“It’s been so long. I have this vague recollection of creatures enchanting locals with their voices, but… I’m fuzzy on the details.”
“You want the story.”
I nodded.
“The sirens.” She sighed and looked up as if accessing long-forgotten memories. “That rumor has been floating around for years. Even when I was a young girl. They say a group of sirens emigrated from Greece around the turn of the century to escape persecution. They searched the coast of America for a place to settle, somewhere reminiscent of their Mediterranean home, and—” She held her arms open. “—they landed here.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow, and she laughed. “I know, it all sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it? And the rumors started a long time ago, back when my mama was a child and when women weren’t allowed to be as casual in their relationships. And the island has been home to a couple of legendary singers over the years, just feeding the rumors. Mama used to warn me off the island singers, telling me I’d be led astray.” She chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. “Old-world superstition if you ask me, the lot of it.”
“What about now?”
“Now? Well. I’m too old now to be out and about listening to gossip. But if there’s any truth to the rumors—” She jutted her chin in the direction of the table by the door. “—I’d put my money on those Georgiou boys.” Her face took on a mischievous bend. “Yes, I overheard the ladies talking, too. Your grandma and I knew their fathers, and those men were just as charming and notorious as their sons. And those voices!” She fanned herself with a menu. “No doubt there’s something magical about the men in that family.” She narrowed her eyes and scanned my face. “Why do you ask?”
I looked away. “No reason.”
“Lena?”
“Ugh. Those swim lessons I’ve been taking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve been taking them with one of the instructors from the Ocean Explorers Club and?—”
“Ahh. I see.” She chuckled again. “A little enchanted by Elias Georgiou, are we?” My cheeks heated. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. He’s a handsome one, all right.” Her eyes landed over my shoulder, and I glanced back to see a new customer in line.
“Thanks for breakfast, Sonia. And the story. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Anytime, hun,” she said with a nod, and I turned to leave.
I stepped out onto the porch and found an empty bench to enjoy my breakfast while the world went by—couples out for a morning stroll, the thwack of tennis balls from the court across the parking lot, golf carts carrying players to their next tee.
Elias said his grandfather and his great-uncle had emigrated from Greece. And Elias and Niko were in their mid-forties…
I took a bite of scone and washed down the sweetness with my latte.
I remembered how the words he sang to me that first night lodged in my head, playing on repeat as if they’d had a life of their own, their haunting tone and magnetic allure constantly demanding my attention…
I sipped my latte, hoping the milky comfort would temper the nervous seed forming deep in the pit of my stomach.
And while he sang? Sometimes even when he spoke? His voice drew me to him like a moth to a flame. It captivated me, compelling me toward him to beg for more. I’d experienced it on more than one occasion, but wrote it off as my lusty, sex-starved body winning the war with my brain. But maybe that wasn’t the reason. Maybe the island was home to another, more corporeal form of magic.
The nervous seed took root, a combination of unease and anger spreading out from my stomach into my chest and up my neck. A siren. A magical creature. Seducing me with his song and manipulating me into believing we had something special. Then moving on to his next victim.
“This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”
I struggled to sleep that night, the endless reel of racing thoughts about Elias, sirens, and moving to Hilton Head speeding across my mind like an action movie trailer on repeat. I’m not sure how or when I finally succumbed to sleep, but I found myself transported into the kitchen amid the sights, sounds, and smells of a waking dream.
I stood behind Grandma at the standing mixer, her hand on the lever watching the batter come together. She was making my birthday cake. Coconut with fresh strawberries. I’d watched her do it every year as a child, and even after I moved out, she made it for me when I came home as close to my birthday as possible.
The smell of the coconut and sugar and the rhythmic whirr of the standing mixer penetrated my senses even through sleep. A bowl of sliced strawberries sat on the counter waiting to adorn the final product. I stood behind her, peering over her shoulder, and warmth radiated from her slight frame. Familiar. Comforting. Real.
She glanced back, the wrinkled features of her face filled with love and pride. She tipped her head and touched her forehead to mine like she’d done ever since I was little. A sense of safety and belonging swelled in my chest, a reflection of her unconditional love.
“I’m so proud of you, Lena. Trust your instincts—you know the truth. And never give up.” She held my gaze a moment longer as if to ensure her message landed, then turned back to face the mixer.
I woke with a start, and Grandma’s sudden disappearance ripped the scab off my still-healing heart.
I cried. Hard and unrestrained, I cried. Not the bitter, frustrated crying I’d done after my divorce. Not the sad, defeated crying I’d done after Grandma died. But a complete and uncontrolled emptying of emotion.
