She’d moved on quickly, married someone else, and gotten pregnant. Now, less than two years later, she was going through a divorce.
Her features brightened when our eyes met.
“Mr. Christakis.” She navigated carefully around the workbench. “Minister Papadopoulos canceled your three o’clock meeting. Some emergency parliamentary session came up.”
I wiped my hands on a shop rag. “You could have called the garage to tell me this.”
“I also brought lunch.” She raised the paper bag, and I noted how her two top buttons were undone. “Your favorite.”
Recently, she’d been finding excuses for unnecessary contact. She was under the impression that our previous arrangement might resume.
It would not.
“Thank you,” I said, setting down the rag. “But I already ate.”
“Oh.” She leaned against the wall in a way that accentuated her figure. “Will you be returning to the office today?”
“No.” I watched her face fall before she recovered. “I’ll be out for the remainder of the day.”
She straightened, glancing once more at my oil-stained hands. “Will you need anything else?”
“That will be all,” I replied, reaching for my phone.
When the heavy door closed behind her, I returned my attention to the engine for all of five seconds before reaching for my phone. July had passed quickly with endless board meetings, and every spare moment with Dede.
Progress on Thalassía had been steady; most of the overgrown shrubs and bushes had been cleared from the grounds, revealing the bones of what had once been our family’s paradise. Miss Massey—who I now suspected was my son’s girlfriend—was making excellent progress on her restoration designs for the villa, submitting regular updates that showed both technical skill and genuine respect for the property’s heritage.
Now August was here, and Dede’s departure loomed closer. I scrolled to her number and pressed call, ignoring the grease smudge I left on the screen.
“My meeting, it was canceled,” I said. “Are you busy?”
“Just finished a client call. I’m at the villa reviewing some research.”
“Perfect timing. Pack swimsuit and be ready in thirty minutes. There is place I want to show you.”
“That’s cryptic.”
“It is meant to be, yes? Thirty minutes.”
“Make it forty-five,” she countered. “A girl needs time to make herself presentable for mysterious outings.”
“You do not need forty-five minutes for this,” I told her, surveying my oil-stained appearance in the mirror. “But very well, forty-five minutes it is.”
The small motorboat cut through crystal waters, spray occasionally misting over us as I guided it along the coastline. Dede sat beside me, sunglasses perched on her nose, her loose cover-up billowing in the wind.
“How is it possible you know about a beach that no one else does?” She asked, voice raised over the engine.
“I own property,” I explained, slowing as we approached a rugged section of coastline. “This cove, it is on land once belonging to my grandfather.”
I navigated around a rocky outcropping that concealed the entrance to a small, perfect crescent of white sand bordered by limestone cliffs. The water here was impossibly clear, shifting from turquoise to sapphire as it deepened.
Dede’s intake of breath was gratifying. “It’s like something from a postcard.”
I cut the engine, letting us drift toward shore. “The cliffs, they provide privacy. No one comes here except me.”
“And now, me,” she observed, helping me anchor the boat.
“Yes,” I acknowledged.
