strings.
Her voice was peaceful and sure, a natural sound of praise every bit as much a part of the land as the swallows who sang as they found their homes for the night. One hymn led to another until only an orange glow remained in the sky. Melissa finished off with the song she had started and then sat cradling the guitar in her arms as she marveled over her first sunset in Greece. Peace washed over her like a gentle wave. Singing the ageless hymns had readied her to face whatever might come her way.
“Bravo!” A woman’s sarcastic voice sounded from behind Melissa’s right shoulder, followed by staccato clapping a split second later. Melissa swiveled around to see who it was and slammed the neck of her guitar against the rattan table. The instrument moaned in protest and Melissa found herself face-to-face with a faded young woman in a drab, institutional gray robe sitting in an equally drab gray wheelchair. Melissa quieted her guitar by placing her palm over the vibrating strings and waited.
“You sing very nicely,” the woman said, but behind the flattery of her words, Melissa saw pain and envy in her eyes. In an instant, those raw emotions were concealed by haughty indifference.
“Thank you,” Melissa murmured. When she turned, she noticed another door opening up onto the veranda further down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that we shared the same veranda. I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she offered.
“Disturb me?” The woman tilted her uncombed head upward in the Greek mannerism for “no” and answered her own question. “How can someone who doesn’t do anything be disturbed?”
Melissa knew that the question didn’t require an answer so she didn’t even try. “Are you visiting here?” she ventured to ask, and watched as something close to amusement flickered in the woman’s face.
“You might say that,” she paused and with the timing of a born thespian, added, “I own the place.”
Melissa’s brows drew together. Luke had told her, back when they had been together, that he owned an apartment in Athens. She had assumed that he’d sold it when he moved here. Her frown deepened. Surely this haggard young woman wasn’t—
“I’m Anastasia Petros,” the woman answered Melissa’s unspoken question. “Better known as the house invalid,” she explained with a sour twist of her lips.
Melissa’s mouth dropped open. “You’re Anastasia? Luke’s sister?” she gasped, but she could have shot herself the moment the insensitive words left her mouth. It was just that this woman was so different from how Luke had described his fun-loving, vivacious sister.
“Amazing, isn’t it? For such a handsome man to have such an ugly sister?”
“You’re not ugly,” Melissa rejoined and knew it was true. Even behind Anastasia’s unkempt appearance Melissa could easily see the beauty of her classic features, which were much like Luke’s, only finer and softer. To Melissa she looked like a person who just didn’t care enough to make the effort.
“I don’t like people patronizing me.” There was a sharp edge to her voice, and Melissa knew that Anastasia was a woman who would brook no sympathy or lies.
“Neither do I,” Melissa returned. “But I am sorry. I had no idea that this was your home. And neither did I know about—” she glanced down at the wheelchair.
“My useless legs?” Anastasia finished sarcastically. “Why should you know?” The emphasis on the “you” was almost unkind, and Melissa shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
“Well, your brother and I did almost get married once.”
Now it was Anastasia’s turn to be surprised. Shock animated her features as she exclaimed, “You’re Melissa!”
Melissa nodded, but in a confused sort of way. It was Anastasia’s home. Didn’t she know who the guest was in her own home?
“Well, well, well. Things are getting very interesting around here,” Anastasia smirked. Pushing her wheelchair closer in order to get a better look she said, “My brother tells me that an American lady is coming to write about our castles—which I think is pretty strange in itself—and now I learn that you’re Melissa. Luke’s Melissa.” Like a dog anticipating a tasty morsel, Anastasia practically smacked her lips together. “A drama is about to unfold before my very eyes. How exciting.”
Melissa didn’t find it at all exciting. But quickly grasping, from both Anastasia’s appearance and attitude, that Luke’s sister was probably suffering from depression and was most likely displaying more emotion than she had in a very long time, Melissa let it pass.
“Oh, don’t look so grim, Melissa. You have to forgive me, but since,” she motioned with her hands to her legs, “this, I don’t follow social conventions. Truly, I’m happy that you’re here. I’m happy for you, for Luke, and, believe it or not,” she gave a short, but powerful laugh, “for me. I need a diversion in life and a good live drama fits the bill nicely,” she finished honestly.
“Well,” Melissa gave a small smile. “Hopefully there won’t be a drama.”
“Ha!” Anastasia fired back and slapped her hand against her knee. “Do you love my brother?”
Melissa’s jaw dropped. It wasn’t a question she had expected, particularly not from Luke’s sister. But something inside prompted her to answer Anastasia openly, without minced words. “Yes, Anastasia. I love Luke very much.”
The other woman fairly beamed. “Well, there you are. He loves you too. Now all that has to happen are a few arguments, a few love scenes, and a subplot of some sort.” She motioned to the paperback book tucked by her side. “I read a lot of romances.”
Melissa smiled and nodded her head wisely. “I seem to remember Luke telling me. . .when we were together. . .that you aspired to be a writer.”
A distant look, as if she were trying to see something that she had almost forgotten, came into Anastasia’s face. “I have a few unfinished manuscripts lying around here somewhere. But that was before—” she stopped speaking and glanced down at her legs.
Melissa took it as an invitation to ask. “How did it happen?” The last time she had talked to Luke about his sister, Anastasia and her family had made reservations to attend their wedding. Melissa remembered that Luke had argued against upsetting their guests’ plans by putting the wedding date back a few months.
“An automobile accident,” Anastasia whispered, and her face settled into the sad lines that had become a permanent part of the geography of her young skin.
Melissa grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“My husband and my unborn baby boy were killed, and I got a permanent front-row seat on life,” she offered quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” Melissa repeated, as the horror of the tragedy swept through her mind. She suddenly felt weak. From her personal experience she knew that no words were adequate to express such remorse. “I had no idea.”
“How could you?” Anastasia’s bitterness was as sharp as a two-edged blade.
“When it happened—” She clamped down on her words, prematurely ending h
er sentence.
Melissa quietly finished for her. “After Luke and I split up?”
Slowly, thoughtfully, as if weighing her response, Anastasia nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” she paused. “After you split up.”
“And your daughter?” Melissa remembered that the little girl, Emilia, had been the apple of Luke’s eye even when he had been in the United States.
“She wasn’t in the car.”
“Thank God,” Melissa breathed out.
“I don’t think He was in the car either.” Acid laced Anastasia’s words and Melissa raised her eyebrows. They looked intently at one another for a moment before Anastasia turned her wheelchair away, closing the subject. Melissa let it pass.
This time.
At least now she knew how Anastasia felt.
She blamed God for her legs and for not saving her husband and unborn child.
Melissa understood. Hadn’t she done a similar sort of thing when she had forgotten God as a child after losing her parents?
Better than most she knew that prayer, patience, honesty, and love were needed to break through the wall of anger and pain that encircled Anastasia’s soul. In the days to come, Melissa resolved to try to give all that to Luke’s sister. Besides, there was something about Anastasia that Melissa really liked. In spite of their differences, they had established a rare and beautiful quick rapport that could lead to a long and lasting friendship. Melissa needed a friend in Greece.
Glancing at her watch she asked, “Shall we go down to dinner together?” It seemed a good place to start.
Anastasia looked up sharply as if she suspected some sort of trickery in Melissa’s question. Detecting none, she carefully replied, “I normally eat in my room.”
“But then,” Melissa wiggled her eyebrows up and down in an attempt to impersonate Groucho Marx, “how do you expect to see the ‘drama’ between your brother and me if you’re closeted away up here?”