Falling For Dr. Dimitriou

by Anne Fraser

  He smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting until I finished repainting it. But normally I go out in it whenever I can. Not just for fishing. I use it to island-hop sometimes. I like taking care of it. It belonged to my father once.’ After a pause he continued, his voice soft and reflective. ‘When I was a kid and we came to Greece on holiday I used to go out fishing at night with my uncle. Once he wouldn’t take me—I forget the reason why. Perhaps he had other plans—but I wanted to go. There was a full moon and only a slight wind—perfect fishing weather. So I waited until everyone was asleep, then I crept out and launched my boat.’

  She smiled, imagining the scene. ‘Did you catch anything?’

  ‘Tons. There were so many fish I forgot to think about where the boat was, and didn’t notice it was drifting. When I looked up I couldn’t see the lights on the shore any more.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I don’t know what I was more scared of,’ he said, ‘being dragged out to the middle of the sea or my father’s wrath when he found out I’d been out on my own. I knew the stars pretty well.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘I knew if I followed the right star it would guide me back to shore. Maybe not here exactly but to somewhere where I could walk or hitch a lift home.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘There was only one problem. When I realised I had lost sight of the shore, I jumped to my feet and lost an oar overboard.’

  ‘That must have been a bit of a pain.’

  He laughed. ‘It was. I tried using the one oar, paddling from one side then the other, but I soon realised that, given the zig-zagging course I was making, it would take days, not hours, to reach the shore. I nearly gave up then. I could have stayed where I was. They would have sent out boats to find me once they discovered I was missing.’

  ‘It’s a big sea.’

  ‘And even bigger when you’re out there on your own.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘The thing was, except for the first scary moment, I wasn’t. I knew my father would move heaven and earth to find me. I knew whether it took him the rest of his life, whether he had to spend every drachma he had to employ helicopters and search boats to find me, he would.’

  ‘He must have loved you very much.’

  ‘More than life itself.’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘A parent’s love is the strongest love of all. It’s only when you have a child yourself that you realise that.’

  His words were like a knife straight to her heart. She clasped her hands together and squeezed. He couldn’t know how much they hurt her.

  ‘Is that what happened? Did he call the emergency services out?’ She was relieved to find her voice sounded normal—cool even.

  ‘No. Thank God he didn’t have to. Despite my years in England, I was a Greek boy brought up on legends and myths about Greek heroes. There was no chance I was going to wait for him to come searching for me. I would have died rather than sit there waiting meekly for rescue.’ Although he sounded indignant, she could hear the laughter in his voice.

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I decided to try and swim back.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘It was madness. I know that now, but back then it was all I could think of doing. However I couldn’t leave the boat to float out to sea. It was my father’s pride and joy. So I threw the fish back. It almost killed me. A whole night’s work and the best catch I’d ever had! I jumped out of the boat and, keeping hold of the rope, I swam back to shore.’

  ‘You could have drowned.’

  ‘I knew as long as I kept hold of the boat, I’d be all right. And it worked. It took me a bloody long time but I made it into a small bay just as the sun was coming up. But I still had to get the damned boat back to its proper mooring. So I nicked one of the oars from a boat that was in the bay and rowed home. I’ve never rowed as fast in all my life. I was determined to get home before my father noticed I was gone.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Now, that was the thing. I did. At least I thought I did. I crept into bed and a few moments later I heard my father get up. I was pretty pleased with myself, I can tell you. But later, when I went down to the boat again just to check there wasn’t any evidence of my night-time excursion, the oar I had pinched was missing and there, in its place, was a brand-new one.’ He sighed.

  ‘He must have known what I was up to all along. I bet he was sitting on the wall all night, waiting for me to come home. When he knew I was safe he must have hurried back to bed, and then, when he was sure I was asleep, gone down to check on the boat. Of course, he would have seen instantly that one of the oars had come from another boat and so he made a new one. And you know...’ he paused and looked out to sea ‘...he never once mentioned it. Not ever.’

  They sat in silence for a while. ‘It sounds as if you have always been surrounded by your family’s love. No wonder Crystal is such a happy little girl.’

  He looked into the distance. ‘I’ve been lucky, I guess, in so many ways. But the gods like to even the score.’ He could only be talking about his wife.

  ‘What about you?’ he continued. ‘Did you have a happy childhood too?’

  Perhaps it was his Greek upbringing that made him talk like this? Most British men she knew would rather die a hundred deaths then talk about their feelings. Or perhaps it was the night—perhaps everyone found it easier to talk under the cover of darkness.

  ‘Of course my parents loved me. It’s just that I think I disappointed them.’ The words were out before she knew it.

  ‘Disappointed them? The dedicated, bursary-winning scholar? Did you go off the rails or something when you were a teenager?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t see it. I bet you were head girl.’

  Going off the rails was one way of putting it. Off track for a while was perhaps closer to the truth.

  She shook her head. ‘I was never that popular. Far too studious and serious. I was a prefect, though.’

