by Dillon, Paul
She followed Ben down to the stern deck and up a short flight of steps; he held her hand. The walkway around the boat was narrow with a guardrail about waist high. Eric had called the space the aft lounge, it sat above the staterooms in front of the main cabin windshield. A padded, king-size sunbed lay spread out before them.
Ben placed his cocktail in the drinks holders at the head of the sun lounge.
“That’s an unusual T-shirt,” said Elena, kneeling. “It was the first thing I noticed when you walked up to me back there.”
The boat was pointing in the direction of their meeting place, the souvenir shop in plain sight.
He lay to her left.
“I had it specially made to attract gorgeous, intelligent women.”
He turned on his side, leaning on his elbow, propping his head with his palm.
“Lie down, let’s catch some sun,” he said.
Elena adopted the same position, their faces less than two feet apart.
“So what do you think of the yacht?” he asked.
“I’m jealous … tell me more about your friends.”
He rushed through a fifteen-second biography on each of them, making a point to downplay their wealth. This was the world he inhabited, he had long since stopped concerning himself whether it impressed.
“By the way, I’m not in the same boat as these guys … no pun intended. I have a far more modest lifestyle.”
“What do you do?” she asked.
“Here goes,” he thought, “If she calls me a dilettante it’s over.”
“Actually, I don’t really do anything. It’s a bit embarrassing, but what can I say? I’m happy…”
“So you’re a trust fund brat, then?”
“Something like that, I suppose.”
He liked trust fund brat better than dilettante.
“Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?” she asked suddenly.
“Not sure, maybe.”
Although his reply was noncommittal, he considered her conjecture meaningless. Such an admission, however, would run counter to his aims.
“I do,” she said. “I believe we met for a reason.”
“Tell me more.”
“You aren’t married are you?” asked Elena.
“No.”
“We’ve just met, yet I feel like I’ve known you forever; like I can just say anything and you’d understand,” she paused. “I’m sorry; I bet you think I’m crazy.”
“No … I kind of feel the same way.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say … I’m at a crossroad; I’m confused by my options.”
“What options?”
“To go back to Boston or stay here on the island. It’s like I’m resisting going back … back to being an ant in some giant anthill.”
Torn between a feeling of genuine empathy and seizing an opportunity, Ben leaned in towards her, putting his arm over her shoulder, holding the back of her neck with his hand. He pulled her head ever so slightly forward, kissing her passionately, but briefly. He sensed her dual emotions: surprise and excitement.
Lust and attraction; he felt both intensely. He broke away from the embrace, not wanting to overplay his hand, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He smiled a cheeky smile.
“What?” he said, as if the kiss had been expected.
She stared at him with an exquisite look, one needing no words; at once demure, yet challenging him—daring him to accept.
Mentally, he put words in her mouth, paraphrasing her expression, “Well hotshot—think you’re up to it?”
The mad excitement subsided, like dusk descending.
“Maybe THAT just happened for a reason,” said Ben. He was still reverberating from the desire to make love to her, there and then, right on the deck.
She slapped his arm, playfully.
“Stop teasing me. I was serious.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t teasing. I didn’t know what to say,” he said. “Where were we? The ant race…”
“I know. I’m being an idiot. Most everybody goes on vacation and thinks about never having to go home.”
He felt sure there was a boyfriend lurking somewhere back in Boston. Now was not the right time to ask. He thought it better to wait, let her volunteer the information. Reaching over, he fumbled for one of the mojitos, putting the glass to her lips, tipping it. She giggled as a few drops ran down her chin; he took a sip from the same glass before returning it to the drinks’ holder.
“So don’t go home then. You’ll never know if you don’t try,” he said.
Ben thought he understood her, “She’s in a relationship back home and she’s on the fence about it. Now, she’s enchanted with new, exotic surroundings and needs to put her relationship, her life, to the test. She thinks I might be part of that test.”
