Theo’s eyes briefly closed.
“Eventually, yes. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. I don’t want George to ever know what she said. I haven’t lied to him, though, except by omission. Deirdre does know where we are.”
“Do you think she’ll ever come here?” Skye asked.
“Honestly?” he said. “No, I don’t think she will.”
His words anchored them for a few moments in silence, the only sound the persistent rain. Theo removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I really would like to translate the rest of the letters for you,” he said. “My way of saying thank you for helping George, for caring about him.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“No, but I want to,” he said. “Maybe we can start a project once this edit is done, do some proper research into the people who lived here before us, build up an archive of letters, photos, artifacts.”
Thunder cracked across the hillside, loud enough to make Skye step back from the window.
“There are bound to be more things out there,” Theo said, his tone thoughtful. “Waiting to be found.”
Skye nodded, a thrill rising in her chest.
“I can’t wait to see what this mysterious little village turns up next.”
Outside, the storm rolled on, and somewhere beneath it, the past stirred, patient yet unresolved, waiting to surface once more.
Twenty-three
When Skye returned home several hours later, it was still raining, great sheets of water that seemed to blow in from every direction. She clutched her bag to her side and ran, slipping on the wet earth and almost falling in her haste to reach shelter.
There was no sign of the truck or Andreas, though she could see from the glistening patches of putty on the walls that he’d been hard at work during her absence. The downstairs area had been transformed over the past few weeks. Skye took a moment to admire the smooth curves of her new fireplace, the stacked seating area that wrapped around the room, and Andreas’s beautiful wood-paneled ceiling, reinforced by steel supports. Stamatis had laid rubber panels beneath the floors upstairs to minimize sound and trap heat, while up in the attic, flat boards had been hammered into place. She no longer had to hop across the joists in order to reach the window. It was still her favorite spot, the place she retreated to whenever thoughts of Katerina crept in. Skyedidn’t believe in ghosts, not in the spectral sense, though she couldn’t dismiss the idea of energy, that invisible trace a person leaves behind. The notion that death was merely an end struck her as not only cruel but insufficient. Her dad had gone, yes, but something of him remained, threaded through her in ways she could not explain. And now Katerina, too, existed in that quietly persistent way: not seen but felt.
In the bedroom, she peeled off her dress and hung it up to dry before rooting dejectedly through her open suitcase. She’d finally gotten around to ordering a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and a bed frame and mattress, all of which were due to arrive before the weekend—and not a moment too soon. Skye was well aware that she also needed to buy a sofa and chairs, rugs for every room, as well as a desk and bookcases. She was also keenly aware of her rapidly depleting funds. The proceeds from the Rolex would cover the renovations and her own living costs for the first year or so, but after that, she would need a steady income.
The downpour still hadn’t let up. Rain pummeled the roof as Skye pulled on a shirt and shorts, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. She was halfway to the kitchen, her mind on coffee and maybe some lunch, when a sharp knock split the air.
“Bloody hell” was how Joy greeted her. “It’s wetter than a sea lion’s flipper out there.”
“Come inside,” Skye said. “I was just about to put the kettle on.”
“Got anything stronger than tea?” Joy asked, shaking out her umbrella and leaning it against the wall, where it promptly began to drip a small puddle across the tiles. She wore a tie-dyed maxi dress in swirls of purple and green, her mass of frizzy hair pinned up in a loose, slightly lopsided bun, and her bronzed arms were flecked with what looked like paint.
Knowing Joy, it could just as easily have been part of the outfit.
“I don’t think I do,” Skye said, smiling an apology. “But there is some honey cake.”
Ever since Andreas had given her a slice, she’d been addicted.
“Sophia’s honey cake?” Joy said.
Sophia was the owner of the village bakery—a wily, sparkly-eyed woman in her seventies who was forever telling Skye that she was “tóso ómorfi”—so beautiful.
“Naturally,” Skye said now, leading Joy toward the kitchen, “although one of these days, I might have a go at making one myself.”
“Least you’ve got an oven. You know the girls are still getting by with only a microwave? Dusty’s so set on finishing the extension that she’s ignoring all the other rooms in the house. I told her she should let Andreas and his crew help out, but she won’t have it. She’s started some Instagram account now. I’ve seen her out in the garden filming ‘A Day in the Life of a Greek Renovation’ videos.”
“Sounds like a nice idea,” Skye said. She had deleted almost all of her social media accounts before coming to Folegandros, though she’d taken plenty of before-and-after pictures of the house at Sal’s request. Her friend had promised to try to visit at the end of September, once the third Australian school term broke, which meant Skye had plenty of time to finish the place.
“Did I tell you that Mini Mia’s started working at the vet clinic?” Joy went on. “Only for two days a week, but she’s loving it so far.”
