We’re anchored off a tiny cove, the afternoon sun’s intensity at its peak before the colours of evening close another Methoni day. Perfect solitude and peace.
The sea is warm and as we snorkel around the rocks, it feels like flying underwater. Seaweed sways idly, anemones yield their tentacles to dance in the soft currents. Sand-coloured fish dart in and out of rocks on the ocean floor, sea grass grazing their bellies. The sun casts its beams, beating down on my back, the flow of water taking me where it chooses.
An arm curls around me and I set myself upright, treading water. His skin glows in our submerged paradise, bronze against the turquoise surroundings. He moves me closer, his arms enclosing me, my legs encircling his waist. Hanging in suspended motion, our need for each other tips towards uncontrollable. Tension that simmered during the boat ride here, a glance, a smile, a memory of last night filled with teasing restraint. My hair streams out as we begin to sink, locked in our embrace. Water caressing as we let gravity take us, ethereal and otherworldly. Bubbles stream upwards as we descend. I don’t want to let go, but as my lungs begin to beg for breath, I kick towards the sunlight.
As I break the surface, I pull off my mask, tipping my head back, filling my body with air, like being born again. Theo emerges beside me, desire clear in his eyes, droplets of water catching on his dark eyelashes. I need to be closer. It’s impossible to find the satisfaction we crave in the middle of the sea. I start to swim back to the boat and he takes my signal it’s time to go.
We climb back on board and he pulls the anchor and starts the engine. Standing at the wheel in front of him in his arms, I watch the beginnings of dusk slowly spread across Methoni as we near the shore. The guard tower and castle walls stand proudly, poised to fend off danger that will never come. Perhaps I should approach the next part of my life in that way. Being afraid of what may or may not happen has wound imaginary shackles around my heart. But in Methoni, I feel peace and a new tenacity for life. As if something has made way. Not in a rebound sense, as Robert is long gone from my heart, but a new strength, buoyed by the indescribable magic of this tiny village and the deep historical links with my mother.
Being underwater was like a baptism, re-emerging with a greater sense of the future and what that could hold. I have optimism about finding Mum’s lost work and piecing my life back together, whatever it may look like. I can consign this with Theo as a solely physical sun-drenched encounter, knowing he won’t ever want more. I just need to look after my heart and not get hurt by him.
Jumping off the boat, it takes me a moment to find my land legs. Unsteady on my feet, I fold into Theo’s embrace beneath the harbour lights that cast an orange glow across the shallows. Kissing the top of my head, I catch him inhaling my scent.
‘I smell like soggy sand!’ I giggle playfully, pushing him away.
He smiles and pulls me back, the lamplight illuminating his face.
‘You smell like you and of the sea. My two favourite things.’
He looks at me with such unbridled emotion, sparking another strong burst of desire between us; our unspoken language that only we understand.
‘Be with me tonight, please,’ he asks. ‘I do not wish this day to finish yet.’
The days are whizzing by so quickly and I know real life waits for me back in London in two weeks, but in this moment, I want to forget all the responsibility and be exactly where I am now. The painting mission is in motion and there’s nothing I can do until I meet Tony in Kalamáta tomorrow. I nod my agreement and we walk back towards the village. I know I’m grinning like a teenager, but I can’t help it. My stride is light and I feel alive, tingling all over. It’s not sunburn, it’s Theo.
* * *
His house is set back from the shore, beyond the main strip. We walk through a hedge that divides the garden from the beach and over the lawn. A two-storey white villa with terracotta roof tiles, pale blue railings lining the upper balconies. The entire ground-floor frontage is glass.
Unlocking the sliding doors, he encourages me to step in. The room is open-plan with light oak floors and whitewashed walls – a modern loft concealed behind a traditional mask. Floor-length drapes frame the picture windows that point straight out to sea without a single obstruction.
‘How do you get anything done with this view? It’s stunning,’ I ask.
He joins me at the glass, wrapping an arm around me.