  ‘There. I was right. And then you went to medical school and here you are about to submit your thesis for your doctorate and one of Europe’s top specialists in the spread of infectious diseases. What is there not to be proud of?’

  Judging by the teasing note in his voice, he couldn’t have known how close to the bone he had come with his questions. She scrambled to her feet. ‘I am getting a little cold. I think it’s time we went on our way.’

  * * *

  Later that night, she lay in bed listening to the gentle rush of the waves on the shore and thinking about what Alexander had said. She’d tried so hard to make her parents proud, and to an extent she had. Her mother had told anyone who’d listen, sometimes complete strangers, that her daughter was a doctor. In fact, to hear her mother speak you’d think that her daughter was single-handedly responsible for the health of the nation. But what she had wanted most of all, a grandchild she could fuss over, Katherine hadn’t given her.

  Throwing the covers aside, she went out to the balcony. Alexander was making her think about stuff she didn’t want to think about, like loss, and families—and love.

  Love. What would it like to be loved by Alexander? It hit her then—she wasn’t just attracted to him, she was falling in love with him.

  Of all men, why did it have to be him? He was still in love with his wife, that much was obvious. And even if he wasn’t, his life was here in Greece and she’d be returning to the UK to pick up hers. But worst of all, if he knew her secret he would despise her. He would never understand why she’d done what she had.

  She returned to the sitting room and flicked through the playlist on her iPod. She inserted it into the speakers she had brought with her and as the sound of Brahms filled the room she sat on the sofa and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  What was it with him and this w
oman? Alexander thought as he stared at the stars from his bedroom window. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? It wasn’t as if he had any intention of having a relationship with her. No one would ever take Sophia’s place. Katherine would be returning to the UK soon and he couldn’t follow her, she was as much married to her work as he was—there were a hundred different reasons.

  Yet he couldn’t fool himself any longer that he wasn’t strongly attracted to her. Perhaps because he saw his own sadness reflected in her eyes? Or was it because, despite her protestations, he suspected she was lonely and he knew only too well how that felt? It was only when she talked about her work that her reserve disappeared. Her eyes shone and she became more animated. He liked it that she felt passionately about what she did—in many ways she reminded him of the way he used to be. And look how that had turned out.

  His mind shied away from the past and back to Katherine.

  He liked everything about her—the way she looked, her sensitivity and reserve, the sudden smile that lit up her face, banishing the shadows in her eyes, the way she was with Crystal, slightly awkward but not talking down to her the way many adults did, how she was with Yia-Yia and the villagers: respectful, but not patronising.

  When the realisation hit him it was like jumping into a pool of water from a height. Shock then exhilaration. He didn’t just like her—he was falling in love with her.

  As the plaintive notes of Brahms’s Lullaby filtered through the still night air from the other side of the square he went outside and listened. It had been one of Sophia’s favourites—something she’d played often. He closed his eyes as an image of Sophia rushed back, her head bent over the keys of the piano, her hair falling forward as her fingers flew over the keys, a smile of pure happiness on her lips. His chest tightened. Sophia. His love. How could he think, even for a moment, that there could ever be anyone else?

  CHAPTER SIX

  COMFORTED BY THE soothing strains of the music and knowing sleep would elude her, Katherine studied her database, entering the list of names Alexander had given her.

  She stopped when she came to Stéfan’s name. He had been the first patient to fall ill. Concentrating on him was key.

  There was something about him that was tugging at her memory. What was it? Yes! She had it. The day he’d collapsed at the surgery, he’d been sporting a bandage on his right hand. And it hadn’t been clean either. It had looked professional, though. Someone had bandaged his hand but not recently. Hercules leaped onto her lap and started purring. Shestroked him absent-mindedly as she dialled Alexander’s phone. Despite the late hour, he picked up immediately.

  ‘The boy who died. Stéfan Popalopadous? Do you know how he hurt his hand? Did he have it dressed at your practice?’ she asked, coming straight to the point.

  Alexander mumbled a curse under his breath. ‘Hello to you too. No, I don’t know how Stéfan hurt his hand. Not without looking at his notes, which, of course, are at the practice. But something tells me that’s where I’m going.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ she asked.

  ‘No. That’s okay. Keep your phone near you and I’ll call you as soon as I have an answer.’

  It was over an hour before he called back. She snatched up the phone. ‘Yes? What have you found out?’

  ‘He damaged his hand in a winch on his boat. Apparently he often takes people out for trips in the evenings after work. He was treated in Nafplio. He runs trips between there and all the major ports along the coast.’

  ‘Then Nafplio is where we’re going. Pick me up on the way.’

  * * *

  Nafplio was pretty, with elegant town houses with balconies that reminded her of Venice. Alexander told her a little of the town’s history on the way. During the Ottoman era it had once been the capital of Greece and the Palamayde fortress, which dominated the town, had been a prison during the Greek War of Independence. Now the town was a stopover for some of the smaller cruise ships on their way around the Mediterranean as well as for yachts either in flotillas or in singles. That wasn’t good: If one of the transient visitors had come into contact with their patient, who knew where they would be now? Was that how Claire had contracted the disease?

