The Ferry to Naxos – Part 2: The House by the Sea

The ferry docked at Naxos just after sunrise. The harbour was white and gold, with fishing boats bobbing against the quay and the old Venetian tower glowing pink above the town. Nikos slung his guitar over one shoulder and grinned at her.

"Welcome," he said. "You're not allowed to leave until my grandmother has fed you."

"What if I'm not hungry?"

"She'll feed you anyway. She fed the postman in 1987, and he's still here."

They climbed the narrow stepped lanes above the harbour, past whitewashed houses with blue doors and bougainvillea spilling over the walls. Cats watched them from every windowsill. Somewhere, a radio played an old folk song, and someone in a courtyard was beating a rug against a wall.

The grandmother's house was at the top of the hill, a small stone cottage with a courtyard full of lemon trees and a view that went all the way down to the sea. She was waiting at the gate, tiny and fierce, in a black dress and an apron covered in flour.

"You're thin," she announced, to Nikos.

"I'm fine, yiayia."

"You're a stick. And who is this?"

"Thea," said Thea, a little nervously. "I sat next to him on the ferry."

The grandmother narrowed her eyes, and then, quite suddenly, smiled.

"Next to him?" she said. "He's never sat next to anyone on a ferry in his life. He always stands at the back and complains about the engine."

Nikos groaned. Thea laughed.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of coffee and oregano and warm sweet bread. They ate at a wooden table by the window, with honey and figs and a slice of cake soaked in syrup, while the grandmother asked Thea a hundred questions about London, the weather, and whether English women really never cooked.

"Some of us do," said Thea. "Badly."

"Then you'll learn," said the grandmother, placing another slice on her plate. "Here, we eat until we can't stand up."

After breakfast, Nikos took her out onto the terrace. The sea stretched out below them, blue and endless, and the morning wind carried the scent of thyme and salt. He sat on the low wall, guitar across his knees, and didn't play.

"She likes you," he said.

"She thinks I'm a lost cause."

"That's the same thing, with my grandmother."

Thea sat beside him, her knee against his. "Nikos," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you like me to stay for the summer? Not as a tourist. As someone who helps your grandmother in the kitchen and listens to you play badly in the evenings?"

He turned to look at her, his face unguarded.

"Yes," he said. "But I'd like to ask you something too."

"Ask."

"Would you like to stay longer than the summer?"

Her heart gave a sudden, happy jump. "I don't know yet," she said honestly. "But I'd like to find out. Slowly."

"Then we'll find out slowly," said Nikos. "Can I kiss you, Thea, on my grandmother's terrace, with the sea watching?"

"Yes," said Thea. "And if I say stop, you'll still play me the song about the house full of voices."

"Always," said Nikos, and kissed her.

It was warm and unhurried, tasting of honey and coffee and the sea air. Thea's hand slid into his, and his fingers curled around hers, steady and sure. When they parted, a faint, delighted cheer came from the kitchen window, where the grandmother was watching with her arms folded.

"Green?" asked Nikos, grinning.

"Green," said Thea. "Entirely green. Now go and tell your grandmother that I'm staying for the cake."

"She already knows," said Nikos. "She's been planning your wedding since the ferry docked."

"That's ridiculous," said Thea, laughing so hard she had to hold on to the wall.