It all appeared straightforward, except for the unusual and unexpected depths of his feelings. He steered his thoughts back to the kiss.
“I know we’ve only just met but I don’t want you to go back to Argostoli. Can’t you stay for the evening?”
“I can’t. Sophia has to work tomorrow. She’s has a dinner date with her boyfriend and I’m supposed to go…”
He persisted.
“I have a hotel room with twin beds. You and Sophia can sleep there. I’m okay on the boat, or I can get another room.”
“Ben, I’d love to but…” She hesitated then relented, giving him hope. “I’ll talk to her and see.”
“We’re watching you. Don’t get up to anything down there. The Greeks’ll put you both in the slammer.”
They looked up, startled out of their intimacy. Joe leaned over the flybridge windshield, his arms around the gorgeous Clotilde.
“Take no notice,” said Ben to Elena, returning to their conversation. He wondered if Clotilde had seen them kiss earlier.
“Hey, we should exchange numbers in case we get separated later. What’s yours?” He yanked the phone from his pocket and repeated each number as she spoke them, punching them into the dial pad, causing her phone to ring.
“There, that’s me … wait, let me add a picture,” he snapped one quickly. “Assign to contact; done. Look.”
Holding up the phone, he looked at the picture. His thoughts sprang back to the girl who once gave him her treasured photo. This one did not kill his passion.
“Let me see that.” Elena snatched his phone, as if she’d read his mind. “You idiot!” She laughed, returning the device.
Ben checked the time; it was 5:45. He needed to resolve the issue with Sophia. Now, as Elena laughed, was as good a time as any.
“Let’s go and find Sophia. I want to get you booked for tonight. We’ll all go out to dinner together. You want to, right?”
Elena’s expression clouded over. “Yes, but it’s not going to go down well. She won’t stay.”
“I want you both to stay, but it’s you that I’m interested in. If she won’t stay, she can drive back on her own,” he pressed.
“That wouldn’t be fair. It’s a long stressful drive … there are no lights, it’s all winding bends and cliffs…”
“She’ll be fine. She does the drive all the time. It’s her job. If you weren’t here, she would have driven back on her own anyway.”
“I don’t know. Where will I sleep? How will I get back to Argostoli? I’ve no change of clothes.”
She struggled, caught between her loyalty to Sophia and a desire to discover what part this man would play in her destiny.
“Let’s figure this out. I’ve got a room, you can sleep there. The yacht’s sailing to Argostoli tomorrow; you come with us. Clothes are no problem, borrow something from Clotilde or let’s go to a store. I’ll buy you some.”
“Hmmm. Shopping for lingerie already? I don’t think so.”
“Tomorrow, all you’ll need is a bikini and one of my T-shirts. We’ll be diving off the boat at Myrtos Beach.”
“I saw Myrtos Beach this morning from the cliff top … it was so pretty.”
“Okay, but I’m going to talk to her on my own.” Her tone was decisive.
They got up in search of Sophia; she was on the flybridge, still chatting with Clotilde.
“Where’ve you been?” asked Sophia.
“Sunbathing,” replied Elena.
Elena sat next to Sophia and whispered something. Sophia looked surprised. The whispering continued until the two girls excused themselves and left the flybridge.
“What was all that about?” asked Clotilde.
“Elena wants to stay and join us for dinner, but Sophia has to leave,” Ben explained. “By the way, what are we doing for dinner?” he said, changing the subject.
Chapter 15
Elena sat beside Sophia on a slatted wooden bench near the jetty’s entrance. They faced the harbor.
“You hardly know these people. Where are you going to sleep? What will Grandmother say if I leave you here?” asked Sophia.
Traditional Greek folk music played over a pair of loudspeakers, mounted on the wall of a nearby restaurant. Elena found herself listening to the song in a bid to escape her cousin’s logic.
“I can’t stay. I promised Nik I’d meet him for dinner and he’s bringing Theo,” Sophia persisted.
