Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance) (5 page)

P
anos had hired
the most expensive car the company at the airport had at its disposal. The sleek, black Mercedes circled around the familiar twists and turns of his island like it was following a path ingrained in its make-up. From its secret coves and beaches to the rugged terrain en route to the highest peak of Pantokrator and all the remote tracks, farmland, olive groves and fruit orchards in between – Corfu was a jewel. He sighed, turning the vehicle around another bend towards Agios Martinos. He remembered every stretch of this particular road. The dense trees either side of the highway – pines, bush scrub, twisted and warped olives – the purple geraniums and lupins, the tiny yellow flowered crosswort.

He slowed the car down as it rounded the final loop then pulled it to a stop. He let his breath fill up his lungs as he gazed into the thicket just in front of him. It was still there. The same fraying blue rope, haphazardly tied around a branch of what his grandmother had always said was the oldest olive tree in Agios Martinos. Below the rope was a splintered plank of wood, a swing, shifting gently with the heat. How many hours had he spent here? His legs shooting up into the air, touching the higher boughs of the tree, body prostrate, back arching, working to send the swing as high into orbit as possible. He could almost feel the wind through his hair now as he pictured the scene, the warmth of the sun on his face and laughter. Him, his cousin Risto, and children from the village. His eyes went further up the tree, midway on the trunk, and he smiled. Their treehouse, the rough wooden shelter that had kept them from the heat, sheltered them from thunder and provided the perfect hiding place when chores needed to be done. They’d played cards for
drachma
and sent toy cars speeding off the platform into the wood below.
His father had built the treehouse
. Visions of the lithe man, hanging from the tree, nailing planks of wood together, planing rough sections with his hands, asking Panos to pass him screwdrivers, rope, a spirit level. Simple pleasures. Time and love spent creating the hideout.

Instantly the happiness fell away. Panos swallowed. He knew he wasn’t the only teenager in the world to have had to cope with a marriage breakdown. But when it had ended in his father’s death rather than a divorce it was like God had run in and grabbed everything all at once. His mother’s happiness. Their money to get by. Their home. His father. Again, his mother came to mind. Her endless nights of tears, his inability to provide consolation, his father’s harsh words to everyone. He shook himself. He hadn’t come here to rake over old ground but to show the island that the Dimitriou name meant success again. His father may have failed to adapt to modern business but he had learned to thrive on the pace, the invigorating ruthlessness of it all. He restarted the engine and continued up the steep hill until the house came into view.

Like the play area of his youth the house was unchanged. The biscuit-coloured brick of the two-storey villa was just the same as it had been when he’d left at seventeen. His heart thumping against his ribs told him exactly how it felt to be back. He was anxious, feeling none of the usual business bravado he was so used to practising. Like it or not, this was affecting him deeply. Which was probably why, up until now, his trips back to Corfu had always taken place on neutral ground. He’d stay at a soulless hotel and his grandmother and relatives would come to a restaurant of his choosing. A couple of hours, the bill on his credit card and he would leave for the next big deal away from this island.

He parked the car and looked up at the villa again. Dark green shutters were closed over the windows shading the inside from the intense daytime heat and the window boxes were in full bloom. A fiesta of pink and white bougainvillea and lilac clematis budded from the sills, and urns of the same sat upon the front patio area. It seemed his grandmother might be too old to manage a restaurant full time but obviously her gardening wasn’t suffering. Another pot of flowers sat in the middle of the old round stone table on the patio.

Panos stepped out onto the paving. Coming from the air-conditioned vehicle, the temperature outside hit him straightaway. The buzz of the cicadas invaded every sense and he started to roll up his shirt sleeves, looking towards the front door and wondering who was going to break first. He tucked the shirt sleeves in at his elbows and let out a breath. His grandmother was even more stubborn than him and she
had done nothing to deserve his disdain. On the contrary, she was the only constant he’d had when things began to fall apart.

His gaze shifted to the left, to the patch of grass and pair of trees in front of the house, next to the driveway. A man sat on his grandparents’ seat between the olives, swigging from a bottle, his eyes on the view across the trees. Who was this? So carefree about sitting on his grandparents’ seat? Panos strode across the grass, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ His voice came out like an angry bark and the dark-haired young man jumped to his feet, dropping the bottle of water to the ground.

‘I—’

‘I asked you a question. What are you doing here?’ He narrowed his eyes at the man dressed in dungaree overalls, who looked no more than eighteen.

‘Pano!’ Elpida’s voice screamed from the house. ‘For the love of Zeus will you leave Nico alone?’

Panos’ gaze went from the man to his grandmother. She was hanging out of one of the windows at the top of the house, waving a handkerchief in the air. ‘He’s the gardener!’

Of course he was
. Panos cleared his throat and hurriedly extended a hand to the worker. ‘Panos Dimitriou,’ he introduced. ‘I apologise. I didn’t realise my grandmother had hired a gardener.’

