Page 98 of Love on the Rocks
As we made our way over the hill I tried to burn all the images in my brain, the temple, the gnarled cedar, my old hovel and the goats. All these places that had marked themselves in my soul. By the time we made it to the ferry my throat was tight with emotion.
Giorgos helped me load my suitcases onto the boat and gave me a big hug. “Adio.”
I blinked away the tears in my eyes as I settled into my seat. The ferry had just begun to pull away from the dock when Nikos came racing into the port, his shirt half tucked into his jeans, hair still mussed from sleep. His feet pounded on the concrete. “Callie!” he cried, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
It took all the strength I had not to jump out and fall into his arms, but I couldn’t give in. He wasn’t mine. He never would be.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. When I opened them again, he was still standing there, Argos at his heels.
I stared at them until they were just tiny specks at the foot of those craggy rocks. I stared at the rocks until they slowly disappeared, swallowed by the blue waters and blue sky, hidden again by the sorceress’s spell.
Chapter 40
The days bled into each other and Mia could no longer make sense of time. She felt like a vinyl record that kept spinning over the same track. She woke, went to the restaurant, numbly served watery coffee and burnt toast to her customers, and tried not to think of that week on the island with Angelos.
- One Week with the Greek
NIKOS
One month later
My grandfather used to say, “Niko, all good things come from the sea.”
I set my pen aside and stared at the words I’d just written, running my fingers over the drying ink.
All good things come from the sea.Funny, I never really understood what he meant untilshestepped off the ferry.
But now I knew that Callie was the best thing to come into my life.
What were the odds that we’d find ourselves thrown together on an obscure island in the middle of the Aegean? She’d found her way to my rocky shore and then I’d ruined her trust in me forever. It was such a fragile thing, trust. And I’d never completely won hers.
Now it seemed all I could do was stare out at the water, hoping that somehow the sea would bring her back.
I set my notebook aside on the crumbling stone of the temple wall. Every day, I came up here to write. I needed to see clearly, and from here I could see everything—some days, all the way to Rhodes.
Today, I’d been trying to write the translator’s note toThe History of Lyra. I’d finished it in the month since Callie had left. I’d immersed myself in it to try to do what she’d asked of me—forget about her. But it was no use. I didn’t want to forget about her.
If she thought I was going to give up on us, she didn’t know me at all. I meant what I’d said: I’d always have her back.
The problem was, I didn’t know where she’d gone. Every trace of her had been erased from the Greystone website and she’d closed her Instagram account. Even her phone number had been disconnected. The only link I had to her was Jake’s card. I stared at it nightly, wondering if I should call, but I’d promised her I’d give her time. Was it still too soon?
It may only have been a month since she’d left, but so much had happened in that time. Nathalie had finally signed the divorce papers. Emmanuel had left the camp for a new life in New York City, and, miracle of miracles, The Greystone Group had abandoned their plans for the resort. It turned out that my grandfather’s cupwasof archaeological interest, and Diana Russo’s mentor, the famous archaeologist Reginald Harris, was coming to explore the island himself.
“Doc! Doc!” Dimitris’s voice echoed over the rocks and I let out a defeated sigh.
Apparently,somethings never changed. Dimitris and his broken bones, for example. I turned, expecting to see him limping toward me, but instead he was running, brandishing a rolled-up magazine in his hand like an Olympic torch.
“I found her!” he panted, doubling over when he skidded to a halt in front of me. “The Keetsen Weets!”
“What?” I said in disbelief. He thrust the magazine at me—some English food magazine I’d never heard of.
“Where did you find this?” I asked, snatching it from his hands and flipping through the pages.
“On the ferry.Yiayiawanted to go shopping in Rhodes. Someone left it on the seat.” He snatched the magazine back from me, opening to a page with a photo of Callie in chef’s whites next to an older woman in an English garden. She was beautiful—still sun-kissed and radiant, lips plush and red, golden hair pulled up in a loose bun. I read the caption: “Carys Llewellyn names Callie McGinn as head chef of her latest London restaurant.”
“She has a restaurant now?” asked Dimitris.
Her very own restaurant. She’d done it. A huge grin spread across my face. “The grand opening is in three days!”
