Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (13 page)

I
mogen melted
butter then crushed walnuts and pistachios. She spread the mixture onto the filo pastry-coated trays under her Greek teacher’s supervision. If making
baklava
had been Elpida’s idea of therapy then it was working.

‘Good!’ Elpida exclaimed. ‘Now, very carefully we must put more layers of the pastry on top.’

Imogen looked at the wafer-thin pastry. It seemed like an impossible task. Pastry had always been her downfall. She hovered her fingers over it then slowly dropped them to the corners of the flat tracing paper-like substance.

‘Be careful not to break it,’ Elpida chipped in, leaning over Imogen.

The sound of an internal door closing and the fragrance of lemon, soap and something musky piqued Imogen’s nose. She looked from the pastry to the door that led into the rest of the house just as Panos entered the room.

Showered and dressed in another pristine white shirt and dark trousers, his hair and skin still damp, Imogen tensed, her fingers pulling away and separating the pastry.

‘Pfft! You must pay attention!’ Elpida exclaimed. She then looked up at the slow clock above the range. ‘Ai! I have to go!’

‘Go?’ Imogen stated. ‘Go where? I thought we were making
baklava
. The kind that heals everything!’

‘I have a pie to take to Nico’s mother and biscuits for Mrs Rokas.’ Elpida began to move dishes around, pulling forward foil-wrapped porcelain bowls.

‘But, I’m not sure what I’m doing here,’ Imogen said, her eyes going to her nut and butter-encrusted hands. ‘I’m going to waste all these ingredients.’

‘Pfft! No,’ Elpida said, arms laden with items. ‘Pano can help you.’

‘What?’ he barked.

Imogen watched him spin around from his laptop on the table, face like thunder yet still remarkably attractive. They were two people at war at the moment and she no more wanted to spend time in the kitchen with him than she wanted to invite Hannibal Lecter to Halloumi’s opening night.

‘Pano, you have been making
baklava
for years. Help Imogen,’ Elpida ordered.

‘
Yiayia
, I have work to do,’ he responded.

‘And I have deliveries to make,’ Elpida replied quickly. ‘Perhaps making something together will help settle differences, no?’ She sniffed. ‘And when I get back I expect perfect
baklava
and no blood on the floor.’ Elpida scurried towards the kitchen door, plates piled high and her handbag swinging from her arm. ‘And just in case you were wondering, when I say the blood on the floor, I mean meteorologically.’

‘Metaphorically,’ Imogen corrected.

‘Pfft! No blood on my floor… or paint… or
baklava…
or anything,’ Elpida threatened, narrowing her eyes at both of them. ‘
Antio!
’ She waved a hand and was gone.

‘
S
o
,’ Panos said, draping the super-fine filo pastry over the second tray. ‘Should we call a truce for the sake of the
baklava
?’

Her shoulders shrugged with a lack of conviction.

He took a breath. ‘Whatever you might think, Imogen, this is not personal.’

‘Of course it is!’ she snapped.

‘It is just business.’

‘And what you’re doing is going to impact on my brother’s business.’

‘He has no business yet. You have been here only a few days.’

‘You have no idea what this means to Harry… or what Harry means to me.’

He looked directly at her then, saw the fire in her eyes had been replaced with something much rawer.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he offered gently.

‘Why? So you can dissect it and work out the best attack to make him change his mind and sell the restaurant to you?’

He smiled, shaking his head.

‘Maybe you could tell me why you need to build a nightclub complex in Acharavi when you have Euro millions already?’ she asked. ‘My brother just wants to make a living and a new start for himself and his family.’

Why
was
it so important for him to build his next entertainment complex here? Was it because of that stupid hotel a few miles up the road haunting him like a spectre? Panos had to wonder.

He focussed his attention on the pastry, carefully easing it up off the board and placing it on top of the previous layer. He sighed. ‘Corfu was where my father started his business,’ he answered simply.

‘So Dimitriou Enterprises is really your father’s business?’

‘No,’ he said, selecting the next strip of pastry. He didn’t need to look at her to know she would be wearing a confused expression. ‘My father started Dimitriou
Hotels
. A very different business.’

