The Olive Mill – Part 2: Warm Bread

Supper was served at a long table in the yard under strings of lights, with neighbours, cousins and old friends passing dishes hand to hand. Warm bread, thick with fresh oil. Salty cheese. Wild greens boiled and squeezed with lemon. Dark red wine in a jug. Irene sat at the end beside Nikos, laughing at stories in two languages.

"You're a fraud," she told him. "You said it was nothing fancy."

"It is nothing fancy."

"It's the best meal I've had all year."

"Then the oil is doing its job." But he was looking at her, not the oil.

At midnight, the guests drifted off along the dark road in twos and threes. The lights swung gently on their wires. Nikos began stacking plates, then stopped, put them down and turned.

"Irene. I would like to say something."

"Say it."

"I would like to kiss you. If it would be welcome."

"It would be very welcome," said Irene.

The kiss was warm and tasted of olive oil and wine. His hands cupped her face, gentle and a little shaky. She laughed against his mouth, put her arms round his neck and pulled him closer. Behind them the old stone oven glowed with embers, and the night smelled of woodsmoke and green.

"I live in the house on the hill," he said. "It is a short walk. And there is more bread."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It is a very honest one."

They walked up the dark path hand in hand under a huge sky. The house was low and white with a bed under the window and a quilt woven in red and gold. They undressed slowly, laughing at oil-stained shirts, and made love gently, as unhurried as a long supper, with the sound of the sea carrying up the hill.

In the morning, golden light poured over the mill. Irene stood in the yard with a cup of coffee and a small notebook. At the top of a fresh page she wrote a new dish name: Bread, oil, and the first day of November.

Nikos came out with a bottle in his hand, grinning. On the label, in his careful handwriting, it said: For Irene. First pressing.

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