Page 2 of Footprints in the Sand (Coleman #13)

Chapter Two

T he island was sweltering hot, with temperatures nearing ninety degrees during the last few days of May.

At the beach, a few minutes away from the village of Aliki where she’d been born and raised, Dimitra tucked herself away under the shadows of the olive trees, closed her eyes, and listened to the water lapping up on the sand.

Her phone was off, she had a book and a few snacks with her, and she had absolutely no plans to see anyone till later.

It was the gift she wanted to give herself—space.

It was her birthday, after all. She was fifty-three and deserved some time to breathe.

But suddenly, she heard a familiar call from the water. “Dimitra? Is that you?”

Dimitra’s stomach curdled with dread. But because she knew she’d been caught, she forced herself upright and peered out across the turquoise water, where her cousin Yorgos was striding over to her.

He was slightly younger than she was, with a big pot-belly that spoke of his love for moussaka.

When Dimitra’s husband, Kostos, died last year, Yorgos had been one of the men to carry the casket and had brought Dimitra pans and pans of her favorite foods (all cooked by his wife, of course).

Still, Yorgos had a good heart. Dimitra didn’t have the heart to send him away.

“Happy birthday!” Yorgos said, leaning down to kiss his cousin on the cheek. “Look at you! You’re glowing!”

In reality, Dimitra had spent most of that morning sobbing in her bedroom alone, but she didn’t want Yorgos to know that. “You’re too kind,” she said. “Have a seat. You want some apricots?”

Yorgos collapsed on the sand beside her and sucked three apricots from their pits, telling her about the complications surrounding his twenty-something daughter and the boyfriend of hers he didn’t like.

“You try your best with your kids. You try to show them how to be and how to act. But sometimes it all comes crashing in.”

“She’s still young,” Dimitra told him for the thousandth time. “You were a lot less smart than she is when you were her age.”

Sometimes it really irked her that Yorgos never remembered that Dimitra herself hadn’t had children, but not because she hadn’t wanted them.

Goodness, she and Kostos had tried. She’d held on to hope for as long as she could, until perimenopause came and clamped a lid on that whole thing.

At the time, Kostos had said, “We have each other. We have enough love.”

But where was that love now that Dimitra really needed it?

Now, Yorgos stuck out his tongue and laughed. “You’re right that she’s smarter than me. She always has been. But don’t tell her that.” He furrowed his brow and added, “Listen to me, carrying on like this on your birthday. You should be celebrating. What do you want to do? I’ll take you anywhere.”

“I can take myself anywhere,” Dimitra reminded him. “I have a car, and I have my own life. I don’t rely on my family members to take pity on me.”

Yorgos grinned. “You know we worry and worry about you.”

“And you know I hate it.”

Eventually, Yorgos got the hint that she wanted a bit of time to herself before the party that evening, which Dimitra’s sister Athena was throwing for her at their father and mother’s place in the center of the village.

Every person Dimitra had ever met her entire life was probably going to be there, dancing and drinking ouzo and eating to their heart’s content, which turned her stomach.

She knew that several of the island men were after her—men who’d gotten divorced or lost their wives or never gotten married at all—and she didn’t know how to tell them to get lost without losing their friendship.

She hated to push anyone too far away, especially given how lonely she was.

But she wasn’t ready to move on. She barely knew how to get up in the morning.

As Yorgos got back up, wiping his thighs of sand, he remembered something. “How was Roma?”

Dimitra had just returned from a solo trip to Rome, where she’d met with an old American friend of hers, a chef named Diana. Over the years, Diana had been through hell and back, but things were looking up for her ever since she’d opened her own restaurant and moved to Italy full-time.

“It was wonderful,” Dimitra said.

“Did you meet any handsome Italian men?” Yorgos asked.

Dimitra scoffed. “Never.”

Yorgos laughed. “Good. You know they’re our rivals.”

From where she lay on the towel, Dimitra watched her cousin return to his friends down the beach, men she’d known since she was a girl.

It felt remarkable to be fifty-three with so many memories behind her.

Sometimes she felt like she didn’t own the memories herself, that they belonged to some other person.

Sometimes she felt too tired to make any more.

After about a half hour of lounging, Dimitra got in the water and swam around, letting the crispness of the turquoise water calm her anxious mind. She floated on her back and felt the Aegean shift gently around her as she watched birds sweep through the blue sky.

She tried it out. “I am fifty-three years old.” Did it fit her? She guessed it didn’t matter if she felt it did. It was the truth.

That night, Dimitra arrived at her mother and father’s place half an hour before the birthday party was to begin, as she wanted to help her sister set up.

Of course, Athena had already set everything up more than two hours ago and was now arguing with their mother, Anna, about how often they should feed the stray cats outside the kitchen door.

“This is why you have an infestation, Mother!” Athena said, her hands on her hips. “You can’t be so soft-hearted. They’ll take you for all you’ve got.”

But despite having been born and raised in this very village, Anna refused to listen to reason and continued to feed the cats as she pleased. Dimitra smiled and hugged her mother.

“Don’t let Athena harden you,” Dimitra said.

“You wouldn’t feed them either,” Athena said grumpily.

“My darling. Happy birthday,” her mother said dreamily, “tell me about your visit to Roma.”

Athena poured them all glasses of wine, and they sat in the garden and set their attention on the birthday girl.