  They phoned the doctor of the surgery where Stéfan’s hand had been dressed, rousing him from his bed, and discovered that they’d been right. Stéfan had been treated there a couple of days before he’d turned up at Alexander’s practice. He’d had a temperature, but it hadn’t been raised enough to cause concern.

  Now they had their first contact, they could be reasonably confident of tracing the others before they became sick.

  Katherine and Alexander exchanged high-fives as soon as they left the practice. ‘You’re some public health doctor,’ he said.

  She grinned back at him. ‘I am, aren’t I?’

  * * *

  Over the next week, Katherine and Alexander visited all the villages and towns where cases of meningitis had been reported, as well as those of all the contacts they’d traced. Now they knew about Stéfan, it was easier to trace the people he’d come into contact with and their contacts. David, the boy in Intensive Care, had been taken around the coast with a number of his friends as a birthday treat, and the other eight victims, most of whom were recovering, had also taken trips in Stéfan’s boat in the days before Stéfan had become unwell. Finally Claire’s parents confirmed that their daughter had posted a photo on her Facebook page of Stéfan and his boat shortly before she’d become ill.

  Katherine and Alexander set up temporary clinics and spoke to the local nurses and medical staff, advising them what to look out for and what information to give their patients. There had been one new case, but as everyone was more vigilant, she had been admitted to hospital as soon as she’d started showing symptoms and was doing well.

  The longer she worked with Alexander the more she admired him. He was good with the patients, kind and understanding with panicked villagers, and authoritative with those who needed to be persuaded to take the antibiotics. It was tiring work and they spent hours in the car, driving from village to village, but she treasured those times most of all. They spoke of their day, what they had to do next, but they also talked about the music they liked and places they wanted to visit.

  However, she was aware he was holding back from her, as she was from him. Often it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Poppy but the time never seemed right, or, if she was honest, she was too frightened of his reaction. What would he think if, or when, she did tell him? Would he be shocked? Or would he understand? And why tell him anyway? As long as there were no new cases of meningitis she would be leaving at the end of September and so far he’d said nothing, done nothing to make her think he saw her as more than a friend and colleague—albeit one he was attracted to.

  She’d caught him looking at her when she’d been sneaking looks in his direction. Unsure of what it meant, she’d dropped her eyes, her pulse racing, finding an excuse to turn away, to speak to someone else.

  But apart from the looks, he’d never as much as taken her hand or kissed her good-night. She suspected he was still in love with his dead wife and that no woman would ever live up to her.

  The thought of returning to the UK made her heart ache. To leave all this when she’d only just found it. To go back to a life that more than ever seemed colourless and grey. To leave Alexander, his grandmother and Crystal—most of all Alexander—was breaking her heart.

  Perhaps it was being here in Greece? Perhaps it was just the magic spell the country had woven around her? Maybe when she returned to the UK she’d be able to see it for what it was: infatuation, brought on by too much sun and the joy of working with someone who cared about what he did as much as she.

  But she knew she was fooling herself. She wasn’t just falling in love with him—she loved him—totally, deeply and would love h
im for as long as she breathed. But, he didn’t love her. Nothing and no one could replace his wife. His life was here with his daughter and his family while hers was back in London.

  And what if he suspected how she felt about him? That would be too humiliating. Maybe he’d already guessed?.

  She threw down her book and started pacing. Perhaps he thought she visited his house as a means to get close to him. And going to the square every evening to share a meal or a beer with him. Wasn’t that practically admitting she couldn’t stay away from him? God, she’d done everything but drool whenever he was near. She’d virtually thrown herself at him. How could she have been so stupid?

  Well, there was only one way to rectify that. She would keep her distance. She wouldn’t visit Yia-Yia, she wouldn’t go to the square. If anyone asked she would say she was behind with her thesis. That, as it happened, was perfectly true. Besides, what did she care if anyone—least of all him—thought she was making excuses? As long as they didn’t think she was some desperate woman trying to snag the local widowed doctor while she was here.

  But not to see him? Except in passing? To even think it tore her in two.

  She should have known this kind of happiness couldn’t last.

  * * *

  Alexander stood on the balcony, a glass of cold water in his hand, his thoughts straying, as they always did these days, to Katherine. He hadn’t seen much of her since they’d stopped visiting the affected villages and he missed her. She used to come most evenings to the square but she hadn’t been for a while. Was she avoiding him?

  Working with her these last weeks he’d come to admire her more and more. She was good at what she did. Very good. If she hadn’t been around he doubted that they would have got on top of the outbreak as quickly as they had. Her patience with the affected families, her manner towards the villagers, her determination to speak her faltering Greek to them and the kindness and respect with which she treated young and old alike was very much the Greek ethos. He loved how her forehead furrowed when she was thinking, how her face lit up when she laughed, and most of all the way she was with Crystal. His daughter adored her.