And the question of who she is or what she might hope to gain from any of this is truly baffling.
Suddenly, something Oksana said that morning flashes back to mind. She had never met my father but she mentioned seeing someone else at the house: a woman, a woman about the same age as me. Could that have been this other mysterious Nina?
But I do not get to follow the thought as a hand lands on my shoulder and with a yelp of surprise I spin abruptly around to face the figure behind me.
Joe Loman, Mick’s son, looks down at me, a surprisingly handsome, apologetic smile spreading across his face. Caught unprepared for the realization that Joe is actually an incredibly attractive man, on top of the fact that he just scared the bejesus out of me, it takes me a second to tear my eyes away from his deep-brown ones.
“Sorry, probably should have just cleared my throat or something,” he says with a laugh. He extends something in his hands toward me and I see it is my sunglasses. I must have left them in their office.
“Oh, thanks,” I blurt, totally unaware I was missing them until now. I take them from him and to my eternal embarrassment, I somehow manage to fumble them and they drop to the ground. One tinted lens pops clean out of the frame and springs toward the marina railings before skittering over the edge and into the water. We both lean over the railings and watch it bob for a moment on the water’s surface before inevitably sinking out of sight.
“Fuck,” I splutter, with more weight of meaning than a pair of airport sunglasses could ever really warrant.
Joe bends to pick up the broken frame, one winking lens still intact, one empty.
“Not a great day, I’m guessing?” he asks gently, proffering me the broken carcass. “Judging by the bits I’ve been involved in, at least.” I accept the wire frame and lean past him to pop it straight in a recycling bin.
“No, not a great day, week, month, or year really. You know? Not that one should ever complain. We have our health, so—” I break off, suddenly exhausted.
“That we do,” Joe concedes. “But I don’t think anyone could be blamed for aiming a little higher.” He looks back toward his father’s building, unsure if he should leave me in my current mood. I try to rally with a smile but my hands are trembling.
“Hey, listen. It’s lunchtime. I have an awful sandwich back in there that I have absolutely no desire to eat—so can I buy you lunch somewhere? Or a coffee, or something? Milos is really nice.”
“Oh God. You feel sorry for me, don’t you? Listen, that really was not my intention. Please, have your sandwich, I’m fine. I’m a grown woman. I can lunch alone.”
“I know you can lunch alone. I’ve seen people do it, it’s an impressive sight. But I would like to have lunch with you because I like you,” he says with disarming straightforwardness.
“Well, you don’t know me,” I bat back quickly.
“You just found out there’s another house under your house. You’re dealing with it in a pretty incredible way. So unless you’re unnervingly good at subterfuge I think I’ve got a pretty good measure of your character. And you’re beautiful and funny.” He winces at his own words, before asking, “Too much?”
I laugh for the first time in a while. “Yes, too much. And I’m not funny, I’m just grumpy and British.”
He grins. “Okay, noted. So, lunch?”
“Okay, lunch.”
—
JOE LEADS US ACROSS THE marina to Milos, a chic seafood bistro with white tablecloths and silver cutlery. He shrugs off his well-worn high-vis overshirt to reveal a surprisingly spotless white T-shirt beneath, and as we head into the restaurant it is clear he is a local figure. I bask in the warm glow he seems to elicit from the staff and a few friends he bumps into.
On his recommendation we order a selection of seafood tapas and sip some cool drinks as I watch the world flow by below. The marina is beautiful, as Oksana described, and blessedly full of people, life, and distraction. I let it wash over me from the safety of the terrace.
Below us families sightsee, couples wander hand in hand along the lower terraces, and lone travelers solo lunch.
A pleasant, sleepy calmness pervades everything.
“How long have you lived out here?” I ask Joe, after catching him looking at me in silence.
“Since high school. Long story, but my mom got sick. We moved out of Chicago. They’d honeymooned here and loved it—he thought it would make her better. And then we just stayed here.”
“And did it make her better? Out here?” I ask, hope evident in my voice.
Joe is silent for a moment, before he grins. “Yeah, she went into remission. Full recovery. Signed off. It worked. But then she divorced Dad a couple of years later and moved back to Chicago. We stayed here, though. All my friends are here, you know, and Dad’s company, our company. Nothing back in the US now.”
“Wow. She divorced him after. That’s not how that story usually goes, right? Wow, I’m sorry. I can understand you wanting to stay, though.”
He smiles. “Yeah, it’s beautiful, obviously, and life is pretty simple but —I’ll be honest, you don’t see a lot of new faces.”
