Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (19 page)

And then he turned and left the room.

I decided not to question it or go too deep into worry.

Instead, I walked to the closet and got dressed, chosing a simple shirt, kind of dressy, and a pair of brown slacks, the darkest I had. A pair of shiny black ballet flats later, I was as ready as I was going to be.

Mikalo waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, the tribe of various Delises wandering out of the house and through the driveway to the small graveyard.

Suffice it to say, I had no idea there was even a graveyard on the island.

"It is where the family is always placed to rest," Mikalo explained, wrapping my hand in his.

"You look beautiful," he then said with a small smile.

His way of apologizing.

I offered a small smile back.

"Are you okay?" I asked, aware of how stupid it sounded.

He squeezed my hand.

"With this," he said, giving our entwined hands a small shake, "all will be well."

With that, we joined the line of mourners walking through the driveway, skirting the beach, and then heading onto a small, well-worn path into the yellowing brush.

His hand in mine, I felt him hesitate, his feet growing reluctant.

His parents were buried here, I suddenly realized.

God, this must be killing him.

I reached my other hand over, resting it on his arm and doing what I could to steady him.

But the truth of the matter was there was little I could do.

A small walk later, we stood gathered at an open crypt, Nona's large simple coffin resting before it, covered in flowers and small handwritten expressions of love. Small notes, folded and placed among the long stems and fragrant blossoms.

Had I known, I would have written a note. A small expression of what I hoped she and I could have had and how grateful I was she had entrusted me with the key.

Had I known.

Then again, I was a stranger and my slipping in my sentiments might have been seen as presumptuous. Especially in light of the family's open disdain for me.

No, I would thank her silently in my prayers.

We stood, Mikalo and I, hand in hand toward the front, the heavy polished wood of the coffin within reach.

He had his eyes closed as he listened to the priest say something or other about eternal life, slipping between the rough choppy sounds of Greek and the more familiar, dulcet tones of heavily accented English.

Occasionally the mourners would respond in unison after he'd say something, the routine familiar to them, but a mystery to me.

Occasionally there would be a muffled sob or a sigh. A trembling of the chin as we stood under a hot sun surrounded by above ground crypts that looked like squat, square houses, names chiseled on their smooth faces in both English and Greek.

And then suddenly it was finished, the crowd pressing forward to place their hands on the wood, thread their fingers through the flowers, press their faces to their beloved Nona and weep as they mumbled and muttered and cried their last goodbyes.

Silvestro drunkenly stumbled forward, leaving Caugina who stood out like a sore thumb in purple Chanel haute couture, a ludicrously large snake covered in diamonds wrapped around her throat.

I reached forward, my hand on Silvestro's arm as I steadied him.

He turned his head, his eyes tear stained and weary, finding me and, with a small nod, wordlessly thanked me.

Caugina glared.

The mourners hushed.

I didn't care.

The last thing this day needed was the drunken grandson stumbling forward and knocking the coffin over.

A moment later, he had said a silent goodbye and listed back to Caugina who, aware of her faux pas, insincerely welcomed him with wide open arms.

And then there was Mikalo and me.

People had started to leave, their goodbyes said, the crowd thinning.

He and I stood silently, waiting.

And when it was almost quiet, the space almost ours, Mikalo stepped forward, his hand leaving mine.

He approached the coffin and bent low, his face pressed to the flowers. He was speaking, the words soft and private, the tears on his cheeks, his chin trembling.

Standing up, he took a step back.

I stepped forward, my hands instinctively wiping the tears from his face.

He allowed it with a small sigh.

Nona waited.

I placed my hand on the wood, the smooth surface having grown warm under the sun, the flowers beginning to wilt, the aroma still pungent.

Nona, I said silently, thank you. Thank you for giving me your last night. Thank you for giving me the key. And thank you for allowing me to give you that last kiss.

Please know that I love him very much, I continued, the words in my mind as my hand rested among the flowers. Know that I will always love him. That will never change. Even if I stay forever just his lover and never his wife, he will always be in my heart.

There will never be another, I then said, finishing, and saying goodbye.

We turned to go.

Mikalo paused, hesitating.

He then took me by the hand and guided me to a separate set of crypts.

"Mama, Papa," he then said, my hand firmly in his as we stood before his parents, "this is my Grace, the woman I've told you about."

Stopping, he took a deep breath.

"I love her very much. I hope you know this. I know you can see this from Heaven."

At this, his voice broke.

Taking a moment, he gathered himself before continuing.

"Know that I will always love her, Mama, Papa. That will never change. She will always be in my heart."

He gripped my hand tighter.

"There will never be another," he repeated, his spoken words echoing my silent prayers to Nona.

New mortar gleamed between the cracks in the stone walls. Fresh panes of thick square glass glinted in the sunlight, the shutters I'd discovered in the second room repaired and sanded and hanging in place with a new coat of bright white paint. A new wooden door now sat in new hinges, thick solid planks of darker wood framing the doorway. A new roof was still needed, but it didn't seem to matter.

And a new lock, one that matched the key, waited.

