He catches my gaze. My heart jumps in embarrassment at having been caught staring at him. I turn my attention quickly to the menu.
“What do you like?” I skim the list of dinner dishes. “I haven’t been here before. I don’t go out a lot, actually.”
“What about with your friends? Or dates?”
“I told you…I don’t have any friends.” My chest tightens. “I don’t date either.”
“Ever?”
I shoot him a frown. “Why is that so hard to believe? Not every girl dates in high school.”
“I know, but…” He stops and shakes his head. “Sorry. None of my business. You used to love olives.”
I blink. “What?”
A half smile crosses his face. “When you were a little girl. You loved olives. I brought you a few jars back from Greece when I came to visit one year. Other girls would have wanted chocolate, but you were so happy about the olives.”
“Really?” I search for the memory and can’t find it. “Olives?”
“Kalamata, Amfissa, Tsakistes. Not only did you love them, you knew the difference between the different varieties.”
“How old was I?”
“Five or six, maybe.”
“It must have been a short-lived phase because I don’t remember that at all.”
“I do.” He regards me, his eyes warming with remembrance. “You were a wonderful, curious child, Nell.”
An unexpected pressure rises to my chest. I was wonderful and curious. Once upon a time.
I fiddle with my napkin, aware of the weight of his gaze. When I glance up again, he looks away and reaches for his water glass.
“Let’s do a tasting so you can try a little of everything.” He opens his menu and points out an array of dishes when the server arrives. “I’ll have a Mythos beer, and Nell…” He pauses, as if remembering I’m underage. “What would you like?”
Suddenly I feel like a ten-year-old. “Just a Coke, please.”
The server nods and takes our menus before hurrying toward the kitchen. She returns with our drinks, a basket of bread, and little plates.
“Do you remember the beach house?” Darius pushes the bread toward me.
“Of course.”
Warmth floods me at the thought of the ramshackle wooden house right on the dunes, a couple hours north of Grenville on the rocky, isolated Volkov Bay. Throughout my childhood, Darius had invited us to visit him there on long weekends when he was in town.
Unlike most of the Pacific coast, Volkov Bay is desolate and risky—a half-moon beach buttressed by sheer granite cliffs concealing hidden caves. The shape of the cove and its steep, sudden drop-off make it prone to rogue waves and violent rip currents. It’s too dangerous for boats or swimming, and even if one tried, the water is frigid and clogged with seaweed.
But I’d loved the wild bleakness of the area—first because the inhospitable territory kept out visitors and even other residents, leaving the whole place just for us, and second because everything about Volkov Bay made me feel so alive. So happy.
My world expanded to the crescent-moon beach, studded with crushed shells and sharp rocks; the gray clouds like puddles of mercury; the massive, slippery rocks with surfaces so cratered and rough it was like walking on another planet. I’d close my eyes and turn my face westward to let the ocean sting my cheeks with its cold needlelike spray.
Darius’s weathered house, accessible via a twisty series of dirt roads through the tall grasses, sat alone on the edge of the beach, the windows encrusted with salt, the boards bleached by the sun and wind. The two-bedroom cottage had been a place of magic where I’d fallen asleep to the rhythmic music of the waves and woken to the smell of waffles and the sight of the sky buried beneath heavy fog.
During the day, my mother—who was always calm at Volkov Bay—and I built sandcastles and towers on the coarse sand, then dared the ocean to sweep them away. My father and I played checkers, and Darius helped me sort my seashell collection into display boxes.
I was never allowed to go onto the beach or especially into the caves alone, but with Darius I could go anywhere and everywhere. He and I investigated every inch of the tide pools honeycombing the rocks.
During low tide, we made our way down a narrow trail to the caves right at the water’s edge, where we explored the chambers and mazelike tunnels. How I’d loved those secret, mysterious spaces embedded inside the cliffs.
The earth itself and the sea around us might have been threatening and dangerous, but with Darius, I was never afraid. I was absolutely safe.
After a day of exploring, we walked—cold, wet, and gritty with sand—back to the house where my mother had minestrone soup and sourdough bread waiting. In the evening while Darius and my parents had drinks and talked about grown-up things, I dug Darius’s old childhood picture books about sea creatures and talking fish out of the sagging bookshelves.
I curled into his big leather chair with a quilt and read all the books from cover to cover, enchanted by the whimsical drawings and undersea landscapes. Their voices and laughter—his, my father’s, my mother’s—dipped and swayed around me.
Now, the memories come back to me in a sweeping wave, as if they’ve been unleashed. I look at Darius across the table and wonder if he shares the same memories.
“I loved your beach house.” I break off a piece of bread. “I always thought it was such a magical place. What happened to it?”
“I still have it.”
A breath catches in my throat. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s just been closed down for years.” He pours herb-infused olive oil onto a small plate and sets it in front of me. “I’d almost forgotten about it until I decided to take the teaching job. I’ve been meaning to make a trip back there and get the water and electricity working.”
“Can I come with you? I’d love to see it again.”
His eyes crease with warmth. “After I make sure it’s habitable, yes. I thought both you and your father would like going back up there.”
“Here you go.” The server arrives with a tray and sets various dishes on the table—dolma, calamari, lamb shank, mussels, octopus.
As we load our plates and start eating, Darius explains all the ingredients and even cultural history of the dishes, including the fact that dolma-making in Azerbaijan is on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage list.
“How do you know that kind of incredibly geeky fact?” I bite into a stuffed grape leaf.
“Many years of living.” He taps his forefinger against his temple, amusement rising to his eyes. “It all accumulates up here.”
“These are amazing.” I take another bite and murmur a noise of pleasure. “How many times have you been to Greece?”
“Three or four. Last time was in Athens about five years ago. Use this for the lamb.” He passes me a bowl of sauce.
“What about Arkenos? You said you haven’t been there in fifteen years. Why didn’t you go back?”
“I don’t know, honestly.”
“Did you want to, especially after you escaped?”
He shakes his head slowly. “After that, I wanted to get back to work. To remember how to take pictures.”