So Nik’s friend’s got a name now, thought Elena.
Inventing a minor conspiracy gave her impetus.
“If you’re concerned what Aunt Nicia thinks, I’ll call her myself.”
Three Greek men, in their early twenties, came up to the bench. One of them spoke, his voice coming from out of nowhere, behind Elena.
“Beautiful ladies tonight Club Ecstasy free passes beautiful ladies only for free you come with us.”
The girls turned around; Sophia glared at the hawkers. Their leader held a stack of tickets, slapping them on the back of his hand every few seconds.
Sophia launched a tirade, in Greek, and the men beat a rapid retreat. Elena laughed. “What did you say to them?”
“You don’t want to know.”
The incident broke the tension, lessening Sophia’s resolve.
“Okay, call her. I’m having nothing to do with this. I’d better tell Nik that our plans have changed.”
They each walked in opposite directions along the esplanade, waiting for their calls to connect. The music grew louder as Elena neared the restaurant.
“Hi, Aunt Nicia, it’s Elena.”
“Elena, where are you, is everything okay, where’s Sophia?”
“Everything’s fine. Sophia’s fine. She’ll be driving back in a few minutes. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be back tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I met some friends, they have a big yacht. Everyone’s really nice, Sophia likes them.”
“Are they Americans?” asked Nicia.
“Yes, well French and Italian too. They’re sailing to Argostoli tomorrow and they invited me,” she paused to answer another question. “No, I have a hotel room. I’m having fun, don’t worry.”
They talked for a few more minutes. Nicia, sweet as always, wished her a pleasant evening before hanging up. Elena suspected Nicia would call Sophia and get a second opinion of her new friends. She returned to the bench where her cousin was waiting.
“She’s fine with everything,” said Elena. “I feel really bad that you have to drive all the way back on your own.”
“Don’t worry; I’ve done it a hundred times. As long as it’s still light, there’s no problem. Just make sure you bring them to the gallery tomorrow. I need to make some sales.” Sophia smiled and checked her watch. “The sun sets around eight; it’s already six-fifteen. I’ll just say goodbye to Clotilde, then I’m off.”
Overcoming an obstacle to be with Ben brought Elena closer to him.
***
Back on the flybridge, Ben stared out over the town, letting the last of the Greek sun weave its lazy spell over late afternoon. The slow transformation to twilight was tangible; he felt it descending as he would a damp mist. Soon night would impose its mystery on the harbor; the first colored lights were already reflecting off the water, the music increasing in intensity; a time for creating memories.
He watched Sophia and Elena walk back along the jetty towards the boat. It was inevitable she would stay with him; the magic of the evening would be sucked away like a vacuum if she left now.
The girls climbed the stairs to the flybridge. Elena emerged first, she glanced at Ben, an almost imperceptible affirmation showed on her face. He could relax now.
Sophia wasted no time announcing her departure. Clotilde hugged her new friend, promising to meet again, tomorrow at the gallery. Joe said goodbye without getting up.
“Take good care of her.” Sophia waved her hand towards Ben.
“I won’t let her out of my sight.” He meant it literally.
Sophia touched Elena’s arm on her way to the stairs. “I’ll call you later; I’ll be checking on you.”
Ben had plans for the evening and wasted no time executing them. He addressed anyone in earshot. “I’m going to find Eric and make arrangements for dinner. The restaurant where I met Elena has some great tables by the water. I’ll go talk to the owner and reserve something. What time do you think, eight-thirty?”
“Works for me,” said Joe.
“Elena, do you need a shower? Let’s go and buy whatever you need.”
Chapter 16
The sun had gone down over the mountains behind the little port of Fiskardo. The night air on the quayside was warm, rich and infused with exotic music.
Joe Marchetti led the party of nine along the promenade for the short walk to Spiro’s waterfront taverna. A cloth bag, slung over his right shoulder, rested against his white shirt. On his left arm, the gorgeous Clotilde, in a strapless black dress, attracted the attention of every passerby.
