Page 31

“See?” The corner of his mouth quirks up.

He heads into the cabin again, this time returning with a bottle of sparkling white wine. When he offers, I gladly accept. He pours us each a glass and we clink them together, Luka murmuring a gentle “Živjeli.” I lean back against my seat, taking a sip. It’s cool and crisp, the perfect contrast to the hot sun beating down.

Luka relaxes across from me. With his broad frame draped over the edge of the boat, his windswept hair, he looks straight out of some brooding European cologne ad.

Tension slips from my body with each sip of wine. This is exactly what I need, especially after all that dark curse talk. The word bliss slips into my mind. Not a word I use often, but this is it.

I release a long sigh. “I could sit here and do nothing all day.”

He laughs. “Fjaka must have caught you.”

“Fyah-kah?” I say, imitating his pronunciation. “What’s that?”

“It is a little hard to explain. Some people say it’s like the Spanish siesta, some say it’s laziness, but it’s more a . . . a state of mind. A feeling that comes over you when the weather is hot, like now. Time stops existing and you don’t want to go anywhere or do anything. You want nothing at all—only to relax and just . . . be.”

At his final word, his eyes snag on mine. My lips say, “I like that,” but for some reason, my mind decides, I like you. I reach for a slice of prosciutto, if only to push down the idea.

“Me too,” Luka murmurs.

“So, you’re a chef, then,” I say in the most nonchalant voice I can muster.

“That’s right.”

“What made you want to become one?”

The look of contentment on his face fades. He rakes a hand through his hair—really adding to the whole cologne model vibe—then swirls his glass, lost in thought. “I guess it was spite, really.”

My hand falters on its way to my mouth. Not the answer I was expecting. “What do you mean?”

His expression hardens as he peers at me. I recognize the calculating look in his eyes because it’s one I’ve often worn on dates. Deciding how much to reveal, how much to hold back. I’m surprised to realize I want to know more of him, rather than less.

He settles into a new position, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. “My mother’s family owns our restaurant, Ko Doma, but my father was a chef too,” he begins. “He’s Croatian but born in Germany. They met while he was here on vacation, and they bonded over food. At the end of the summer, he was supposed to leave, but then . . . she got pregnant.”

My brows lift as I envision his mom and the man I met in the kitchen of Ko Doma. But I’m pretty sure Luka said he was his uncle.

“When she told my father, he decided to move here,” Luka goes on. “My mother wasn’t interested in leaving the restaurant, and she didn’t want to be far from her family, especially after the war. Times were tough for a while, but they made things work, with him finding jobs on the mainland during the offseason. In the summer, we came here to this beach a lot, to fish.” A calm yet distant look overtakes his features, as if he’s reliving the memory.

“But he never seemed fully happy. He spent more and more time away, on the mainland, and then in Germany. Then one summer, when I was thirteen, he left.”

When Luka doesn’t continue, I ask gently, “Do you know why?”

His mouth tightens before answering. “I overheard them one night, arguing. He said what they had was only supposed to be a fling, but then . . . he got tied down.” Luka’s voice drips with bitterness.

A sharp ache cuts through me. Coping with my mom’s death was hard, but the idea of a parent choosing to disappear seems far more devastating.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know it’s not enough. I have the sudden urge to comfort him, to reach across the span of the boat and squeeze his hand—but I resist. “Did you talk to him, before he left?”

Luka shakes his head. “Nah. I had nothing to say.” Judging by the tinge of scorn in his voice, I doubt that’s true. “Anyway, after that, I started helping out more in the restaurant. My mother needed the extra hand, but I also did it out of spite, like I said. I wanted the restaurant to become very successful, to prove he was wrong to leave. It didn’t matter, of course. Eventually, my anger faded and I kept cooking because I genuinely enjoyed it.” He pauses, taking a sip from his glass. “When I got older, I understood better. Croatia can be a hard place to love sometimes.”

I lean forward, surprised by the statement. “Why’s that?”

He gives me a weary look. “To someone just visiting, it might look like some pretty postcard. But to the people here, life isn’t a vacation. It’s hard to make a decent living. Sure, in the summer, tourists come and they bring money. But they also bring noise, mess, and they make things more expensive for us. It’s hard to get a decent job, not to mention all the bureaucracy. Most of my friends have gone to other countries for work. The population here is decreasing, only getting older. More and more, I think Tolba is a place people leave, rather than stay.”

Even though I don’t live here, the quiet melancholy in his words makes my heart ache. “And you? Do you think you’ll ever leave?”

He peers down into his glass. “I’ve thought about it. I could make more money somewhere else. But I’ve put a lot of work into the restaurant. Sometimes I wonder, though, if it’s enough.”

My pulse stills; it’s as if he stole the sentiment from my own listless thoughts. Without my mom and with Lily in a new town, all I had was my job to tether me to San Francisco—sure, it paid my bills, but I didn’t like it that much. When Karmela invited me to Tolba, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. She did say I could stay however long I wanted. Could this place ever be home?