Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (17 page)

I
mogen sat
on the terrace of the restaurant looking at the patch of land that separated Halloumi from Avalon. It was strange. A perfectly good rectangular piece of ground no one seemed to be doing anything with apart from cutting the grass. Was it big enough to cut down on noise and distraction if Panos did build a nightclub next door? What would they do with it? Extend the restaurant terrace? They didn’t really know what they were doing with what they had. And how much would it cost? If a restaurant could be obtained for just under a hundred thousand Euro then a piece of land couldn’t be that expensive, could it?

She smiled at a woman passing by and waved her hand at her little girl who was kicking a small pink ball.

‘
Kalimera,
’ Imogen greeted.

‘
Kalimera
,’ the woman replied.

The little dark haired girl booted her ball and it shot off the road, rolling over onto the land next to Halloumi. Giggling, the girl trotted after it, running over the grass, curls bouncing as she bounded. Imogen straightened up. That’s what it could be! A playground for children visiting the restaurant. It was big enough for a set of swings and a see-saw and maybe even a small playhouse. She really needed to find out who owned it.

Turning back to the beach she checked her watch. It was getting towards half past nine and she really didn’t know what to do. Was Panos really going to turn up here at ten o’ clock to take her somewhere she couldn’t remember the name of on the other side of the island? And more importantly, if he
did
turn up, did she want to go? It seemed crazy to even consider spending time with a man who she considered to be at the crux of everything going wrong for her and Harry. But perhaps she should have thought harder about that last night, before he had pinned her against the palm tree and delivered a red hot kiss. Maybe this was her chance to discover more about him, find out just what sent his determination into overdrive.

Shivering, she hugged her hand around her cup of coffee, shifting in her chair. It was another picture-postcard morning.

‘I’m not sure about the puddings,’ Harry stated, rushing out. He sat down in the chair opposite, a piece of paper in his hand. ‘I need to be sure before I get the menus printed.’

‘What have we got on there at the moment?’ Imogen asked, drawing her eyes away from the view. She remembered there was a fig tart she didn’t have a figgy idea how to make and it had to be pastry, didn’t it? Perhaps Elpida could give her more pastry lessons.

‘A filo of fig… I really like the sound of that one. Elpida’s going to make these for us to try later,’ Harry said, grinning. ‘Then we need to learn to make them ourselves.’

That was good. What wasn’t good was the fact she hadn’t heard from Janie after her text to her last night. Although she wasn’t sure what she expected, she
had
expected something. She hadn’t heard anything from the Wyatt Group either. She had chanced a call earlier, forgetting Greece was two hours ahead, and got the answerphone, but had been too apprehensive to leave any message. She didn’t want to appear too eager. Maybe she would try later, when she’d practised the right thing to say in a professional, unhysterically excited way. Or perhaps she would just wait. Not push or tempt fate.

‘Are you alright?’ Harry asked. ‘You’re not still suffering from the wine last night are you? I’m not sure we’ll be putting any of that on Halloumi’s wine list.’

‘Something lighter definitely,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘What other puddings?’

‘Ice cream by the scoop,’ Harry said. ‘Greek style panna cotta with honey and a blackberry coulis and a white and dark chocolate roulade.’

For a brief moment she thought it sounded like the best pudding menu ever. Then she remembered she would be trying to cook it. She had made panna cotta before but it was years ago. BGD. Before Gino D’acampo.

‘Don’t forget
baklava
. It’s pretty much a staple around here,’ she said. Panos’ hands in the mixing bowl came to mind. His olive skin, treating the filo pastry so delicately.

‘You’re right,’ Harry replied.

A creaking came from above her head and her eyes went to the new pergola. ‘Harry, is that safe?’

‘I think so,’ Harry answered. ‘We tied it off to that palm tree until the final struts get put into position later today.’

The palm tree
. Imogen swallowed as she remembered the night before. She could still feel that bristly bark in between her shoulder blades, Panos’ hot mouth on hers. She looked at her watch again. She needed to say something to Harry if she really was going to disappear at ten o’clock.

‘So, Immy, we need to get some cloths and candles and things for the tables. I thought you might like to do that. I think it needs a woman’s touch.’ He stopped, a look of panic in his eyes. ‘I mean that in a completely non-sexist kind of way. I just wouldn’t know where to start. Janie was always the one who made things nice in our house. And you’ve done such a great job with making the apartment look homely.’

