Under a Greek Moon

by Carol Kirkwood

  At the sight of the big black hearse waiting in front of the limousine and the formally attired undertaker holding the door open, all her hard-won composure almost crumbled. Nothing had prepared her for this. She slid into the car and stared straight ahead as the others climbed in on either side of her. Roxy laid a hand on her gloved hand and squeezed but didn’t say anything as the car smoothly drew away.

  As the gates opened, the paparazzi began snapping away, despite the heavily tinted windows. No one said a word in the car as it followed the stately hearse, the car sweeping down the hill and through the streets to join the four-lane highway of Santa Monica Boulevard, a sedate convoy among the flashy Bentley convertibles, behemoth Range Rovers, open-top Ferraris and Lamborghinis that cruised the street at this time of the day. Isaac had told her to expect the service to be packed to the rafters. People instinctively liked Dan. What wasn’t to like? Good-looking, personable and always the first to support the underdog. He had a streak of kindness in him as wide as the Shannon River back home.

  After a smooth left turn and then another, the car slowed and came to a halt outside the historic Church of the Good Shepherd. As she stepped out into to the mid-morning heat, Shauna stared at the cream stuccoed building with its twin four-tiered bell towers topped with golden domes that shimmered in the brilliant sunshine. A cloudless blue sky framed the pretty church, seeming merciless in its endless expanse. Shauna searched the sky, wishing there was just one cloud she could focus on so that she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the oak coffin with its brass fittings glinting gaudily in the sunshine. One cloud to which she could anchor her imagination to take her away from this. She’d deliberately asked for the service to be held without mass. Her mother would have been horrified, but Shauna couldn’t bear to prolong the agony of saying goodbye.

  The cool interior of the church was already full as the solemn procession made its way inside. The priest greeted them and sprinkled holy water on the coffin. Just another day for him in a holy place that had seen many funerals, including those of Rudolf Valentino, Alfred Hitchcock, Frank Sinatra and Rita Hayworth, to name but a few. Heads began to turn as Shauna made her way to the pew at the front of the church. So many familiar faces. Brad and Jen, looking as chic and beautiful as ever in near-matching tailored suits. A few rows in front were Harrison Ford and his wife Melissa, who both gave her sober, emotionless nods. Dan’s family were waiting for her at the front, except his mother, too heartbroken and elderly to make the trip. Shauna tightened her lips as a burst of resentment bloomed in her chest. Her mother had said it was too short notice for her parents to fly to LA.

  Horribly aware of all the gazes settling on her, she focused on the ornate marble altarpiece, her eyes occasionally straying to the coffin. Shauna wished for a moment that she had just an ounce of the faith that had shaped her mother. She would not think of Dan’s body lying in there. Not think that he’d never give her that slow, easy smile again. That those warm brown eyes wouldn’t twinkle at her over the tops of his Raybans when they shared a private joke. An involuntary sob shook her. She lifted her chin higher. She’d get through this and make Dan proud of her. Even though she had no idea what she was going to do without him. Her mouth crumpled and her lower lip shook as she desperately tried to reign back the emotion. Her tears for Dan were private, not for public consumption. She was an actress, for God’s sake. Act, you fool, she told herself. But it was no good, the sobs hiccoughed their way into her throat no matter how hard she fought them, and tears brimmed and fell. Roxy’s hand found its way into hers as she stared straight ahead.

  The service seemed interminable and her knees, despite the homely handstitched hassock beneath them, ached. She managed to calm herself when Gary rose to give the eulogy. The tribute from the renowned cinematographer was everything that Dan deserved; Gary hailed him as ‘one of the finest directors of our generation, who never forgot that every single person counts’.

  At last, the coffin left the building and Shauna blotted her tears with Roxy’s never-ending supply of tissues.

  ‘You’re doing brilliantly. Not too much longer,’ Roxy told her.

  ‘Shauna, darling. I’m so sorry for your loss. Dan was … was a wonderful man.’

  Shauna blinked and gave Barbara Draven, anchorwoman on the local news show, a perfunctory nod.