‘The water is my office,’ he jokes, ‘always here but changing, in colour and feeling. Is my greatest love. It gives me work, food … Sometimes is difficult – the cruel sea, they say. But today it gives me something special. You.’
I smile up at him, reassured he feels the same need to be closer. I try to imagine him saying this to countless other girls, attempting to conjure him up to the player I suspect he is. But in this moment, I believe him. Naive or not, I need to feel wanted.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks wryly, his question weighted, but I’m truly famished; this sea air makes me constantly hungry.
‘I could eat,’ I respond, ‘but can I take a shower? My hair has most of the beach in it.’
‘Of course. Is up the stairs on the right – use whatever you need.’
He kisses me and for a moment all thoughts of my disastrous hair and dinner are forgotten. There is only him.
But as I walk up the stairs, my rational mind kicks in and I know I need to slow this down. I’m doing the opposite of Tasha’s imparted wisdom, in danger of plunging headlong into something I can’t control. I was sure earlier when we were in the sea that I physically wanted to be with him – I felt determined and free. But now I’m rethinking the smartness of that direction, whether or not I’m ready to be with someone else. I’m damaged and as much as my body longs to feel another’s touch, the emotional scars that Robert left are seared into my skin.
The stark fact remains that this can only last as long as I’m in Methoni, and I have just a fortnight to find Mum’s picture and solve the mystery for my own sanity. And I can’t let that go, forsaking it simply for a short-lived passion.
* * *
Theo pours me a glass of wine and opens a bottle of beer. We sit on the patio sofas eating olives in the candlelight. Moroccan lanterns cast a patterned glow on the tiles and I snuggle underneath the blanket he’s wrapped around me. Dinner is simmering slowly on the stove. Fasolákia: green beans in a rich tomato sauce with dill. A boy who can cook. Watching him prepare supper gives me a thrill, seeing him in what is my domain, resisting the urge to chop onions more neatly.
‘What was it that brought you home to Methoni? How come you didn’t stay in Athens – you seem to love it so much?’ I ask.
Theo swigs at his beer and turns to face me. I resist the urge to prompt him about Selena. That can of worms is probably best left closed. He pauses for a moment, considering my question.
‘I wanted to stay in Athens, to teach English literature after the degree, but I must return because of my father. He was fisherman before me – I have his boat now. But he got sick when my grandfather died just as I finish university. It was like he could not speak any more, like his heart broke. He idolised his father – he teach him everything about the sea, to fish, and then when he died, my father closed up.’
He speaks with such compassion about his parent, his emotions contained and measured despite the conflict of giving up his own dream to return home.
‘Did your father recover?’
He reaches for a cigarette and lights it, exhaling slowly.
‘He didn’t for many years. He developed a problem in his brain and is epilepsy. No longer could he go fishing alone. Too dangerous. The doctors say was stress from grief, the body’s way of understanding the loss.
‘He is better now, but I am feeling at that time responsible. My yiayia was so sad losing pappoús. But my father was unable to function and my family was falling apart. I could not stay in Athens; it was my duty. This is the very traditional family I am from and is the way. So, I return to Methoni after university and when national service finished.’
‘You were in the army?’
I’m surprised. I didn’t know that compulsory conscription was still a thing; it seems like something from a bygone era.
‘All men have almost one year in the army or other service. I was proud to serve my country, but it was not for me. Not as job.’
His traditional devotion to his family is admirable, as is his sense of pride in his country. So different to the disconnection that seems to have taken hold back home. The perception of a national identity that fuels such division in Britain seems integral to the fabric of Greek life.
‘How do you say grandfather again …?’
‘Pappoús.’
He appears amused by my attempts at his language but doesn’t tease me.
‘What was your pappoús called?’ I ask, enjoying finding out so much about him and his family.
‘I am named for him – he was Theo, as well. Theofilos. Is tradition here – the first son is named for his father’s father.’
‘Your dad must have been close to your pappoús to get ill. For grief to have affected him so much.’
