Page 102 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
I continue to ride the wave of bliss through the meal. The bread and fava bean dip are flawless. The moussaka is also incredible, as are the pork skewers and the dolmades. When we get to dessert, I’m technically too full for it, but the baby demands baklava, so I eat three pieces, and no surprise, that is absolute perfection as well.
The waitress comes by and asks if we’d like a digestif. Sebastien turns her down, because he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since we found out I’m pregnant; he didn’t want me to feel left out.
“Are you sure?” the waitress asks. “Because we havemournorakitonight.”
Sebastien’s eyes widen.
“What’s mournoraki?” I ask.
“A very rare spirit from Crete,” Sebastien explains. “It’s astonishingly difficult to make, so the few producers who distill it usually keep it for themselves.”
“Then you should have some.”
“No, because you can’t—”
“Enjoy itforme,” I say. Framing it as a benefit to me is the only way to convince Sebastien to give himself permission to drink. I turn to the waitress. “A glass, please.”
She hurries off before Sebastien changes the order.
When the mournoraki arrives, he savors it, looking out onto the dark ocean and taking small sips, sighing rapturously after each one. I’m glad I made him do it. Sometimes I think Sebastien’s spent so much of his life worrying over everyone else—especially me—that he’s lost sight of taking care of himself.
“I’ll be right back,” I say when he orders a second glass. “I just need to use the ladies’ room.”
As in much of Santorini, the restaurant is carved into the cliffside, with whitewashed staircase alleys twined in and out of the buildings. Our table is on the restaurant’s second story—which isbasically a rooftop—and I have to go down the steep exterior staircase to get to the bathroom on the first floor. I make sure to hold the banister; I have no intention of tumbling into the sea.
When I finish in the WC, I head toward the white steps to go back up to our table. But at the base of the staircase is a familiar face, although his bald head is now covered by a Greek fisherman’s cap.
“Aaron,” I gasp.
He tips the brim of his hat. “Helene. Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Just traveling on business,” he says, leaning in to give me a kiss on the cheek as if we’re old friends. “Will you go for a walk with me?”
“So I did see you in Cannes and in Barcelona. You’ve been following me.”
Aaron shakes his head. “Not you. Your boyfriend.”
I frowned. “What? Why Sebastien?”
Aaron glances at the diners behind me and lowers his voice, which makes him sound more menacing. “After Sebastien got that restraining order slapped on Merrick, Merrick was pretty pissed, so he hired me to dig up some dirt.”
“What restraining order?”
“You don’t know?” Aaron lets out a grating laugh. “Your boyfriend sure does keep his secrets close.” Aaron tells me about the “goons” Sebastien had patrolling the woods around his house and the private eye they booted off the property, and about my legal team’s countersuit and temporary restraining order against Merrick.
I recall now that the Julius A. Weiskopf Group isn’t just a privacy-respecting bank and law firm that Sebastien’s worked with for centuries. They’re a full-service tactical firm, arranging everything from fake IDs to bodyguards to—I’m guessing—everything in between and beyond.
Why didn’t Sebastien tell me about the photos? I amnothappy that he kept that from me. But that takes a back seat right now to how I feel about Merrick spying and trying to blackmail me.
“Obviously the restraining order hasn’t stopped Merrick,” I say, “because he just found a workaround, huh? Instead of him or that private eye being here, he hired you. You always were a slimeball, Aaron.”
Aaron shrugs. “I prefer to call myself morally flexible. Besides, how do you think I knew, even in grad school, that I’d be good in tabloids? My specialty is uncovering the skeletons that people like celebs and politicians work so hard to keep in their closets. And guess what I found? Your Sebastien has quite a fascinating history. But that part you already know, don’t you?”
The baby starts kicking, as if I need her to warn me that this is a conversation we absolutely cannot have within hearing range of the diners behind me. “Okay,” I say, linking my arm through Aaron’s. “Let’s go for a walk. Ashortone. But you better say what you have to say quickly, because Sebastien’s going to start wondering where I’ve gone.”
We wind our way to another pedestrian alley between some souvenir shops that are closed for the evening and climb up the steps. It’s isolated enough for us to talk, but only a shout away for help if I need it. I don’t think I need to worry about that; Aaron is a sleazy tabloid gossip hunter and Merrick is an image-obsessed egomaniac, but they’re not mobsters.
