The Summer House in Santorini
Samantha Parks
One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Samantha Parks 2019
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Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Samantha Parks asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008324452
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008324445
Version: 2019-07-25
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dedication
To Averi and Shauna, my gorgeous, strong, passionate sisters. When faced with hard decisions, I hope you always choose to stay true to yourselves.
Something like four thousand years ago, before Troy had fallen, in the height of the Bronze Age of Greece, a volcano erupted in the Aegean, the force of which is unrivaled to this day. The tiny island of Thera was destroyed, ripped apart from the middle, birthing legends of hidden cities and buried treasure that would perpetuate for millennia to come. The volcano erupted over and over again, its magma chamber refilling and depleting, until the entire area had been devastated beyond recognition.
But Thera did not die. It became Santorini, or Thira, a small archipelago of islands – one large, reverse-C-shaped one and a few smaller ones – with an ecosystem defined by its volcanic history. The ashy soil birthed unbelievable produce, especially grapes for wine. The caldera that had formed from the island’s near destruction made for a gorgeous landscape, and tourists eventually found their way to the hidden treasure of Santorini.
In the middle of the island is a small village called Exo Gonia, a town where, from some points in the village, the sea can be seen on every side. The roads up into the village are curvy and narrow, lined on both sides by whitewashed walls concealing houses and gardens that extend farther back into the hills than is evident at first glance. At the top of one such road – up the hill from the Agios Charalambos, a beautiful yellow church with three crosses atop round spires – is a small white house with three archways out front and views over Kamari and the Aegean Sea.
The house was built with just one bedroom. The four-poster bed was carved by the grandson of the man who built the house. He built the kitchen table as well; a long, trestled work of art with knots in the sides and a shine on the top from so many years of food and wine and love and laughter. And when he was done, he made a new front door from the same wood and hung it proudly in the frame.
The family who lives in this house is a humble one. The man of the house is a builder; his wife, a seamstress. The man has lived in the house his whole life. In fact, the house has been in the man’s family for over two hundred years, built by the first of the family to set foot on Santorini, rearing generation after generation of builders who have lovingly cared for and maintained the house, which has remained largely unchanged.
That is, until the man had a son. And that son became a builder, too, and he wanted to add onto the house. But his father wouldn’t let him alter it, so he started building in the garden. He had dreams of entertaining guests from all over the world; strangers who would become friends simply by sitting across the knotted table and eating a meal plucked from the garden and sleeping nestled in the hills of the most beautiful island in the world. “The summer house,” he called it; the thing that would bring new people and new adventures to their tiny little corner of Exo Gonia on the island of Santorini. He decorated it with yellow paint and his hopes of a more exciting life.
Only one person would come to stay in the summer house as long as the man’s son lived, but she would change their world forever.
1
Anna had always thought that Manhattan summer was the closest one could get to hell, as least as far as temperature was concerned. But as she stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Thira, she realized there was a whole other level to that particular inferno, and it was in Greece. Santorini, to be specific.
The sun shone a blinding white, and Anna scrambled to pull her sunglasses out of her purse. As she put them on and the glare subsided, she saw that the sky was a brilliant blue with not a cloud in sight. Off in the distance to her right, the sky and sea melded together at some point that Anna couldn’t quite determine.
The airport itself wasn’t much to look at. Anna wasn’t sure what she was expecting – a whitewashed stone building with a blue-painted roof and a cross on top, perhaps? – but she was expecting more grandeur than what she saw as she entered the terminal. The building was white, but that was about the only part of it that met her expectations.
Anna was running through in her mind the different ways in which she could introduce herself to her grandparents. “Hi, Mr and Mrs Xenakis. I know we’ve never met, but I’m your granddaughter, here to sell your summer house out from under you. Hope that’s cool.”
She’d have to work on that one. Maybe a drink would help.
According to a quick Google search (her international data charges would be through the roof when she got back, but she would manage), the address her sister Lizzy had given her for her grandfather was only about a mile and a half away as the crow flies, but it would take Anna nearly half an hour on a bus to get there, as walking with her three bags was out of the question. So as she went through Immigration – which was incredibly relaxed – she began looking for signs pointing to the buses. Or maybe she’d get to ride a donkey? She remembered seeing in a film once that tourists got to ride donkeys up and down the steep steps, and she started mentally counting her euros to determine if she’d have enough for a donkey ride and lunch. How much was a donkey ride, anyway? Five euros? Fifty? She only had fifty with her, so she hoped it was less. Riding a donkey sounded… well, not exactly appealing, but appropriate.