  ‘I hope you caught the obit we did,’ Barbara simpered.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ Shauna was polite but she certainly wasn’t going to apologize. Seeing Dan’s coffin lowered into the ground had almost broken her, and she still had the wake to get through.

  ‘Is she for real?’ murmured Roxy into her ear as they drifted on into the Beverly Hills Hotel reception room where the mourners were gathered.

  ‘Well, she’s LA news real, anyway – only interested in the next story. Why are there so many media people here? Hollywood’s not usually that interested in directors, even if he was brilliant and talented and wonderful.’ She felt her control start to slip again.

  ‘Because he was brilliant, talented and wonderful and married to you, one of Hollywood’s hottest properties.’

  Shauna had never forgotten that her lucky break had been meeting Dan and she’d never shied away from admitting that he had been her springboard into the industry. She was also aware that the story of how she got started certainly added to the romance of her and Dan’s marriage and their reputation as a Hollywood power couple. But everything after that had come from hard work, determination and dedication. She couldn’t believe it was over: their life, everything they had built up. Now she would never know what it was that had been eating away at Dan; all she knew was that the stress and anxiety it had caused him was part of the reason he was dead.

  The autopsy had shown that Dan had cocaine in his system when he died. Shauna had been aware that he was a user – the late nights, the long shoots, the protracted editing process, the Hollywood lifestyle that demanded it. She’d rarely touched the stuff herself, preferring a stiff drink, but she should have done more to get Dan to stop. Something else to beat herself up about.

  The hubbub of the room softened to a low murmur; mourners seemed to have spread out in a circle around her, an invisible barrier between Shauna and the mourners that no one wanted to cross. She had never felt so alone in her life and thought she overheard someone say, ‘Poor woman, always the last to know …’

  To know about what?

  ‘Shauna?’ She jumped at the tap on her arm. It was Isaac. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Bearing up,’ she said, looking with longing towards the open doors. ‘People are saying lovely things about Dan. I knew he was wonderful. I forget that other people did too.’

  ‘Yeah … he was a regular saint.’ Isaac stared off into the distance, his grey eyes stony before he turned to face her and patted her on the arm. ‘You eaten today?’

  Shauna raised an eyebrow, her mouth turning downwards. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think, although don’t quote me on it, there’s such a thing, even in Tinsel Town, as too skinny.’ He waggled a grey bushy eyebrow. ‘Don’t forget I’ve got to protect my asset. You need to eat.’

  ‘Thanks, Isaac.’ She knew his gruff tone hid how much he genuinely cared. ‘I don’t think I can.’ But she knew she ought to; she didn’t want anyone realizing that grief was making her a little crazy.

  ‘You can, kid. Dan wouldn’t want you wasting away.’

  ‘Low blow, Isaac,’ she muttered, linking an arm through his.

  ‘Hey, I’m a businessman. Remember?’ He winked and steered her away from the doors.

  She did her best, nibbling at a couple of hors d’oeuvres, but the smell of the caviar dotting the dainty vol au vents turned her stomach and the delicate crustless triangle sandwiches tasted of sand in her mouth. Shauna would happily see every crumb on her plate go into the trash. As soon as Isaac’s attention was diverted elsewhere, she abandoned the plate and slipped to the next, much quieter room where she was able to step out into the cou
rtyard.

  Outside, she inhaled a lungful of the warm air and drifted unnoticed into the shade of a fragrant honeysuckle climbing its way up one of the slender columns of the small cloister area. Screened from view by the column, she watched a young boy darting about the garden, playing with a small car. She envied his absorption in his game, oblivious to the heavy emotion weighing down the adults around him.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Isaac emerging from the building. Wanting a little more time on her own, she drew back further into the shadows. Isaac was with a young woman, or rather she was with him, because he had a strong grip on her arm and was almost dragging her through the doors.

