About the Publisher
To Averi and Shauna, my gorgeous, strong, passionate sisters. When faced with hard decisions, I hope you always choose to stay true to yourselves.
Something like four thousand years ago, before Troy had fallen, in the height of the Bronze Age of Greece, a volcano erupted in the Aegean, the force of which is unrivaled to this day. The tiny island of Thera was destroyed, ripped apart from the middle, birthing legends of hidden cities and buried treasure that would perpetuate for millennia to come. The volcano erupted over and over again, its magma chamber refilling and depleting, until the entire area had been devastated beyond recognition.
But Thera did not die. It became Santorini, or Thira, a small archipelago of islands – one large, reverse-C-shaped one and a few smaller ones – with an ecosystem defined by its volcanic history. The ashy soil birthed unbelievable produce, especially grapes for wine. The caldera that had formed from the island’s near destruction made for a gorgeous landscape, and tourists eventually found their way to the hidden treasure of Santorini.
In the middle of the island is a small village called Exo Gonia, a town where, from some points in the village, the sea can be seen on every side. The roads up into the village are curvy and narrow, lined on both sides by whitewashed walls concealing houses and gardens that extend farther back into the hills than is evident at first glance. At the top of one such road – up the hill from the Agios Charalambos, a beautiful yellow church with three crosses atop round spires – is a small white house with three archways out front and views over Kamari and the Aegean Sea.
The house was built with just one bedroom. The four-poster bed was carved by the grandson of the man who built the house. He built the kitchen table as well; a long, trestled work of art with knots in the sides and a shine on the top from so many years of food and wine and love and laughter. And when he was done, he made a new front door from the same wood and hung it proudly in the frame.
The family who lives in this house is a humble one. The man of the house is a builder; his wife, a seamstress. The man has lived in the house his whole life. In fact, the house has been in the man’s family for over two hundred years, built by the first of the family to set foot on Santorini, rearing generation after generation of builders who have lovingly cared for and maintained the house, which has remained largely unchanged.
That is, until the man had a son. And that son became a builder, too, and he wanted to add onto the house. But his father wouldn’t let him alter it, so he started building in the garden. He had dreams of entertaining guests from all over the world; strangers who would become friends simply by sitting across the knotted table and eating a meal plucked from the garden and sleeping nestled in the hills of the most beautiful island in the world. “The summer house,” he called it; the thing that would bring new people and new adventures to their tiny little corner of Exo Gonia on the island of Santorini. He decorated it with yellow paint and his hopes of a more exciting life.
Only one person would come to stay in the summer house as long as the man’s son lived, but she would change their world forever.
Anna had always thought that Manhattan summer was the closest one could get to hell, as least as far as temperature was concerned. But as she stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Thira, she realized there was a whole other level to that particular inferno, and it was in Greece. Santorini, to be specific.
The sun shone a blinding white, and Anna scrambled to pull her sunglasses out of her purse. As she put them on and the glare subsided, she saw that the sky was a brilliant blue with not a cloud in sight. Off in the distance to her right, the sky and sea melded together at some point that Anna couldn’t quite determine.
The airport itself wasn’t much to look at. Anna wasn’t sure what she was expecting – a whitewashed stone building with a blue-painted roof and a cross on top, perhaps? – but she was expecting more grandeur than what she saw as she entered the terminal. The building was white, but that was about the only part of it that met her expectations.
Anna was running through in her mind the different ways in which she could introduce herself to her grandparents. “Hi, Mr and Mrs Xenakis. I know we’ve never met, but I’m your granddaughter, here to sell your summer house out from under you. Hope that’s cool.”
She’d have to work on that one. Maybe a drink would help.
According to a quick Google search (her international data charges would be through the roof when she got back, but she would manage), the address her sister Lizzy had given her for her grandfather was only about a mile and a half away as the crow flies, but it would take Anna nearly half an hour on a bus to get there, as walking with her three bags was out of the question. So as she went through Immigration – which was incredibly relaxed – she began looking for signs pointing to the buses. Or maybe she’d get to ride a donkey? She remembered seeing in a film once that tourists got to ride donkeys up and down the steep steps, and she started mentally counting her euros to determine if she’d have enough for a donkey ride and lunch. How much was a donkey ride, anyway? Five euros? Fifty? She only had fifty with her, so she hoped it was less. Riding a donkey sounded… well, not exactly appealing, but appropriate.
As she walked through Arrivals, she skimmed over some of the signs being held up for people by their drivers, but there was only one sign that made her do a double-take – in big block letters on a piece of cardboard, it said: “LINTON”.
The man holding the sign stood out from the others as well, not because he looked familiar, but because he was a head taller than everyone else around him. His thick dark hair fell to just above his shoulders, though the top half was tied back away from his face. His arms were lean but visibly strong, and the contours of his muscular chest were visible through his white tee shirt. He wore khaki pants that were covered in paint. Not your typical car-driver’s uniform, but Anna instantly thought of her grandfather’s construction company and began to wonder if the man really could be there for her. But no one knew she was coming… did they?
The man waved as Anna walked nearer. So maybe he was there for her. Or was he just flirting? If she was being honest, Anna wasn’t sure which she preferred.
“You’re Anna?” he asked when she was close enough. He knew her name. Damn, not flirting. At least she was getting a ride, though.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said, sticking out her hand. The man shook it, his long fingers wrapping firmly around her own, and Anna had to remind herself how a handshake worked. “I didn’t realize I was getting picked up.”
The man didn’t respond; he just tucked the sign under his arm and started walking away, so Anna followed.
“You don’t look half-Greek,” the man said without turning around.
“Well, I am,” Anna said, rolling her eyes. What did it matter? Half the people in the airport were white and blonde. “Who told you to come pick me up?”
“I work for your grandfather,” he said, shoving the sign into a bin as they walked past before carrying on.
Apparently that