Cloths and candles. They were bound to have those in the place Panos had suggested visiting. This was the excuse she was looking for. A legitimate reason for her to be out and about… if she decided to actually go with him. Because she was still caught between two versions of Panos – the one who was a ruthless property developer, set to break apart Harry’s dream, and the one who was coated in Greek honey and she was doing unspeakable things with figs.

‘Cloths and candles,’ Harry repeated as if she hadn’t heard him.

‘You said that, Harry,’ she said softly.

‘I know, and you didn’t answer.’ He paused. ‘And before you ask me… like Janie did the other day… yes, I am taking my tablets and I’ve got plenty to last me until I get signed up with a doctor here in Corfu.’

‘I didn’t say anything about your tablets,’ she said.

‘No but my shower gel was at a forty-five degree angle the other day. I’m guessing you felt the need to look.’

Now she felt truly awful. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’m not down at the moment, Immy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. In a completely non bi-polar way.’

‘I know,’ she assured. ‘Cloths and candles. I’ll get on it today.’

‘Sorry I am late.’

It was Risto’s voice and he entered from the side of the terrace and joined them at the table. He looked slightly flustered, his face flushed and sweat already on his brow.

‘I have flat tyre on my moped,’ Risto announced. ‘I have to walk here.’

‘Oh no, that’s a pain,’ Harry stated.

‘Yes, a pain,’ Risto agreed. ‘But I am here. What would you like me to do for today?’

‘Well, I’m heading out…’ Imogen started. ‘For tablecloths and candles.’

‘We need to put in the final struts of the pergola, then later you can help me with the shopping,’ Harry said. ‘We’re going to fill Terry’s van with ingredients for Halloumi’s new menu.’

Out of the corner of her eyes Imogen saw the sleek, black Mercedes crawling along the road. She leapt up out of her chair. She didn’t want Harry to know where she was going. Risto either. If Risto didn’t know already.

‘Right,’ she stated. ‘I’d better get a move on if I want to get the best tablecloths and candles Acharavi has ever seen.’

Both Harry and Risto were staring at her now. She swallowed, picking her bag up from the floor.

‘So, I’ve got some cash and I’ve got my phone if you need to call me.’ She began to back away across the terrace towards the exit, waving a hand. ‘I’ll send some photos,’ she said.

She saw Risto look to Harry with confusion on his face before she turned and stepped down onto the road.

P
anos had parked
the car a little way away from the restaurant and turned up the air conditioning. It was already over thirty degrees and even he, accustomed to the climate, was feeling the heat. But was it really the outside temperature getting to him or the fact it was ten o’clock and there was every chance he was about to be stood up?

He took a breath and looked out across the sand, taking in a scene he was so familiar with. Sunbeds were filling up already – teenagers, young couples, families, all here for the same reason. To make the most of the sunshine and the long, unspoilt sandy beach.
Unspoilt
. There was a lot to be said about that word. He wished his life had ended up being as unspoilt as the landscape everything had played out on. Maybe that was why he was intent on changing things, ripping away the goodness and replacing it with something fabricated yet profitable.

He tore his eyes away from Spiros the doughnut man, who was starting his rounds on the beach. The taste of those sugar-coated delights flooded his mouth along with the memories that went with them. He and Risto building speedboats in the sand. His mother reading, looking up from her book now and then and smiling as she watched them run, chasing each other through the surf. His father, building a castle with buckets of sand, decorating the turrets with weed, shells and driftwood, calling his mother
prigkipissa. Princess.

Why had things gone so wrong? Why had Christos wanted the world for them when home would have been enough? He winced, his gut twisting. Before the ruination of his parents’ marriage and his father’s hotel chain he had loved this place just the way it was. Had his father’s actions poisoned that feeling permanently? Or could there be an antidote?

Suddenly the door of the car opened and hot air swept in along with the delicious form of Imogen Charlton. He watched her drop down into the seat in another thigh-skimming summer dress, this time in light blue.

‘Drive!’ she announced like they were running from the law and ducking down into the leather seat. ‘I don’t think anyone saw you.’

He turned to her. ‘This is a problem for you?’

‘Yes! Of course it is! You’re the enemy,’ she reminded him.

‘Then we will go,’ Panos said. ‘Before anyone can ask anything of either of us.’

‘Is it far?’ Imogen asked as he pulled the car away.

‘About thirty minutes,’ he replied. ‘You are OK with roads in Corfu?’

‘What does that mean? They can’t all be like the ones from the airport, can they?’

