A Wedding in the Olive Garden
Page 1
Also by Leah Fleming
The Wedding Dress Maker
Daughter of the Tide
In the Heart of the Garden
The Olive Garden Choir
A WEDDING IN THE OLIVE GARDEN
Leah Fleming
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2020
The moral right of Leah Fleming to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781788548700
ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548717
ISBN (E): 9781788548694
Images: © Shutterstock
Cover design: headdesign.co.uk
Author Photo: MKI Photography
Head of Zeus Ltd
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
June
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Midsummer
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
July
Chapter 9
August
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
September
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
December
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
February
Chapter 20
March
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Easter
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
July
Chapter 25
August
Chapter 26
September
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
October
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
December
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Christmas
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Three months later
Recipe
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
With thanks to those who shelter and protect
all creatures great and small.
From THE PARADISE TOURS TO THE GREEK ISLANDS
SANTANIKI
Off the coast of Crete lies the beautiful island of Santaniki, sanctuary for wild flowers, ancient chapels, quaint villages set in a turquoise sea. This summer the Elodie Durrante Foundation Trust is offering a variety of courses. This is your chance to meet other artists and poets, and attend workshops and one-to-one sessions to share your work. There will be evenings to discuss your work and guest speakers to inspire you with their readings in the sunshine.
What better way to study than in the spacious villa, home of the late, best-selling romance writer, Elodie Durrante, set among olive groves overlooking Sunset Bay, plus plenty of time to enjoy the island culture and dance under the stars.
Don’t miss this chance to make your passion happen. We can organise the whole package for you; flights from the UK and other European destinations, the short ferry crossing from the lively ports of Chania and Rethymno. Places are limited so book now.
June
1
Sara Loveday sat looking out of the plane window, seeing the island of Crete laid out before her like a map. She felt suddenly lighter, as if floating in a dream. The past week had been an unreal nightmare of confusion; a cocktail of disbelief, disappointment, shock that was turning into an all-consuming fury.
She had drowned her feelings in vodka on that first night alone in the flat until she had passed out into oblivion, waking up next morning with a pounding head and a tongue like cork matting. Everything was a blur but she knew what she must do.
The dress was still where she had flung it off, staring up at her as if to say, What have you done? Missed the last chance of happiness? It could have worked but you never gave him a chance to explain. She was not staying a moment longer in Sheffield now that she had booked a last-minute break online, to a tiny Greek island where she could lick her wounded pride.
At least she had left her mark on the once pristine loft apartment with its chrome and white starkness. In the cold light of day, she could see the result of last night’s mayhem where she had flung red wine over the walls. The decor was not her choice, serve him right. Why had it taken her so long to realise the place was as empty a shell as the man himself? She couldn’t bring herself to say his name.
Sara was due a break but not quite the one they had planned. Her assistant, Karen, was capable of taking care of the events and conference business. She had three weeks ahead of her to sort out her future. If only her mind could rid herself of those images.
Sara’s ears hummed as they began the descent into Souda Bay, turning onto the flat airstrip as the plane screeched into landing. She collected her baggage and then out into the arrivals hall where the rep from Paradise Tours was waiting, holding up a flag. She guided a few passengers onto a minivan heading for the port. Sara smiled at the bustle of tourists around her, knowing she had sunshine and sea, wonderful salads and fruits to enjoy. It was far away from Yorkshire grey skies and all the humiliation of the past week. She felt the heat on her arms. This was what she needed, and for the first time she felt herself relax.
They arrived at the ferry just in time for the late afternoon crossing to Santaniki. The water was turquoise and choppy but there was a breeze cooling them. Sara sat staring out over the sea as each nautical mile was taking her far from the past.
A middle-aged man was trying to retch over the side, his face grey with seasickness.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, seeing his discomfort.
‘It gets me every time.’ He tried to smile. ‘I should know better.’
‘I’ll get the rep, she may have some wristbands to settle you. You know the island then?’
‘I’m the bad penny that rolls up every season; love the light and the food.’
‘You’re an artist?’ Sara was curious.
‘A writer… Don Ford. I take summer courses at the retreat house.’
She recognised that name. ‘You’re the crime writer? My dad is a great fan, wow…’
‘For my sins, but I was a friend of Elodie Durrante, the novelist who left her house as a retreat for artists and new writers. They run summer courses each year. Some of these passengers, I guess, will be my clients, all wanting to know how to write a bestseller. And you?’
‘Annual holiday,’ she replied, not wanting to explain further.
‘You are in for a treat; the beaches, the food, the tavernas. It’s a very sociable island. You’ll see me most nights in Taverna Irini on the market square with my students. Do join us, there’s a band of sorts on Fr
idays.’
