by kc dyer
I stare at him in surprise, but he nods. “Yes, I did. Crewed on a boat that ended up right here.” He taps the glass of the window.
“Here? You mean here in Sardinia? I thought you came to America straight from Athens.”
He shakes his head, staring out into the darkness. “From Ithaca, actually. With quite a few detours along the way. I fell in love with a beautiful girl,” he adds, and I’m shocked to see his eyes fill with tears.
“What? Who was she?” I’m suddenly rabid with curiosity about his youth—a time in his life he’s never really even mentioned to me. I pepper him with questions, but he waves them away.
“Ah, it was a long time ago. I was here for three months, and the girl—well, her parents wanted her to be with a local boy.”
I grin at him. “Weren’t interested in a Greek boyfriend for her, huh?”
He shakes his head firmly. “They did not approve. In fact, they sent her away to school.” His voice drops even lower. “We never saw each other again.”
He wipes his eyes, and I can’t find any words to comfort him, so I try distracting him by asking about something he mentioned earlier.
“Just a minute—did you say Ithaca? I thought you were born in Athens?”
He clears his throat, and his voice resumes its normal timbre. “I went to school in Athens, but my family came from Ithaca. I was five or six before my papa moved us to the city. The economy was terrible, and he didn’t have the money to hang on to his olive groves—and so we moved. But I never liked it—I never fit in. So I ran away.”
He reaches down for his briefcase. Outside, the lights grow ever closer, and some of the details of the port come into view. It’s hard to make things out in the dark, but Santa Teresa di Gallura looks to be a small village tucked neatly into a sheltered cove.
My dad straightens, and I see he’s holding the ExLibris itinerary. He turns to the last page.
“You see? Our final destination is Ithaca—for that very reason. Odysseus began there, and so did I,” he says.
I shake my head, my mind roiling with all the new information about this man I thought I knew.
“I haven’t really thought about it before now,” he adds, “but visiting my first home might be even more important to me than this project.” He tucks the itinerary away, and we go to collect our bags.
As we are walking down the gangplank, I vaguely recall a reference Raj Malik made to Ithaca way back at the very first site, outside Mitra. I’m suddenly awash in shame that Raj—a total stranger to me until so recently—might know more about my dad than I do.
chapter twenty-seven
WEDNESDAY
Malloreddus
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Sardinia
These tiny Sardinian swirls offer almost a French twist on the lightest, most delectable riff on gnocchi you’ve ever tasted. When served in combination with the local spices, including . . .
Considering Sardinia is the second-largest island in the Mediterranean Sea and has been inhabited since basically the dawn of time, it is remarkably unspoiled. We are staying near the little town of San Teodoro on the west coast, not far from the spot we came ashore. All I know about this stop is that my dad has plans to visit the gravesite of some giants, which are apparently pivotal to his research project. We can’t seem to get away from giants on this journey, somehow.
I sleep late and wake to discover something I hadn’t noticed before crashing hard last night—my tiny room has its own balcony. After throwing open a pair of enormous wooden shutters—painted a vivid turquoise—I step out onto the little stone terrace. It’s encased in an elaborate wrought iron railing, rusted and wound through with fragrant bougainvillea. The combination of the vivid purple flowers and the brilliant blue shutters is so eye-catching, it wakes me up immediately.
My view is not down to the sea but of verdant hillsides and dense, lush undergrowth. Many of the bushes are flowering, and the vista is breathtaking. This part of the island is all rolling hills, most dotted with grazing herds of sheep. There’s no wind today, and the sound of songbirds is very peaceful after so much time on the water lately.
Behind me, there’s a quiet knock, and thinking it must be my dad, I step back into the room to open my door. Instead, a young woman is standing outside carrying a tray.
“Caffé?” she says and, when she sees my expression, steps inside. She strides through the room and sets the tray on the tiny ceramic-topped table out on the deck. The tray holds a small steaming pot that smells so fragrantly of espresso that my mouth actually waters, a wee pitcher of foamed milk, and two almond biscotti.
I beam at her. “Thank you so much. Grazie, grazie!”
“Prego,” she replies and disappears, closing the door behind her, leaving me to enjoy a leisurely breakfast on my sunny deck. There doesn’t appear to be Wi-Fi in my room, but I know I saw a password posted above the check-in desk downstairs, so I decide to just take in the view for a few minutes before I head down to connect online.
Below me, I can see a trail—too narrow to be a road—snaking down the hill toward the small village in the distance. Seconds later, a cyclist pedals by, pumping hard to make it up the hill. A pair of young girls run past in the other direction, heading down to the village, followed by a woman pushing a stroller. I stare idly at the passersby, enjoying sitting on a chair that isn’t rocking with the motion of the sea; perfectly content with being a land-based creature again.
I’m just finishing the last luscious crumbs of my biscotti when I notice a familiar straw hat pass by on the path below. I jump up and lean over the rail to call out to my dad, but he carries on down into the village, oblivious. By the time I’ve gathered up my things and made it downstairs, he’s long gone, which suits me just fine. I’ve got a piece ready to send to Charlotte, but my main goal for the day is to check in with Anthony. If I plan things right, I can call for a quick FaceTime before he goes to bed.