He nods sadly, taking a pull on his cigarette, then offers it to me.
‘After my mother left, he was changed. He suddenly became so unhappy, everything was miserable and bitter. Like he blamed his family for his sadness, blamed me, his heart shut. Not even I or yiayia could reach him. He was changed forever.
‘This sadness is ending never, pulling him down. He seemed to be always thinking of what wasn’t with him. So, he is forgetting to care about what was in his life. Or who was …’ He shrugs in resignation. ‘Is his way … very different to me.
‘But each year, my yiayia encourage him to travel to be apart from all that brings him down. He would be like his old self and enjoy life. Though the happiness he had from being away from here would not last, he would close again. But even this is now stopped. He does not leave the village this past year. I am close with yiayia. But he is difficult, our relationship is difficult. More now than ever before.’
I reach for his hand, recognising the pain of watching a loved one suffer and being helpless to fix it, understanding the toll grief can take.
‘To feel such a love that you get sick without it … Love has made everyone I care for unhappy. My father still holds on to this like an illness that will not leave.’
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. It’s as if he can stare into my innermost thoughts with just a glance. I’m transparent to him, vulnerable, but in a way that I’m willing to surrender to; not forced or out of fear. Yet, it doesn’t sit easily with me, as I don’t know if I’m ready to peel back the layers and unravel the knots of who I truly am to anyone.
I raise his hand to my lips, kissing his wrist. His hand cups my cheek, stroking my face with his thumb. I can’t look away, as if we’re caged in our own bubble, removed from the real world.
‘The thing is, Sophie, I cannot regret my family. If none of these things happen, then you and I would not be here. I would be in Athens and would not have met you.’
The simple statement seems to contradict the warnings from Christina and Mary. Theo seems comfortable enough in his skin to bare his deepest feelings once there is trust – yes, he’s complicated, but then who isn’t? Recalling what he disclosed about accepting love and trusting women because of his mother, I’m buoyed we can talk with greater intimacy. I’m trying to keep a piece of me sacred, to hold back, but as if steered by an invisible force, I’m unable to do so.
Suddenly, I realise what Theo has said is true. If Mum hadn’t died, I may never have set foot in this enchanting place and I wouldn’t be here with him. It’s bittersweet. We both have grief and a parent to thank, despite our suffering that continues. Because that has led us to each other. But I don’t know if I can trust someone completely again. Being physical is one thing, though I know there’s so much more happening between us than just lust. Am I drawn to him because I need to learn how to give myself to someone again? And if I do, I’ll go home and that will be the end of it – there can be no future between us. I’ve begun to care about him in the handful of days we’ve known each other; put together, for some reason. But I don’t know if I have time to work out why amid my real purpose in Methoni.
‘What is this, Sophie mou? Tell me what you are thinking.’
My Sophie.
A thrill runs through me at his term of endearment, but the question is loaded and I’m unclear how to answer. It ought to be too soon to have reached this point, but it isn’t. I know we both feel this could be something important. Yet, how can it? This time together is finite, our lives and cultures so very different. Thoughts and scenarios jumble around my brain and I realise I haven’t answered and he’s waiting. All I know is that I don’t want to be apart from him.
I meet his eyes, knowing my response could alter everything. Either it’ll shift this up a gear or send him running for the mountains. I hug my knees and catch myself biting my thumbnail as I do when I’m nervous or unsure, but I’ve spent too many years being afraid.
‘I’m thinking lots of things … I feel like … we were meant to meet. It feels so right. It’s silly, I know – we haven’t known each other long.’
Sensing my hesitation at revealing my private thoughts, he moves closer, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling.
‘Maybe we are here to heal each other. It makes me afraid too, Sophie, but right now, I wonder why we try to fight it.’
My eyes swim with tears of relief, but also at the thought of plunging headlong into whatever this may become.
‘But why do you have tears?’ he asks, concern flooding his face, his arms pulling me closer.
‘I can’t risk my heart. It’s already been broken.’
