The Island Postmistress – Part 2: Return to Sender

By July, the letters were arriving twice a week.

Dear Helen. I saw a dolphin. Dear Stavros. I have eaten too many figs. The paper grew soft from carrying, the handwriting from careful to looser. On Fridays, she cycled up to his stone house on the hill, and he cooked: grilled sea bream, tomatoes with oregano, bread still hot from the island oven.

On the last Friday of the month, they ate on his roof under a sky so crowded with stars that Helen forgot to speak. The harbour lights twinkled far below. A donkey brayed somewhere, and was answered.

"This is the best letter I ever received," said Stavros, softly.

"Which one?"

"This." He gestured at the roof, the table, the dark sea. "You."

She put down her fork. "Stavros. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"My year ends in October."

"I know."

"I would like to stay. If you want me."

He looked at her for a long moment, his face quiet and open. "I have waited twelve years for a letter," he said. "I did not know it would be a person."

"May I kiss you?" she asked, her voice shaking just a little.

"Yes," said Stavros. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to write properly in English."

"That would take years."

"Then I hope you never say stop."

She kissed him, gently, one hand against his salt-weathered cheek. He kissed her back with the slow care of a man handling something delicate. He tasted of wine and oregano. The stars wheeled above them, and a soft sea wind lifted the corner of the tablecloth.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Helen. "Very green."

In October, the ferry came, and she did not board it. On Tuesday morning at ten, Stavros walked into the post office as he always did, took off his cap and asked, "Anything for me?"

"Always," said Helen.

More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom