On opening her eyes again, she hit the ‘reply’ symbol at the top of the email and wrote back immediately.
Dear Mrs Johnston
(Not ‘Miss’, whatever the woman’s marital status. There were children, after all.)
I’m delighted to say you’re in luck! Villa Ariadne is indeed free between those dates… If you need a taxi transfer, just let me know your flight details at least a week before your arrival and I can arrange it for you… I look forward to welcoming you to our beautiful island…
Closing the laptop once more, Katerina stayed at the table for several minutes deep in thought, her elbows resting on the hard surface, chin in her hands.
May the eighteenth? That was only two months away. She’d better let the others know the villa wasn’t available after all; she’d kept them hanging on long enough.
There were always plenty of enquiries, mostly from Brits, plus a few French and Germans. She didn’t advertise; she waited for them to find her, then Villa Ariadne made the final call, so to speak.
It was rarely wrong, though it took its time and of course, you could never predict how things would pan out.
The sound of tinkling goats’ bells drifted through the gaps in the window frames: the goatherd taking the animals downhill to be milked.
Time for a cup of mountain tea, Katerina decided. And perhaps a littleKalitsounia: a pastry filled with sweet cheese, cinnamon and lemon zest. She made these herself and never grew tired of them, though she tried to limit herself to one a day; she didn’t want to burst out of her clothes and have to buy new ones.
After stuffing her feet in her slippers, she walked over to the tap, filled a small saucepan with cold water and lit the gas ring with a match.
You could never call her life dull, she thought with some satisfaction as she blew out the match. She might be in her eighties, but there were always new people to meet, fresh stories waiting to be told.
As she popped the saucepan on the heat, she found herself thinking about the crisp white sheets and pillowcases folded neatly in her linen cupboard. They were deliciously light and would smell heavenly, having been hung out to dry in the lemon grove, warmed by the Cretan sun.
She’d make up the beds in plenty of time and put a few sprigs of lavender under the pillows, some wildflowers on the dressing tables. And she’d make moreKalitsouniaas a welcome present.
She could do that for them, at least, along with some of the other nice little touches the guests so appreciated. The rest, of course, was out of her hands.
