Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (8 page)

His eyes returned to the crumbling hovel.

"When I was a boy I would run up here to hide," he continued. "Pretend my only chore was to grow in the garden and tend the sheep or the goats there, in the back. Spend my days looking at the sea, breathing in the air, and not have this thing, this Delis Family Business, to return to.

"It was a quiet thought," he then said. "I didn't want much.

"This," he insisted, his head nodding toward the small house. "This is what I wanted. A life of simplicity. Of the air from the sea, the heat of the sun, the warmth of the rocks.

"But, no, it was not to be," he finished, his eyes looking toward the sea again.

I waited, listening, hearing his sadness, his disappointment. The ache of dead and dying dreams in his voice.

And then it hit me.

"This is yours now, Mikalo," I said, suddenly aware of the enormity of this for him. "This island, this road, this house, here, it's yours. You can live your dream. At least sometimes, right?"

The thought of coming here and having a home to go to, one that wasn't part of the Delis family compound, was suddenly very appealing.

And then I looked at the garden, the edge of the cliff, the sea beyond, my mind racing with the possibilities.

I left his side, glancing in the window.

Two rooms, the boards warped from rain and wind, the ceiling above splintered and broken. Nothing that couldn't be fixed.

"Yes," I called out over my shoulder as I continue to peer in. "We can do this."

"No."

I turned to find him shaking his head.

"It's not that much work, really," I said. "I'm sure we could find someone --"

"No," he repeated.

He was resolute.

"Why?" I asked. Frankly, it was the only thing I could think of to say.

Crooking his finger, he motioned for me to follow him.

We walked around to the front, the Jeep in the distance over the swaying blade of tall yellow grass, and to the front door.

He opened his hands to it. Like he was saying "Look, this is why".

I had no idea what he was talking about.

All I saw was a damaged, splintering door hanging off its hinges. I still had no idea what he was talking about.

I told him so.

With an exasperated sigh, he began.

"It needs a key. A key we do not have. Without a key, you do not own something. It is not yours. No key, and it will never be my home. Our home."

I was beyond confused. This was basically his island. This house was abandoned. He owned this house. I could poke the door with my finger and it would fall in. We hardly needed a key to open it.

"Mikalo," I said, keeping my confusion in check. "This house is on your island --"

"Yes, but it is not mine. It holds a special place in my family's heart."

He turned from me, his eyes avoiding mine.

"A place I no little about and can not discuss."

I was beginning to see. Or maybe not.

Regardless, he wasn't budging on this.

With a knowing sigh, he took one last look and then turned, wandering through the tall grass towards the Jeep, leaving me to wonder what I could do to make this, this most special dream, come true.

The sun was going down.

I drew my arms around me, suddenly aware of the chill in the air as I sat on a small bench I'd discovered in a secluded corner of the beach.

Out of sight, not easily seen from either the house or what I guess you would call the main beach, it was a sturdy slab of wide, polished wood with an equally wide polished back, all sitting atop a pile of heavy stone. Set high away from where the tide would come in, it was safe from the sea, the large rock looming above it, set as it was in the shadow of a small, steep cliff, affording it a surprising amount of shade.

A dark I now felt as the sun dipped low.

Mikalo and I had returned from our afternoon spent wrapped in the confusing memory of the ramshackle stone house set at the top of a hill. He had gone to our room, laid on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

Odd.

I'd never seen him like this. I'd been with him when he was quiet, when he was angry, when he was confused, when he was pondering his options, all emotional events leading to silence on his part.

But this? This was depression.

And I had no idea what to do.

Here I was, his soon-to-be bride, and I had no clue what to say or do to lift him out of this funk. A funk so dark he even passed on dinner, electing instead to stay in our room. At a loss, I brought in a small basket of fruit, hoping something there would entice him.

Still, my beloved is depressed and I'm standing there holding a basket of fruit.

Pathetic.

This "being a wife" thing could be harder than I think.

I closed my eyes, breathing deep, willing the sting of the sea air to wash away these doubts, these fears, the threat of dashed hopes. The small pang of hunger I felt in my stomach.

They, Mikalo's family, had had dinner. Faced with the prospect of sitting at a table without him surrounded by people I know didn't like me, I opted instead to grab a quick piece of bread and hit the beach.

And now here I sat, chilly, hungry, feeling unwelcome and confused.

Not exactly how I envisioned the days leading up to my wedding.

But what had I envisioned? What were my hopes?

I wasn't sure anymore. The first marriage had been a disaster, the wedding day forgettable. After that, I had stopped dreaming.

And then Mikalo happened. I found myself loving again. Hoping again. Even dreaming.

But not of this, a wedding. Everything happened so fast, I barely had time to think let alone dream. Regardless, I wouldn't have dreamt of this.

I opened my eyes, suddenly aware I was being watched. Was no longer alone.

There she stood several feet away, her impressive bulk having navigated the sand with ease, her face turned now to the waves slapping the shore at her feet.

Nona.

I was on her bench.

Shit.

She turned to me then, aware I now knew of her presence. A small smile on her lips, she began the small journey toward me.