Why is it so hard for me to make this leap of faith? I have nothing more to lose, it’s not possible to feel more hurt, but my head is holding me back, despite the words from my heart. I’m also mindful of whether or not I can be trusted with his heart. He is damaged, too. How can we prevent this from being destined for suffering and disappointment?
My eyes travel around the patio and out towards the sea before returning to Theo, sat beside me on the corner sofa. I turn to face him and take a deep breath – I need to tell him about Robert.
‘I want to be with you, Theo, but I have to explain why I’m hesitating. My ex-boyfriend, he hurt me, in every possible way.’
Theo’s eyes narrow as he understands what I’m saying and I see the flash of anger as he absorbs it.
‘He had a horrible temper and it came out when he was drunk. Which, eventually, was a lot. He was jealous and insecure and wanted to control me. The emotional abuse was almost worse than anything else. Not that being violent is OK – and I admit, he did give me bruises and pushed me around sometimes.’
As I unburden the brief history of my heart, it feels like reclaiming myself. The sea seems to wash heavier against the shore, the sound reaching Theo’s house, bouncing off the exterior walls. He lets me continue in my own time.
‘Towards the end of the relationship, I was afraid almost the whole time. Like some half version of who I was, but I tried to hide it from everyone I loved. My mum, my best friend, Tasha, all of my other close friends – nobody really knew what happened behind closed doors because I was ashamed.’ I begin to cry, unable to hide my pain. Wiping my nose, I continue, ‘I vowed after I broke up with him, I’d never give myself so completely to anyone again. I ended it last year, but the damage is still with me, inside.
‘After I left him, my mum was diagnosed with cancer. And what you said about your dad, I understand why your father’s grief made him ill. When Mum died, it was like I’d lost part of me, and I felt so alone. She was only fifty-nine and I felt cheated of our time together. I wondered if I’d be able to find joy in anything again. Until now, meeting you, and this …’
I break off to wipe my eyes. He needs to know at least some of why I’m so tentative about letting myself be with him. It feels like an exorcism, letting it all out. If he bails, I don’t care. An overly emotional woman isn’t very sexy, but this isn’t about him. It isn’t about Robert – it’s about me. Letting go of years of hurt and choosing whose hands I permit to touch me.
Theo is frowning, reflecting on what I’ve shared. He slowly puts his hand up to stroke my face, indicating he’s no threat. He doesn’t look at me with pity, only empathy and tenderness.
‘You should never be treated like this. It wounds me to think of it. I cannot change what you go through, and I am sorry for what you lost in this life. For me, I can only say there is nothing to happen here that you do not want if is difficult for you. I will not hurt you like this man, but I understand if to be together is problem. And you only have small amount of time to be here.
‘Of course, I have passion for you, but I respect your feelings. We are both afraid in our own ways. I am afraid for my heart, too. Is why I also hesitate. There is something between us, Sophie. But I do not wish to make more pain for you or for me.’
I believe him. Instinctively, I know I’m not being spun a line to get me to his bed. The raw emotion in his eyes inspires me to let go a little, to submit to our passion. Any fear that pulsed in the air around us begins to disperse as we kiss. The intensity in our need for each other increases with what is said and unsaid.
As I press against him, I feel his desire. I’m empowered to be so wanted. This is my choice. I take his hand and lead him upstairs. Surpassing the point when words aren’t enough, the urge to invite absolute possession dominates. Slowly shedding our clothes and discarding the burden of our past. Tumbling downwards into the depths of your soul, the strength of physical union, the slow climb upwards, craving closeness. Searching, reaching for something that gives you life, is necessary to your survival and nothing else exists outside of that.
He looks deeply into my eyes; no language of any kind needed. Trust, consent and in this moment, a love. His fingers tenderly touch me where I need them, sending exquisite ripples through my body. I feel his hands as he explores every part of me that craves him. His mouth on me, warm against the cooler air. I kiss him with an innate hunger that gives him unspoken but complete permission. It feels so right, almost familiar, like two broken pieces fitting back together. Months of anguish are released, cleansed with passion and something much more.
