Page 35 of The Island Villa

“Don’t rush. It will be good for me to have some time alone with them before you appear, and I need to check on the food with Maria.”

Maria had worked for her ever since she’d bought the villa. She looked after the house, and her husband, Kostas, had looked after the pools and the garden before his untimely death a year ago.

Twice a year when Catherine went on book tours to the UK and US, Maria moved into the villa’s guest cottage so that the place wasn’t left empty. It was Maria who had taught her Greek when she’d first arrived. Maria who had helped her with baby Cassie when she’d been struggling. Maria who had rescued her on that awful night she tried never to think about.

Images flashed into her brain. Her own real-life horror story, but fortunately it was one story that no one else had access to.

Except Maria.

Maria was one of the few people who knew everything about her.

It should have made her feel vulnerable, but it didn’t.

Maria was her family, in a way that her own family never had been, and this place was her home in a way that nowhere else had ever been.

Maria had spent the morning in the kitchen preparing a variety of Greek dishes, and was back there now, putting the finishing touches to the meal. Catherine had joined her for a few hours and they’d cooked side by side, talking about everything and nothing. Cooking soothed her, and together they’d made Cassie’s favorite, spanakopita, the classic Greek dish of wild greens and salty feta cheese flavored with dill and encased in crisp golden pastry. They’d slow roasted lamb with herbs grown in the gardens of the villa, and made bowls of creamy hummus. Maria had already made a trip to the tiny harbor to buy fish fresh from the boat. It lay in the fridge, waiting to be flavored with olive oil, lemons from their own trees and herbs grown in their own gardens. Then it would be cooked on the grill, the skin slightly charred and the flesh perfectly flaky and creamy.

Catherine had planned it all. Each mouthful would be perfect. The whole evening would be perfect. Catherine imagined that in years to come they’d look back on this evening. She imagined them laughing together. It was going to be one of those moments that you remember forever.

Even Adeline couldn’t fail to be pleased by what lay ahead, she was sure of that.

She wondered if the two girls were getting along.

One of her many regrets was that they weren’t closer, which was one of the reasons she’d put them both in the guest cottage. She was hoping that proximity might help. That this visit might be a fresh start for all of them. The cottage had two bedrooms, each with doors opening onto the little terrace and the small oval pool. It would be a rare opportunity for the sisters to spend time together. Catherine imagined them heading to a local taverna to eat one evening, or maybe just enjoying an evening sprawled on the loungers outside the cottage. Glass of wine, the warmth and scents of summer, the incessant chirp of cicadas—what could be better?

She stepped into the gardens and Ajax followed her like a feline bodyguard.

The gardens that surrounded the villa were her pride and joy. On one side stretched an olive grove covering dozens of acres, dense with trees, many of which were hundreds of years old. They’d stood firm through sunshine and storms, their trunks gnarled and knotted, their leaves a silvery green. People who reached for a bottle of olive oil in their supermarket rarely had any idea of the labor that went into producing it. Every year the local community gathered together to harvest the olives at Summer Star. And every year Catherine rolled up her sleeves to help. They used traditional methods, laying nets around the trees to catch the olives and then raking the branches. They pressed and produced their own olive oil, which she kept for her own consumption, and gave to favored guests.

The garden offered something different according to the months. Right now, the beds were bright with sunflowers, their golden faces beaming toward the sun. Bougainvillaea spilled from terracotta pots, providing a dazzle of color against the sunbaked paths that wound their way through the garden and down to the sea.

The garden calmed her, and she needed that because as she approached the terrace she saw that the girls were already there. They were standing a little distance apart, like two strangers at a party who had run out of small talk.

Cassie was wearing a pretty slip dress in a shade of bright pink that ended at mid-thigh. She had a touch of sunburn on her nose and her shoulders, and her short blond hair had been rough dried and fell in gentle waves around her face. Adeline was also wearing a dress, but hers was a more formal shift dress, plain navy, structured and nipped in at the waist.

“Kalispera!” she greeted them both in Greek, and Cassie’s smile was as bright as one of the sunflowers.

“Mum!” She almost bounced across the terrace, as if they hadn’t already spent yesterday together talking about anything and everything (except for Andrew, of course. Also writing. In fact, now that Catherine thought about it, there was quite a lot they hadn’t talked about) and pulled her into a warm hug.

Catherine was grateful for that hug but it didn’t calm the anxiety that had come alive inside her. She’d been imagining this moment for weeks, months, but now it was finally here.

She drew away from Cassie and stretched out her hands to Adeline. Her heart jumped.

“Adeline—”

There was an excruciating moment where Catherine thought she might refuse to take her hands, but then Adeline stepped forward and gave her mother’s hands a squeeze. Despite the heat, her fingers were chilly. Her smile was reserved and careful.

“You’re looking well.” She was polite, her tone hovering on the edge of warmth but not quite getting there.

My fault, Catherine thought. Adeline’s childhood had shaped her, and she was responsible for that childhood.

“I’m great. Never better. It’s being here, of course. The climate suits me. Not just the climate, the whole place. The people. This villa. The sea.” Oh, stop chatting, Catherine. It was ridiculous to be nervous of meeting your own daughter. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine, thank you.”

If she’d written this scene in a book, she would have deleted it. Boring. Make something happen.

Something was about to happen of course, but not until Andrew appeared. She was beginning to regret suggesting he arrive a little after her. She could have done with his support from the beginning, but she’d thought it might be best to ease into it.

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