Her father emerged, oblivious to the old lady not a foot away. “You missed a nice visit. It’s something special, the synagogue. They restored it after the war, when it was bombed.” He shoved his hands in his chino pockets. “They’re thinking to do a memorial for all the Jews murdered in—”

“That’s nice.” Joey brushed spit that was not hers from her lip. She watched the old lady shuffle away, her ankles pooling skin folds over her scuffed black shoes. The old lady didn’t give anyone else the evil eye charm.

Just her. Just Joey.

Chapter Nine

Joey

Corfu
2004

Joey lugged her canvas to Demetris. Her art teacher owned and operated a fruit stall for extra income, but his true love and talent was painting, which happened to be Joey’s favorite medium too. He’d been teaching her to paint since she was ten, since she’d told Bea she wanted a painting teacher who wasn’t her mother and Bea had gotten a recommendation from a colleague. Demetris had gone to Paris in his twenties and begun to make a significant name for himself, but he’d soon returned to Corfu because, as he put it, Corfu was where his sunshine was. Bea always said that Demetris could have made it big, in sort of a disapproving way, but Joey respected how he’d followed his happiness.

Demetris listened when Joey said she didn’t feel like oils, when she asked, could she paint only in yellow today? He taught her to feel fruit with her eyes closed, to feel its energy, and he taught her the same with the pencil.

“Use the brain that is in your hand,” he always said in those early years, loosening her death grip. “Your head is the servant. Your hand is the master.”

Demetris lived in a historic burnt-orange building on the main thrust of Liston, the area boasting posh cafés, with a series of arches replicating the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. Demetris’s third-floor apartment had one small window that overlooked the platia, the grassy expanse between Liston and the Old Fortress, in the part of town most emblematic of the island’s French and Venetian influences. His apartment was adorned in the black-and-white paintings of townspeople for which he was renowned across the island and mainland Greece.

Joey moved aside two empty espresso cups in the corner that got little sun. She plunked down the canvas.

“Hi, Demetris!”

“Yia sou to you too, Joey mou.” Demetris wore baggy Dad-style blue jeans, although he was not one, and black work boots.

“I’m so glad to see you. Yia sou!” Joey kissed both his cheeks.

He looked amused. “Demetris is glad to see you too.” For some reason, he sometimes spoke in third person. That was part of Demetris’s charm.

“How are you?” she asked. “How is Bella?”