IKARIA, GREECE
HER NEIGHBOR TOULA HAD OFFERED TO STAY WITH HER uncle so that Rena could get back to her self-defense class. When the couple from Canada had come to the island and started their martial arts studio, she’d thought it would fold within a month. After all, Ikaria was a small and safe island where everyone knew everyone. But it was also a place with limited activities, so soon the classes were filled to overflowing. Rena had started going three years ago and had grown to love it. At first, she wasn’t sure if she could continue, her body stiff and aching after class, but she found that it kept her in shape and was a great way to get rid of stress. And she also felt like she could protect herself, which was something precious after what had happened to her all those years ago back in America. Poking someone in the eye, bending back a finger, or kicking them in the groin were all tactics that would stop someone even twice her size. It had given her back her self-confidence.
Toula was in the kitchen when Rena returned.
“How is he?”
She shook her head. “I think he’s getting worse. He had a coughing fit that lasted over ten minutes.”
Rena sighed. “Thank you for staying. I’ll go check on him.”
Toula rose. “Of course, any time.” She hugged Rena and left.
Rena opened the door to Yiannis’s room. His breathing was ragged and his face dotted with perspiration. She went to the outer room and got a damp cloth and mopped his head. He closed his eyes and rested, while she sat and waited. Finally, he opened his eyes again and spoke haltingly. “I’ll be gone soon, and you will not live forever. What will happen when you die? There is no one here to take your place guarding the coins. You must go back and find your daughter. She has a son now.”
Silence settled heavily on them as she tried to get her mind around what he’d just told her.
“Evangelia. Did you hear me?”
He hadn’t called her by her real name in twenty-four years. She swallowed. “I have a grandson?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I did not tell you . . . but you made me promise never to speak of your daughter again.”
“What is his name? How old is he?”
“Evan. Almost two.”
Evan. Taylor had named her child after her. A crushing heartbreak at all she had missed washed over Rena until she felt like it would break her in half.
“Someone is coming to help you.” His voice was weak.
“Uncle, how were you able to arrange all this?”
“God gives us strength when we need it. The priest that was here is organizing everything. He has reached out to the church heads. Someone from the archdiocese, a Father Basil, will help you.”
She was alarmed. “Are you sure we can trust him?”
“He is a good man. Above temptation.” He waved his hand for her to leave, and his eyes closed. Rising, she leaned over and pulled his blanket up around his chin and kissed his cheek. She wanted to ask him more, but she knew she’d get nothing more out of him tonight.
She went into the small kitchen and sank down into one of the chairs. She’d hardly heard anything her uncle had said after he’d told her she had a grandson. How could he have kept that from her? He had summoned her here all those years ago and convinced her that the only way her daughter would be safe was if she stayed hidden, letting them believe she was dead. Not a single day had passed when she hadn’t thought of Taylor, hadn’t wondered what she was doing, if she was happy. But over time, she’d tried to contain these thoughts. She said a prayer for her daughter in the morning, and then she went about her day, taking care of her uncle, teaching English to the children at the small island school. As her parents had been born in Greece, Rena was fluent in Greek and it was the logical choice for a career on this small island. She’d made a life for herself here among strangers who became her friends and family. She had learned to love it, and after all this time, they had accepted her as their own.
* * *
The next morning, Rena knew her uncle was gone even before she went into his room. There was a quiet to the house, a stillness that told her in her heart before her eyes ever saw. In a daze, she planned his funeral, accepted the condolences from all her neighbors, and wondered what she was supposed to do next. She’d given up her life in America because of this sacred trust, and now she was supposed to go back? A moment of doubt passed over her. Maybe his entreaties had been the result of his fever, and she didn’t really need to do anything. After all, she’d protected the coins for all these years and nothing bad had happened. The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that the safest and wisest course of action was to stay. She was now the only one who knew where they were hidden. If something were to happen to her, the secret would die with her. It was much safer to remain here than to dig them up and take them back to a place where others would be after them.
The house was lonely with her uncle gone, but she understood that it would take time for her to get used to this new normal. She still had her students, her neighbors, her books, and, of course, her faith. Living this simple life had enabled her to spend more time in prayer and contemplation than she would ever have been able to in America. It was almost like being a nun . . . and suddenly the idea of joining a monastery loomed brightly in front of her. That could be the answer to all her prayers. She would have a community, and she could serve God. It might be a chance for her to finally find peace and absolution for what she had done. Then maybe, just maybe, if she found she could trust the abbess, she would even tell her about the coins and take them there for safekeeping, where they could stay forever. She began to feel calm for the first time since her uncle had passed. This was a good idea. A divine idea. She would begin preparations tomorrow.
Warming up a pot of stew that one of the neighbors had brought her, she debated walking down to the village square. Nearly everyone would be there for a coffee and a chat; it was one of things she loved about island living—you never had to be alone if you didn’t want to be. In fact, this was the first time in over a week that one neighbor or another hadn’t stopped in with food and a kind word. Deciding she wasn’t in the mood for talking tonight, she ate her dinner in silence, her mind wandering as she thought about the future.
After washing her dishes, she went to her bedroom and changed. She looked at her uncle’s computer, sitting on her desk next to the notebook with instructions on how to use it. He’d made her promise that, after he was gone, she would use it to rejoin the modern world. After staring at it for several minutes, she sighed and stood. Bringing it over to the bed, she opened it and waited for it start. She clicked on the icon for the internet the way he had shown her, her heart beating wildly as she typed in the name that was never far from her mind. There were several pages of results, and she clicked the first one. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the picture of her daughter that accompanied the article. She devoured the words on the screen and then sat back, staggered.
Now that she’d opened Pandora’s box, she clicked through to another article and continued to read, her heart growing heavy with each word. She went back to the search engine and typed in more names, more subjects, all prompted by what she’d just read. Every nerve was on fire as the hours passed and she read and read.
By the time she’d finished, the sun was rising. She closed the computer and looked out the window. She couldn’t go to the monastery, as much as she wanted to. No, the time for hiding was over. It was time to go back to America. But how? She had no passport, no credit cards. She was still thinking about it when there was a knock at the door. She walked the few feet to the doorway and looked out. Standing there was a man she’d never seen before.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Father Basil. I believe you’re expecting me.”