Unfortunately, it turns out the woman behind the desk (name tag: Estella) speaks exactly zero English, and I—needing a Wi-Fi code—have no translation app with which to ask for it. When I finally think to point at the triangular logo above her desk, her expression clears.
“No weefee—mi desolato,” she says. “É rotto.”
Which means, I think, that I’m out of luck.
She reaches to collect a business card from the rack beside the desk and slides it across to me. “Due minuti,” she says, holding up two fingers. She comes out from behind the desk and walks to the front door. “San Teodoro,” she says, pointing at the path and repeating, “Due minuti.”
“Grazie.” I’m grateful I can at least manage to thank her without a translation app.
After a quick trip back upstairs to collect my big hat, I set out down the hill.
The village of San Teodoro is small, little more than a few streets fanning out from the hills down to meet the sea. This has got to be good news, in that it should be easy to find Estella’s recommendation, called the Caffè Sardini, according to the card. Remarkably, in spite of the tiny size of the village, I spy at least three other coffee bars on my way down the main road. But as I stop to enter the first of these, I discover that it is set up with a counter only and no seating area. The counter is crowded, and while the place smells fantastic, lingering is clearly not encouraged. Both the other places turn out to be exactly the same.
As I step back outside and look again for the Caffè Sardini sign, I see my dad’s unmistakable straw hat bobbing along the street toward what looks like a market square. I’m just about to call out when I lose sight of him again. Hurrying along, I enter the village square, which at the moment is the site of a bustling marketplace. There are mostly women here, both selling items in the stalls and carrying shopping baskets. A few small children skip about, and I nearly trip over a chicken that struts past me, not at all concerned about getting in my
way.
I’m just about to give up when I spot the logo for the Caffè Sardini hand-painted on a wooden sign. And there, directing a woman to a seat at one of the tables outside, is my dad. The woman is carrying six or seven large baskets. She has her back to me, and as I approach, Ari appears to be doing all the talking. I catch sight of that charming smile, and I can feel my temper start to rise.
All I want to do with this day is talk to my fiancé. The man I have abandoned to ensure my father is safe. My father, who claims to be on a research trip to find some mythical holy grail—his Odyssean Ark of the Covenant or whatever it is that he needs to imprint his name in history. But we are into the second week of this wild goose chase with no sign of any arks or grails in sight.
What there has been, however, is a large collection of attractive women. And each and every one of them has been subject to the patented Ari Kostas charm offensive. Dr. Elle in Sicily, with her good advice that he has ignored. His pursuit of Margarita and her bra-bearing coveralls meant that we took a time-wasting, stomach-churning boat trip. Even Teresa Cipher, although she’s admittedly turned out to be more of a colleague, is an undeniably gorgeous woman. And now, here in this tiny village in Sardinia, yet another woman is in his sights.
All the warmth and good feelings that this trip with my dad has fostered in my heart evaporate in an instant. It is exactly as my mother always said—he is a philanderer. Always has been, always will be. This is how he’s wrecked two marriages and countless other relationships with women. Good women.
This has got to stop. Right now.
Blood fully boiling, I stomp through the gated entrance to the Caffè Sardini in time to see them ordering drinks. The woman is wearing a light cotton dress, and her hair is tied back with a matching scarf. She’s in the process of setting down all her baskets, and for the first time, I get a good look at her face. She is undeniably attractive, but most certainly middle-aged, and this stops me in my tracks. As the oldest of the potential conquests on this trip, Dr. Elle was in her early thirties at most, and this woman is definitely older than that. Which should take her off my dad’s nothing-if-not-predictable radar. All the same, she’s got to be twenty years younger than my dad and is certainly closer to my age than to his. Still, after everything else, it’s just too much.
As I begin to weave my way through the tables, my dad jumps up and walks inside. Filled with equal parts fury and determination, I hurry over to the table where the woman is seated. She’s not wearing sunglasses and shades her eyes to look up at me.
“Do you speak English?”
She looks a little startled. “Yes. A leetle. Can I—can I help you with something?”
I shoot a quick glance into the café. It’s quite dark inside, but I can just make out my dad standing beside the cash register and reaching for his wallet.
“Listen, I think you should leave. My dad . . .” I shoot a thumb over my shoulder into the café. “He’s a notorious womanizer.”
“Womanize . . . ?” she repeats dazedly. “I not . . .”
Inside, my dad is counting out bills onto the counter.
“Look.” I don’t have time to gather my thoughts but continue anyway, a little desperately. “My name is Gia Kostas, and that’s my dad, Ari. I have literally been chasing him around the Mediterranean for the past two weeks, watching him hit on women. If you’re smart, you’ll get away while you can.”
“Did you say Ari? Ari Kostas?” the woman asks. “The history professor from the television?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s him. That show was over years ago. I can’t believe he’s still getting mileage out of it.”
The woman, her face suddenly pale, stands up and, without a word, steps around the back of the table, hurriedly scooping up all her baskets. In seconds, she disappears into the crowded marketplace.
At that moment, my dad arrives carrying a tiny espresso cup in each hand.
