“And how was it?” Ana asked, looking at us smugly over the top of her reading glasses. The cover of her book featured a large man with long hair and an open shirt holding a limp-looking damsel. Forbidden Desert Love. Ana really did read the books she sold.
“It was great. They played an old Marilyn Monroe movie,” Theo said.
She sighed contentedly. “That woman was something. Perhaps not happy, but something.”
“How’s Nico?” Theo asked.
“Fine. He keeps saying that filmmaking is a young man’s game.”
“It isn’t.” Theo walked across the room, plucking a grumpy-looking Margaret Catwood from the top of the mystery section. “There was a Portuguese filmmaker who made his last film when he was 106.”
“Impressive.” She set her book aside. “You missed a very long talk with Geoffrey. He and Mathilde are in a serious argument, and he’s worried their relationship won’t survive it.”
“His fake relationship will definitely not survive this fake fight,” Theo said, clutching Margaret to his chest. “Please tell me you didn’t encourage him.”
“He looked like a droopy puddle with arms. I had no choice but to take him seriously. I told him that all relationships ebb and flow, and if they’re truly committed to each other, they will find a way to right themselves.” Ana smiled ruefully and slid her glasses on top of her head. “I will see you both tomorrow. Sweet dreams.” She blew us a kiss, then let herself out, closing the door behind her.
“Your mom’s awesome,” I said.
“Ouf!” Theo spun toward me. “I have an idea. For the film. Come with me!”
“No, Theo, I am not breaking into a cave house. Again.” I was only half kidding. But really, I wasn’t going anywhere. I was exhausted.
“Relax, it’s in here.” Theo walked through the main room to the smaller room—the one that housed all the children’s books—and I watched as he kicked off his shoes and climbed barefoot up onto the waist-high table. He stepped carefully over a sign on an easel that read FOR MOST OF HISTORY, ANONYMOUS WAS A WOMAN—VIRGINIA WOOLF, and then reached up, popping open a small door that until this moment had looked like a normal part of the wall.
Whatever flaws may be ascribed to the bookstore, it was never ever boring. “Another secret room?”
He reached in far, up on his tiptoes, his voice muffled. “This one’s more like a cupboard. Now, where is it?”
“How many secret compartments are there in this place?” I asked, not even trying to hide the giddy explorer in me. There’s something about a secret room. Or cupboard. I knocked on the wall closest to me. “How many of these panels pop open?”
“Nine? Ten? Something like that. Your dad wanted it to feel magical in here.”
Mission accomplished. I glanced up at the ceiling. My dad had covered it in painted constellations, the stars slightly bigger than the ones he’d cut out for my sunset birthday party. Every detail of this place—from the walls to the soft, colorful rugs—screamed magic and twilight and the promise of extraordinary things.
“There it is.” Theo jumped off the table, then straightened. When he held the item out to me, all the lightness evaporated. Not only did I recognize it, but I knew it. I knew exactly what the paper would feel like under my fingertips, how heavy it was. I even knew how it would smell.
A huge lump formed in my throat. “It’s a map, isn’t it?”
Theo’s eyes met mine inquisitively. “How’d you know?”
“I’m a good guesser,” I said weakly.
He pushed it into my hands, and I carefully removed the plastic, then unfolded it, taking my time to smooth out the wrinkles. My heart squeezed as I flattened it out. Except for the lack of crayons and cartoons, it was almost an exact replica of the one he’d left behind.
For a moment I couldn’t do anything but stare at it. Finally, I turned to Theo. “What do you know about this map?”
“This is the first map he worked on when he arrived in Oia. He worked on it for something like five years, and he took it with him everywhere. It’s where he developed the theory that he and the Egyptologist have been working on.” He slid it over to me excitedly. “Look how worn out it is. He carried it on him for years.”
I swallowed, hard. Because I’d carried the original map around too, tucked into my backpack or coat pockets—it was one-half of a friendship bracelet that I’d thought meant something. But our map had been replaceable. It felt like pressure on a forgotten bruise.
Theo, mistaking my stillness for interest, jabbed my shoulder excitedly. “This is what we’re missing. The documentary isn’t about Atlantis. It’s about your dad’s life. It’s about why he cares so much about finding Atlantis. It’s his story. It needs to be personal.” He pointed to the map. “This is where it all began for him. Maybe he can’t dig up new proof of Atlantis, but he can show how it affected his life. We’ll make the documentary more personal interest.”
I waited for the thought to settle, to mean something. Almost immediately, I knew Theo was right. We did need to bring a personal element to the film—I knew it the way I knew which color of paint to reach for. The only issue was that this map wasn’t the beginning.
“Wait right here.” I stepped over a snoozing Purrnest Hemingway, making my way to the cave and my suitcase, and dug through it until I found the sketchbook I’d tucked my dad’s map into. It had been a long time since I’d looked at it anywhere but inside my own bedroom, and I hesitated for a moment before forcing myself to carry it out to the eagerly awaiting Theo.
“This was his first map.” I spread it out, watching it gleam in the lamp’s pool of light.
“Whoa.” Theo reached out to touch it, but stopped himself. “Okay, this one is really old. And way more interesting-looking. Is this part… you?” He pointed to all the crayon scribbles marking up different sections of Santorini. I’d been so proud of my contributions, so sure that I was helping my dad on his mission to find Atlantis.
“It says my name, doesn’t it?” OLIVE was written with the L and E backward across the top. “I found it. After he left.”
A part of me wanted to spill the rest of it—this was one of twenty-six items—but I couldn’t get myself to say it out loud. Also, I had an idea of my own. “You’re right, we do need to make the documentary more personal. Has my dad ever told you about the lighthouse keeper?”
I knew he had by the way Theo’s eyes lit up. According to my dad’s stories, it was a local lighthouse keeper who had ignited my dad’s interest in Atlantis. He’d loaned him his first copy of Timaeus and Critias and had helped him draw his first map of Santorini.
Theo put his hands on my shoulders, spinning me toward him. “Kalamata, you’re brilliant. That’s exactly what we need for the documentary. I’m sure the lighthouse keeper is long gone, but we’ll go to the lighthouse tomorrow after the beaches and have your dad tell the story of how he first became interested in Atlantis. How was I doing this without you?”
He threw his arms around me, engulfing me in a tight bear hug that nearly knocked me over. Theo was so physical. Plus, his arms were so warm and comforting. Somehow I felt safe and relaxed, and maybe that’s how a small detail from my past broke through my protective barriers.