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Chapter11
“MITÉRA.” MILA WATCHED AS Leonidas wrapped a dainty blonde woman in an embrace, her eyes closed as she inhaled deeply, her pretty face pale, lips tugged downward. He held her to him, and Mila could easily imagine strength flowing from him to her, such was the tremendous power of Leonidas Xenakis. “How are you?”
She grimaced, pulling away slightly. “It is good to see you, my Leo.” She lifted up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Her accent was British, which Mila hadn’t been expecting. “Thank you for coming home.”
Home. The word struck a special nerve for Mila, who hadn’t considered that she had a home for a very long time. Not since her mother had died and Mila had been left, completely alone in this world.
“How are you?” He repeated, and Mila understood the worry in his voice, she heard it not because it was obvious but because somehow, she’d come to understand him, to be able to read him like a book.
“Surviving,” she offered, then flicked a glance to Mila, her eyes showing the surprise she’d anticipated.
“Leo? Have you brought someone to meet me?”
Guilt coloured Mila’s cheeks, and something else too, a feeling that was close to jealousy—of the alternate reality she wanted to inhabit.
“A friend, mitéra, don’t go getting ideas,” he said with easy affection. Mila’s heart twisted. “Mila Monroe, my mother, Maggie Xenakis.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Xenakis.”
Maggie waved a hand through the air. “Please, call me Maggie,” she insisted.
“Mila is Benji’s cousin,” Leonidas explained, moving to stand beside Mila, but not too close. Not so close that they could touch or even spark off each other, and it was a moment in which Mila desperately craved his touch. She needed it, his reassurance and nearness.
Maggie’s smile was genuine and it was like the garden was being punctuated by sunshine. Mila stared, transfixed. “How is he?”
Mila was able to answer honestly. “Very well, though working too hard.”
“As usual,” Maggie said softly, putting a slender hand on Mila’s arm, almost as if for support. “I know a bit about workaholics,” she confided with a roll of her eyes. “My children, My nephews and niece. My husband.” Her voice cracked but she pushed on, bravely. “I have been surrounded by them for a long time.”
Mila considered offering her condolences but given how valiantly the older woman was trying to hold it together, it seemed insensitive. “You have a beautiful garden,” Mila observed instead, and it was true. As their speedboat had approached a timber jetty, she’d had a unique vantage point. White sand beaches had morphed into grass-covered dunes and then a wild, overgrown feast for the eyes of bougainvillea, frangipani, and enormous fir trees. Now that she was in the garden, having followed a winding, gravel path with dainty lights on either side that she imagined would, in the evenings, render it quite magical, she saw that it was a mix of wild, overgrown beauty and more formal, structured plant life. Citrus trees were espaliered to form a completely walled garden on one side of the house, itself a testament to classic Greek island design, with crisp white render and rounded walls.
“I’m glad you think so. I spend a lot of time in it.” They began to walk towards the house, Mila accommodating Maggie’s slower pace. She was not old—perhaps in her sixties—but she moved as one who’d been dealt a great blow, weakened by grief and sadness and loss.
“You enjoy gardening?” Mila asked, making conversation to be polite, while most of her brain was focused on the man who walked in their wake, on his powerful, brooding energy, and on just how completely he’d managed to get under her skin.
“Indeed. Later, I’ll show you my pet project.”
“Oh?”
“An English cottage garden, behind the house. Kon always laughed at me for it—this is not England, he would say,” she rolled her eyes affectionately, and then, they misted over. “It took me years.” Her voice shook. “But you see, roses grow just as well in Greece as they do in Kent. Lavender too. The rest has taken coaxing—,”
“And a lot of irrigation,” Leonidas chimed in.
“If your father can have his own nine-hole golf course, and all the maintenance that requires, I can have a small, very well-watered patch of land,” she responded, their easy banter pulling at something inside Mila.
Loneliness.
She felt it often.
Most people were born into family units and lived within the security of that, and therefore never realized how fortunate they were. They took noise and companionship for granted, whereas Mila had known only silence and exclusion for a great many years. Hearing their easy back and forth highlighted her difference quite painfully.
“My husband traveled often for work. Sometimes, for weeks at a stretch. I had a great deal of time to toil in the garden.”
Mila considered that. What kind of marriage had it been? Had Maggie been lonely? Or had their children kept her busy? So far as Mila knew, there were no grandchildren. Had she resented Konstantinos’ schedule?
“Do you like to garden, Mila?” Maggie’s question cut through the speculative direction of her thoughts.
“I’ve never tried,” she admitted, as behind her, Leonidas’ hand brushed her back, whether by accident or design, the effect was the same. Lightning bolts leaped across her skin. “But I love the effect,” her throat was dry. “When I’m home, I always make a point of stopping at the flower market to pick up a bunch of something small.”
