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“The villages are very old, and mostly fishing communities, though now, tourism is also important to the region. But that doesn’t change the essence of Cinque Terre, where ancient houses jostle together, washing lines strung from one to the other, grape vines clambering up hillsides, and fishing boats dotting the beaches from dusk until dawn.” He hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was gruff. “I suppose you know we used to go there together?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t mention it.”
His eyes probed hers, as if evaluating her answer for honesty, and then he took another sip of his wine. “We went most summers. My father was big on tradition—he never had much of that, growing up, and wanted us to have regular rhythms shaped into our lives. Fishing off the coast of Cinque Terre was one such rhythm.” His expression took on a faraway look. “It was nothing like this. No luxury, no creature comforts. We’d pile into a pretty rickety old boat, row out to sea, and cast our lines. Some days we’d catch plenty, other days nothing, but it didn’t matter. He’d talk to us, and sing, and we’d come back satisfied regardless of what was in our basket.”
“He’d sing?” She asked with a smile.
“He had a terrible voice.” Anastasios shook his head with affectionate indulgence and something in Phoebe pulled tight—an unmistakable sense of longing. What would it be like to have that sort of affection aimed in her direction? She sobered, crossing her cutlery and taking a last sip of water. “But that didn’t matter. There were all these songs from his childhood and he’d warble them out, no doubt scaring away the fish in the process.”
She laughed softly.
“And we never told him. We never told him anything he did wrong.” Anastasios looked at Phoebe, and now there was pain in their eyes. “I think we didn’t really see him as a man, sometimes. It’s as though he was larger than life, almost a god to us, beyond fault. Perhaps if we’d seen him as he really was, we might have seen the truth.”
“And if you’d known about his affair?”
His eyes widened at her apparent admission.
“With Anna,” she clarified, earning a small frown from Anastasios.
“He told you about her?”
She dipped her head.
“He shared so much with you.”
“I told you—,”
“You were ‘friends’, yes, I know.” But his skepticism was obvious, and she was tired of arguing the point.
“What would you have done, if you’d known?”
“Made him stop seeing her,” he answered, without skipping a beat.
“And if he refused?”
“He wouldn’t have.”
“I suppose you could have kidnapped her to be extra sure,” Phoebe pointed out with a wry grimace.
“It may yet come to that.”
“Oh?”
“She’s writing letters that contained thinly veiled threats, asking for what she sees as her share of an inheritance. If she doesn’t get it, my lawyer believes there’s a risk she’ll go public.”
Phoebe’s eyes swept shut. “And in the meantime, you have some bogus story about your dad and me to contend with.”
“Careful, agape.” He leaned forward, his eyes skimming hers. “It almost sounds as though you feel sorry for me.”
“I do feel sorry for you,” she responded without a moment’s doubt. “Discovering what you have about your dad, and in these circumstances, must have been incredibly difficult, for you and your brothers.”
“They don’t know yet.”
Her lips parted. “What? Why not?”
“Why burden them with this?”
Phoebe contemplated that. “I got the impression you were close.”