He laughed. ‘You should tighten your seatbelt.’

P
anos hadn’t been wrong
. The road to the other side of the island was
worse
than the run up from Corfu airport. Even in this elite vehicle she had been thrown from one side of the seat to the other as they traversed hills that required every bit of the driver’s experience as well as car agility. However, despite having to hold on for dear life, the views had been spectacular.

Lush green farmland gave way to small villages all unique in their appearance – whitewashed and terracotta walls, wooden shutters in blue, white and sage. Tiled roofs, tin roofs, roofs with most of the bits missing, church bell towers and an explosion of blooms surrounding everything – red and purple bougainvillea, primrose and fuchsia.

Now they were meandering through a more populated area, like a smaller version of Acharavi but with the winding streets of a traditional village.

‘No more mountains?’ Imogen asked, sitting straight in her seat and taking in her surroundings.

‘No more mountains,’ he responded. ‘We are almost there.’

And then he performed an emergency stop, sending Imogen shooting forward, her arms reaching out and bracing herself against the dashboard.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I was not expecting that.’

Just in front of where he had stopped the car a man was ushering half a dozen chickens across the road.
Chickens
again. Imogen shook her head and smiled.

The man waved a hand to them as he steered his flock to the other side but she could see the animals in the road weren’t the only reason they’d had to halt. Right ahead of them were barriers and, in front of those and trickling down the street, as far as the eye could see, were little wooden stalls.

‘This must be the community market,’ Panos said, looking out of the windscreen.

‘Is this what you’ve come here for? What Alejandro Kalas talked about last night?’

Panos let out a heavy sigh. ‘If I am really honest, I do not know why I am here, Imogen.’

She swallowed heavily as she regarded his perfect profile.

He smiled then, lightening the moment. ‘But I do know we should find somewhere to park the car,’ he stated.

H
e had reversed
the car back the way they’d come and parked it on the side of the road. Now they were walking down the street towards the bustling market.

He was wearing nicely fitting jeans and a blue t-shirt that showed off every perfect physical attribute he possessed. And he possessed plenty. She had never seen him dress in anything but a suit. He looked different, more relaxed now the leather shoes had been replaced with Vans. Perhaps their differences could be set aside for one day. If the two sides in World War One managed an amiable game of football together she could manage this.

‘Have you been here before?’ she asked, keeping pace beside him as the sun beat down on her shoulders.

‘A long time ago,’ he answered.

‘For business or pleasure?’

‘Both.’

‘It’s pretty,’ she stated, her eyes going to the hanging baskets of flowers suspended from the porches of the houses and eateries they walked past. ‘Traditional.’

‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Tradition appears to still be important around here.’

‘It
is
important though, isn’t it?’ Imogen said. ‘Tradition is all about people’s memories. And you have to admit… where would we be without memories?’

Her thoughts went to her windowsill of mementoes from her father back home. The shells, the wind chime from Mexico, the lotus blossom-painted fan from Japan, a hot-pink ink pen embossed with Shangri-La, Thailand. If she didn’t have the memories she would lose the connection.

‘Not all memories are happy ones,’ Panos pointed out.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘They’re not. But good or bad, memories and traditions shape who you are.’

He stopped and turned to her. ‘You really believe this?’

‘Yes,’ she answered confidently. ‘Don’t you?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Actually, I refuse to believe it.’

‘Well, that’s just silly.’

‘Silly?’

‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘Everything that happens to us changes us in some small way.’ She paused for a second. ‘Like that car journey we just had. I will never complain about the potholes in the UK ever again.’

She saw a smile begin at the corners of his mouth. ‘Your life changed forever in a thirty-minute journey,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said nodding.

‘So,’ he began. ‘Are we both to be changed by our visit to the community market today?’

His eyes were on hers again and she could feel the flush heating up her cheeks. She smiled at him. ‘I’m here with an open mind… and a need for candles and tablecloths.’

He returned her smile. ‘Then let us see what happens.’

P
anos watched
her looking at everything in awe. He had forgotten how enchanting Arillas was and today, with these beautifully carved stalls weaving down the road towards the beachfront, filled with local wares and produce, it was as if it had been crafted for a movie set. This was traditional Greece in all its glory with the modern take Alejandro Kalas had talked about.

‘
Kalimera!
’ a Greek man greeted as they approached his stall.

‘What is this?’ Imogen asked, her question directed to the man and Panos at the same time.

