Overnight the wind grew into a storm, battering the olive trees, rattling doors and tiles, whipping up the waves into great rollers. For two days the rain lashed onto the houses, pouring into the roads, and the stream turned into a torrent, funnelling down through the gullies until they overflowed and the main street became a rushing flood. Parked cars rose and floated down to crash into the barriers. It was not safe to leave the house. The power soon cut out so the citizens of St Nick’s were lighting candles and oil lamps, piling up dried olive wood to fuel stoves and fires.
Chloë looked out of the window in despair. How could she make the ferry in time to catch her flight to Athens?
Simon stood behind her, his face full of concern. ‘You’re not thinking of going out in this?’
‘I have to get Athens. I told you, I’m booked on the evening flight to London.’
‘Just look at it! We have no power. No ferry will sail in this. Be sensible, darling. It was a nice idea, but no one in their senses will go anywhere until the storm subsides. Remember two years ago, when poor Giorgos’s brother got swept away by floodwater and drowned, trying to rescue his car.’
‘It’s not fair!’ she cried in frustration. ‘Why now? It was dry until yesterday. I don’t understand.’
‘How long have we lived here? This is the season when it can rain as much as it does in Wales in just a few weeks,’ he said, putting his arm round her. But she shook it off. ‘The winds from this direction are unpredictable. It’s winter and even our jeep won’t tackle the track. I’ll make a coffee while you unpack. You’re going nowhere in this deluge. Why not wait until the power comes back on, phone Alexa and invite her for Christmas? Say you missed your London get-together and would love to see her. Keep it light and breezy. If she makes her excuses, then accept that she’s a big girl now. Let her do the running.’
‘But I have to know what’s going on,’ she argued.
‘Do you? Why? She’s her own person, not a child. You can’t force her. That’s the quickest way to lose her.’
‘It’s all right for you to talk. She’s not your child!’ That was unkind, but Chloë was in no mood to be appeased.
‘How can you say that after all these years? I love her as my own. Think about it. Send an email. We don’t own our children. They have their own lives to live.’
Chloë knew he was right, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. ‘Sometimes you can be very smug,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll change my flight, but I have to go.’
‘If you must… but don’t forget we have the carol service to rehearse.’
‘They’ll have to manage without me. Alexa is far more important than Ariadne’s whimsical choir.’
‘But she’s put so much into it – we mustn’t let her down now.’
‘My daughter comes first. I have to see her.’
Simon sighed. ‘Suit yourself. Go if you must, but I think you’re making a big mistake.’
Chloë sniffed and took herself off in a huff, staring down at her overnight case in despair. When would the wretched storm blow itself out? When would the power come back? Why were the elements against her?
The storm raged on and on. The mayor of St Nick’s declared a state of emergency, as the floodwaters rose. The power did not come back over three more days. All travel plans were cancelled. Chloë’s suitcase was unpacked. She was going nowhere.