As she walked through Arrivals, she skimmed over some of the signs being held up for people by thei
r drivers, but there was only one sign that made her do a double-take – in big block letters on a piece of cardboard, it said: “LINTON”.
The man holding the sign stood out from the others as well, not because he looked familiar, but because he was a head taller than everyone else around him. His thick dark hair fell to just above his shoulders, though the top half was tied back away from his face. His arms were lean but visibly strong, and the contours of his muscular chest were visible through his white tee shirt. He wore khaki pants that were covered in paint. Not your typical car-driver’s uniform, but Anna instantly thought of her grandfather’s construction company and began to wonder if the man really could be there for her. But no one knew she was coming… did they?
The man waved as Anna walked nearer. So maybe he was there for her. Or was he just flirting? If she was being honest, Anna wasn’t sure which she preferred.
“You’re Anna?” he asked when she was close enough. He knew her name. Damn, not flirting. At least she was getting a ride, though.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, sticking out her hand. The man shook it, his long fingers wrapping firmly around her own, and Anna had to remind herself how a handshake worked. “I didn’t realize I was getting picked up.”
The man didn’t respond; he just tucked the sign under his arm and started walking away, so Anna followed.
“You don’t look half-Greek,” the man said without turning around.
“Well, I am,” Anna said, rolling her eyes. What did it matter? Half the people in the airport were white and blonde. “Who told you to come pick me up?”
“I work for your grandfather,” he said, shoving the sign into a bin as they walked past before carrying on.
Apparently that would have to do for an explanation, as he didn’t offer any further insight as to how they knew she was coming. Anna replaced her sunglasses as they went outside, ready for the brightness this time, but the heat still caught her off guard.
“Your English is really good,” she said, hobbling behind him as he walked.
“I went to university in London,” he replied without turning around.
He kept walking past the cars waiting out front, and Anna figured his car must be in one of the parking areas further on. She struggled to keep up, her duffel bag hitting the backs of her legs, her handbag strap straining against her shoulder and her heels catching on her roller bag as she did a funny little run/walk behind him.
After a couple minutes of walking in silence, him a few paces ahead of her with her legs moving in double-time to keep up, Anna had become confused. They had now walked past the turnoff to the parking areas, assuming a big “P” meant parking in Greece as well. In fact, they were headed out of the airport grounds altogether.
“Um, sorry, but where are we going?”
He looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows pressed together and his mouth in a half-smile, an amused look on his face. “To meet your grandparents, obviously.”
“Yeah, but where is your car?”
He laughed. “So sorry, Princess Anna, no car service for you.”
Anna frowned, and the man pointed ahead to a bus stop. Dozens of other people were huddled outside.
“I could have taken the bus by myself,” she said, hoisting her slipping duffel bag back over her shoulder.
He simply shrugged.
At that moment, a bus appeared around the corner. They were still a couple hundred meters away.
“Give me your bag,” he said. “We have to run.”
Anna felt a bead of sweat drip down her back and shook her head. “No way. Not in this heat.” But she handed over her duffel bag anyway, thankful for the lightening of her load and a bit offended he hadn’t offered sooner.
He took the bag and sped up. “No, really, we have to run or we’ll miss the bus!”
“Then we’ll catch the next one!”
“No, we won’t,” he said insistently. “There isn’t another one for over an hour, and I am not waiting around until then.” And then he took off running as the bus stopped, leaving Anna behind.
Anna pulled her small suitcase up by the handle and started running after him. She wasn’t about to walk – or wait, for that matter – by herself in this heat.
The people who had been waiting by the stop were pushing onto the bus at an impressive rate, and Anna wished they’d get on more slowly to buy her some time. The man who was escorting her had already disappeared into the crowd, but Anna was still too far away. She pushed herself as fast as her legs could move her, her suitcase awkwardly bashing against her side with every step. She ignored it, willing herself forward. She had to make this bus.
But she wasn’t so lucky. When she was still fifty meters away at least, the bus pulled away, leaving behind it a cloud of dust.
