And my dad knew when my birthday was. He’d sent me a birthday postcard, which I had refused to read.
“I figured I have a few to make up for,” he said quietly. “And I’m guessing you’ve never had a sunset birthday party. Oia has the best sunsets in the world. I thought it would be the perfect way to begin your trip.”
“Ta-da,” Theo sang. “And your dad wasn’t at the airport because he was signing for your gift at the post office.”
My gift?
“They promised it would be here two days ago,” my dad said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I really wanted this to be…” He trailed off, but my mind filled in the word. Perfect. Magical. Both.
And now I had something else to contend with. I turned to look at the wrapped package, my heart pounding loudly. It was a smallish flat rectangle, wrapped in plain brown paper with a piece of twine twisted around it. But I already knew one thing about it: unless my dad had changed radically, whatever was in there was perfect and exactly what I’d wanted.
“Go ahead, love,” Ana said, her voice excited. She either knew what it was or had at some point been the recipient of one of my father’s gifts.
I edged toward the table, feeling almost seasick I was so nervous. Suddenly I realized that the specks of gold weren’t glitter; they were hundreds of tiny cutout gold stars that had been sprinkled over the table. Magic is in the details. My dad’s words. He must have spent hours on these.
Was everyone else holding their breath too? Bapou beamed happily at me.
My dad stepped up next to me. “Do you want to open your present?”
I didn’t, but it wasn’t as if I had a clear exit strategy, so I nodded reluctantly. My dad handed me the package, and I carefully slid my finger under the paper, my heart beating a little faster. Inside was a smooth wooden box, held together by gold hinges and a gold clasp. A word had been etched into the top of it, and when I turned it over to read it, I couldn’t help myself—I gasped. SENNELIER. I abandoned all pretense of calm, my fingers clumsy as I hurried to open the lid.
And there they were.
Fifty brilliant oil pastels nestled into soft, protective foam. Each one pristine. Each so rich and bright, they could have been on display in a candy shop. They weren’t just any oil pastels; they were the pastels that other pastels idolized—the oil pastels I’d wanted since the first moment I picked up a paintbrush. The colors were unlike any I’d seen before. Lemon yellow, cerulean blue, viridian green, Chinese orange.
My fingers were itching to pick one up. To start layering them over all the half-finished collages in my sketchbook, to begin sketching the scene in front of me, blending the pigment with my fingertips, or maybe a palette knife. But I couldn’t do that now because I had to say something. Anything. The silence had stretched on for too long now, and nervous energy wafted toward me from the rest of the birthday party.
My dad stepped in closer, his voice quiet. “Henri Sennelier owned an art supply store in France near the apartment of Pablo Picasso. He made custom materials for artists, and one day Picasso asked for something particular. He loved the ease of crayons, but he wanted pigments that could cover anything—wood, glass, metal, everything. So Henri Sennelier made these.” He reached out, pointing to the crayons in the lower right. “The shop is still there. It’s fourth generation now, right across from the Louvre.”
The thought of Picasso walking into an art supply store and requesting these made my heart ache. Of course, he was the genesis of these. I’d never seen anything like these colors. I picked up the ochre color and ran my finger over its waxy point. Even without using it, I knew how it would melt into the paper, layering until the color was perfectly saturated.
“Nico went to Paris to order them,” Theo burst in, his camera still angled at us. I shifted nervously. “He found a flight and went.”
“Theo, hush,” Ana said, but she had a huge smile on her face.
I shot a nervous glance at my father. He’d flown to Paris for these? Even without a flight, these pastels probably cost more than his entire bungee-corded-together motorcycle. Did he have the money for these? One glance at his clothes and I knew the answer. No. No, he did not.
“But… why?” Before I could stop myself, my eyes had met his. I forgot what his smile felt like. It was like a thousand birthday candles, all full of wishes and lit up for me. It made everything else pale in comparison.
He flourished his hand at the set. “Your mother said you love Paris. And art.”
“I do,” I said. “But…”
When I didn’t finish the sentence, his expression turned hopeful. “And I think you will like Greece equally as much.”
“She will,” Theo cut in, his voice exasperated. Was agreeing with my dad Theo’s entire job? “Now will you tell her the best part already?”
“Theo!” Ana warned again.
My heart skipped. The best part? Wasn’t this the best part? “What… ?”
My dad’s smile grew. “Some of these colors… I had them custom-made for you.”
“That’s why he had to go to Paris,” Theo said. “He had to meet with the Senneliers.”
What? My heart thudded. Fell? My gaze whipped back to the set, and instantly I knew which ones my dad had commissioned. The final three. I knew because they didn’t fit in with the rest of the set’s carefully arranged rainbow progression. I knew, because something about their intensity reminded me of my father.
My hands shook as I carefully pulled the pastels from the box, rolling them in my palm until they were label-side up, the pigment names marked in tiny script. The deep cobalt I’d seen on the church’s domes was Santorini blue. The rich turquoise echoed in the tide at the bottom of the cliffs was Ammoudi mood. And the final one? The chocolaty green that I’d seen in every mirror and every rippled reflection for my entire life?
Olive’s eyes.
I heard a deep, shuddering exhale, and it took me a moment to realize it had come from me. My breath felt heavy, the pastel stick featherlight in my hand. He’d gotten it exactly right. How had he gotten it exactly right? I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at any of them.
“Beautiful! Welcome to Santorini!” Bapou said. He pointed to the table. “Toúrta!”
At last, a Greek word I recognized. Cake. I spun to look at it, this time giving it more than a cursory glance. Was it… ? Yes, it was. My heart swelled. Every year on my birthday my dad had made a big show of finding the most perfect oranges in the city, which he pureed whole and added to the batter. The finished product was coated in a thick tart yogurt, drenched in honey syrup. Bapou had added a ring of crushed pistachios and orange slices arranged into a flower. We’d called it Sunshine Cake. I hadn’t had a slice of it in years, and the mere act of looking at it made my mouth water. Traitor.
How does he always do this?
My dad stepped forward, gesturing at the pastels, his hand a few inches from mine. “The first two are to help you with your art while you’re here. The third needed to be a color.”
This was too much. My heart was swelling up like a balloon. Any minute now I was going to rise up on the tips of my toes and drift out over the caldera. Only their gazes were keeping me anchored. The three of them crowded together, a nervous family. Their faces shone expectantly. Well, their three faces plus Theo’s camera.