Was he making a pass at her? That was the last thing she wanted so she smiled and drifted away from him to scan the horizon as the island slowly came into view.
Her eyes were searching the layers of multicoloured houses with tiled roofs dotting the shoreline, the little ochre mountain peeking above the town. It hadn’t the blue and white sophistication of Santorini, much as she loved to visit there. It was more homely, uneven, higgledy-piggledy with boats bobbing in the harbour and fishing smacks beside a marina full of expensive yachts. She spied the white hotels by the water and the golden beach shimmering in the distance. It looked unspoilt.
As they chugged into the harbour, she spotted a crowd on the street, some with suitcases ready for their journey home. She stepped along the gangplank, dazzled by the sun, and fumbled for her sunglasses.
‘I’ve got a lift coming,’ Don Ford said humping his case behind her. ‘Do you know where you’re heading?’
‘I have a map… Ariadne Villa. I don’t think it’s far.’
‘It’s uphill on the way to the retreat. You are welcome to hitch a lift in the minibus. There’s Spiro, our taxi, plenty of room.’
‘I’m fine, thank you. The walk will do me good after all that sitting. Enjoy your courses, Mr Ford.’ Give him his due, he was persistent, but she was in no mood to make polite conversation with him or anyone else. As she trudged up the cobbled streets with her case rattling, trying to look cool, she began to regret her stubbornness. It was hot and the map she had was sketchy but if she kept to the shade of the stone houses, it wouldn’t be far. It had been an early start, a long flight and ferry ride but this was the last lap. Then she could collapse in Ariadne Villa and shut out the world for three whole weeks. Sara was not in the mood for boozy nights in a taverna with a load of wannabe writers or anyone else.
2
The fan in the taverna kitchen did nothing to cool tempers as Mel Papadaki was giving her husband Spiro an earful. ‘Do you call this clean? Look at those stains. Mama will have a fit to see such a mess in here… Can I not leave you five minutes to water the pavement…’
‘Enough, woman!’ Spiro threw off his apron. ‘If you can do better, I’m off. The ferry is due and I have passengers and wine to collect. We need more—’
‘So you can drink it?’ Mel yelled back. She could give as good as she got. The fiery Italian half of her could shout with the best of them. She was in no mood to compromise, with his mother Irini sick, no doubt listening into their arguments with glee. Spiro could do no wrong in her eyes.
She wiped the sweat off her brow as the hairnet scratched her forehead. The Santaniki heatwave was unbearable. Oh, to be cooling in Yorkshire drizzle than trying to cook and clean, up and down stairs at Irini’s command while Spiro swanned off to the harbour for a smoke. Yes, she knew he was back on the fags behind her back. It had been a tough winter with storms and little work for a builder. Times were tough for Greece. At least their own house was almost finished but cash was tight. He was at a loose end and touchy. Too many fry-ups thickening his waistline. Much as she loved the bones of him, he was letting himself go.
Mel stared at the pile of fresh tomatoes, peppers, courgettes and onions she had picked from their vegetable garden ready to make a cooling gazpacho. Irini came down to inspect the menus and threw out her suggestion with a wave of her hand. ‘That’s not Greek food. You cannot serve that.’
‘But English customers will love something cool and refreshing like this,’ Mel argued.
‘We are not serving that today,’ Irini muttered and that was that. A Sheffield girl married to a Cretan was never going to be easy but she would bloody well make a batch for her and the boys for lunch later. Loading the dishwasher, she heard her mobile ring. What did he want now? It was a garbled message about a booking but the signal was weak so she stepped outside in the square to catch the details.
There was a young woman trundling her suitcase uphill without a sun hat, pausing to look at her map. ‘Can I help?’ she shouted but the woman carried on, her eyes focused on her task, not hearing her. Ah well. Mel sighed. She was probably Scandinavian or Dutch with little English, she thought, turning back out of the sun, thinking no more about it. Then Spiro’s horn honked as his passengers spilled out of the taxi for a quick snack. There was Don Ford, twice as large and full of his usual sparkle.
‘Melodia, kalispera, it’s good to be back!’ He gave her a bear hug. ‘Just as beautiful as ever… and Irini? I hear she has been unwell…’
‘Come, sit down,’ Spiro ordered as the new contingent sat in the shade of the taverna. Now the season was in full swing, the tables full each night, Mel could relax a little. It was always tough but this was when their income was made. Their two boys would soon finish school until September and needed supervision, and she had only Katya to help and some students in the village to wait at tables if needed, but they would manage, they always did – if Spiro pulled his weight and kept his eyes on the job and not on the girls in skimpy shorts and tops.
