She smiles. “You should get a Freddo Espresso. Cold coffee and sweet milk.”
“If you can do a decaf, that sounds perfect,” I say happily. “James, what about you?”
“I'll take whatever you recommend,” he says, handing over a few euros.
As the woman makes her drinks, James goes back to his phone to answer more emails. I take the opportunity to look around the café. It's cramped and cozy, every table full of locals enjoying their drinks, not in a rush. A group of teenage girls snap photos of each other in front of the colorful pink painting. Four old men play cards at a back table, surrounded by empty coffee cups. I suspect the table is kind of like their office, where they spend their days swapping stories of their youth.
Outside the front window, a woman in a long white dress walks hand-in-hand with her daughter. I feel a pain of happiness and longing in my chest. That's what I want for myself—an afternoon to stroll outside with my child.
I touch James's arm. “Would you mind going back to the villa without me?”
He looks up from his phone, frowning. “What?”
“I know you have a meeting to get to, but I'd like to explore the village a little. Maybe you can send the car to come pick me up in a few hours. We only get a few days here, so I want to take advantage.”
“No,” he says, looking back at his phone and typing.
My jaw drops. “What do you mean, no? This is my vacation, too. Just because you?—”
He raises a hand to stop me. “What I mean to say is, I can cancel my meeting. I can have it on Zoom later.”
A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth. “Does that mean you're coming with me?”
“If that's okay.”
I link my arm in his. “It's preferred.”
My Freddo Espresso was just as delicious as I hoped it would be, sweet and frothy. It’s the perfect refreshment for wandering through the little cobbled streets. We only make it about a block before I spot a tiny shop with pottery in the windows.
“Oh, let's go in!” I chirp, tugging my husband toward the door.
Inside, I find dozens of shelves packed with artisan ceramic pieces. There are gorgeous but practical sets of dishes, but also tiny, strange little statues—clearly modern, not traditional. An elderly woman emerges from the back room to explain every piece I touch in heavily-accented English. It seems like every cup, every vase has a story. This one is made by an elderly man who was born in this town and glazed by his daughter, who moved to Athens. These plates have been made the same way, by the same family, for over two hundred years. Those tiles were taken from a local church before it was demolished and repainted by a young artist.
My favorite piece is a large cobalt blue bowl, sculpted and fired by the saleswoman herself, with tiny fish scales and a winding mermaid carved into it. James gives the woman his credit card and she wraps it up for him.
“Thank you,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his waist as we emerge back into the village. “I love the bowl.”
“I have a feeling this won't be the last thing I buy you today,” he says, humor in his voice.
He's right about that. By sheer luck, we started our walk in the village’s art district. Every street has multiple shops that drag my attention. At first, I feel a little bad making James stop so often. I almost skip walking into a clothing store with piles of colorful scarves in the window. It’s James that stops me.
“I saw you looking at that pink scarf,” he says, almost accusingly.
I shrug. “It’s nice.”
“But you don’t want to stop and get it.”
“It would make a nice present for Cat, but I don't need it.”
He tugs me toward the shop door. “Come on. We're in no rush.”
“What about your schedule?” I can't resist asking.
“I think it fell in the Aegean and drowned,” he jokes.
Everything that catches my fancy, James buys without complaint, from a breezy blue sundress to a fresh baklava as big as my hand. He also insists on carrying everything, telling me that since he’s skipping the gym all week, being my packhorse will be his replacement workout. After loading up with his eighth shopping bag—this one full of little pieces of onyx I found at a small store—he politely suggests we turn around and head back to the car.
“I wish I could do this every day,” I sigh.
