The Reluctant Baker (The Greek Village Collection Book 10) (11 page)

People have started gathering for the official opening
, but Ellie is nowhere to be seen. A Greek woman in a purple dress, the highest of heels, and her hair piled on top of her head wriggles onto the end stool. His carefully placed tea towel falls to the floor.

Tables with starched white cloths have been distributed all across the lawns and the forecourt of the hotel. The opening speeches will be made in the foyer and then the guests will find their seats for the buffet-style dinner.

The cicadas are still singing in the orchards, confirming that the heat is not lessening with the onset of evening. As the sky fades from blue to orange, the ground-level lighting along the path edges is switched on. The hotel’s car park is full, and new arrivals are obliged to park in the olive groves off the lane from the main road. The old man and old woman will turn up at some point to show willing, be neighbourly. It might be better for relations but part of him wishes, hopes, that they will not come, although he knows they will. ‘Hypocrites,’ he silently labels them. What a shock they will get when they see him behind the bar.

‘No need to be unkind,’ Loukas reprimands himself. He will explain to them that it is just one night, suggest that they get up to do the bread tomorrow. After all, just a year ago, they had done it every day all their working lives, boy to man for Natasha’s baba. It will help them to move on, he will suggest. And if they do get up and make the bread for one day, maybe more will follow. He twitches his shoulders in excitement. He can almost feel the shackles releasing.

But where is she? It has been hours. Why did she not come straightaway? Mind you, he couldn’t have given her any attention, he has had so much to do. No, it is better to see her when things calm down. That is probably what she is thinking, too, wait until after the opening ceremony.

More and more people are arriving. Someone is testing the sound system. ‘
Ena dyo, ena dyo, ena, ena dyo
.’ The cooking smells grow stronger: onions, tomatoes, oregano, and roasting meat. The priest has arrived in his oversized shiny black four wheel drive. He lumbers from the backseat and it is just possible, through the crowds that are gathering, to see Stella greet him. The people close in around the man’s black robes and tall black hat until Loukas can only see the backs of heads. He is being kept too busy with the drink orders from those who are now perched on stools around him. The sunbeds are empty of bathers. Instead, they have men in suits and women in their finest dresses sitting neatly on their edges, the women ensuring their heels remain on the wooden walkway that runs between the seats, the men pushing cigarette ends into the sand.

There is a hush around the hotel entrance. Everyone turns their attention in that direction. Then the drone of the priest comes over the speakers as he blesses the hotel, blesses the workers, blesses Stella, and blesses the crowd. He dips his rosemary branch in a bowl of holy water and, with a flicking motion, anoints everyone and everything he passes. As he walks, the crowds part and follow him between the tables and down to the sun chairs, all of which get a good sprinkle of water and some sacred words. Loukas and all the people on the barstools cross themselves three times, some lifting golden crucifixes on chains from their breastbones to kiss, all thanking the priest as water liberally speckles silk blouses and wets lacquered hair. The children’s swings on the lawn are blessed, the roundabout, the swimming pool, even some of the balconies of the rooms.

There she is! Sitting on her balcony. Why there? Why not here? As the priest passes her, she is anointed too and she brushes off the droplets from her dress. She does not cross herself. Once the priest has moved on, Stella speaks to her and she gets up, goes into her room. No doubt coming around to be with Stella. That is Stella’s way. She will include as many people as she can. The crowd reconvenes outside the foyer and a microphone whines and squeaks.

For about twenty minutes after the priest has completed his duties, Loukas is very busy. He forgets some of the cocktails he used to know and so he adds a twist in their name. He serves a Stella’s Singapore Sling and a Mitsos Mai Tai, explaining that Stella’s opening a hotel near the village makes everything different, including the drinks. A local electrician agrees with him, no doubt hoping the hotel will bring more work. The mechanic from the village, the one who built the dough mixing machine, talks about getting a loan to buy a car or two to start a rental business for the guests of the hotel; a carpenter says he has started to make bowls out of olive wood which Stella displays in a cabinet in the foyer, and he has sold three already. A girl whom Loukas recognises says she does all her friends’ nails and she is in talks with Stella to convert a storage room in the hotel into a salon where she can offer treatments and facials.

The energy is high. The village is moving with the times. The cocktail orders flow fast and it takes up his time mixing them. He could do with some help. When business calms for a few minutes, he mixes up three jugs of a cocktail he invented when he worked in a bar in Athens. Back then, he called it the
Meleti Meli
, the Honey Study. He told students it made their studies sweet and sold buckets of it every night. Now he takes a pen and writes out a sign with a new name. ‘
Tyxi tis Tsiganas
’ -’Luck of the Gypsy’.