Dimitra knew her mother had never been to Rome, that she’d always wanted to, and she knew her sister Athena was too busy with the family restaurant to get off the island very often.

Dimitra herself was a self-employed artist and could travel as much as she wanted, as long as she could figure out how to afford it.

(She’d always had money problems.) She hoped one day she, her mother, and Athena could all travel together, but she knew the women in her family were always focused on their tasks and filled with stress.

“It was gorgeous,” Dimitra admitted. “And my friend’s restaurant is a dream.

” Dimitra described the interior of the Roman restaurant, the exterior boulevards and alleyways, the ancient streets, and her trip to the Coliseum.

She said, “I had delicious gelato and slept every day till ten thirty in the morning. We went dancing at night.”

“Dancing! I didn’t know you still had it in you,” Athena teased.

Dimitra and Kostos had once adored late-night dancing and had often stayed up all night in the port town of Parikia, waiting for the seven o’clock bus to bring them back to Aliki. Dimitra couldn’t imagine doing that by herself anymore.

“Come on,” her mother urged. “Tell us more! Who did you meet?”

Her mother’s eyes sparkled in a way that suggested she wanted Dimitra to tell her about a romantic fling she had with a beautiful man she met. But Dimitra couldn’t do that.

She searched for another story.

“Diana hired this American chef to work with her at the restaurant,” Dimitra said.

“Her name is Rachelle, and she was such a joy to have around. She’s the reason we always went dancing.

She had all this joie de vivre that I forgot came with being twenty-five or whatever age she is.

” Dimitra laughed, remembering Rachelle’s bright eyes and funny stories. “She’s an island girl, too.”

“Where’s she from?” her mother asked, furrowing her brow. To her mother and to Athena, the only other islands in the world were Greek islands. There were so many of them, after all. So many to choose from.

“Nantucket Island,” Dimitra said.

“Where is that?” Athena and Anna asked in unison.

Dimitra giggled and told them where it was, which she knew because she looked it up on the map. “It looks pretty,” she said. “Calm. Good people. Great food.”

Her mother crossed her arms. “We have good people and great food.”

“I know, Mother. It just sounds interesting to see someplace new,” Dimitra said.

Not long after that, Dimitra’s guests began to arrive, their arms ladened with presents that Dimitra hadn’t asked for and didn’t need.

She hoped most of them were bottles of wine and not more items she would need to find a way to get rid of down the line.

After Kostos’s death, she’d put most of their belongings in the bedroom they’d shared and moved into the bedroom down the hall, thinking that eventually she’d sell the house and get something smaller. Or travel forever.

When the classic Greek music began, Dimitra’s father asked her to dance, and Dimitra found herself on the floor with her arms out, performing the steps alongside her dad.

Her father, in his seventies and open-hearted and joyous, sang every word alongside the professional singer they’d hired for the occasion, so much so that the professional looked a bit miffed.

By this point, most everyone at the party was sort of drunk, including Dimitra.

Her heart overflowed with love for the people in her life.

How she wished Kostos were here.

When their dance finished, her father kissed her cheek. “I’m proud of you, my darling. Happy birthday.” Dimitra blinked back tears.

Just as she’d suspected, plenty of men from the island had come to flirt with her and guess at their prospects for future relationships.

Dimitra gave them no indication she was interested in them, but she was friendly and told them to eat as much as they wanted.

It was what Greek family parties were all about.

Everyone was family, and everyone was welcome, and everyone needed to leave well-fed.

But not long after she danced with her father, Dimitra’s thoughts began to turn.

In everyone’s eyes, she felt their pity, and in every conversation, she heard how sorry people were that Kostos was gone, that she didn’t have any children to call her own, and that she was all by herself.

Sometimes they didn’t even have to say anything for her to guess they were thinking it. It was something about their tone.

They think I’m pathetic , Dimitra thought.

Dimitra’s heart felt loose and strange. She wanted to tell everyone to leave her alone, to leave her with the rest of her dessert and all the movies she had back at home.

But before she could get up the nerve to leave her own birthday party, her phone rang.

To her surprise, it was Rachelle, the twenty-five-year-old girl she’d met back in Rome.

“Dimitra! Happy birthday!” Rachelle said in that big, broad Massachusetts accent.

Dimitra was in the kitchen of her mother and father’s house, listening to the party roar outside. “Thank you,” she said, smiling, grateful to talk to someone who didn’t know so much about her past. “I was just talking about you a few hours ago. My mom wanted Rome stories.”

Rachelle laughed. “Did you tell her how we almost got kicked out of that bar?”

“I did not,” Dimitra said. “I’m fifty-three and still a little frightened of my mother.”

“We have to keep things to ourselves sometimes,” Rachelle agreed.

Dimitra tapped her fingernails across the counter. “How’s Rome? Sometimes I wish I’d stayed a little bit longer.”

“I’m not in Rome, actually. And I’m calling you for a different reason. More than birthday greetings.”

“What’s up?” Dimitra’s anxiety spiked.

“It’s nothing bad,” Rachelle assured her. “I’m back home in Nantucket Island, and I have a proposition for you. Do you have an open mind?”

Dimitra laughed. “You know I do.”

“That’s true.” Dimitra could hear Rachelle’s smile over the phone. “Are you ready to hear the opportunity of a lifetime?”

Dimitra didn’t pause. “You caught me at the perfect time.”

Whatever it was, she was ready for change. She might die if things stayed this way.