“Gia!” he says delightedly. “I can’t believe you found me. I’m just about to . . .”
His voice trails off as he notices the empty table for the first time.
“She’s gone.” Seizing one of the cups from his hand, I drain it.
The coffee is searing hot, and tears of pain spring to my eyes, but I’m so furious I pretend I haven’t just scalded my esophagus all the way down.
My dad looks aghast. “Darling—did you burn yourself?” He sets down his coffee cup and offers me a paper napkin to wipe my watering eyes.
“I’m fine.” This is a lie. “She’s gone, Pops.”
He looks off into the bustling marketplace.
“Gone?” he asks, sitting down. “To the ladies’ room?”
“No. She’s gone, gone. I sent her away. I’ve had it, Pops. I’ve had it with you and all the women. It’s been one after another this whole time. I’m so mad at myself that I bought into all your shit. All your plans for your legacy—your noble ideals. What happened to retracing Odysseus’s journey? What happened to putting a crown onto your life’s work? You’re seventy-two years old, for heaven’s sake. Give it a rest!”
And to my total mortification, I burst into tears.
I turn and flee into the coffee shop. Inside, after tripping over a chair, I stumble blindly into the restroom and slam the door.
I lean on the sink and have just turned the water on to splash my face when the stall door opens behind me. A very old man teeters out, leaning on a cane with one hand and still doing up his fly with the other. He looks at me, his mouth forming an O of surprise.
“Scusi! Scusi, signorina!” he cries and bolts out the door at a remarkable speed for someone using a cane.
I hastily turn off the tap and, grabbing a handful of paper towels, sidle back into the coffee shop.
The barista behind the counter raises her eyebrows at me but says nothing. By this time, my throat is burning so badly I’m not sure I could have spoken even if I did have the right Italian vocabulary to apologize.
There is a water-filled pitcher at the end of the bar, so I stop and pour myself a glass. Condensation beads the outside of the pitcher, and the water is filled with slices of lemon. The first sip helps cool my burning mouth at least, so after draining the glass, I refill it and carry it outside.
My dad hasn’t moved except to pull his sunglasses down over his eyes. He stares glumly into the crowded marketplace as I sit down.
Before I can say anything, he takes one of my hands.
“I’m sorry you feel this way about your papa,” he says quietly. “I know I deserve every word of your anger. But tell me—is your mouth okay? Did you burn your tongue?”
I nod and lift the glass. “I’m okay. I got some water.”
The noise and bustle of the market rises up as silence falls between us again. When he releases my hand, I pull my tablet out onto the table, but I don’t log on. I feel gut-punched in a way that has nothing to do with the espresso.
After a while, my dad drains his cup. “I know I deserve every word of what you say to me, Gianna,” he repeats quietly. “But this time? Is not what you think.”
He sighs. “I told you before of my first love, my Penelope. What you don’t know is that I first met her here, many years ago—in this very market. She was selling olive oil—her mama’s olive oil. When I got up the courage to speak to her, I teased her that her oil is no good because it’s not Greek.”
He smiles a little. “So, this morning, when I came down to this market, I have many old memories. Suddenly, I see a woman. The woman you spoke to.”
I open my mouth, but he raises a hand before I can say anything.
“I know what you think, but you’re wrong,” he says firmly. “I just see her—she catches my eye, and I think—no! She looks so much like my Pene! And then I think—this place is so small. Maybe she knows her?”
“Pops, I saw you following her. You can’t do t
hat. It’s so creepy.”
“Gia. My darling girl. I only have good intentions. I only wanted to ask her a question.”
“For goodness’ sake, Pops. This is the twenty-first century—you’ve got to know you can’t just stalk some random woman in a marketplace. It’s not enough to have good intentions. It doesn’t matter what your intentions are.”
“I know, I know,” he says apologetically. “I wasn’t really thinking.”
“Oh, man.” I drop my face into my hands. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been thrown in jail somewhere.”
“You’re right,” he says. “But I promise you, I only asked her to coffee. Nothing creepy.” He leaps up. “I’ll go find her again. Apologize.”
I grab his arm and pull him back down into his seat. “You’ll do no such thing!”
He stares at me a little wild-eyed and then suddenly laughs. “Okay, okay—I see. More stalking, right?”
Face? Meet palm.
He sighs at my expression and leans back in his seat. “You’re right. What’s past is past. Someone told me years ago that Pene moved away. Life has carried on. She is long gone, and we are both old, if she is even still alive. It’s just—that woman looked so familiar . . .”
His voice trails away at the look on my face.
“Fine. You’re right. I’ll leave it. You’ll stay here to work today? Do you want another coffee before I head off to the site?”
“Do you think they do iced coffee?” I twist around to stare at the chalkboard menu on the wall.
A shadow falls across the table, and my dad makes a tiny choking sound as I turn around.
The woman is back. This time, she’s no longer carrying the armful of baskets and instead holds a roll of paper and what looks like a small black-and-white snapshot. Her face is still pale, and when she speaks, her mouth sounds dry.
“I—may sit with you a moment?” she asks quietly.
My dad shoots me a triumphant look as he pulls out a chair. When I glare back at him, he drops the grin.