‘Is OK,’ the man answered, accepting the offered hand and shaking it. ‘Mrs Dimitriou does not like to have help. I offer to take care of garden and she cooks for my mother.’

Panos shook his head. That sounded exactly like Elpida. Perfectly capable of paying for a gardener but preferring an old-fashioned bartering system. Unless… perhaps selling the restaurant hadn’t been about it being too much for her. Maybe the financial crisis had hit her too.

He turned back to the house and waved a hand at his grandmother.

‘Come into the house! I have cooked
kleftiko
!’ Elpida called.

The fragrance of the lamb, rosemary and bay leaves weakened Panos as he stepped over the threshold, a hard reminder of what he’d distanced himself from. The aromatic authentic Greek dish was kicking him where it hurt even more than the memories of playing on the olive tree swing as a boy or his grandmother’s unchanged home. He looked around the kitchen, trying to spot anything he didn’t recognise. There was the range – a copper-bottomed pot bubbling away, a fresh sheaf of lavender over the brick surround – the large circular moon clock slow as usual. As in the rest of Greece you never knew quite what the time was here. He wasn’t even sure why his
yiayia
had the clock.

‘Pano!’ Elpida greeted. ‘Come here, let me look at you!’

Panos turned and met with the grandmother he allegedly hadn’t seen for a year. He smiled but inside his stomach twisted. Despite the neatly set, dyed blonde hair slightly streaked with silver, the bright pink silk scarf at her neck and the large glasses on her nose, Elpida was starting to look her age. Dressed in a tight-fitting knee-length orange dress, Nike trainers on her feet, the woman smiled. She was only five feet tall, still slim, but perhaps lacking the outward strength she’d always exhibited. Now it looked as though her formidable nature was the only thing keeping her standing. He adjusted quickly and opened his arms to her. ‘
Yiayia
, you’re looking well.’

She snorted and withdrew as quickly as she had met his embrace. ‘Pfft! You are not.’ She pointed a finger. ‘You are too thin.’

‘You have been saying this to me since I was five.’

‘And it is still true! Look at you!’

Elpida had made it sound like he was on the verge of famine. There was still colour in her cheeks and those eyes that saw everything, externally and internally. He smiled.

‘How much do I have to eat before you’ll sell me the restaurant?’

It was meant to be a joke. An ice breaker. But the way her dark eyes blackened and her lips formed a scowl he knew immediately he’d said the wrong thing.

She pointed her finger again. ‘I tell you the restaurant is sold! Do you not believe me?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘But nothing. There is no conversation to be had about the restaurant anymore.’ She reached to the counter for a packet of cigarettes and held onto them like they were a comfort blanket. Her eyes dropped to the packet. ‘You wish for me not to smoke. Stop making me want to smoke.’ She threw the cigarettes down again.

‘I—’ Panos started.

‘You will eat
kleftiko
and then we are going out. We are meeting Risto.’ Elpida grabbed an oven glove and pulled open the cooker door, releasing the meaty aromas. ‘He has missed you.’

He swallowed. He should have kept in better touch with his cousin. They had been brought up like brothers since Risto’s parents had both been killed in a car accident. He hadn’t spoken to him in so long.

‘Risto needs a little help.’

‘From me?’

‘Is there someone else in my kitchen?’ She waved a tea towel in the air. ‘Yes, you!’

‘Is he in some sort of trouble?’

‘We will discuss this with alcohol, but all in good time.’ She pulled a large casserole pot out of the oven. ‘Come and eat!’

I
mogen almost wanted to cry
. The shambolic state of the outside of the property was nothing compared to the inside which looked like someone had driven a tank through it. Everything was either coated with dust or was broken – or both – and that was just the main room. The kitchen looked like it shouldn’t be entered without a hazmat suit. She’d held her nose before opening the fridge room and almost vomited when she found mouldy potatoes with roots a foot long protruding from one of the cupboards.

The second floor was completely empty apart from carcasses of dead critters liberally spread across the tiles. There was a bathroom at one end, with a shower designed for people of Barbie and Ken proportions and a toilet with a basin resembling the bottom of a coffee cup. Now, with the dirty curtains parted, she stared out of the filthy glass window at the sea, hoping it would soothe her aching soul and provide some much needed inspiration. Or provoke a siren song to a TV home make-over team. Outside, on the beach, her legs stretched out on a lounger – that’s where she wanted to be. Eyes closed, drifting into a half-sleep, a half-litre of something alcoholic on a table next to her, listening to the lull of the sea…

‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it?’

Imogen drew in a breath. Unless Harry had found a lifetime’s supply of Cillit Bang in a cupboard there was nothing to be happy about. She let go of the curtain and tried to ignore the shower of dust that caught the ray of sunlight flooding through the glass.

‘I know it’s only one big room and the bathroom up here, but that’s alright, isn’t it? I mean we can manage until we can get some partitioning put in. And Olivia and Tristan will love it. They’ll think it’s like camping out.’ He paused. ‘And then, when things are going well here, we could maybe look at getting a little house to live in.’

