remember what we agreed with my mum and dad…if the catering bills are steeper than expected then we’ll need to inform them and—’
Sophia’s body stiffened. ‘Dear Pippa. All is fine,’ she replied, in a bright voice. ‘Across the island, our family has pulled together. Your wedding feast will be one to remember.’
But her face dropped slightly as she poured herself a coffee before walking left, back into the family’s taverna. Turn right, and you entered Pippa’s Pantry, the afternoon teashop. I know. Me fulfilling a childhood dream by managing a quaint café. How lucky was I?
Kneading the dough could wait a few minutes. I headed into the taverna and sat down opposite my mother-in-law to be. I surveyed the ochre walls, which had been newly re-painted, and the mahogany beams. Thank goodness Georgios’ makeover, in time for the wedding, hadn’t included straightening the adorable wonky shelves bearing plant pots, plates and various string instruments.
I cleared my throat. A big celebration was something the Sotiropoulos family – that any Greek family – could ill afford, in these economically difficult times. Yet Sophia and Georgios had insisted on splitting all the bills with me and my parents. It made no sense. We could have easily paid for everything, had it not been for that stubborn, Greek pride.
I sighed. Yes, the pride that nevertheless made me love my extended family to bits.
‘How is the dress?’ asked Sophia, as I put my elbows on the table. ‘What luck that our local baker is also an excellent seamstress.’
Dear, talented Pandora, the most fashionable woman in this little village, with her Italian-cut trousers and stylish short hair – and my matron of honour. As children, Niko and I would often visit her cake shop where she’d give us a glass of milk and egg biscuits or moist slices of fresh baklava.
‘Pandora’s lace work is exquisite.’
‘And what does your mother think to its design?’ Sophie sipped her coffee, a twinkle in her tired eyes
We both grinned. My parents had spent many summers, on a break from their executive lifestyles, holidaying in their Taxos villa, and were good friends with Georgios and Sophia.
‘As you know, Mum and Dad got married in a registry office.’ I chuckled. ‘She tries hard, but is always bemused by the fuss for traditional English weddings, let alone a floral, dance-filled Greek affair.’
In a way this was a relief as Mum not being here meant one less opinion to consider. She was the opposite to Niko’s extended family, who had visited for our engagement party, sharing extravagant ideas about dresses, food and hair styles.
‘I wonder what my parents will think to the cake,’ I said, pleased to see Sophia’s eyes light up further. After Grandma’s recent illness, I hadn’t the heart to reject her unusual idea of a three-tiered blue and white wedding sponge, in the shape of a domed Greek church, with green and black olive marzipan branches draped around the bottom.
‘And that’s as far as Sophia and I got discussing the wedding,’ I said to Niko, several hours later. ‘The cleaning agency rang and needed her quick-smart at the airport.’ We sat cuddled together on the beach, in our coats, watching the moon disappear behind a cloud. I’d mulled over the family’s state of finances all afternoon and come up with an idea. ‘Sophia looked shattered as it was, without having to go into Kos Town.’ I glanced sideways at Niko, his curly hair shimmying in the breezy air. He leant forward and brushed my lips with his. Heart thumping, I closed my eyes, waiting for more, but he pulled away.
‘I worry too. And Papa works hard, taking on extra bar work. Hopefully this is the last winter Taxos will be as dead as Achilles. Once the Marine Museum is set up and the villagers have established their new businesses, surely our summer profits should rise enough to see us through the cold months?’
This was the plan – that next year, tourists still chose Greece as a holiday destination. Yet the huge rise in VAT and its effect on restaurant bills meant bad news for tourists and the village’s taverna owners, including Niko’s parents.
‘At least the museum will attract school excursions all year round.’
Niko nodded. ‘And we can but hope the flood of Syrian refugees arriving in Kos becomes a trickle.’.’
‘Stavros certainly hopes so.’ I’d bumped into the town mayor last week and all he could talk of was clean-up operations. But we both agreed - you can’t blame people for running to save their lives.’
‘True. Even though the crossing to here from Turkey is so treacherous.’
‘Their plight puts our financial problems with the wedding into perspective,’ I muttered. ‘Talking of which…would your parents consider…you see, Mum and Dad have just sold some shares.’
Cheeks hot, I gazed out at the waves, a dark denim colour through the moonlight. The Santa beard froth of breakers momentarily crawled up the beach, only to be dragged backwards.
Niko squeezed my arm before picking up a pebble which he tossed across the sand. I squinted through the darkness. It slid next to a large whelk shell.
‘We okay, Pippa. No worry about money. I didn’t like to say anything, as you’re so modest, but the villagers are helping out as well – because of everything you did, last summer.’
‘But it was nothing. Taxos is turning its own future around because of the community spirit.’
‘Pippa!’ He stood up and pulled me to my feet. My stomach flipped as his hands closed firmly around my hips. An enticing patch of chest became visible behind his open coat and shirt buttons.
‘Nothing? Let me see… You conquered your ex-boyfriend’s soulless development plans to turn this village into just another tourist resort; you inspired the villagers to set up their own businesses instead, offering services such as cycle tours and baking classes; you helped close the deal of a big Marine Museum being built in Taxos, to secure a degree of trade all year round. And you say nothing?’ He shook his head. ‘If you believe that then you live in cloud canary land.’
‘Cuckoo,’ I mumbled, cheeks hotter than ever.
‘Huh?’
‘It’s cloud cuckoo land.’
Niko’s eyes danced. ‘Don’t change the subject, my little fig. Face it. You are still the villagers’ hero. So, the Dellises are making special cheese for the wedding. Demetrios fires special bowls in his kiln, for the wedding breakfast…’ Niko listed further examples of the villagers’ generosity, his thumbs gently massaging the curve of my lower back, now and then sliding under the waistband of my jeans.
He took my hand and we strolled along the beach, heading south towards our favourite fig tree. It stood by a disused shed, just in front of Caretta Cove where its namesake, the Loggerhead turtle, used to nest.
‘All is good. Wedding under control. My cousins bring food. Plus Uncle Christos has saved up several bottles of his homemade ouzo. Everything is in foot.’
Chest aglow, I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was “in hand”.
But still. Sophia and Georgios struggled. Plus I’d noticed lately how all the villagers felt the strain – including Niko. Over recent weeks I’d sensed his intense