  Shauna was startled by this; she’d never seen Isaac so angry. She was about to step out from her hiding place to intervene, but then she saw the woman’s face. Though she didn’t recognize her, from the feline, calculating look in the woman’s eye, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Isaac hissed, and Shauna winced at the tone of his voice. Isaac rarely lost his temper. That was one of the things she liked about him: he was even-tempered and impervious to the histrionics of the industry. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be here? You’re kidding me, right?’ The dark-haired woman’s voice rose. Her accent matched her Latin-American appearance.

  ‘Keep your damn voice down. And show some respect.’ Isaac shook the woman’s arm.

  Shauna peered through the foliage and saw that the woman’s face was screwed up in anger as she and Isaac exchanged agitated whispers. What was all this about? Who was this woman and what was she doing here?

  The little boy cannoned into one of the wrought-iron tables in the garden, sending a chair spinning into Shauna’s corner. She caught it easily before it rammed into her legs, then looked to make sure he was unhurt. Big brown eyes, shimmering with alarm, looked up into hers as his face began to crumple at the sound of the crash. She smiled down at him. ‘It’s O—’ For a moment, her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, and she had to grab the nearby pillar. ‘Dan,’ she breathed, confused and suddenly breathless, her heart racing with a charge of adrenaline. The floor shifted and she felt lightheaded and dizzy.

  The boy’s bottom lip quivered as he stared up at her, hovering between tears and curiosity. She stared at him, shaking her head. Grief made ghosts of real people, she realized. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d barely slept in the last seventy-two hours.

  ‘No harm done,’ she reassured him, reaching out a hand to his shoulder to reinforce her words.

  With a fierce shove her hand was pushed away.

  ‘Don’t you touch him.’

  ‘I wasn’t …’ Shauna reared back in surprise, her legs still shaky, her pulse racing. She felt as if she’d lost touch with reality.

  ‘Alex.’ The woman grabbed the child possessively and held him in front of her like a shield, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Shauna.

  Shauna stared back, taking in the attractive features of the woman. There were dark shadows under her eyes which were almost black in colour, she was extremely beautiful.

  Isaac came over. ‘Frankie, you need to … I can—’

  ‘Need to leave. Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Duck outta here with my tail between my legs. It ain’t gonna happen, old man. I need the bucks to raise my son. What’s due to him.’ Her voice rose, and Shauna could see a fierce pride behind her hostile demeanour.

  Shauna frowned, her eyes drawn back to the boy and those oh-so-familiar eyes. He was the spitting image of Dan. A relative? The boy was only about three or four years old.

  Shauna looked at the woman again and felt her heart sink to her feet as the penny dropped.

  Over Isaac’s shoulder, people were gathering at the French windows, peering into the courtyard and whispering to one another. Shauna realized then that there was more than one way to break a heart as she felt hers crack in two. Betrayed by a husband on the same day as she buried him.

  There was a look of triumph on the woman’s face, her face calm as a storm raged inside Shauna’s mind. There was no denying it, Shauna understood exactly who the boy was now.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 21

  Ithos, June 2002

  From his vantage point sitting at a table under the blue-and-white awning of Níko’s taverna, Demetrios watched the girl on the harbour wall as she packed and unpacked her backpack repeatedly. It was obvious that she had lost something important, and there was something about her predicament and the fact that she looked to be about the same age as his daughter made him want to come to her assistance. He resisted the impulse, telling himself it was no business of his and she might not welcome an offer of help from a middle-aged man. Though he was sure he didn’t look like a Lothario in his navy chinos, espadrilles and an open-neck linen shirt, he was conscious that his thick dark hair was streaked with little strands of grey. No, Ithos was known for its hospitality, he reasoned, and if this young woman was in need of help then the locals would come to her aid. Besides, he didn’t need any more complications today.

  He returned to his newspaper and sipped at the strong, sweet Greek coffee. Despite the early hour, around him, Ithos harbour was a bustling scene. In the main square, traders were setting up their market stalls, arranging baskets piled high with fat tomatoes and olives, rows of purple aubergines and courgettes, ripe plums and nectarines.

