A Wedding in the Olive Garden

by Leah Fleming

  Irini put down her needle. ‘If you want to find him, pray to St Phanourios, patron of all lost things. He does a good line in finding lost animals.’

  Sara had never heard of this saint or his special powers. Mel came to the rescue. ‘We ask St Anthony to come to our aid if we lose anything but St Phanny works as well. What’s this about?’

  Sara recounted the cat’s disappearance. ‘They usually return when they are hungry, don’t they, but what if he’s trapped somewhere? He’s quite old now, and deaf.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll turn up. Mama will put in a word to Phanourios, he’s usually reliable given time.’

  Sara didn’t know what to make of all this saint business. All she knew was her neighbour was beside herself with the responsibility of keeping Orpheus safe until Miss Blunt returned.

  She met Don Ford strolling down from the retreat and he invited her for a drink. It was hot and sticky and he would be able to pass the word round to Griff.

  ‘It’s a while since we saw you up at the retreat. I gather things are a bit frosty between you and our host.’ Don sat back eyeing her response.

  ‘Not at all, who told you that?’ Sara felt herself blushing at this personal comment.

  ‘My dear, a writer sees all… observes the little nuances that might prove useful for his next character. We have shards of glass in our hearts, don’t you know.’

  Sara laughed. ‘Honestly, you talk a load of codswallop! How’s your writing going, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  Don gulped down his beer. ‘Hard going and got a deadline to meet.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be slaving away at your Mac, not idling in the taverna then?’

  ‘Touché, my friend… so I should but it doesn’t work like that for me. I need to stroll out and think on my feet or in the pool but there’s a noisy crowd there splashing about. I can’t concentrate.’

  ‘You can use my olive garden if you like,’ Sara offered. ‘It’s private and quiet. I promise not to disturb your musings.’

  ‘You are a saint… what can I do in return?’

  ‘Have you heard of a St Phanourios, patron of lost things?’ She explained about the lost cat. ‘Ask about for me and tell Griff too.’

  ‘Ah, you want me to be a go-between, how romantic.’

  ‘Stop it, Don. Griff and I are just friends so don’t go getting any ideas of matchmaking.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, darling. I was hoping you might be looking in my direction, not his.’

  Now she could see he was teasing her. ‘You are a menace to anything in a skirt. I pity those would-be writers hanging on your every word. What power you must wield as you drop pearls of wisdom and encouragement into their ears.’

  ‘You are too cruel but I may avail myself of your kind offer sometime.’

  ‘You do that, the side door is usually unlocked. Just make yourself at home.’ With that Sara left him to his beer. She had to admit old Don was fun but too observant for comfort. Did he spot that magnetism she felt when in Griff’s presence? There were more urgent things on her mind as she made for home, hoping Orpheus had made an appearance at last.

  August

  26

  On 27 August, the streets of St Nick’s began to fill up for the panagyri; the feast day of Phanourios, patron saint of lost and found; be it a mislaid tool or a lost dog or cat, a forgotten coat, whatever. At dawn, stallholders were busy setting their places in the shade. From the harbour uphill to the town square, vans were parked, women displayed baskets of cakes and bread, tables were set with all kinds of toys, icons of the saint, and craft stalls were ready for the annual invasion of families, tourists and priests.

  Sara could hardly move in the heat for the crowds milling around, ready to buy, sell or feast. Chloë, Pippa and herself had set their stall at the top of the hill, not the best site but with space to spread out information leaflets about SPARKS charity. They were focusing on rehoming strays locally and abroad. To raise money they had, with Sandra’s help, run up gay bandanas for dogs, and found some cuddly puppy toys to sell, and there was a big bowl of water for passing pooches and a jar of dog treats to encourage owners to stop and browse. Jack and Sandra had fallen for a young stray they had named Dusty and were seriously thinking of adopting. Harmony was sleeping in her buggy in the deep shade of a mulberry tree, while Chloë had her eye on the purple berries to make jam.

