“I thought of that just as they stampeded in retreat.”
“No help for it. We now know that the site is being watched. We’ll have to watch it, too. Until we can figure out how to free the stone.”
Nikos had one ear turned toward the kitchen, where little clinks and splashes signaled Jen making lunch. “Right.”
Joey must have heard a shift in his tone, because the foxy cheer was back as he said, “I’ll let you go.” And hung up.
Nikos stepped into the little kitchen, which was small and spare, like so many on his island. But this one was a little sad, even dreary, with only the one tiny plant in the window, rather than full of herbal and flower pots, with onions and fruit and vegetables hanging in nets overhead, and icons or mosaics brightening walls and the floor.
Jen turned away from the counter with a plate in either hand and set them down at the tiny table, at which only two could sit. He did not have to ask if there had been children in this family—there was no sign of them, or place for them.
Jen indicated the table, which had a number of condiments, each with a knife. The plates contained a sandwich, a spray of grapes, and sliced orange. As he sat down, she said, “You can put what you want on the sandwich.”
“Thank you. This is very thoughtful,” he said. She had toasted the bread lightly, which would freshen up stale bread, and had sliced the meat thin. She might claim to be a bad cook, but such little touches argued differently.
Jen’s cheeks pinked. Her gaze dropped to her plate as she said, “I was married to someone who put ketchup on absolutely everything. And I loathe the stuff. So I’ve always been conscious that people will like different things.”
He bit into the sandwich. Someone had baked the ham well, and the cheese was sharp, the way he liked it. “This is perfect,” he said, and meant it. When she blushed more, he backed off from the compliments, and tried to ease the atmosphere, which he couldn’t quite read. “I’d heard Americans are fond of ketchup, but truth to tell I haven’t seen much of it so far.”
“Our cooking has changed since my childhood, when everything was oversalted. Canned and frozen foods were more common, and were pretty tasteless except for the salt. Robert’s family dealt with that by dousing everything with ketchup. My parents were Europeans, so ketchup wasn’t even in my house until I encountered it in college, and I never could get used to it.”
“It’s a very distinctive flavor,” Nikos said.
“Yes. Like anything, if you grow up with it, it’s familiar. Robert carried packets of it everywhere we went. We ate some very strange-to-us foods in our travels, and his ketchup added a dose of familiarity, I guess. He wasn’t much one for tastes . . .” She looked up, her gaze steady. “I’m talking too much. Aren’t I? About him.”
Regret, whispered Nikos’s unicorn. I hear regret foremost.
But it is not aimed our way, Nikos responded, and out loud said, “To be expected, when he was an important part of your life for so long.”
She seemed to be working her way through emotions she wasn’t ready to discuss yet. And that was all right. He understood giving people emotional space as well as physical space, after dealing with children and teens from various backgrounds, many of those backgrounds disastrous. It was an important part of the healing process
One thing he was certain of, she wasn’t in shock after that scrap at the landslide. She wasn’t going back over it blow by blow the way people used to quiet lives often did after a sudden interruption of violence. Jen had traveled the world, that much he understood, and had surely faced danger numerous times. This was something entirely internal.
She looked up again, with the bright, determined smile of someone who had come to a decision. “That’s enough about me and my life. Please, tell me about your island?”
Quite a first test! The landmine of shifter life had to be avoided, but he could not make himself lie to her. And so he had to navigate among those landmines. And if he made himself boring by skimming the surface of the truth, well, she would tire of him faster, wouldn’t she?
Steeling himself to that goal, he started in with the basics. “It’s an ancient volcano in the middle of a very small archipelago. The climate is not all that different from what I’ve found here in Southern California. Much of the coastal plant life is also familiar, though I haven’t seen any of our goats or boars running around here.”
“There are wild boars over on Catalina Island—the island you saw from the windows at Bird’s house,” she said, her eyes wide and bright. “Animals stay away from human urban centers, except coyotes, these past few years.”
He then talked about land, plants and animals, and she leaned forward intently when he gave the most basic description of the harbor town and its long history. It struck him that she was not bored, this woman who had traveled the world. When he asked a couple of questions, it turned out that she had driven down the coast of Greece in an old bus, after doing a story on the history of beautiful Berat in Albania, and how the Christian and Muslim communities had united together to hide the city’s Jews during the bad years of World War II.
But her description was brief, even wistful, and he got the impression she had been swept along faster than she would have liked, in order to get to the next location and the next assignment.
He admitted that there were few ruins on his island. Her face lit as he explained that most of the town and many of the small homes dotting the landscape had been in continuous habitation for centuries.
They ended up comparing notes on which ancient cities still inhabited that they’d seen, until all of a sudden she gasped, looked up at a digital clock on the counter, and said, “I’ve got a class to teach in . . . twenty-three minutes!” She jumped up and grabbed their empty plates.
“Can I help with anything?”
She said breathlessly, “The dishes will wait until I get back.” She glanced down at herself. “I meant to shower before going back—a five minute washup will have to do.”
“I should get out of your way, then,” he said, reluctantly stepping toward the door. He’d meant to stay with her just long enough to eat a sandwich, and they’d talked for nearly three hours. And out it came, before he could think: “May I see you again?”
She stilled, one hand still holding a plate, the other open. Reaching. For . . .?
“I’d like that,” she said slowly.