I immediately stood, not sure what to do.

"It is a nice bench, this, yes?" she said as she approached, reaching for the polished wood of the back and gratefully gliding onto the seat with a sigh.

"It's lovely," I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was --"

She waved me quiet.

"The wood, the rocks beneath it, the sound of the waves, even the sun overhead, it all belongs to those who need it. I own nothing. It will all be here long after I am not."

And then she laughed.

Patting the seat next to her,

"Come," she insisted. "Sit."

I sat, the length of the seat holding both of us easily. Suddenly it occurred to me that this bench was built for two.

It wasn't a place of solitude. It was a place to share.

Nona began to speak, her heavily accented English surprisingly strong.

"This is difficult for you, yes?

I didn't respond, unsure of what, exactly, she was referring to.

"Being here," she continued. "Being here, alone, days before this wedding Mikalo would like, my family not so happy with his choice.

"This must be difficult," she repeated.

"Yes," I said.

A nod from her.

"It is not you. It is tradition. Generations of tradition. Mikalo, he was to find a girl, a nice girl, Greek perhaps, perhaps not, someone the family had known, had experience with, someone who was not a stranger. A girl born into success.

"And, here, Mikalo brings you. Has chosen you. A stranger."

She finished, growing quiet.

And then,

"It is difficult for us."

I could feel myself growing angry, my mind willing me silent, my pride, my sense of self, demanding I speak.

I spoke.

"What Mikalo brought to you is someone he loves and who loves him very much."

She started to respond, but I cut her off, my tone silencing her.

"You said 'It must be difficult for you', but you're wrong. It isn't, really."

Nona was watching me now, her hands resting on her thick knees as her eyes narrowed.

I continued, consequences be damned.

"I'm marrying the man I love. The man I'm spending the rest of my life with. If you, his family, decides to actively dislike me based on some bullshit criteria they decided for him, then that's your problem, not mine.

"He and I will walk down that aisle, say 'I do', and then continue our life in the States without you. Of course he'll still run the company, which I want no part of, by the way. And he'll be a part of your lives, yes.

"But me? If you've decided not to like me, it's your loss. I can live with that. It has nothing to do with who I am or my love for Mikalo."

I took a breath, quieting my racing heart.

I'd probably just ruined any chance of a relationship with his beloved Nona. But I'm sorry, I had to say something. To be silent would deny who I am and what I'd accomplished.

She turned away from me, rolling my words through her mind.

"I was like you once," she then said, quietly. "I had the same anger, the same rage."

Placing her hands on the bench, she pushed off, rising to her feet.

Her eyes on the water, she continued.

"Yes, a long time ago. I see me in you, somewhere. And I too thought if I spoke, if I shared my anger, my fear, life would change."

She turned to me, her words measured and slow.

"It did not."

And then she turned to go, her feet trudging through the sand as the sun went down.

The next morning came, the sun bright, the sky blue.

I sat at the breakfast table, defiantly eating my eggs, not caring if my presence was unwanted.

Mikalo sat beside me, the darkness having passed.

Nona remained in her room.

Yeah, I had probably really fucked things up.

I needed to tell Mikalo. Certainly before I left for Paris this afternoon.

Ah, yes, Paris. Caugina's idea. Leave Mikalo and Nona here to plan a wedding no one in the family wanted while she and I "took the jet", as she said, to Paris to buy a dress from a designer I would probably detest, the memories of Caugina's wedding picture in Deni's European gossip rag unfortunately vivid, her dress an awkward explosion of beads and diamonds and glitter, the fabric as stiff and uncomfortable as she and Silvestro, the not-so-happy couple.

But it wasn't a fight I wanted and it was Paris. Frankly, this island thing wasn't working for me.

And I was meeting Deni in Paris, her and her new boyfriend Lucas traveling back with us to Greece.

Deni.

I could not wait to see my Deni.

"I have to go into the town," Mikalo was saying between bitefuls of crispy toast. "Would you like to join me?"

Town?

"Sure," I said and then swigged down the last of my rich, dark tea. Now the constant supply of groceries was starting to make sense. I'd always wondered where they were getting things, apples, rice, potatoes, tea, bread. I mean, some of it was done here, at the house. The eggs coming from hens, the bread baked in the kitchen, the olives coming from the olive groves.

But now I'd get to see a town.

Not sure what that meant, but at least I wouldn't be wandering the halls avoiding everyone or losing the sunburn battle on the beach. Not even a 70 SPF sunblock was keeping my skin safe these days.

We rose from the table, he and I, a last bite of toast being tossed into his mouth as we left.

Down the hall, out the door, large hat on my head, my poor shoulders and arms screaming at the thought of more sun as we crossed the very wide patch of earth separating the garage from the main house.

Where we waited.

The old man who took care of the garage, who'd done so for decades, I guess, stood apologetically with a very handsome younger man, someone I assumed was his son.

Mikalo spoke with them in Greek.

A shrugging of shoulders ensued, much to the amusement of Mikalo.

He laughed, his arm wrapping around the younger man as they set off into the dark of the garage towards the Jeep.

Which left me standing with the older man.

Awkward.