“Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Skye began, but the older woman shook her head.
“Óchi, óchi,” she said. “I was thinking only of the past.”
“Do you know much about it?” Skye said. “Nobody seems to have any idea why the houses were abandoned.”
There was a soft clunk as the rosary beads dropped onto the counter. Sophia’s hands were delicate, the skin nearly translucent, with brown spots scattered among pale blue veins.
“My father,” she said, “he lived for a time up on that hillside.”
“Your father?” Skye leaned in, her mind racing ahead. “When was this?”
“Before the war began,” Sophia replied with a small smile. He was a…exoría. Ah, political…”
“You mean a political exile?” Skye said.
Sophia nodded quickly.
“Nai, nai—exile. When the occupation began, it was not safefor him, not safe for a great number of Greeks, and so he had to go.” She raised her arm and made a sweeping gesture.
“A long time after the war ended, he returned to the island with my mother and found the houses empty, his friends and neighbors, all of them gone.”
“Did he ever see any of them again?” Skye asked.
“Óchi.” She lowered her eyes.
“And he never found out what happened to them, where they all went?”
The older woman let out a sigh that was tinged with sadness.
“This I do not know,” she said. “Talking about the war, it made my father very angry. He did not like to remember it.”
“Is he still here on the island?” Skye asked, stirred by the possibility of having a conversation with someone who’d lived in one of the houses and could recall their neighbors by name, perhaps even have photographs of them.
Sophia laid a hand against her breastbone, her gaze drifting far away.
“Éfyge,” she murmured, her voice quiet but heavy. She shook her head slowly. “He left long ago.”
Twenty-seven
In the week following the storm, Skye tried not to dwell on her encounter with the journalist. There was no story, not really, not until the bones had been tested, and that would take at least another fourteen days.
“Often, when a Greek tells you it will be two weeks, you must add another six,” Andreas had joked. Skye was conflicted. Part of her longed to know the truth, though another, more cautious part was fearful of what could happen if her small house drew any more attention.
With most of the structural work now complete, the only major tasks left were plastering the exterior, decorating the interior, and tackling the garden, which still looked as if a herd of bison had trampled through it. Certainly it constituted more than enough distraction from the dread that kept running its icy fingers along her spine.
Sunday rolled around. It was almost the end of June, and the persistent wind felt hair-dryer hot as it chased in through the open windows. Skye had made the mistake of checking her email whiledrinking her morning frappé. Her mother had been in touch again, insistent as ever, wanting answers about her disappearance, the length of her supposed sabbatical, and when exactly this “performance” would come to an end. As she had with every other message, Skye replied that she was fine and not to worry, fully aware that her deliberate vagueness would only deepen Cassandra MacKinnon’s simmering displeasure.
She was in the process of sprinkling cat treats across the front doorstep for Tigri when the familiar shape of Joy came into view over the wall. Her friend was in head-to-toe turquoise, from her sequined bandanna right down to her bejeweled sandals, and was sucking on a white Popsicle.
“Made it myself,” she said, offering Skye a lick, which she declined with a laugh. “Mojito flavor, heavy on the rum. Probably a bit too heavy, truth be told, but you know me.”
Tigri padded over, purring as he crunched through his treats. Skye stared down at him, moony-eyed.
“You’re soft on that moggy,” Joy observed.
“I always wanted a cat,” Skye said. “I couldn’t have one growing up because my dad was allergic, then later, when I lived alone, I didn’t think it would be fair. I was out so much at work and whatnot. And then there’s the worry that they’ll get into the road, be hit by a car, or stolen by a catnapper.”
“Catnapping is what I do most afternoons here,” Joy said lightly. “Lay me on a beach towel and I’ll be snoring inside five minutes.”