‘Harry,’ Imogen started, the word catching in her throat. ‘There aren’t any beds.’

‘It’s all in hand.’ Harry had acquired a broom from somewhere and was sweeping it across the terracotta floor, sending up plumes of thick dust that were seeping into Imogen’s mouth.

‘What does that mean?’ She put her hands on her hips and focussed her blue eyes on him. Suddenly the dust dried her throat up and she forced out a cough. When was the last time she’d had a drink? She looked to the limescale-tarnished hand basin in the bathroom, a green coating around the tap. Could you drink the water in Greece?

‘It means that I packed sleeping bags in my luggage.’

Imogen blinked in astonishment. She didn’t know what surprised her more. That Harry thought sleeping on the floor in this sty of an ‘apartment’ was acceptable, or that he managed to pack clothes, toiletries
and
two sleeping bags in a luggage allowance of twenty kilos.

‘Harry,’ she began. ‘I think we need to sit down…’ She looked around for chairs that weren’t there. ‘Somewhere… as in not here… and talk about this.’

‘I agree,’ he replied, still sweeping. Now the dust was like a fog between them and Harry was becoming fuzzy round the edges.

‘You do.’

He nodded. ‘Of course! We need to work out a schedule.’

‘A schedule.’

‘Yep. Everything works better with a schedule. So we need a date to work towards.’

She cleared her throat. ‘A date for…’ She deliberately left the end of the sentence open, feeling a little like she was teetering on the edge of Beachy Head.

Harry grinned. ‘The grand opening.’

Beachy Head wasn’t enough of a drop; now she was freefalling off the Shard. She steeled herself. It was OK. Because this was day one. They’d just arrived. She had plenty of time to get him to realise no amount of cleaning would make this a place where people wanted to eat. She swallowed. ‘I see… So your plan is to take a week or so to clean it up and open it… as a restaurant?’

Harry stopped brushing and leant his weight on the broom as he looked at her. ‘Are you alright, Immy?’

Suddenly reality was kicking in. It was only a few days ago she’d been told she was going to be head chef at a restaurant a thousand miles from home that looked like it had held a Hell’s Angels party. She croaked out an affirmative. ‘Yes.’

‘I know I dropped this on you but there was a good reason for that,’ Harry continued.

‘You told me,’ Imogen replied. ‘You knew I would talk you out of it.’

‘
Try
to talk me out of it, I said.’ Harry sighed. ‘I wanted to prove to you… prove to everyone that I could rejuvenate…’ Harry shook his head. ‘No, that isn’t the word. Reinvigorate…’

Harry moved his head as if trying to dislodge a blockage that was there. Imogen remained quiet, watching the specks of dust dance in the air between them. She watched him lean backwards and take a deep breath of the musty air.

‘I wanted to prove to everyone and prove to myself that I could make something happen,’ he said finally. ‘I know how things have been with me being ill and—’

‘Oh, Harry…’

‘No, Immy, please. I’m not a child.’

‘I know that, I just want to help you…’ She hesitated before she continued. ‘Help you work things out. With Janie, Olivia and Tristan.’

‘Then help me with this,’ Harry said, his blue eyes wide and pleading.

‘Harry, I really don’t know the first thing about running a restaurant,’ Imogen said.

‘You’ve worked in one for years.’

‘I know, but that was cooking the odd pan of fried eggs and microwaving baked potatoes. It wasn’t marinating or blanching, I haven’t done that for so long.’ And he was going to expect pastry, she just knew it.

‘But you can learn it again… and so can I.’ He grinned. ‘It might be like bike riding. Once learned, never forgotten.’

‘It’s in Greece, Harry. You can’t expect us to live here. Is that what you thought would happen?’

‘For the summer, maybe? I’m not sure how busy this area is in the winter but I do know there are a lot of ex-pats who live here. They’ll want food in the winter.’

‘Well, what about permits? I don’t know much about Greece but I do know they love their red tape when it comes to things like this. They don’t just let you open a restaurant willy-nilly.’

‘I’ve got some of them. I need to meet with the fire guy to go through what kit we need and get the music licence from someone called Helios,’ Harry responded. ‘Then there’s a business licence. I need to sort out that one.’

She hadn’t been expecting that. It seemed her brother was far more organised than anyone had given him credit for.

‘I’ve thought about this, Immy. I told you. I’ve been planning this for weeks. It’s just what I need.’ He inhaled air like it was sweet mountain dew. ‘A fresh start. I can show Janie I’m still the man she fell in love with and seduce her with Greek treats that are going to have her remembering the time I took her up the monastery.’

She nodded quickly, hoping ‘monastery’ wasn’t a euphemism.

She watched Harry’s smile widen. ‘I know something we need more than beds,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some wine and toast our new venture!’

‘Our new venture,’ Imogen spoke with a little uncertainty. Feeling like a trapped third class passenger on the
Titanic
, she forced a smile. She could do this. She just had to keep them both afloat. The trouble was, if things got rougher, she couldn’t imagine who was going to arrive with a lifeboat.