  As the morning wore on, the competition was stiff. Stall upon stall were selling beer, lemonade and sticks of grilled souvlaki. Sara was watching Irini’s friends who were dishing out feast bread and something called Lost and Found cake, in honour of the saint.

  Mel and Spiro were hard at work grilling lamb burgers with yoghurt and mint toppings, and dishing out frappés and ice cream. There was a line of craft stalls full of handmade work in competition with stalls full of imported souvenirs.

  Griff found them all sweating in the sun. He was in a foul mood because one of the clients was proving a pain, complaining about the plumbing, the air conditioning, his mosquito bite and the fact that Don, the tutor, had made suggestions to his novel that he felt were impertinent.

  ‘Go down to the taverna and cool off. We can manage here,’ Simon ordered, seeing the grim look on his face.

  ‘How are you all doing?’ he asked, looking at the pile of leaflets.

  ‘Not as well as we hoped.’ Chloë looked around. ‘Not sure we’ve got the right goods. It’s too hot for people to climb up the hill. St Nick’s is packed. I’ve never seen so many tourists.’

  ‘But people have been interested in the posters of Spartacus.’ Sara tried to sound encouraging but had to admit it was hard going. One man had picked up a leaflet and thrown it down. ‘You English and your dogs. Here we care for our family until they pass away. You shove them into homes and pet your dogs in their place.’

  What could Sara reply? It was the same old criticism, a fair point of difference in culture and traditions. They must be careful not to offend but animals had feelings of pain, hunger, abandonment and confusion. She was feeling the stifling heat. Chloë told her to go down into the shade of the taverna. ‘Take a break. We’re hardly rushed off our feet and Jack is coming to do a stint.’

  As she walked down the street, there was a stall selling statues of the saint. They were skilfully carved in olive wood by a local wood sculptor who she had admired for some time. She decided to buy one to leave in the villa for guests as a thank you.

  She plonked herself down next to Griff who was gulping down a Mythos beer. ‘What do you think of that? I thought Ariadne Villa might like it when I leave.’ Sara showed him the statue with pride.

  ‘You’re not quitting, are you?’ he replied, looking up in surprise and ignoring the statue.

  ‘Of course not, but I can’t stay there indefinitely. Are you all right? You look done in. This heat… and this wannabe writer on the course?’

  ‘Why is it one pompous man can be so irritating? Don says he hasn’t a hope of being published unless he does it himself or takes some positive criticism. His prose is dead on the page and his plot is all over the place. There’s always some plonker who thinks they know it all. Why he bothered to come, beats me.’

  ‘Cheer up, they’ll be gone at the weekend. I expect the heat gets to your visitors and makes them cranky. I think we’ll be packing up the stall soon.’ She saw a strange look on Griff’s face.

  ‘It’s not only that, Sara. I’ve heard some disturbing news, hot off the press. They’ve found a bunch of corpses round the litter bin on the road to Sternes village… cats and vermin mostly. They think it’s another deliberate poisoning.’

  Sara went cold and looked up, hoping against hope this was nothing to do with Orpheus’s disappearance. It had been weeks and not a sign of him. ‘You know Ariadne’s cat went missing… surely not?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve only just heard. The demos are investigating. Bait was put down somewhere and the animals were lured to it. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Who would do
a thing like that?’

  Griff shook his head. ‘Sorry, there are always people… it’s not the first time this has happened.’

  ‘Surely something can be done to catch this person?’

  ‘They say there’s enough evidence from the remains to get the poison analysed. That might indicate what substance is being used. It could have been Spartacus.’

  ‘And Orpheus… I know what you are thinking. I can see it in your eyes. He’s likely to be one of the victims. He’s a wanderer, he got hungry.’ Sara felt tears. ‘How are we going to tell Miss Blunt and her neighbour?’

  ‘It’s not certain, he may not be one of them, but if it is, then I’ll write to her. I feel sick at the thought that someone’s out there. I wish I could shove the stuff down his throat and see how he likes the agony.’ Griff banged his hand on the table. ‘People must be warned to rein in their pets and I shall watch Sparky. What is it with these people?’

