Page 56 of Reclaimed By His Billion-Dollar Ring

How easy it was for tales to be lost.

To sink away into the past. Even the recent past. A mere eight years—an eye-blink—separated him and the woman now sitting silent, withdrawn and hostile beside him and the man and woman they had once been.

But tales that could not be told—that had not yet been told—could fester and corrupt.

Eight years of festering and corruption...

‘Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?’

Calanthe’s cold voice pierced his circling, brooding thoughts.

‘As we get there,’ was all he would say.

She fell silent again, simply gazing out of the window. The road was vaguely familiar to him. Was it to Calanthe? She’d have left the island this way, heading to the ferry port as they were doing now.

He joined the queue and they drove slowly through the town into the bowels of the waiting ferry. It was only a short crossing to the next island in the chain, hardly worth getting out of the car. He said as much to Calanthe, but she undid her seat belt.

‘Too claustrophobic,’ she said, and got out, heading for the deck.

He did not follow her. Instead, he sat back, head against the headrest, gazing at nothing.

She came back just as the ferry docked at its destination, getting into the hire car and doing up her seat belt.

‘Why have we come to this island?’ she asked, as the hold doors slid slowly open and the cars started to emerge on to the quayside.

‘To show you something,’ was all Nikos said.

They drove out through the ferry port—very similar to the one they’d left, but larger, for this whole island was larger, if not by much. This island was familiar to him—long familiar.

Once again, he opted for the coast road, heading east. He did not look at Calanthe, but within a few kilometres of the town he saw her turn her head as they passed a road sign.

‘Aerodromio?’ she said. There was a clear question in her voice. ‘Nikos, don’t tell me we’re flying somewhere now!’

‘No,’ he said.

He knew his voice was terse. But he was banking a lot down. And it was taking all his strength, his nerve, to keep it banked down. He felt his emotions stress and strain, like fractured plates in the earth’s crust, rubbing and grinding against each other. The pressure building up, unable to be released.

As they approached the airport he didn’t take the road that branched off to the entrance, nor did he keep to the main road that followed the coastline, a half-kilometre or so to their right. Instead, he slowed and took an unmarked dirt road leading off the left.

He knew exactly where it went.

It circled the northern perimeter fence, the high mesh that separated the airport area from the countryside around it.

He drove between the fence to his right and the olive groves that stretched to the left, hectare after hectare, spreading widely inland. A few houses were dotted around, and some stone sheds, but not many. The trees were heavy with olives—in a few weeks the harvest would begin. The whole area was extensive, marked off by old stone walls, many crumbling now, into holdings owned by any number of islanders.

When it was time for harvest, it was usually a communal affair. He remembered it well from his youth, with neighbours pitching in to help each other, all hands on, including his own hands, even when he was a small child.

The children always enjoyed themselves—it was almost like a party. Someone would bring a football, and there would be a kick-around when the adults were busy or had no tasks for them. Then someone would call them, and the children who were old enough, but not too heavy, would shin up the olive trees to help knock down any recalcitrant fruit on to the waiting nets spread out below to catch them.

‘Where are we going?’

Calanthe’s question recalled him to the present.

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said.

He drove a little further, careful of the wheels on the rutted track. Then, at a spot he knew well, he stopped, cut the engine.

‘I want to show you something,’ he said.

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