His eyes bore into mine as our union builds, darkening with fervour and a raw power that takes me further than ever before as we move together. Hearts beating, breath high and loud as I cry out. It’s as if I leave my body, returning with a profound reawakening and a dawning realisation we were meant to meet. An unknown force has united us, creating an energy that heightens every sensation. Our connection from the start was much more than desire. The real reason for our bond is up to the universe to reveal.
* * *
Tracing the outline of the tattoo across Theo’s chest, we lay entwined in his bed. His arm beneath my neck absent-mindedly stroking my shoulder as he half dozes. My head in the nook of his arm, listening to his heartbeat. The balcony doors of his room let in the soothing sounds of the sea, night air cooling the sheen of sweat on our bodies.
Looking around his room, there are framed black-and-white photographs of Athenian architecture leaning artfully against a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. A string of prayer beads hangs from one of the shelves, the silver crucifix catching the light. The cross: the symbol that there is no love without suffering.
I lift my head to look at Theo, sliding my hand underneath my chin, and rest it on his chest. His eyes are closed, dark eyelashes touching his cheeks, a half-smile on his lips. I’m not sure if he’s sleeping, but his heart rate has slowed and his breathing is deepening.
The tattoo across his heart is three lines of inscription, black ink on smooth dark skin. I’m unable to read all the Greek characters without reaching for electronic translation, so I stay still. He stirs, catching me trying to scrutinise the words.
‘If you want something to read, there are books here,’ he laughs, indicating the shelves.
If only he was as easy to read as a book – deciphering this foreign alphabet feels like a metaphor for trying to unravel him.
He moves to kiss me, his hand in my hair, rolling me onto my back. His shoulders tense as he pushes up to look at me from above. My hand returns to his marking once more, following the lines with my finger.
‘This is poem I find in my father’s house on a card. Just those three lines, and inside writing I think from my mother, he would not say. Is very sad, but I fall in love with the words. It means in English something like “I am sitting here, making this coolness, my dwelling place.”
It takes me a second to register what I’ve just heard.
‘What did you say?’ I shriek.
My eyes widen. I can’t believe it. My hand covers the words on his skin. Words I’d only read for the first time a few weeks ago but in the most meaningful way. It was in Mum’s last letter to me, her poignant and poetic way of saying goodbye. She used these very words, written in her hand. And now it’s written indelibly on the man in front of me. I push him off me and sit bolt upright.
‘Sophie, what is it, what is wrong?’
‘This is the … I … My head is spinning … that poem – my mum left it for me to read after she died. It’s the last thing I have from her and somehow it’s also your tattoo.’
His face blanches as he digests what I’ve said.
‘But that’s crazy. I never hear of this poem before. So, how … how can this …’
He appears as stunned as I am at the serendipitous collision of our worlds. Both at a loss how to make sense of this astonishing link.
‘This is so weird … spooky weird.’
I rub away the chills that have gathered on my skin. He takes a moment, leaning back on his elbows, the thin bed sheet partially covering his torso. The tattooed haiku standing out starkly against the white linen. I look at it again, trying to understand the meaning behind this revelation.
‘Maybe is just chance or maybe is fate.’ He pulls me back to the safety of his arms, warming my cold skin. ‘But we are joined in these words. And that is beautiful.’
As my initial shock begins to fade, I sink into a partial agreement. Those words carefully chosen by Mum that already meant so much, now connect me further to Theo, to this place. He’s shifted the course of this trip into something much more than I could ever have anticipated. Romantic and poetic; whether it’s a message, providence, kismet … it’s almost a validation that I’m treading a path that is already chosen, steered by an invisible hand along this journey to, I hope, uncover the lost painting I seek.
But my mind is reeling. We’re from such different places and cultures – yet, to be linked in this way seems to have a heightened relevance. Mum’s painting aside, is he another reason I’ve been led to Methoni?