  Though he made every effort to focus on the news of the day, Demetrios’s eyes kept returning to the girl. Perhaps it was that she reminded him of his daughter, Ariana. She could almost be Greek, with her light tan and her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, but something told him she wasn’t. Most likely she was one of the European backpackers who came in on the tourist ferry; she had that unmistakable air of the curious stranger that set her apart from Greek visitors.

  Ariana … He frowned. His quick-tempered, temperamental, excitable and exhausting daughter had arrived back home on the island like a hurricane, and now they were all swept up in her turbulence. She was like her mother in many ways …

  He was shaken from this thought as he noticed the girl had moved from her spot and was now sitting down at the table next to his.

  Blue-and-white checked tablecloths covered each table and the taverna was shaded by a vine-covered pergola. Teresa, the owner’s wife, approached the girl’s table and asked her in English, ‘What would you like?’

  ‘How much is a Coca-Cola?’ the girl replied, pulling out a meagre handful of coins from her pocket, counting them carefully.

  ‘Two euros.’

  ‘Oh …’ The girl looked crestfallen.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Demetrios saw Teresa cock her head sympathetically.

  ‘That’s OK, there is enough.’ Teresa was in her early sixties, long grey hair braided in a thick plait hanging to her waist. Demetrios knew she was a hard-headed businesswoman who kept her extroverted and not always wise husband, Níko, in check, but she had a heart of gold. She gave the girl a kind smile, nodded her head and bustled off inside.

  It seemed that this unexpected kindness shook the young woman’s composure. Tears began to splash down her cheeks and she swiped at them ineffectually, unable to stop a sob escaping her. Enough was enough, he decided, and moved across to sit next to her. When the girl looked up, he offered her a napkin, which she took and blew her nose with.

  His hazel and gold-flecked eyes regarded her silently while she blew her nose loudly and tried to compose herself. She pulled a scrunchy out of her pocket, shook her mane of thick black hair and pulled it back into the hair band.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I hate crying.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with tears,’ he said, giving her time to recover. He was in no hurry.

  Teresa brought over a long, cool glass of Coke for the young woman, and a short tumbler of ouzo for Demetrios.

  ‘Yiamas.’ He lifted his glass in toast.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gulped
quickly at the Coca-Cola.

  He nodded but didn’t press her to speak, feeling sure she would do so in her own time. Instead he watched the busy waterfront, where the day-trippers who’d disembarked from the first ferry of the day along with the girl were happily taking photos of everything in sight.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘A little. I’m sorry, you must think I’m a right wet blanket.’

  It was a long time since he had heard someone use that term and it made him want to smile, but he suppressed it. ‘Ready to tell me what happened?’

  ‘The usual stupid mistake: I fell asleep on the boat and someone stole my money and my passport. Now I’m stuck.’

  ‘And here I was thinking that you were about to tell me your story of betrayal and a broken heart.’

  She gave him a weak smile. ‘Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How disappointing. I’m sure it would have been a very romantic and dramatic account, and we could have shed tears together.’

  The girl laughed despite herself and Demetrios saw the way her face lit up, lending her a beauty he was sure she was not aware of.

  ‘It is quite dramatic, being robbed,’ she told him.

  ‘Yes, I agree. But it is good news, in a sense, because we can help you. A broken heart? Maybe we would not have been so helpful, no?’

  ‘True. But I’m not sure there’s a consulate here, so I’d have to go all the way back to Crete.’ He saw the girl’s lip wobble, and she bit down quickly on it to make it stop, ‘They took all my money, I’ll have to go home …’

  ‘I have a few connections here,’ he told her, hoping he didn’t sound as if he were boasting. ‘If you trust me to make a few phone calls, then I may be able to help. What is your name?’

  ‘Grace Taylor.’

  He called Teresa over and told her what had happened. She gave a shocked cry then immediately began to make a fuss of Grace.

  ‘Please, I’d like to call my parents, if possible.’

  Teresa nodded and took her inside to use the payphone, giving the girl a handful of coins from the till.