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Split, Croatia, 1998
I lay back in the lounge chair, soaking up the morning sun. It was early, but already the sun rose well above the astonishingly blue horizon, and it had strength to it, burning off the early morning chill. Diamonds sparkled on the sea before me, and I drank in the sight with every fiber of my being. I imagined that brilliant sunlight coursing through my body, healing every cell, every tissue.
I felt good.
The slider opened and out came Luka with a tray holding two cups of strong, black coffee. He set it on a table next to me, then leaned down and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, gave myself over to the gentle feel of his lips. He handed me a cup.
“Good morning,” he said, sinking into the lounge chair on the other side of the small table.
“Good morning,” I replied. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
We grinned at one another like a couple of teenagers. It had been six months since he had discovered the real Olivia in the hospital bed. The doctors had pumped me full of intravenous steroids for four days before they released me from the hospital. Luka had been there the entire time, then he rented a car and drove us back to Lake Chelan, where he had rented a house right on the lake. Not in Stehekin. We weren’t ready for that yet.
I took my medication religiously, stayed in Chelan so I could go to physical therapy every day, and ate a pristine diet. The fatigue began to subside, and our lives settled into a slow routine. Then one morning, Luka had said, “When the time is right, I want to take you home.”
“The doctors said Stehekin is too remote for a while,” I said. “You know that.”
“My home,” Luka said. “Croatia.”
I let his words sink in. Luka had tried to take Anya to his home in Croatia, but she hadn’t made it. Could I?
“Tell me about Croatia.”
He began to talk, slowly and gently. “The first thing we’ll do is stroll along the Riva promenade along the Adriatic Sea. We’ll have a glass of wine with lunch, maybe a bowl of brodetto.”
“Which is...?”
“Fisherman stew, served with a piece of hard-crusted bread. The next day, we’ll explore Diocletian’s Palace and look back in time, into the history of my homeland. After we’ve had our fill of Split, we’ll drive out to the Blue Cave and Havar, and to the Plitvice Lakes.”
“Will we go for a hike?”
“Oh yes, a very long hike. Then we’ll sit by the water and rest.”
“I’ll be strong by then?”
“So strong I won’t be able to catch up with you.”
“And what if I’m not? Strong, I mean. What if I can’t make the hike?”
“Then I will carry you.”
***
I grew stronger each day, and two months later, we flew to Split and rented a lovely, white stucco apartment overlooking the sea.
Living in Croatia opened my eyes to Luka’s true identity in his country. Each day, as we strolled down the waterfront promenade, breathing in the fresh, sea air, people would shyly approach and ask Luka for his autograph. He signed T-shirts, books about the Olympics, even bare skin on the back of a young teen boy. The word ‘hero’ came up a few times.
The local politicians asked him to run for mayor.
I always thought myself a good judge of character, but when I looked back to the fallacious picture I had painted in my mind of Luka as someone to fear, I was embarrassed and humbled. I’d never met a kinder, gentler, more loving man.
Together, we reimagined what our life together would look like. Would we stay in Croatia? Luka might run for mayor. We also toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant. I’d been writing to Sam to see if he might be interested.
And then I did something totally out of character for me, given the despair I’d lived with since my diagnosis.
Luka asked me to marry him, and I said yes.