* * *
I’m alone on the balcony off Theo’s bedroom. It’s almost dawn, but I’m unable to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about all that we discussed earlier. The haiku, Robert, Mum. I didn’t tell Theo about my miscarriage – it just seemed like an extra overload of doom – and the important part was to explain to Theo about my reticence in trusting someone after the damage Robert inflicted. Theo’s feelings about children are abundantly clear and perhaps it would put him off if I told him I was pregnant once.
Strangely, I feel guilty for not talking about it when we were being so open and honest. But what point is there sharing every innermost thought, every trauma I’ve ever experienced? I’ll be leaving Methoni soon. The unchangeable truth quietly circles, like a stalking predator, reminding me to shield my heart. I know I’m already failing at that.
Sighing out loud, I decide to go to the beach for a walk to clear my mind. Peeling back the protective shutters downstairs, I open the glass doors.
My feet sink into the sand as I walk along the beach, cold yet comforting. I think ahead to my appointment with Tony in Kalamáta, and the prospect of seeing Mum’s paintings feels exciting and emotional. The clean air blows lightly from the sea and I silently ask the wind for guidance. The beach is still in darkness, the waves gentle and docile.
Thinking about Theo’s tattoo, I wonder if I’m grasping on to this coincidence as an affirmation my choices are correct against my deepest fears about letting someone in. Constantly attempting to be objective and not allowing grief to cloud my thoughts is a challenge. Only, the world without Mum seems less safe somehow, like I’m floundering, a comfort blanket having been ripped away. She knew me before I knew myself, instinctively recognised how to make things better. I know her spirit is with me, living on, and tonight has yielded such a reminder. She is all around.
I turn, retracing my steps along the shore to the warmth of Theo and his bed. A rush of pleasure runs through me at the thought of him and I smile. A few lights twinkle across the bay in Pylos. Glimpses of the sky slowly lightening beyond the headland. The vague outlines of bobbing boats are gradually being revealed from the mask of night.
I stop below Theo’s house and stare out to the dark sea. A sudden noise behind me, up in the garden, makes me start. My head whips round and I back towards the water to put as much distance between me and whatever is concealed by the gloom. I peer through the low light. The dimness of predawn prevents me from making out any clear shapes. Again, an abrupt movement from behind the hedge that lines Theo’s garden. I step back further until the shock of the cold seawater on my feet makes me gasp aloud. Adrenaline begins to pump around my body. I’m frozen with fright.
Suddenly, a figure rapidly emerges, exploding from their hiding place at the far end of the garden and sprinting back along the beach. I inhale sharply in fearful surprise, unable to make out any discerning features or clothing. A silhouette disappearing out of view, swallowed by the blackness.
I frantically run up to the house and lock the doors, trying to steady my heartbeat, panting uncontrollably. I attempt to find a rational explanation. It’s possible I disturbed someone sleeping on the beach. But I know I didn’t. They were in Theo’s garden. The bedroom balcony doors were open all night. Could the intruder hear us? The thought of someone eavesdropping on our most private moments makes me prickle with cold disgust. I left the downstairs doors open when I went for my walk. Did they get into the house? I rush upstairs. Theo stirs. His eyes widen when he sees my panic. He is unharmed, but I’m in a frenzy of terror.
‘Theo, someone was here,’ I pant. ‘I went for a walk on the beach and saw something – someone, I think – in the garden.’
He springs out of bed and out to the balcony, leaning over the railings, looking both ways, the dawn light exposing any hiding places.
‘They ran down the beach, but it was dark. I couldn’t see their face, but …’
His arms circle me and he kisses my head, trying to calm me down.
‘Shh, you’re safe now. I will check downstairs.’
‘No, don’t leave me on my own, please.’
I grab him close and swallow down the taste of bile. Dark thoughts swirl and my insides quake. The sense of unease about someone meaning me harm resurfaces. I just wish I knew who it was.