‘Hotels,’ Imogen stated. ‘So how many does he have?’

‘None now. But when the business was doing well he had six.’

‘What happened?’ Imogen asked. ‘Did he try to build one on Acharavi seafront?’

‘No,’ Panos stated. ‘He died.’

He opened and shut his eyes and pretended to himself it was the cardamom in the nuts that was causing the stinging in his eyes. He pulled too quickly at the pastry and it split apart.

‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said softly. ‘I didn’t know. Elpida said something about tradition and modern business not mixing but I didn’t know your father had… Well, that he wasn’t here anymore.’

He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. Time moves on.’

Imogen picked up the long-handled spoon in the bowl of
baklava
filling and stirred the sweet nuts, lemon, sugar and butter around. ‘If it’s any consolation my father’s dead too.’

He caught the edge to her voice and looked at her. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

‘Like with your father, it was a long time ago. Not that that makes it any easier, does it? I guess it’s possible my father might have stayed in one of your father’s hotels once.’ She paused. ‘Although I don’t have a pen.’ She mixed the
baklava
ingredients again. ‘My dad travelled a lot with his job. He sold linen… expensive linen, all over the world,’ she said. ‘He loved what he did. The only irony was he worked hard, travelled far, so we could go on holidays together.’ She sighed. ‘And we only just managed Spain before he died.’

S
he had
no idea why she was telling him all this. Perhaps, after the email from the Wyatt Group, her dad was in her thoughts more than usual. She carried on stirring the mixture, getting the syrupy mix on her fingers.

‘Your mother is alive?’ Panos asked her.

‘Yes, currently spending her time sitting in her dressing gown watching Gogglebox and Grantchester.’

‘What?’

‘She’s a bit down at the moment. She recently lost a close friend and… I think when you get to that age and you’re widowed, you start questioning your own mortality. I think she feels like everyone is leaving her,’ Imogen said.

He nodded. ‘We need some more mixture in here.’ He indicated the baking tray on the counter in front of them.

‘How about
your
mother?’ Imogen asked, lifting the spoon again and depositing the sticky stuff into the container.

‘She is fine,’ Panos answered abruptly. ‘She lives a lot of the time in England now. With her new husband.’

The way he had fired out the response told her his mother having a new husband wasn’t something he particularly liked.

‘He wins awards for business every week and makes his money taking over companies,’ Panos continued.

‘Oh, a bit like you?’

‘No,’ he responded tartly. ‘Not like me.’ He flattened out the nut mixture with the flat side of a knife. ‘I work hard. Things do not just fall into my lap.’

‘I’m glad you’re realising that,’ Imogen stated, a half smile on her face.

He sighed and put down the knife. ‘Imogen, I want that restaurant.’

‘You’ve made that quite clear.’

‘So what do I have to do to make you give it to me?’ He turned his body towards her, leaning slightly closer, his dark eyes capturing hers.

He was utterly, crazily gorgeous, but he wanted to take away something Harry had his heart set on. It was like wanting to get passionate with the Devil and she couldn’t let it happen.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ she stated.

‘Nothing?’ he said again, leaning closer still.

She could smell dewy lemon and sweet syrup and she wasn’t sure if it was coming from the
baklava
or him.

‘Imogen. Don’t make me beg.’

She edged slightly forward. ‘For what?’ she whispered, the words almost catching on her tongue.

The kitchen door banged open and Nico strode in, the strimmer in his hands. ‘Mrs Dimitriou,’ he began before looking. ‘Oh, I am sorry…’

Panos sprung away, distancing himself and moving towards the gardener. ‘What is the problem?’

‘I have no fuel for the strimmer,’ Nico said.

‘There should be some in the shed,’ Panos answered. ‘I will go and look.’

Imogen watched him turn back towards her, but she was quicker, moving her body in full circle until she was back focussed on the
baklava
. She picked up the spoon and recommenced stirring. The next thing she heard was the door closing again.

‘
H
ello
, Mum,’ Imogen greeted.

