Page 8 of Love on the Rocks
He took off, his massive body loping over the rocks. I called him “my dog” because I’d found him scrawny and abandoned near the refugee camp on Lesbos where I used to volunteer. But as soon as I brought him to Lyra, he’d adopted the entire island. The crazy son of a bitch even thought he was a goat now.
“You’re late,maláka,” Panos said when I finally made it to the construction site. He’d been helping rebuild the old hotel near the port after it had nearly burned down last year. It was owned by an elderly couple with limited resources and no family on the island, so I lent a hand whenever I could. Since Panos was already sitting on a plastic chair drinking beer, I didn’t feel too guilty for being late.
“Sorry, Pano. There’s been another outbreak of hives,” I explained and he laughed. He knew all too well about the made-up illnesses that found their way into my office every week. Last week it had been a mysterious eye condition, the week before an unexplained fever.
It was flattering, I suppose, that so many single women would make up illnesses just to have me examine them, but I didn’t let it go to my head. There weren’t that many single guys to choose from. At least not ones they hadn’t known all their lives. Anyway, I wasn’t interested. I’d sworn off relationships since my marriage had imploded three years ago.
“I wonder if they consult each other before they show up in your office?”
“Couldn’t say.” I took a swig of cold beer. It was warm already for early April and the beer hit just right. “So how’d the call go?”
Panos heaved a sigh and cracked open another beer. “Why don’t you ask him?” He nodded at Yiannis who came stalking up from the port, a deep frown on his face. Yiannis was about as happy-go-lucky as they came, so this was a bad sign.
“Florakis says they’re meeting with a government official tomorrow.” Yiannis spat on the ground. He didn’t need toelaborate on who “they” were. The Greystone Group, an international group of developers and bloodsuckers who were determined to build a new trendy resort on the island.
Florakis had sold them the land after his father died a few months ago. He’d moved to Athens years ago and no longer gave a damn about the island. We’d been working for weeks to block the sale—unsuccessfully. The mayor had agreed to go along with it and had been strutting around boasting that we’d soon be the next Mykonos, with celebrities and millionaires basking on our rocky coast.
All I imagined, as he tried to convince me of the benefits of a five-star resort, was the pollution, the crowds, the destruction it would bring to our peaceful island.
“Word is the Greystone heir is preparing for investors and is here to oversee the construction.”
“The Greystone heir”, as we referred to him, was due to arrive on the ferry this afternoon. An obnoxious, greasy-haired bastard with a pretty-boy face, he’d stayed at Yiannis’s rental last year and walked around in a haze of hashish smoke, high on his own enormous ego. He never stopped bragging about the dozens of restaurants he had around the world and all the models he’d banged. He was a grade-A asshole, and none of us could figure out what had brought him to Lyra since there weren’t any late-night rave parties or strip clubs on the island. We were even more astonished to hear that he was the one who bought the land from Florakis—apparently, after some peyote-induced vision on a boat.
“Don’t worry, this time we’ll convince him that this is the last place he wants to build a hotel.”
“How?” asked Yiannis.
“Well, to start with, you’re not letting him stay in your rental.”
* * *
“We’re going to give the bastard the welcome he deserves,” I said as I pounded the wooden beam into the ceiling imagining it was Greystone’s head. I couldn’t wait. After a trip back up the hill to finish setting up Greystone’s new “digs”—the old cottage-slash-goat shed I’d inherited from Kyria Antonia—we’d decided to blow off some steam by pounding some nails into the roof of the hotel.
Physical labor always helped me think. It was a kind of meditation and I craved it. That coupled with doing a good deed gave me a kind of high that others searched for in drugs or alcohol. That I might have searched for in beautiful women when I was a young medical student in Manhattan full of my own self-importance. But, now at thirty-three, the only doctor on a remote island, those days were behind me.
What I hadn’t put behind me was the rush of adrenaline I got from sticking it to someone who really deserved it.
“This plan might not put a permanent stop to the building plans,” I explained, nail in my mouth, “but it should buy us enough time to hear back from the Aegean Sanctuary Foundation.”
The mayor may have sold us out—but luck was on our side because he was gone for the next six weeks on his yearly pilgrimage to visit family in Australia. And in his absence, the council—myself, Yiannis, and Stamatis, the vineyard owner—were left in charge. We’d sent a petition to the foundation charged with protecting marine ecosystems, arguing that the resort and the increased tourist traffic threatened the coral reefsof the island. It had been over a month though, and we still hadn’t heard anything back.
I continued pounding the wooden beam and, by the time the ferry was set to arrive, I was drenched in sweat and ready for battle.
We went down to the port and waited for the bastard at thetaverna, sipping our beers and playing cards until we spied the silhouette of the ferry in the distance. When the boat docked, I slumped in my chair, arms crossed, and watched the passengers descending the metal ramp: Mostly islanders coming back from working or running errands on Rhodes.
My eyes ran over the familiar faces of the passengers as I searched the crowd for the Greystone heir. That pampered son of a bitch wouldn’t last a single night in the accommodations we’d prepared. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction.
But as the last passengers descended, there were no artfully ripped designer jeans in sight. I was about to slap Yiannis on the back to celebrate when the cabin door opened one last time. The sun glinted off the window, temporarily blinding me.
I blinked hard, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, as the last passenger descended the ramp.
She was a vision, that’s for sure. A statuesque stunner in a white dress that clung to every generous curve of her body. Her long blonde hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and her plush lips were pomegranate-red. I wondered what they’d taste like. Sweet and ripe or firm with a sharp bite?
I was so distracted by her perfect mouth that I forgot I was supposed to be watching for Greystone. And I wasn’t the only one distracted. Next to me, Panos whistled quietly and said, “Mama.”
She walked slowly, hips swaying, in our direction. We’d all gone silent, cards held midair, old Giorgos’s mouth literallyhanging open as she halted in front of us and lowered her sunglasses.
“Kalispera,” she said as we gawked at her. Her accent was American. She glanced at a slip of paper in her hand. “Psachno ton Yianni.”