He stood near the Jeep, Mikalo, in shock.

I waited with Damen and Deni closer to the house.

We watched him, silently urging him to join us. To come and have a look.

But he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape.

"What ...?" he started to say before shaking his head.

I wanted to go to him, take him by the hand, and bring him near. But it was better to let him work through the impossibility of this on his own, his feet carrying him to us when his heart was ready.

He wandered near.

"How ...? he said, stopping, the words belying his disbelief.

Turning toward Damen,

"You?" he asked.

Damen nodded with a big smile and then a small shrug.

At once, Mikalo rushed toward him, their bodies colliding, Mikalo's arms around him as they embraced, Damen's feet leaving the ground for a brief moment as the two friends hugged and laughed and cried.

"But, no," Damen said, pulling himself free. "It was not only me. It was her."

He pointed at Deni.

"She is to blame for this, too."

A squeal from Deni as her feet left the air, Mikalo's arms lifting her easily, his lips covering her face in kisses.

He put her down, my blonde friend breathless and delighted.

"And you," he said, turning to me.

I held up the key.

Mikalo stopped.

Taking his hand in mine, I turned it over and placed it in his open palm.

"From Nona," I said.

And then I stopped, letting those two words sink in and find an easy home in Mikalo's heart.

He swallowed, blinking back tears, his gaze on the shining key in his hand.

"This," he said, "this is from my Nona? A gift?"

I nodded.

"Yes," I agreed. "For you."

He lifted his head, his eyes on mine.

"But when?" he asked with a small shake of his head. "When did this thing happen?"

I hesitated, not wanting to resurrect the pain of her passing by admitting it was the night before she died.

"It is yours," I said instead, the When of it not as important as the fact that it was given to him with love.

"And this is yours," I then said, turning toward the stone house.

He approached the door.

Stopping, he waited, and then turned to me.

"I have the key now, my Grace."

I nodded.

"But, no, this is not mine," he said, returning to me. "This is ours."

And then he took me by the hand and, together, we stood side by side as he put the key in the lock.

With a turn and a click, the door was open.

I waited, holding back, allowing him to walk through first, keenly aware of how momentous this moment was for him.

But no. Without a word, he scooped me up in his arms, carrying me over the threshold, my head bumping the wood of the door frame.

He put me down, my feet standing on brand new, wide, polished planks of dark wood. The walls had been painted a stunning shade of white, a bright blue border along the bottom near the floor and the top close to the ceiling.

Over to the side, a small square wooden table sat next to the window, a wooden chair on each end. And a low couch, also of wood, waited in front of the fireplace, small and cozy and made for two, bright blue cushions for the seat, a matching cushion against the back, an equally rustic coffee table bridging the space between the couch and the wood of the mantle.

A small fire glowed in the fireplace, despite the heat of the day outside.

Above, the ceiling needed work, the beam still swinging free.

Damen stood next to Mikalo, pointing out the wood of the floor, explaining what he was going to do with the ceiling and those heavy beams, how he had chosen to go with a sturdy, durable, rustic tile for the roof outside.

Deni moved to stand next to me.

I wrapped my arm around her waist.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked.

"It's amazing," I agreed.

"It needs more work," she said in a whisper. "I'm just glad the illusion is enough for Mikalo."

"Are you kidding? He's in seventh heaven right now."

"Come," she said, taking me by the hand.

"Mikalo!" she called over her shoulder, indicating he was to follow.

We passed into the second room, the door framed in new wood, much like its twin in the front room.

The same planks on the floor as before, the same heavy squares of small glass for the windows, the shutters hanging outside, the fireplace in here cleaned up and repaired and quiet.

No, what stopped me in my tracks was the bed.

I hadn't expected a bed.

This was really now a home. Mikalo's home. My home. Our home.

Large enough for two, it stood on solid wood legs, a mattress wrapped in white bed sheets, a quilt stretching from side to side, four large pillows at the top, a large chest anchoring the end.

Mikalo gasped.

He approached the bed, pausing before his fingers traced the colorful quilt.

I glanced at Deni.

She stood with a grin on her face, Damen nearby, his eyes shining.

Mikalo turned to Damen.

"But this ..." he started to say and then he stopped, his hand to his mouth.

His eyes grew wet, the tears spilling down his cheeks.

I had no idea what was going on.

Damen took the few steps to Mikalo, his hand on Mikalo's shoulder, the fingers rubbing the back of his friend's neck.

"I go to Silvestro and he agrees and then a short time later, it is in my hands and then here, on your bed."

Mikalo shook his head in disbelief.

I still had no clue what was going on.

Deni leaned in close, her lips at my ear.

"The quilt, Nona made it for him when he was born. He was brought home in it. It's something he's treasured for a long time, but had no clue where it was. He was sure it was lost. But it was in Nona's cupboard. All Silvestro had to do was find the key, open the doors and hand it over."

I was stunned.

"Silvestro did that?"

"Yeah," Deni said. "A few days before the funeral, I think. Damen found him, asked, and without a word Silvestro was there with the quilt."