Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (17 page)

I turned to Damen.

"But how long will it take to get what you need?"

"Not long," he said. "You must understand, Mikalo is loved. People will do what they can to help him make a dream come true.

"Do not worry," he then promised. "We will make his dream come true."

I looked to Deni.

She nodded, her eyes shining.

"Absolutely," she said with a small smile.

The afternoon had grown long, the day lost in an ongoing conversation of what would be needed to rebuild the cottage, the growing excitement of what was to be punctuated by cool sea breezes carried on a hot sun, the smell of the white capped waves below in the air, the shadows finally stretching their fingers far and wide.

We headed back to the house.

Deni sat in front next to Damen, the two of them debating what was needed first, what would be their initial focus. The roof? The ceiling? The floor? A late lunch?

I sat in back, watching as we zipped down the hill, Damen expertly navigating the bumps on the road, narrowly missing the overgrown brush and leafy branches of the trees.

They'll need to cut this all back from the road, I thought. And then decided not to mention it. They had enough to do. The last thing they needed on their exploding list is cutting brush back from a long, winding road leading up a hill.

Mikalo.

I smiled at the thought of my Mikalo walking in to discover this gift. This cottage taken over, brought back from ruin, and turned into a place where we could live and laugh and love.

The thought of it made my heart sing. Like a child dreaming of Christmas Morning, I couldn't wait to share this moment with him. Of seeing his dream come true.

"Ronan," Deni called out over her shoulder.

"Yeah," I shouted back, the sound of the Jeep rumbling its way through the brush drowning out serious conversation.

"We're going to drop you home and then head into town, okay?"

"Sounds good," I shouted back.

She turned her head and faced forward again, the two of them once again talking about the strongest wood to use, the best mortar to place between the stones, how many men would be needed to repair the ceiling.

I looked out at the greenery buzzing by, suddenly aware the day after tomorrow I'd be walking down the aisle. If there was an aisle to walk down, that is. I'm not sure what was being planned.

I did know that Deni was my Maid of Honor. And I suspected Damen, being Mikalo's best friend, was going to be his Best Man.

Other than that and the fact we'd be having a non-denominational ceremony where we'd say a simple "I do", I was winging it.

I was going to be as surprised as everyone else.

We were getting close to the house now, the ground leveling off, our descent from the hill at an end.

The knots in my stomach returned as we turned the corner and started the small climb to the family compound, the square, squat buildings waiting at the top of the hill like large, white blocks.

I breathed deeply, willing myself calm, willing the pain away.

I failed, my nerves only growing more ragged, more intense, as we turned up the driveway and drove toward the house.

We came to a stop.

The silence was deafening.

Damen was slipping from behind the wheel, Deni was already out of the passenger seat and stretching her arms overhead as she stood next to the Jeep.

I remained seated, despite Damen offering his hand.

"Ronan?" Deni asked.

She poked her head into the Jeep.

"Wedding Day jitters," I joked.

"Come on," she said. "Move. Get out. Walk. It'll help you feel better."

I clambered out of the backseat, all but falling into the driveway despite both Deni and Damen offering their hands.

Smooth.

They climbed back into the Jeep.

Deni looked at me.

"You gonna be okay?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

Damen started up the Jeep and, a moment later, they were down the driveway on their way to town.

I started toward the house.

What I needed was to see Mikalo. Hug him, hold him close. Bury my face deep in his chest and inhale his scent.

The thought of that inevitability lightened my heart, the pangs in my stomach quieting.

I passed through the doors onto the ground floor.

No one around.

Yet I could hear the hushed tones of someone, or a lot of someones, around the corner. Whispers behind closed doors. Discussions. Conversations.

Quiet talk not meant for my ears.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned toward the room I shared with Mikalo.

I found him sitting on the edge of the bed.

He lifted his head as I came near.

A breath later, I was standing before him, my arms wrapping around him as he pushed his face into my breasts, his arms holding me close, holding me tight.

"My Grace," he said, his words losing themselves in my embrace.

His voice sounded tense. Almost sad.

I pulled back, lifting his chin to me as I looked down into his face.

There were tears in his eyes.

"There will be no wedding," he said before erupting into sobs, his shoulders shaking as the tears flowed down his cheeks.

Nona was dead.

While I had been hanging out at the House of Broken Hearts, Deni and Damen and I plotting and planning the beginning of a new life for this long abandoned home, she had been discovered by a maid, lying quietly in bed, her hands folded across her generous stomach.

Sometime in the night she had slipped away. Sometime during sleep. Calmly. Quietly. Without fuss.

The doctor, a very old man from the town, had already shown up to feel her wrist for a pulse, press his stethoscope to her chest, stand for a long moment with his hand on hers, and then nod his head.

Yes, Nona was dead.

With no funeral home on the island and no way for her to be properly attended to before burial, her body would be taken to Athens this afternoon.

"By boat," Mikalo had insisted, a journey that would certainly take several hours.

"She is afraid of flying," he then explained before the tears rolled down his cheeks and his shoulders shook in heaving sobs.

My poor Mikalo was inconsolable.

Silvestro was drinking.

