Jack Branigan stood watching the boys walk away, laughing and talking among themselves, while they glanced back at him over their shoulders. He was sure Stavros was on his way to tell his uncle about the stupid American. The one who got off the ferryboat at the wrong stop and would soon be at the hotel to look for a room. He did not want to give them that satisfaction. But he had little choice.
The tall man shifted the heavy bag to his other shoulder and began walking. He checked his cell phone to make a call and was greeted by the message NO SERVICE. Great, he thought, stuck here with no way to call and tell the family what happened to him. Well, he was okay since he was early and not expected on Mykonos for another week or so. He looked around at the tiny little island. It wasn’t so bad. Could be worse.
As Jack walked, the fresh salt air and the scent of the wildflowers reminded him why Gabi loved Greece so much. He walked slower to take it all in until he reached the end of the pier and stood in front of the island’s welcome sign. I could really use a cigarette. It was then he noticed a small black-and-white sign in front of the lemon grove with an arrow pointing up the hill. The sign simply stated, Hotel Petros & Taverna Carrickfergus. It sounded familiar, a distant memory from his past.
Jack watched the young boys disappear in the distance, down the center of the road heading into the small town. He looked at the Hotel Petros sign again and, deciding he had nothing to lose, began his long trek up to the top of the mount.
There was only one house located near the base of the hill, off to his left, painted white with blue doors and blue shutters. It had dark blue window frames and whitewashed steps. A small white picket fence that surrounded the yard was covered in bright flowering vines. As he passed the small cottage, he noticed an old woman in a long black dress. She was on her knees, scrubbing the front marble steps to a brilliant white. He wondered how much whiter they could possibly get.
The first time he and Gabriella visited the Greek islands many years before, they had asked the guide why all of the doors and shutters were painted blue. The tour guide told them it was meant to confuse raiding pirates to make them lose their way since everything would look the same. Gabriella whispered under her breath, “Hogwash; they just had a smooth-talking salesman with a load of blue paint to sell. And he did very well from the look of things.” That was Gabi’s humor, very dry and to the point. She always came late to the family reunions, busy with her own travel schedule. Everything she did was at the last minute. Jack was the planner in the family, the architect who arranged everything.
The hill was steeper than it first appeared, and by the time he reached the flower-covered archway at the top, which announced he’d arrived at Hotel Petros, he was exhausted.
He was greeted by two swinging gates, painted in a deep Grecian blue, which led down some steps onto a whitewashed courtyard below. The view beyond the patio of the Aegean Sea below was spectacular. He walked down the four steps and stopped to catch his breath as he put his luggage on the whitewashed floor.
Turning to look around, he was mesmerized by the view of the blue-green waters that lay before him in all their glory. Jack marveled at the azure sky and the sapphire waters, the fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the harbor below. It took his breath away.
The floor of the outdoor patio was made of large, flat, irregularly shaped stones. The entrance to the hotel was also painted Grecian blue, of course, as were the chairs around the white tables on the patio overlooking the town below. A well-used fireplace with smoke stains that blackened the front of the white chimney sat prominently in the far corner of the patio.
From his vantage point high atop the island, he could see for miles and miles and noticed a tiny white cruise ship far off in the distance steaming toward another port. Maybe that was a ship he could learn to enjoy. But this place had a comfortable feel about it; somehow, it was almost familiar. He was fatigued, body and soul.
Stepping inside, Jack removed the heavy bag from his shoulder and set both bags on one of the chairs that lined the wall, then approached the small reception counter that held a sign welcoming guests.
Welcome to Hotel Petros.
Please sign our register.
Take any room key you desire and make yourself at home.
Dinner is served around seven. Tuxedos required (just kidding).
Breakfast is whenever you wake.
Welcome to the island paradise of Petros.
He dutifully scribbled his name on the faded yellow register pad, and after choosing the key to room number five, he turned around to survey his surroundings.
There was an adjacent room, which appeared to double as the dining room and a bar. Stools lined the old wooden tavern with a sign prominently posted over the mirror behind it: Taverna Carrickfergus.
Jack smiled as he remembered from his childhood the words of the four-hundred-year-old mystical Irish ballad “Carrickfergus.” The song and the poem that inspired it told of the Irish traveler who longed to be home, home in the land of Innisfree. He also noticed an old six-string guitar on a stand in the corner. Old memories came rushing back of a time in St. Louis.
He suddenly had an urgent need to sit down before he fell over from exhaustion. Jack had been on the move for over thirty hours and was dead tired. He sat for a few minutes, gathering his strength. He looked at the room key in his hand, attached to a small blue replica of a Grecian wooden door.
Only a few more steps to go, he told himself. He reached for his bag, hoisted it to his broad shoulders, and stood up. It was then he heard a voice humming a long-forgotten tune and saw a tall, pretty redhead walk in front of him. She did not notice him as she walked by, carrying her bags of groceries.
“I wish I was in Carrickfergus, only for nights in Ballygrand,” she sang sweetly. She hummed some more lines softly before reverting to her native Gaelic tongue. “Do bheinn gan amhras ar m’ábhar féin.”
Jack didn’t know what came over him as he finished the song with the words, “But I’ll spend my days in endless roaming, soft is the grass, my bed is free. Ah, to be back in Carrickfergus. On that long road down to the sea…”
Startled, thinking she was alone, Ravenna turned and stepped back. She froze, unable to move or speak. She looked directly at him. Her eyes narrowed, her mind clicking as some vague memory came to the surface. She wanted to clear the vision before her eyes. She blinked. Then again. She could not believe it. It couldn’t be! She breathed deep, saying, “Jack? I can’t believe it! Jack Branigan, is that you?”
“Yes, it is. Yes, Ravenna. It’s me!” He rushed to her, his arms outstretched.
She couldn’t accept it as true! No, it couldn’t be!
It is Ravenna! She’s more beautiful than ever, Jack thought. It’d been over twenty-eight years. Oh, my God!
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened wide as the room became smaller and smaller. She tried to breath. Air, she needed air! The room began to spin, around and around, faster and faster. She collapsed. Jack caught her just before she hit the stone floor. Her mesh grocery bag hit the ground, and the oranges and fruit scattered, rolling across the room. She had fainted at the sight of once again seeing her oldest friend and her first love, Jack Branigan.