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They wandered the narrow streets until her daughter stopped in front of a small grocery, planting her feet wide and spreading her arms. “And you doubted me.”
“I didn’t doubt you for a second.”
Near closing time, the store was almost empty. They walked past baskets of fruits and vegetables and an assortment of goods they’d find in any mini-mart back home. In a small refrigerated section, she picked out milk and butter. Coffee was down another aisle, and she plucked a loaf of bread from a basket by the counter.
A wizened old woman seated on a stool spoke in a flurry of Greek.
“I’m sorry, I speak only English.” Angela pushed everything across the counter, showing the lady what she wanted.
The woman answered in English. “We bake daily. You come tomorrow. Fresh.” She shook the loaf of bread. “Not now. Too old.”
Angela wondered how to explain that she wanted it for toast and freshness didn’t matter.
But the lady squeezed the bread, saying, “No charge for old bread. You come tomorrow and pay full price for fresh.” Then she tapped numbers into a handheld calculator. There was no cash register or credit card reader.
The lady beamed with all her teeth as Angela counted out the euros. She’d exchanged some dollars at the bank for purchases like this.
Plopping the goods in a string bag, the woman handed it to Angela. Back home, they would have paid extra for the bag and the day-old bread wouldn’t be free. “Thank you so much. We’ll be back tomorrow for the fresh bread.” Hopefully she could find her way.
Outside, the sun was setting like fire over the volcano, reds and oranges and yellows splashed across the sky. They leaned against a wall to watch with the other tourists along the cobbled street. When twilight finally descended, they headed back up the hill.
“I hope you can find our way,” she told Sienna.
“I’ve got an app that retraces our footsteps.”
“You’re amazing.” Passing a wine shop, Angela stopped. “Let’s get a couple of bottles. I’d like a glass of wine tonight.”
The store was closing in ten minutes, but the proprietor didn’t rush them through their choices, even making recommendations. They came away with four bottles, including Vinsanto, a sweet dessert wine.
Back at the villa, she poured two glasses of the Vinsanto, and they carried them out to the terrace. June was a warm month on Santorini. July and August were hotter, but they were also more crowded. Now, with the sun behind the volcano, the evening was fabulous.
“I’m surprised both shopkeepers knew English,” Sienna said. “I know a lot of young people in foreign countries are taught English, but generally the older generation isn’t fluent.”
“I’m sure they get a lot of English-speaking tourists, especially from the cruise ships.”
They sat in companionable silence, and yet the silence pointed out how much they didn’t talk. She knew about Sienna’s life mostly from Teresa. When they were together, they made small talk, and if Angela asked questions, Sienna revealed little. She saved all her heart-to-heart conversations for her aunt, not her mother.
Maybe on this trip, without Teresa a buffer between them, Angela could change that.
* * *
Angela woke earlythe next morning. It was probably the time change. She looked in on Sienna, who was still sound asleep, and decided on a walk by herself.
She’d brought good walking shoes and headed out along the path from Imerovigli to Fira. It wasn’t even a mile and a half, and she’d be back in an hour, probably long before Sienna woke, though she left a note just in case.
The path meandered up and down, and the sun was rising, bathing the white houses of Santorini in a golden glow. She was alone on the walk, and she had plenty of time before the cruise ship passengers swarmed the town.
She could make out Skaros Rock and the blue belfry of the church at its base. In all the world, there was nothing like Santorini blue, and the view along the path was breathtaking. She and Sienna should make the hike out to Skaros Rock on one of their day trips.
Drawing closer to the town, she passed the Three Bells of Fira, the old Catholic church, its blue domes and bells the most photographed site on Santorini. She climbed the steps for a better view of both it and the luxurious Santorini Palace Hotel, only a stone’s throw away.
She’d toured all these places with Xandros, but it had been over thirty years, and many of the images had faded in her mind. But as she walked, she recalled every moment of her time with Xandros, never tripping on the stones or steps as some invisible thread seemed to draw her to the terrace café where, if things had been different, she would have met him that long-ago June.
Xandros had been the tour guide for her first five days on Santorini. He possessed a wealth of information about the island and its history, and she’d relished every site, savored every word, and cherished Xandros. He’d introduced her to real Greek yogurt drizzled with honey. She’d bought a lot of grocery-store Greek yogurt since then, but nothing tasted like the yogurt she’d shared with Xandros.
And nothing had ever been like those weeks with him. When the tour was over, he’d become her personal guide, watching every sunset with her, walking the Karavolades Stairs from Fira down to the old Port, taking the cable car back up, and vice versa. They’d hiked every trail at Skaros Rock, and he’d driven her to all the island spots the cruise ships didn’t take their passengers.
In the nights, he made love to her, the most amazing lovemaking she’d ever known.