Ben followed, side by side with Elena, a bottle of wine swung like a club in his right hand. He hadn’t changed, neither had she; thoughts of the olive colored dress clinging to her freshly showered skin were never far from his mind.
Spiro’s taverna was a bustle of activity. Waiters flitted between restaurant and quayside, dodging the crowds of tourists, strolling along the boardwalk. Tonight, empty seats were hard to find. One long table stood out from the others, occupying a prime spot by the water’s edge. Two tent-signs bearing the word “RESERVED” rested on its turquoise cloth.
Ben nudged Joe. “That’s ours.”
An hour earlier, Ben had paid a visit to Spiro, handing him three one-hundred Euro bills as part of an arrangement for the evening.
“Do you want to face the harbor or the promenade?” he asked Elena. “People-watching will be more fun.”
“Fine,” she replied.
Accommodating nine people required two tables, placed end-to-end. Ben made straight for the rattan loveseat nearest the water, sliding it back, allowing Elena to slide in. Joe and Clotilde sat opposite.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Ben and walked off in search of Spiro.
By the time he returned, his friends were seated. Elena chatted with the couple next to her; the man was Sean, his wife Louise.
“This is Spiro, the owner,” announced Ben. “He’s promised to look after us tonight.”
The guests greeted Spiro. He cleared his throat before delivering his introduction.
“Good evening everybody and bon soir.” Spiro smiled at Clotilde. Elena glanced at Ben wondering why he’d staged that for her.
“Thank you for visiting my restaurant. I’m very honored to serve you.”
The speech was interrupted by one of the waiters, who arrived carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. He bowed formally and presented them to Elena, surprising both her and the other guests. Diners at the nearby tables paused to stare; a young man applauded.
Ben was still standing next to Spiro; he smiled at Elena over Joe’s head. A few seconds later, a second waiter, carrying a glass vase, relieved her of the flo
wers, placing them in the center of the table. Her eyes narrowed as she shot a glance at Ben. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased, angry or surprised.
Spiro let the cheering die down before continuing his welcome.
“Tonight’s dinner will be in honor of Elena, who met Ben, my friend, for the first time, here at my restaurant, today.”
Applause erupted again. Ben tapped Spiro on the back in a friendly gesture and rejoined Elena.
“I hate you. Everyone’s staring at me,” she whispered in Ben’s ear.
He put his arm around her waist; her head fell gently against his shoulder. The outcome of his conspiracy pleased him. She would never forget this moment.
Spiro passed around menus and started taking the drinks order.
Ben had an announcement of his own. “Tonight, Spiro is going to bring an assortment of his fine creations. They’ll keep coming until we tell him to stop. If anyone sees something on the menu that they just have to try, let the waiter know. Bon appétit.”
He smiled at Spiro. “I’ll have an Alfa beer.”
Elena ordered water.
Not to be outdone, Joe took the spotlight. “Put the wine in the middle.”
Each of the men had carried a bottle from the yacht; Sean arranged them in the center. Joe stood, put his bag on the table and pulled out three more bottles, lining them up next to the others.
“Six of the best, Sassicaia, the pride of Italy,” he said. “None of that Greek piss tonight.”
Ben winced, hoping Spiro was out of earshot.
“The Italians copied that wine from the French,” said Ben, intending to raise a reaction from Joe.
Joe disliked like anything French. Ben was surprised to learn of a French girlfriend.
“What are you talking about? It’s a Super Tuscan,” said Joe.
Clotilde sided with Ben. “He’s right; Sassicaia is styled after wines from Graves.”
“Listen to your better-half, learn something; she’s obviously a connoisseur.”
“Bullshit, we taught the French how to make wine in the first place, like we taught them cooking and everything else.”
With a sweeping motion of his backhand, he flicked the underside of his chin with his fingertips in an exaggerated Italian gesture. He winked at Elena, letting her know he was kidding.