Anna stopped running and bent over, half in devastation at missing the bus and half to catch her breath. She couldn’t believe he had left her alone after specifically telling her she couldn’t navigate it alone! She also had no idea where to go next. He even had one of her bags. She pulled her phone out of her purse and checked her cell signal. Despite having full bars at the airport, out here there was basically nothing. Not enough to pull up directions to the house, anyway. She was officially stranded.
But as the cloud of dust cleared, she saw a figure standing by the bus stop, holding a pink duffel bag. It was her escort.
“You waited for me!” she called, amazed but smiling, then noticed his face was stern.
“You made us miss the bus,” he said, his frown set so deeply that Anna now couldn’t picture a different facial expression on him.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he pushed past her and began walking down the road, leaving her duffel bag behind. Anna grabbed it and followed, struggling once again to keep up.
After half a mile, she began to realize that they were going to walk all the way to the house like this. She called out a couple of times to ask for help with her bags, but her escort continued to ignore her, keeping twenty meters or so between them, even when she tried to close the gap. So all Anna could do was trudge on.
Nearly an hour later, Anna scowled as they arrived at a big resort. Her escort still hadn’t given a word of instruction. He just strolled through the automatic glass doors and across the marbled floor to reception, whispering something to the young man behind the counter before disappearing down a hallway. This couldn’t be right.
The man at the desk looked at Anna expectantly. She walked up to the large counter, which looked like it was made out of driftwood, set her handbag down on it and dropped her duffel bag and suitcase at her feet.
“Are you here to check in?” the man asked.
“No, I’m looking for my grandfather Christos Xenakis. Does he…” Anna looked around, hesitant to ask what seemed like a silly question. “…does he live here?”
The man sneered. “Christos is a worker. A builder. Right now, he will be in the staff room, having lunch. It’s just down that hallway, last door on the right.” He pointed to an open door behind him to the left, beyond which a hallway stretched. The hallway down which her escort had disappeared.
“Can I leave my bags here?”
“Sorry,” he said, “bag drop is for guests only.” Then he picked up a walkie talkie off the desk and walked away.
What is it with nobody wanting to help me today? Anna thought. She put her handbag over her shoulder, picked up her suitcase and duffel bag, and headed toward the door. But as she came around the desk, a short Greek man came through the doorway and locked eyes with her. He had thick eyebrows, leathery skin and a giant handlebar mustache. He would have looked like a cartoon villain if it weren’t for the broad grin that was getting bigger the closer he got.
“Anna!” he shouted – loud enough that some other people in the lobby turned to look – and wrapped her in a hug, her hands still clutching her suitcase handles. This must be her grandfather. She wondered again how he knew she was coming.
“Hi,
Christos,” she said, letting go of her bags and lightly patting his back.
After what Anna felt was a few seconds too long, he finally released her. He furrowed his brow and stared at her, and she touched her face to make sure there wasn’t anything on her to make him look so concerned.
“You…” he started, closing his eyes as if to focus more. Anna realized he was simply struggling to find the right words in English. “You eat?” he finally managed, petting his stomach to emphasize his meaning.
“No, I haven’t,” Anna said, shaking her head to make sure he could understand.
He smiled at her and grabbed her bags, nodding for her to follow as he headed back down the corridor.
As they went, Anna realized that she was actually quite hungry. She could go for a gyro or some hummus, or whatever Greek people actually ate for lunch? There was the smell of something delicious on the air, and it seemed familiar, though Anna couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was something from her childhood?
As they walked through the doors, someone threw a small white package at Christos, and he dropped one of Anna’s bags to catch it. Anna looked around to see what was going on and spotted a young man throwing things to people all over the room out of a brown paper bag.
A brown paper bag with a big yellow “M” on it.
Of course she would come halfway around the world and still not be able to escape McDonald’s. Every man in the room – and they were all men – was now biting into a burger or eating fries from the distinctive red cardboard holder. Not quite what she would have imagined, but it explained the familiar smell at least, a smell now accompanied by sweat and paint.
The men were all dressed the same with the same complexion: hair so dark it was almost black, olive skin, and dark eyes with long, luscious lashes. There were a couple who were middle-aged or older like her grandfather, but the rest were all young and muscular and looked like they should be in an Olympic God of the Month calendar. She was the only woman in a room full of Adonises – not that she was complaining. But as they started to notice her, she saw that their gazes were less flirtatious, not even curious, but more annoyed. The way she would look at tourists who walked too slowly on the sidewalk in Manhattan.
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