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Laurel sighed as he slipped off her blouse. “And how long do you think that’s going to take, husband?”
Damian smiled. “All the rest of our lives, wife.”
Slowly he gathered her into his arms.
EPILOGUE
NO ONE ON THE ISLAND of Actos had ever seen anything quite like it.
There were always weddings, of course, young people and life being as they are, but even the old women at the fish market, who usually argued about everything, agreed on this.
There had never been a wedding the equal of Damian and Laurel’s.
Of course, as the old women were quick to point out, the Skourases were already married. But the ceremony that had joined them meant nothing. It had been performed all the way across the sea, in America, and—can you imagine?—a judge had said the words that had made them man and wife, not a priest.
No wonder they had chosen to be wed all over again, and in the proper way.
The day was perfect: a clear blue sky, a peaceful sea, and t
hough the sun shone brightly, it was not too hot.
The bride, the old ladies said, was beautiful in her lacy white gown. And oh, her smile. So radiant, so filled with love for her handsome groom.
Handsome, indeed, one of the crones said, and she added something else behind her wrinkled hand that made them all cackle with delight.
It was just too bad the bride wasn’t Greek...but she was the next best thing. Beautiful, with shining eyes and a bright smile, and Eleni had told them that she was learning to think like one of them, enough so that when her groom had teasingly warned her that marriage in a Greek church was forever, she’d smiled and put her arms around him and said that was the only kind of marriage she’d ever wanted.
And so, in a little church made of whitewashed stone, with the sun streaming through the windows and baskets of flowers banked along the aisle and at the altar, and with friends and relatives from faraway America flown over for this most special of days, Laurel Bennett and Damian Skouras were wed.
“Yes,” Laurel said clearly, when the priest asked—in English, at Damian’s request—if she would take the man beside her as her husband, to love and honor and cherish for the rest of her days. And when Damian offered the same pledge, he broke with tradition by looking deep into his wife’s eyes and saying that he would cherish forever the woman he had waited all his life to find.
The old ladies in black wept, as did the two stylishly dressed American women in the front pew. Even old Spiro wiped his eyes, though he said later that it was only because a speck had gotten into one.
Retsina and ouzo flowed, and bubbly champagne flown in from France. Everyone danced, and sang; they ate lobster and red snapper and roast lamb, and the men toasted the bride and groom until none could think of another reason to raise his glass.
It was, everyone said, an absolutely wonderful wedding—but if you’d asked the bride and the groom what part was the most wonderful, they’d have said it came late that night, when the crickets were singing and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers and they were alone, at last, on their hilltop overlooking the sea.
The groom took his bride in his arms.
“You are my heart,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, and she smiled so radiantly that his heart almost shattered with joy.
“As you are mine,” she whispered, and as the ivory moon climbed into the black velvet sky, Damian swept Laurel into his arms and carried her up to their bedroom.
* * *
The next morning, Laurel awoke to the ring of the sledgehammer.
She dressed quickly and went outside, to where the boulder stood.
“Damian,” she called, and her husband turned and smiled at her.
“Watch,” he said.
He swung the hammer against the boulder. The sound rang like a bell across the hilltop, and the rock crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces.
* * * * *
