The old cottage of Yiayá was still standing, although the door was locked, and rotting along the bottom. I placed my hand on the stone near the entrance, and remembered the pretty donkey and the sweet white goat. How we had laughed. I walked along the port. The chest had long gone, so I stood there for a while, leaning against the wall and looking over to the lighthouse, which hadn’t changed a bit.

I had refused to tell anyone where I was going because I could not stand to be interrogated about my quest. All I wanted, was to remember Manno, my one afternoon of passion, and my beautiful son, Adam.

Chapter 50

CHAPTER 50

SHELLY

Greece, present day.

BEFORE SUNRISE THE NEXT MORNING, Shelly slipped out of bed and into a white linen bathrobe. After tiptoeing through the French windows, she sat on the balcony and stared out to sea. The lighthouse flashed reassuringly in the dawn light, and for a moment she stared at the quayside and imagined Gran Gertie, and Manno sitting on the chest. Poor Gertie, what an emotional turmoil to go through.

She smiled to herself and glanced back into the room, at the man sleeping in her bed; the man she had spoken to almost every day for months. Not only did Shelly know she had fallen in love, but she knew she had fallen for Harry’s emotional warmth, the way he cared for her, and for the way he needed to be with her, be it for a week, or a lifetime.

Before Harry, she’d only had David. Oh, yes, there had been a casual affair or two, but she could not even remember their names, and as far as love was concerned, she had been too young to appreciate what she had with David, when they both lived for the moment. Now, on Kea, Shelly sensed this was a period for embracing the rest of her life. To put all her faith and trust in one man was a brave commitment, because she knew she could not stand to be hurt by Harry. All her emotions, especially love, friendship, and trust were invested in him.

The Greek light gathered, the town waking. The bakery drew its loyal customers with delicious aromas of fresh bread wafting on cool air.

Some Greek islands had sold their soul to the tourist’s bankcard; prosperous islands where the locals were thespians, blatantly welcoming. ‘Hello! So lovely to see you again, how long are you here for?’

Not Kea. On this island, the locals observed their foreign visitors with a slight air of curiosity. ‘Why have you come here when you could go to Santorini or Mykonos?’ Also, Kea didn’t suffer fools lightly. This was not an island of nightclubs, expensive cocktails, or sunbeds. There was no Demos pelican with clipped wings, strutting the beach looking for tourists to be photographed with.

Kea was an island where you felt you belonged, or you left.

*