  ‘I know Mel and Spiro have been arguing over our dog and cat rescue project. She told me there’s a clash of cultures here. We are guest residents, incomers. They think us sentimental over animals. Do you think they will trace the source?’ Griff looked despondent and Sara wanted to reach out to him but drew back. Why was it so hard to be natural with him?

  ‘Don’t repeat what I’ve said until it’s official. I don’t want to raise false alarm but it’s not looking good for Ariadne’s cat. It’s been too long since you flagged it up. I’d better go back. I’m not in the mood for all this feasting and crowds. Thanks for listening, Sara. I’m sorry to burden you.’

  ‘Not at all, what are friends for but to share this sort of news?’ She watched him slink away into the crowd, her heart sick at the thought of what would follow. She stared down at the statue in her hand. Was he listening somewhere, had he pointed the council to this sad scene? Had Orpheus been found but not in the way they had hoped?

  It was time to return to help pack up the stall but Griff’s news felt like a stone in her gut. The feast would go on into the night with music and dancing and then, first thing, the priest would be chanting over the Tannoy to wake them all up.

  Dorrie arrived full of yet more news of the impending nuptials, inviting them to a special meet and greet evening where they would be introduced to the bride and her entourage. Everyone was too tired and jaded to take her excitement on board and she sensed this, flouncing off.

  ‘Oh dear, that didn’t go down well,’ Chloë said. ‘I hear the weather is a bit iffy in the next few weeks, from the north, which can be bad news. Poor Dorrie will not like that.’

  ‘Who is going to tell Miss Dorney that there might be an almighty deluge?’ Pippa laughed. ‘Mr Shevchenko won’t like any weather spoiling his princess’s big day but even he can’t hold back the skies. Don’t look so glum, Sara. It might do you a good turn.’

  Sara tried to smile and join in but it was hard knowing there was bad news coming to St Nick’s community. All she wanted to do was retreat to the silence of the olive garden, and worrying that poor Orpheus might be lost forever.

  September

  27

  Excitement was building for the wedding of the year on Santaniki. Crates of champagne were arriving by ferry. Shelley Dorney flew in, striding across the beach demanding a carpeted duckboard walkway for the bride so she could wear her Manolo Blahniks, and her couture dress would not get soiled. They were going to erect a platform out from the shore where the ceremony would take place. It was designed like a huge water lily with the couple-to-be encased within it surrounded by flowers. The beach was to be closed off to the public, all litter, stones and detritus to be removed and the sand raked clean. She imported gold chairs covered in satin cushions. A flower designer was coming from London to prepare the scene.

  There would be a large meet and greet for the bride and groom, arranged by the Thorners in the community hall under Miss Dorney’s instructions. The hall was to be altered into a palace of exotic flowers with garlands hanging in great wreaths from the ceiling; only the wooden structures were in place so far. The walls were to be dressed out in swags of silk, and boxes of fine china crockery and glasses, engraved with the date of the wedding, were waiting to be assembled on a long table display for the guest buffet. The steep steps to the little chapel of Agios Nikolaos were to be swept and garlanded with pots of scented lilies, a special stair carpet laid from the bottom to the chapel door for a photo shoot. Nothing was to be left to chance.

  Mel and Sara watched Shelley’s progress through the town, picking holes in everything that she felt Yuri would not want to see. His princess must have everything she wanted.

  Poor Dorrie smiled wanly at all these specifications. She confessed to the book club it was getting out of hand. ‘That woman marches in with her lists, inspecting Norris and me as if we were also-rans, not the groom’s parents. Daniel is worried that Soraya will be disappointed in our island. Whatever for? It’s our home, our base! Would you believe she even emailed my other son, who has a little daughter, suggesting that she’s too young to be a bridesmaid. She has ten already. We shall be the laughing stock of St Nick’s. Ten bridesmaids indeed! Oh, and my new outfit clashes with Yuri’s new wife’s, the tarty one, not his first one, she’s been ignored completely. I sometimes wonder if Daniel…’ She broke off, almost in tears. ‘I am glad I’ll have all of you on my side. At least the party in the hall will be full of our guests, not theirs.’

