Before Joey was her favorite marigold building with intricate, wrought-iron white balconies that resembled Chantilly lace. And then beyond it, in the sweep of town that led down to the sea, endless sherbet and copper stucco blazed into view, bookended by the two Venetian fortresses that for centuries had guarded the island against foreign invaders. Olive trees sprouted in roadside squares and bougainvillea wove around trellises. Steeples and clock towers thrust through the skyline; only the Church of Agios Spyridon was visible in its grand entirety. It had been narrowly spared destruction by Allied bombs in the forties, and according to Joey’s art teacher, legend had it that Saint Spyridon walked the cobblestone kantounia at night, protecting the island and her people.

In the distance, sailboats bobbed in Garitsa Bay. And not far beyond hovered the misty outlines of mainland Greece and Albania across the strait, with villages baked into lush green hilltops. At a certain line, the villages petered out and the mountains stood proud watch over the Ionian Sea.

Joey peeled off flaky pieces of a leftover croissant now hot from the sun, her eyes in their typical bounce between the vista and Leo. After breakfast, while Joey went to her bedroom to slip into her favorite coral bikini, the danger occurred to her of allowing optimism to overtake things. She and Leo were just friends, and had been for years. But oh God, the hope of something more swept her away.

Joey went to the kitchen to assemble snacks into a basket. Her mother padded in.

Joey’s father was in the States still, presenting at a conference on the latest techniques for minimizing estate taxes, or something equally boring. He usually spent all of June with them in Greece and came out for a week one other time.

Bea’s long dark waves were piled on top of her hair in a messy bun, and she wore just a peach lace bra and matching high-waisted panties with a silky robe atop, splayed open. Even compared with high school girls, her mother was objectively hot.

“Your abs look amazing,” Joey said.

“Thanks, JoJo! You think?” Bea clasped her ribs with her forefingers and thumbs and appraised herself in the stainless-steel gleam of the countertop mixer that had been used over its lifetime far more frequently as a mirror than as a baking tool. “When your dad is away, I have time to do sit-ups.”