if you’d mentioned it sooner, we could have gone somewhere together,’ he protested. ‘My mother did a tour a couple of years back—“The Treasures of Italy”. She enjoyed it, and the hotels were of a high standard. We could have done the same thing.’ He paused awkwardly. ‘I understand Greek plumbing is—rather eccentric.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘They told me all about it at the travel agency, and it’s not a problem.’ She gave him a steady look. ‘Besides, George, your mother would never have let you go on holiday with me—even if we’d been married.’
He flushed uncomfortably. ‘You’re wrong, Zoe. She’s always telling people how happy she’d be to have me off her hands—to have grandchildren.’
Certainly, thought Zoe, if it could be done by divine intervention, without having an all too human daughter-in-law in the equation.
‘So where exactly are you going?’ he asked.
Zoe shrugged, trying not to look shifty. ‘I thought I’d do some island hopping—never too long in one place. See what appeals,’ she told him airily.
She hated fibbing to George, but she knew his mother would have her destination out of him before his supper was on the table, and Aunt Megan would be next in line for the information. And, given her aunt’s extreme reaction to the picture, this would be bad news.
What a pity, she thought, that I can’t go to her. Ask her about it. Because she must know. I’m sure of that.
She hadn’t seen Mrs Arnold since that day, not even when she’d taken the cottage keys round to the house and dropped them through the letterbox. Her aunt had probably been at home, but there had seemed little point in another confrontation, whatever its purpose.
And she’d been frantically busy. In addition to the usual end of term workload, she’d managed to find herself temporary accommodation in a top-floor flat in an old Victorian house within walking distance of the college. It was furnished and the rent was reasonable, enabling her to put her mother’s cherished pieces in store for the future.
Which was something else she hadn’t mentioned to George—the fact that she’d given in her notice at the college and would be leaving at Christmas. Finding another job in a different area. A challenge that awaited her when she got back from Greece.
‘Ah, well, “sufficient unto the day”,’ she told herself silently.
She took a bottle of water from her shoulder bag, and drank thirstily. As she replaced the bottle she heard the crackle of paper, reminding her of the purpose of her visit. She’d brought the Greek deed of gift, together with the translation, and the photographs. But she had no intention of barging in and making a claim straight away.
First, she told herself, I need to find out how the land lies. For all I know, the villa’s original owner may have had second thoughts and revoked the gift years ago.
So I’ll find the house, and see who’s living there now. And if it’s obvious that giving it away was just a temporary aberration on someone’s part a long time ago, then I’ll just enjoy my holiday, and no harm done.
After all, it is a little bit too much like a fairy tale.
The Villa Danaë, she thought. She’d checked in a book of Greek myths and discovered that Danaë had been one of the many loved by Zeus, who had visited her in a stream of golden light. She’d subsequently given birth to Perseus and been set adrift on the ocean with her baby in a locked chest, but they’d both survived and Perseus had gone on to cut off the head of the Gorgon Medusa, and win the hand of Andromeda.
This is my own quest, she thought. My private odyssey. And decapitation will probably not be involved.
The harbour at Thania was only small, and occupied mainly by caiques rather than expensive yachts. The town itself was built on the side of a steep hill, with serried ranks of red-roofed houses looking as if they might tumble forward into the sea. On the quayside ahead, Zoe could see the striped awnings of tavernas, and among them a larger building, three storeys high, its white paint gleaming in the sunlight, which she knew from the picture in the Argonaut brochure was the Hotel Stavros.
It was mid-afternoon, by this time, and the heat was intense. Zoe had dressed for coolness in white cut-off trousers, and a sleeveless navy top, knotted at the midriff. She’d covered her exposed skin in high-factor sunblock, and braided her hair into one thick plait, cramming over it a wide-brimmed linen hat.
Ready for anything, she thought, briskly swinging up her travel bag as the ferry moved into its allotted place on the dock. There were few other passengers, and those, she guessed, were locals rather than tourists.
Zoe was aware she was being surveyed with friendly interest, and as she went ashore, treading gingerly down the rickety gangplank, the captain gave her a gap-toothed smile and a hoarse grunt of appreciation.
No point trying to hide herself in the crowd, then, she decided, amused.
She made straight for the hotel, climbing two steps to the terrace with its tables and chairs, and tubs planted cheerfully with pelargoniums. Inside the double glass doors, the tiled reception area was apparently deserted, but Zoe was glad to stand and catch her breath for a moment, in its air-conditioned coolness.
And, as if on cue, the fringed curtain at the rear of the desk stirred, and a girl, plump, red-haired and smiling, emerged to meet her.
‘Hi,’ she greeted Zoe casually. ‘You must be Miss Lambert. I’m Sherry.’
‘And you’re British.’ Zoe shook hands with her, smiling back. ‘I didn’t expect that.’
‘And I didn’t expect to meet and marry a Greek hotel owner two years ago,’ the other girl admitted candidly. ‘So, it’s a bit of a novelty for me, too.’ She handed Zoe a registration card and a pen.
‘I’ll show you your room,’ she went on, taking down a key from a rack on the wall behind her. ‘Leave your bag, and Stavros will bring it up in a minute.’
‘The Stavros for whom the hotel was named?’ Zoe asked, trying to do mental sums about his possible age.
Sherry shook her head, leading the way up a marble staircase. ‘That was his uncle—a real character. Great eye for the ladies even now. Never married because he thought it would cramp his style,’ she added with a rich chuckle. ‘My Stavros took over the hotel when he decided to retire a few years ago. Now he sits under the trees in the square, playing lethal games of backgammon.’
‘Sounds a marvellous life,’ Zoe said, committing all this information to memory.
‘Here we are.’ Sherry threw open a door, allowing Zoe to precede her into a cool, shadowy room, its shutters closed against the glare of the sun. Sherry pulled back the thin drapes and unlatched the shutters, revealing spotless cream walls to match the tiled floor. There was a cupboard built into one wall with a hanging rail, and a modest chest of drawers beside the low bed, with its crisp, snowy linen, and terracotta coverlet folded back across the foot.
‘It’s lovely,’ Zoe said with total sincerity.
‘If you need a blanket, which I doubt, just ask.’ Sherry opened another door. ‘And this is your shower room. It’s pretty basic—you sit on that little wooden bench to wash, and all the water