  No one spoke at first, sensing nerves had got the better of Dorrie. She had lost weight but looked drained and anxious. ‘Cheer up,’ Chloë said. ‘St Nick’s will never have seen such a spectacle, a flotilla of yachts, a carriage and horses ferried over from Chania and a posse of gorgeous girls with a princess bride.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s rather over the top, do you?’ Dorrie asked, her trembling hand shaking her wine glass.

  What could anyone say? Sara thought the whole event sounded horrendous, such a display of wealth on this simple island where families were struggling to pay its taxes. How much of this extravagance would go into the local economy? After Sally’s quiet lecture, Sara knew she mustn’t judge every bride who wanted her dream wedding and this was Soraya’s idea, not hers. Making unrealistic dreams become a reality was part of a wedding planner’s job, smoothing out ruffled feathers, finding compromises. She was learning on the job, having blithely jumped into this business thinking it was just another event to manage. There was so much more.

  Shelley had free rein with untold thousands. Most brides were not so lucky. She thought of Pippa and Duke’s wedding day done on a shoestring and it was such a happy occasion. Sara smiled recalling her gran’s Yorkshire saying: ‘There’s many poor folk in this world. They have money.’ She was beginning to understand her meaning. Money wasn’t everything and she just hoped all this expense would bring happiness to the young couple.

  She had to admire Shelley’s confidence and professionalism but there was a steel edge to the service she offered. This event would add to her kudos and bank balance but she didn’t seem to care about the rest of the families, especially Dan’s mother or Soraya’s own mother.

  For some reason Sara felt protective of their welfare. Surely it was the involvement of everyone in a family wedding that made them part of this show? That seemed to be missing here. They had to obey like foot soldiers under strict orders.

  If she was organising this event, Dorrie and Norris would play an important part in the day. This was their island home. Surely their other son and child had every right to be included? This wedding was in danger of becoming the Yuri Shevchenko show. Thank goodness she did not have to kowtow to their demands.

  Little did she know that the Fates had got other ideas in mind for the wedding of the year.

  *

  On the eve of Daniel and Soraya’s wedding, a storm hit the island in a fury of wind and crashing waves. St Nick’s was battered with rain, thunder and lightning with every attendant dramatic effect. It closed down ports and local shipping as the se
as rose and crashed into the harbours, tossing boats into each other. Tiled roofs were flapping, chairs and loungers and parasols flying into the air as Sara closed the shutters, battening down the hatches preparing for the worst. The power was off and her newly planted garden shrubs lurched against the window. Then she remembered it was the night of Dorrie Thorner’s meet and greet evening. There would be no yachts in the harbour, none of the Russian guests would be able to land in small boats and she wondered if she should offer some help.

  Wrapping herself against the rain she slithered through the streaming torrent up to the Thorners’ villa, not far from her own, part of her wondering if she should turn back as Dorrie was prickly and perhaps thought she was muscling in on their big day. Dorrie could blow hot and cold but somehow Sara knew all might not be well.

  Daniel was on the veranda, smoking, his brother trying to calm his little daughter, as the thunder rattled above. Dan looked up to see Sara. ‘Thank God you’ve come, it’s bedlam in there, panic stations, and poor Soraya is in tears.’

  Sara could hear the wailing from the porch as Soraya stormed out. ‘This is not supposed to happen in September. How can it do this to me? And who are you?’ She stared at Sara, her ice blue eyes puffy with tears.

  ‘I thought you might need some help as Shelley isn’t here yet.’

  ‘What can anyone do in this?’ The bride-to-be flung her arms out in despair. ‘It’s all your fault, Dan. I didn’t want to come to this shitty little island. I wanted Mykonos or Skiathos… even Kylie can’t make an appearance due to a clash of dates.’

  ‘I’m afraid this storm is all over the Med,’ Sara offered, seeing Daniel turning away in frustration. ‘Let’s go inside and see how to make the best of the day. It may be fine tomorrow.’ She edged Soraya indoors where Dorrie was wringing her hands in despair.