Her skin sparkling with droplets of sea water, the refreshing salt and sun lotion scent on her every part, Imogen had dropped her towel down onto one of the old wooden benches by the beach, drying her body off with the evening sun. The swim had been meant to clear her mind of the Panos situation but all she’d been able to do was think about how much he irritated her… before imagining what his lips would feel like on hers.

Panos hadn’t returned to the kitchen after Nico’s appearance with the garden tool. She had watched him, at first assisting the gardener with the strimmer, then pacing the grounds. Occasionally he had looked up to the house, for a while he had sat on the garden bench in the shade, looking at his phone but ultimately she knew he was avoiding being with her. She had just carried on making
baklava
, letting the sticky texture and the sweet, sugary smell override everything else. Eventually, Elpida had returned, taken trays from the oven, put more in and then she’d driven Imogen back to the restaurant where Harry and Risto were still dismantling the gazebo.

‘Have you managed to get another buyer for the restaurant?’ Grace asked. ‘Janie says it’s still on Rightmove.’

Imogen swallowed. What could she say? Just half an hour ago she had walked up to the craft shop on the high street and picked up some ornaments for the upper flat. They still didn’t have beds but there was now a small table and chairs, a rug she had found in the back restaurant area she had beaten the life out of until it no longer produced noxious dust, and an olive wood bowl containing fruits Elpida had given her. She was finding everywhere she looked in this town there was something pretty or charming she wanted to hang on a wall or position on a window ledge. Despite everything going on, every day here seemed to be another moment filled with glorious sunshine, smiles and good mornings from the locals. The white pebbled beach, the sand on Almyros beach just a short walk away, the lazuline water on every coast. She could see why Harry and Janie had been enchanted by the island all those years ago… why Harry thought his future lay here.

‘Mum…’ she began.

‘I’m worried sick here, Imogen. Have you heard about the Asian hornets?’ Grace asked.

‘What?’

‘Asian hornets. They’re invading,’ Mum said. ‘They’re in France at the moment.’

‘I don’t think we have them in Greece but there are a lot of mosquitoes,’ Imogen admitted.

‘And they spread malaria,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve looked it up.’

‘Have you?’ Imogen asked. Looking something up involved her mother moving from the sofa and using her laptop. This, despite the content, was a step forward on the grieving process.

‘Yes and there are snakes on Corfu too. About half a dozen different varieties and one, the nose-horned viper, is venomous.’

Imogen shivered and wondered whether it was quite as dangerous as the local property developer intent on poisoning the seafront. ‘Well, Harry’s restaurant is by the beach, Mum, and I haven’t seen any snakes.’

‘You need to tell him these things though, Imogen. He needs to realise that moving abroad isn’t an option for him. He has responsibilities, Janie and the children, here in England.’

‘He knows that, Mum. That’s the whole reason he’s here.’ She stopped talking and set her eyes out to sea, the waves gently breaking at the beach edge. A man wearing a straw Trilby hat was making another trip along the sand, a basket swinging from each arm. Fresh fruit – apples, oranges, melon – were nested inside one of them and fresh, sugary doughnuts were inside the other. Harry had bought one of each earlier and had introduced himself to the Greek – Spiros – telling him about his plans for Halloumi. Harry knew he had responsibilities. He wanted Janie and the children back full time. Why wasn’t moving abroad an option for him in her mum’s mind?

‘Harry’s well here, Mum,’ Imogen said. ‘He’s so much more like the old Harry.’

‘Because he’s on holiday,’ Grace said. ‘It’s only been a few days, as soon as it starts raining and reality sets in he’ll realise what a mistake he’s made.’ She sighed. ‘
You’ll
make him realise.’

‘He doesn’t think it’s a holiday,’ Imogen insisted. ‘He’s been working since we got here. Clearing… cleaning… taking things down and putting things up… he’s revelling in this project.’

‘Is he?’ Grace asked softly.

‘Mum, he wants Janie and the children back so desperately.’ Imogen let a breath go and looked to the mountains of Albania, the sky turning pink. ‘They holidayed in Corfu… they drank
retsina
in the
tavernas
and held hands on the beach… He wants Janie to see him as the man he was then… as the man he knows he can be again.’

