Ha.
“Where’s the restaurant?” I asked, carefully peeling Theo’s hands from my shoulders. He smelled like salt water. Why had I never realized how good that smelled?
“It’s a taverna on a beach called Kambia. He says it’s a local favorite; we can’t miss it. We can take a bus. Come on!” And then he was running again.
* * *
Kambia was a quiet, tucked-away beach that had somehow managed to avoid the crowds of Red Beach and Akrotiri. We ended up walking most of the way. It wasn’t nearly as impossible to miss as Theo’s informer had claimed, but after cornering a lot of innocent bystanders for informational shakedowns, Theo found someone to direct us to the correct beach, and we left the road, taking a warped staircase down to a small sandy cove. A narrow wooden dock led past the rocky beach out into the clear water.
The late-afternoon heat was finally beginning to let up, and there were only two people camped out on the rocks, both of whom looked baked to perfection. That’s what you’d be doing on Dax’s senior trip, my brain reminded me. Relaxing. Not chasing around leads with a hundred pounds of equipment on my back and a completely broken heart.
“Kambia means caterpillar,” Theo said in what I now recognized as his Imparting Useless Facts voice. He pointed to the scrub of trees and bushes behind us.
“Interesting.” He ignored my lack of enthusiasm.
“In the spring, thousands of butterflies hatch from their cocoons in the pines. It’s a butterfly parade.”
I put my hands on my hips and looked around, enjoying the warm breeze. The cove felt like it was holding its breath. Keeping a secret. “Santorini without crowds—who knew it existed?”
“Wait until winter,” Theo said. “My first morning in December, I thought I was on the set of a zombie apocalypse movie. The entire place empties.” He pointed behind me. “Taverna.”
“Huh?” I turned and saw the small building camouflaged against the rock. I easily could have walked right past it. The taverna’s walls were inlaid with mismatched rocks the exact color of the cliffs, and at least half of the structure consisted of an open patio. Pots full of overflowing succulents dotted the railing, and several small tables stood empty. A loose sign hanging over the doorway swayed lightly in the breeze: VASILIOS.
If I’d had my doubts before, now I was sure of it. You didn’t find breaking evidence in tiny fish huts. I rocked back on my aching heels. Sandals had been the wrong choice today. “Now what? Ask for Vasilios, the man who claims to have a piece of Atlantis?”
“Sounds like a solid plan,” Theo said from behind his camera. If he didn’t make it as a filmmaker, he should probably try for magician. He could make his camera appear out of thin air.
Fine. I made a face into the lens, then walked down the rest of the steps and crossed the sand to the taverna’s porch. As we approached, a round, pink-cheeked woman appeared in the open doorway, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “Are you here for dinner?” Her voice was friendly, with the slightest hint of a Greek accent, but when she caught sight of Theo’s camera, her smile faded. “How can I help?”
Theo nudged me, and I did my best to muster some enthusiasm. “Hi. We’re documentarians, and we’re here hoping to speak with Vasilios. Is he available?”
Her expression went blank, and I recognized the move for what it was. Defensiveness. “My father is resting. What is this in regard to?”
“Someone told us he has…” I trailed off, wishing with my entire heart that I did not have to say what I was about to say to this very practical-seeming woman. “Someone told us that he has information about the lost city of Atlantis. We would love to talk to him about it.”
“Atlantis?” The woman’s expression sharpened instantly. “Who told you this?”
“Um…” Random man at the lighthouse didn’t quite carry the weight that this scenario needed. “Someone we met earlier.”
“Also, we’d like to eat,” Theo added, eyeing the coral-colored octopus hanging from the rafters.
She folded her arms over her apron. “You cannot speak to my father today. He is not well.”
I could practically feel the animosity wafting off her. Then it hit me. I knew exactly what was going on here. “My dad is an Atlantis hunter too, and he’s spent a lot of time working on his theory. We aren’t here to make fun of your dad. Or you,” I added quickly. “And if he can’t meet with us, that’s okay. But we’d really like to talk to him.”
It was quite the speech. Theo looked at me wide-eyed, then stepped forward. “She’s right. We’re fellow seekers.” He must have heard that word from Henrik.
The woman sighed, studying us for a moment, but instead of sending us away like I thought she would, she pointed to one of the tables. “Have a seat, please.”
We made our way across the creaking porch, and I slid into a worn, silvery-gray chair, taking in the hand-crocheted tablecloth and carefully arranged vase of flowers. The smell of spiced meat floated through the restaurant’s open door, making my mouth water. Theo took the seat across from me, then leaned forward, holding his hand up in front of me. “What do you think, Kalamata?”
I met my hand against his, matching our fingers. His palms were calloused, the tips of his fingers reaching at least an inch above mine. “I think we’re never going to meet Vasilios, let alone see whatever proof he has.”
“No, I mean what do you want to order.” He plucked the menus from the stand on the side of the table and pushed one to me. It was written entirely in Greek, without even any pictures to give me hints.
“Order something for me?”
“Stuffed squid with feta? Ceviche sea bass?”
Our pita hadn’t been all that long ago, but suddenly I was starving. “All of it.” I checked my phone, half hoping to see something from my dad. Did he even have my number?
Theo’s eyebrows lifted. “For someone who’s so afraid of the ocean, you sure love to eat from it.”
“Those two things are entirely unrelated.”
A staccato of footsteps sounded from inside the restaurant, and when I looked up, an elderly man with flowing white hair was barreling toward us. He was short and wide, with wire-rimmed glasses and a large smile on his face. “Hello!” he called. “Hello, Americans! American teenagers!” His daughter had been lying about his health. This man could probably beat Theo in a race.
Theo and I quickly got to our feet, exchanging a look.
“I’m American, but this one’s Greek,” I said, gesturing to Theo. “Are you Vasilios?”
He struck his chest. “Yes, I am Vasilios. My restaurant!” He beamed at us, then gestured to Theo’s equipment. “Hollywood! Yes? Hollywood!”
“Well…,” I started.
His eyes settled on me curiously. “Eh?”
Theo let off a series of rapid-fire Greek sentences, and Vasilios’s face lit up like a strobe light. “Atlantis! Yes, I show.” He pointed at me. “You.”
My face warmed up, he was looking at me so intensely. “Um… you’ll show me?”
“Yes. You. You wait!” Vasilios took off down the porch, and soon he was running for the stairs like a sprinter going for the gold. Not quite the napping old man I’d pictured from his daughter’s description. He looked faster than Julius. Faster than Dax. And sharp. But the thing about Santorini is that after a while you aren’t really surprised by anything.