3
Jolyon de Grifford, warden manager of the Elodie Durrante Arts Foundation retreat house, was busy trying to sort the blockage in the bathroom of one of the guests. Greek plumbing had a will of its own, with narrow pipework that forbade any flushing of paper or wipes. This was written in large letters over the bowl, and he asked guests to be careful, but the Brits were not used to this at first, some complaining about such primitive arrangements until they got used to obeying the order. Some never did.
Griff sighed, holding his breath, getting used to this task on a weekly basis. He was just clearing up when he heard a shout through the open window. Peering out, he saw a bald-headed man floundering in the pool. Dropping everything, he raced downstairs and out to the poolside, jumping in fully clothed to grab the drowning swimmer while one of the other guests flung the lifebelt to him.
Griff pulled the man to the shallow end where they could both stand up. ‘Don, how many times have I told you not to drink, stuff yourself with chips and then try to swim?’ Don Ford may be a famous crime writer but he was rotund, unfit and almost a non-swimmer.
‘Sorry, Griff, but it was so hot I just wanted to cool off.’
‘You should be in your room in this heat. It’s siesta time so have a cold shower. I thought you were having a heart attack. Please don’t go out of your depth and keep off the sauce at midday. It’s water for you from now on, especially in this heat,’ Griff ordered, his shorts dripping, clinging to his legs.
Tragedy averted, Griff returned to his fetid task. Talk about eyes in the back of your head in this job. Warden was a good name for his constant vigilance. What was it with artists, writers, poets – did they live on another planet? Most of them acted like big kids when they weren’t closeted away in the shade working on their creations. Nevertheless, this lot were a great bunch and formed a gang.
He was living a world away from his former work in the City with its routines of gym, dinner parties and business meetings. Santaniki was an escape from his past life, thank God. He had his bike and his gardening to get away from bad memories. The courses were usually two weeks long but some stayed for a month, like Don. He was a regular on the lecture circuits and spent most of the summer writing in Elodie’s old study.
‘I write away from my desk,’ he explained. ‘It must be the light here, the slow pace, but it just gets my juices flowing.’ Griff knew him well enough to guess that the juices flowing through Don’s veins were a lethal combination of village wine and raki, sold on the markets with an unknown level of alcohol. Still, Don was a great raconteur when in or out of his cups and a loyal customer in the tavernas around the harbour and the square.
Griff had been here nearly a year and liked having the winter to repair, decorate and join in village life. The London high life was no longer an option for him but even now rage came over him. He would hike up into the hills to cool off his bad temper. He liked being his own boss here and couldn’t believe the happenstance that brought him
to this tiny island sanctuary – all because his old school friend Felix MacLeod had a new partner, Alexa Bartlett, whose parents were residents here.
Knowing how down Griff could get, Felix invited him to a small gathering to meet Alexa’s mother and father. Simon was a retired editor and Chloë a doting grandmother to Olympia, the child of Alexa’s first marriage to Felix and Griff’s old school friend, Hugh. It was just a throwaway remark that the retreat house was looking for a new warden as the previous family were returning for their children’s education. An impromptu visit to the island for a long weekend clinched his decision. Griff fell in love with the limestone rocks, the trails amongst the hills and the food. Perhaps this was the challenge he needed.
Griff had stood on the terrace of the retreat house looking out over the turquoise bay and up at the peaks, the ochre rocks and silvery foliage, inhaling the scent of herbs, and thought perhaps… just perhaps.
On returning to London he made plans. His stay on Santaniki would just be a sabbatical to soothe his wounded pride and sense of failure. He loved ferries and slow journeys so he would travel leisurely towards this new venture on bike, packing everything into panniers. He was determined to travel light through Europe, cycling over the Alps to Italy, overland to Venice, sailing across to Patras and on to Athens to take the night ferry to Chania. It was a challenge but he felt free of everything for the first time in months. Crossing to the smaller island by ferry, he arrived in time for the annual olive harvest in November where he joined in the olive stripping, enjoying this initiation into Cretan life.
As Griff now sat watching the sun descend over the sea like a ball of flame, he felt the island wrapping itself round all his senses; the slower pace, the heat, the light. His guests were living it up at Irini’s taverna and he could hear the noise rising and the music of their jazz ensemble floating up to him in the dusk. Griff smiled, turning to Elodie Durrante’s book he had promised to read: Under the Cretan Sun was set during the Greek and Turkish wars; a Romeo and Juliet sort of tale.