She turned to him, both hands clutching her bag, but with a big smile. ‘What I’d like is to go home.’
He felt his own smile fade.
She stepped closer to him. ‘Because it’s easier to talk. Easier to get to know each other in a quiet space.’
After she looped her arm through his and they walked over to the lift which would take them to the carpark, he felt his smile re-appear.
Augi felt unaccountably nervous as she put her key in the lock of her small rental cottage. But she didn’t have any inclination to change her mind, despite this being a first for her. She rarely, if ever, invited anyone, bar neighbours, into her personal space. But it was time — beyond time — to open up her life a little. Besides, she didn’t seem to have any option. It felt as if it were splitting apart of its own volition — helped along by Dan.
She glanced at him shyly. His silhouette was outlined by the streetlamp behind him but she could see his smile widen as his gaze met hers. She knew he wouldn’t be expecting anything more than a drink and a chat. She’d made sure to subtly send that message on the drive home. Besides, she knew there was no way Dan would push himself into any situation where he wasn’t wanted. Thing was, he was usually wanted. And tonight was no exception.
‘Welcome to my home,’ she said, stepping aside as he entered the small room which held her kitchen, sitting and dining rooms. Not that each one had ever been a room. There had only ever been one space, dominated by the original fireplace which now held a wood burner, much needed in the shadowy cottage in winter when the sun disappeared behind the hills. But she had decorated her home with the rich, warm colours of Greece. It was the one place where she wanted her home country to be around her.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Dan, looking around, his gaze alighting on different objects — the framed images of Greece and the books — before settling on the personal photographs. Her smile dropped a little. She hadn’t imagined she’d invite him back — she rarely invited anyone to her home — and so it wasn’t stranger-proof. But then he looked at her and she knew he wouldn’t go over and study them. ‘You have a lovely home.’
She huffed a laugh as she took the few steps into the kitchen, noting the repetition of the word lovely. It was a good try. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think it measures up to anything you’re used to.’
His face became serious. ‘I’m not kidding. It’s not the size of a space that makes up a home. It’s the personality of the people — or the person — living in it.’
‘Oh,’ she faltered. ‘I’m not sure what my home says about me.’
He looked around, quiet for a few moments, and then settled his gaze once more on her. ‘It says you’re someone for whom home is important. It shows a side to you — colours even — which you don’t normally express.’
Her hand shook a little as she opened her larder door. Time to change the subject. ‘I have a bottle of red wine. Or would you prefer a hot drink?’
He opened his mouth to speak and seemed to check himself. ‘A hot drink will be fine, thanks.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
She watched him surreptitiously as she measured the cold water into the briki, and added the fine coffee grounds, together with a little sugar. ‘I’m afraid I only have the old traditional way of making coffee — on the stovetop with the briki. It takes a little longer.’
‘No problem.’ He glanced down. ‘Is that what the copper pot is called?’
She nodded, as she placed it over the heat and stirred the mixture. ‘An important part of any Greek household — even if they no longer live there. Old habits die hard.’
She took out a tin of baking, arranged the biscuits on a plate and placed them on the small coffee table which she’d bought, like the rest of the furniture, at the local op shop.
‘Amygdalota — or almond cookies,’ she said. ‘Traditional Greek biscuits to have with coffee in the evening.’
‘Um, looks delicious,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘You look surprised.’
‘It’s just more… Greek, I suppose, than I imagined.’ He looked at her. ‘You don’t talk about Greece very much.’
‘No,’ she sat down and looked at her fingers clasped in her lap. ‘People don’t want to hear about things which aren’t of interest or relevance to them.’
He frowned quizzically. ‘I think you might underestimate people. Especially people who are interested in you.’
‘There aren’t that many, believe me.’ She immediately wished she hadn’t said that. It seemed like an invitation for him to prove the opposite were true.
‘It might have escaped you, because you’re so modest, but believe me, I don’t know anyone who isn’t interested in “our librarian.”’
‘Books,’ she muttered. ‘The universal connection.’
‘No, it’s more than that. You touch people’s lives with your compassion.’