Panos smiled at her and asked the stallholder in Greek if they could try some. The man nodded and Panos picked up one of the little glass bottles filled with orange liquid. He poured a measure into two small plastic shot glasses and offered one to Imogen. He watched her take it rather tentatively and put it to her nose.

‘What is it?’ she asked again.

‘You need to know what this is before you try it?’ he asked. ‘Where is your sense of adventure?’

‘Just tell me if it’s alcoholic before I burn the lining of my throat off.’

‘Alcoholic, yes. It is kumquat,’ Panos answered. ‘In Chinese this means “little orange”. In Corfu this is a traditional product. You will not find this in any other area of Greece.’

‘
Traditional
,’ Imogen said, smiling at him.

‘I like this one,’ Panos admitted.

‘Ready?’ Imogen asked, raising the glass to her mouth.

‘No, no, stop,’ Panos said, taking hold of her hand. ‘It is not a shot,’ he stated. ‘Take a small sip, slowly… Let the flavour travel over your taste buds and then down your throat.’

Her eyes were on his and that sharp stab of lust was currently on guard and ready to start fencing in his gut. He watched her lips touch the rim, a small amount of the tangerine-coloured liquid spilling out into her mouth. He took a sip of his own drink, all the while watching for her reaction.

She took a healthy swig and her face lit up. ‘That’s gorgeous,’ she announced. She put the cup to her mouth again, sipping more. ‘It’s like liquid sunshine.’

Liquid sunshine
. His mother had called it ‘sunshine in a bottle’. She’d loved the drink and had made flagons of it herself. It was a pity Christos had treated it like his own personal store of moonshine near the end. He shook away the memory.

‘I love it,’ Imogen said, smiling at the stallholder. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘Is it jam?’

Panos translated her words to the Greek and the man nodded and said something in reply.

‘He said it is more of a compote. To be served as part of a dessert or simply on bread.’

She dragged the strap of her handbag off her shoulder and began rifling through the contents.

‘This is what Harry’s menu was missing for the desserts,’ she said. ‘This is just what he needs.’

‘What are you doing?’ Panos asked her.

‘Looking for my purse. I know I have it.’

‘How many do you need?’ Panos inquired.

‘I guess it depends how many puddings we’re going to sell.’ She blinked, looking at the jars on the stall. ‘We still have no idea if anyone is actually going to come.’

Panos spoke in Greek to the stallholder, who immediately began collating jars together, chatting excitedly.

‘How many did you say?’ Imogen asked.

‘He said he has just over fifty jars left and about thirty bottles of liqueur,’ Panos said. ‘I said I would buy them all.’

‘What? That’s too many, isn’t it? I mean, what if Harry doesn’t like the idea? I was going to buy a couple and see how it went. I don’t know if I have enough to pay for that much.’

He smiled, enjoying her animation, the flustered talking and the way a few stray strands of blonde hair were flying about her face.

‘Imogen,’ he spoke. ‘I will pay for these.’

She stopped still. ‘And why would you do that? Isn’t it your hope that our restaurant doesn’t do well so you can force Harry to sell?’

He didn’t answer straight away.

‘That isn’t what I want,’ he insisted softly, surprising himself. He recomposed. ‘I thought we were putting our differences aside like eggs.’ He looked directly at her. ‘I want to buy them for you, no hidden agenda.’ He smiled, then turned to the stallholder, speaking in Greek again before handing over a stash of Euro notes to the man.

He then took hold of Imogen’s arm and manoeuvred her away from the stall. ‘Things do not always have to be so clear cut,’ he stated. ‘There is more than right and wrong. There is “not right now” or “not quite yet”.’

‘You’re reconsidering your assault on the seafront?’ Imogen asked tentatively.

‘I am always open to new directions,’ he said, his eyes marking hers.

He watched her swallow, giving away her reaction. He wanted to slip his arms around her waist and pull her against him.

‘Is that why you’ve brought me here? To explore a new direction?’ she asked.

Was she being deliberately provocative? It was certainly having that effect. He was imagining just how a kiss would taste if he stole one now. The tender skin of her lips coupling with the sweetness of the kumquat liqueur.

‘To explore something with you,’ he whispered, his body leaning toward her instinctively. He reached out to touch her cheek.

The blast from a trumpet broke the atmosphere and a trio of musicians appeared in front of them, starting to play a jaunty tune. He put his hand down and stilled, continuing to look into her eyes. Smiling, he took a step forward. ‘Come,’ he encouraged. ‘I can smell
gyros
.’