She heard a sob leave her mum and she clamped her lips together, stilling her own emotion. ‘I think Dad would have understood,’ she whispered. ‘He always wanted us to be part of his travel adventures and we never really got the chance.’ She dipped her hand into her yellow handbag, finding the small compartment at the back and clasping her fingers around the pen there.
Corinthia Palace Hotel and Spa, Malta.
‘Mum, this is Harry’s travel adventure and so much more.’

She gripped the pen, the feel of the plastic grounding her thoughts. She really thought Harry could make this restaurant a reality now. There was just that small matter of Panos Dimitriou and his ambition to own the beachfront. And her attraction to him – she couldn’t possibly tell her mum or Janie about that.

‘Those hotels,’ Grace said with another sigh. ‘All that opulence and grandeur and we never got to see any of it.’ She paused. ‘Sheets for five star hotels and no-more-than-a-three-star wage. Makes it even more of a cheek that they’ve been phoning me.’

Imogen sat up straighter on the bench. ‘Who’s been calling you?’

‘Some hotel group or other,’ Grace said with a sniff. ‘“Is that Mrs Charlton? This is Lisa from hotel liaison” or something like that.’

Imogen held her breath. Could it be
the Wyatt Hotel Group
? She was sure she hadn’t given a phone number, just her email, but could they have found Grace’s contact in the directory and tried to call
her
there? Had they looked at her application now? Were they going to offer her an interview? A fizz of excitement rushed through her.

‘What did they say exactly?’ Imogen asked as calmly as possible. She hadn’t told anyone about her application because she’d believed, in all likelihood, nothing was going to come of it. And, like Harry’s restaurant, she was a little concerned about everyone else’s opinion on it.

‘I told you. Lisa… or Lorraine… or was it Lindsey? From hotel liaison,’ Grace tutted. ‘She was about to launch into that usual spiel, I could just tell, you know, about how I need to visit their hotel for a “spa rejuvenation day” which would all be free and then they would try and entice me into joining their “members club” where you can’t even have a towel without putting down a mortgage on it.’

Imogen shook her head, trying to loosen her thoughts. Perhaps this was nothing. Her mum hadn’t even said the caller had been from the Wyatt Group.

‘What was the name of the hotel group?’ Imogen couldn’t resist asking. She moved her hand into the other section of her handbag and pulled out her phone. Maybe she had another email. She shot the screen down until a little wheel appeared at the top and started checking for new messages.

‘No idea,’ Grace replied. ‘I didn’t really listen. As soon as I got that feeling she was trying to sell me something I switched off. That’s what April told me to do, you know.’ There was another sniff. ‘She could sense someone selling solar panels in seconds.’

Imogen watched her phone tell her there were no new emails and she dropped it back into her bag.

‘I met April’s great-niece yesterday,’ Grace continued. ‘Nice girl, hair in long plaits and wears those Army-type boots.’

‘Doc Martens?’ Imogen offered.

There was a pause. ‘Martin Clunes doesn’t wear boots like that,’ Grace said. ‘Not in the episodes I’ve watched.’

‘Is she selling April’s house?’ Imogen asked, moving the subject on.

‘I think so,’ Grace answered. ‘It’s all in the hands of the solicitors now.’

‘Listen, Mum, I’ve got to go now,’ Imogen said, getting to her feet. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were OK and to let you know that things here are… stabilising.’

‘Stabilising?’ Grace replied. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well…’ Imogen started. ‘It just means that Harry and I are OK, we’re working on getting the restaurant up together and…’ What else could she tell Grace to ease her concerns? ‘And… there’s definitely no sign of Asian hornets.’

‘It isn’t funny, Imogen,’ Grace said, her tone a little snippy. ‘Huw Edwards was wearing a very serious face when he did his piece to camera.’

‘Well, I promise I will keep a look out for them and, if I see one, I’ll cover myself in garlic and hold up a cross.’ She thought about Elpida’s paste for bites.

‘That’s what you do to ward off vampires.’

‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mum.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because… we’re opening the restaurant next week.’

‘What!’

‘If you could break it to Janie gently,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Bye, Mum!’