Caugina was sitting quietly in a corner. As horrible as it sounds, something told me she was trying to judge when it would be best to bring up Nona's Will.

The rest of the family, these strangers I had rarely seen and didn't yet know, would be arriving from Athens and elsewhere throughout the day, a steady stream of shocked faces and broken hearts, filing in to stand awkwardly, not sure what to do or what to say.

Everyone on this side of the world for a wedding, now coming for a funeral.

No, there would be no wedding. How could there be?

Her death was stopping something that her life, her reluctance, her insistence on what she believed to be right, to be better for Mikalo, could not.

I had believed the lie. Had believed she had softened and that a tacit blessing lingered somewhere in the old woman's heart for Mikalo and me and the simplicity of what we were trying to build.

I was wrong.

And now she was gone and, because of that, any chance of my saying "I do" in the near future was now as dead as she was.

Perhaps I should ride on the boat to Athens with her to have my dreams of wedded bliss embalmed and slipped in the coffin next to her.

Wow, Ronan, way to be dramatic there. This isn't about you. Get it together.

I leaned forward and carefully placed a kiss on my Mikalo's forehead.

And then I left him to settle the details with Silvestro and a now engaged and inappropriately eager Caugina of what would happen when and how, drifting up the stairs and down the hall to my room.

I sat on the end of the bed, in shock. At the breathtaking suddenness of Nona's passing, of how horribly it was ripping out my poor Mikalo's heart, of landing in Greece to be a bride and leaving not only still single, but on the arm of a man in deep mourning.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to wrap my head around it. Tried to square the healthy Nona I spoke with last night with the Nona that now rested in eternal peace in a bedroom on the first floor.

A small knock.

I turned.

Silvestro.

"May I?" he asked, his voice small, his face flushed.

Holding a drink in his hand, he waited awkwardly in the doorway.

I stood up.

"Of course," I insisted. "Please."

And then I went to him, my arms gathering him in a hug.

His body was stiff, as if hugs were a foreign thing to him, his arms not quite sure what to do, how to respond.

I pulled away.

"I am so, so sorry," I then said.

He blinked, once, twice, quickly leaving me to wander to the mirror and then to look out the window, the heavy-bottom crystal to his fleshy lips, the amber liquid being swallowed gulp by desperate gulp.

I waited.

Standing with his back to me, his glass now empty, he spoke.

"Tell me," he said, "what was said with Nona? What did she say to you? And you to her? "

He turned to face me.

"What did you do that made her so upset?"

Shit.

I almost laughed. That somehow in someway he or Caugina or the rest of Mikalo's family would find a way to blame me for this was beyond ludicrous. Then again, it made sense, their irrational hatred of me giving them an easy scapegoat.

But that wasn't going to happen.

I was reverting back to my Old Ronan ways and if this upset them, then so be it.

"It was a pleasant conversation," I said. "She sat at her desk, rubbed lotion on her hands, and brushed her hair. And we talked about, oh, I don't know, life, love, secrets. Just really nothing in particular.

"But she wasn't upset," I added. "Far from it."

Okay, that was a tiny bit of a lie. She did refuse to look at me at the end, the giving of the key shaking old memories loose. But she certainly wasn't in distress and I hardly think she was upset enough to die!

And I was leaving out the key and the house on the hill. No doubt if Silvestro knew he'd tell Caugina and she'd probably try and commandeer it away from Damen and Deni and somehow make it her own.

Nope. It was Mikalo's. A charming two room home he was sharing with me.

Silvestro stood near the window clutching his glass, his beady eyes watching me carefully.

"And when I left her with a kiss on the head," I said, "she seemed fine. Absolutely fine."

He swallowed hard, his mind trying to wrap around what I just said.

"You kissed Nona?" he asked, almost in shock. "You gave Nona a kiss on the head?"

"Yeah," I said with a shrug. "It was the right thing to do. She had opened herself to me and, I don't know, it felt like a perfect ending to what had been a very sweet, sincere talk."

From below, I heard the Jeep rumble up the driveway.

Silvestro looked over his shoulder.

"His friend and your friend," he said with a condescending sniff and then brought the glass to his lips, forgetting it was empty.

Realizing this, he pulled it away from his mouth and slammed it down on the desk.

"You kissed Nona," he repeated.

A long pause.

"A thing I never did," he then said quietly. "Or perhaps it has been many years since I kissed her, my Nona."

His face grew more flushed as his eyes grew wet. He brought his hand to his mouth as the tears spilled down his cheeks.

I wanted to go to him, this man who for whatever private reasons despised me, and wrap my arms around him, suddenly aware how lonely his life was and how little affection and love his betrothed showed him.

But no. I stood here, allowing him to find his own grief.

"Go now," I then said. "Leave."

His eyes met mine, confused and then angry.

I continued.

"She is not gone yet, your Nona. Go now, sit with her, hold her hand, tell her how much you love her and how much you appreciate her, and then kiss her. On the cheek. On the head. On the lips. Whatever your heart says, go now and say goodbye before she is truly gone forever."

Silvestro listened, his fist still jammed against his mouth to stifle his sobs. And then he turned on his heel and walked to the door.