Within the hour, all three jugs are empty, sold out. They all want to toast Stella, share a bit of her luck.

‘Hasn’t she done well?’

‘She has worked so hard!’

‘I could do with her luck!’

He mixes another batch. Looking up to see who to serve next, he swallows hard when he notices the old man and old woman are hovering to his right, their faces set in stone.

The old woman opens her mouth and steps forward to speak to him.

Loukas leans as far as he can over the bar top to speak into her ear.

‘Whatever your views, do not spoil this night for the hotel. This,’ he indicates all the people around him, ‘can only be good for the village.’ He slides back to his side and stares at her, daring her. He can see the indecision on her face but eventually her features soften slightly.

‘A glass of orange juice,’ she says.

‘I think I’ll try a glass of the Gypsy’s Luck,’ the old man states and the old woman narrows her eyes and looks sideways at him. Loukas does not charge them. They remain near the bar as the opening speeches conclude and the Mayor of Saros steps up to cut the ribbon. The area around the bar thins of people and the old man moves nearer.

‘I think you will be tired to get up tomorrow.’

‘As you always are.’ Loukas emphasises the word ‘always’ and instantly regrets it. He didn’t mean to be so harsh. There’s that look, that frail old man weakness in his eyes. Loukas hesitates as he thinks how to phrase what he really wants to say.

‘You know, old man, sometimes we find our strengths by doing the things that feel the hardest.’ He smiles and makes eye contact so as not to appear threatening. He leans towards him. ‘Maybe if you decide to get up tomorrow,’ he wants to say ‘to become a working man again,’ but that also sounds like a judgement so he quickly rephrases, ‘to do what you have always done best, you might find the very action fills you with the zest for life you have always had.’ He finishes his speech with a light touch to the old man’s hand, the one that is gripped around his glass of Gypsy’s Luck.

The aged look of frailty lingers in his father-in-law’s eyes for a moment, watery and pale irises, then, almost imperceptibly his chin shifts down and to the side and his eyes half close and up again. The Greek ‘yes’ without the need for words.

‘Another glass?’ Loukas asks gently, but the old man puts his hand over his glass, implying he has to get up in the morning. Loukas’ stomach turns. He cannot help but keep glancing into the crowd, looking for her. He has so much to say. The speeches have come to an end and there is a surge toward the buffet tables inside. All the people around his bar drift away; even the old man and old woman in their Sunday best melt away into the sea of sequins and sharp suits.

Now would be a good time for Ellie to come and be by his side.

The diners, balancing full plates, find their seats. Stella is at the top table with a selection of important guests. Mitsos is by her side, naturally, and there’s Ellie on her other side, looking a little confused and lost. At the same table are the mayor, the priest, Babis the lawyer, and some people from Saros town council. All talking loudly, pouring from one of the five wine bottles he put on each table earlier.

This might be a good moment to fetch some more crates of beer and get rid of the empties. He takes two empty crates inside and returns, straining with the weight of two full ones.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Stella is by the bar with a plate of food in her hand. ‘This is for you, are you hungry? Have you been busy?’

‘Everyone is having a good time. I congratulate you, Stella.’

‘That is in their nature. Save your congratulations for when we have another party a year from now because we are still up and running.’ Her smile makes all her words light; her eyes are shining. She looks so alive. Her usual sleeveless floral dress has been exchanged for a grey lace shift and Loukas has never seen her look more beautiful.

‘I wish you ease in its running, loyalty in your staff, and pleasant guests to stay.’ Loukas takes a glass from behind the bar. ‘Here, have a little of your own luck.’ He points to the sign by the jugs, which she reads and laughs. ‘I have sold nearly six jugs of the stuff.’

‘Well, long may my own luck continue then,’ Stella responds, exchanging plate for glass. ‘I have picked a creative thinker to run my bar!’ She takes a sip and nods her appreciation.

‘This looks good. Thank you.’ Loukas picks up the fork. ‘How is Ellie coping over there?’ He must know why she has not come over.

‘She seems a little distracted, actually. I will talk to her if I have a moment. She is young, I think, for her age. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this holiday.’ Loukas has seen the mothering look on Stella’s face before but he is more interested in knowing what she means by her last comment.

‘Not ready?’ he repeats, hoping she will say more.

She waves at Mitsos, who is standing, looking over peoples’ heads by the hotel’s front doors, seeming a bit lost. She continues to wave until Mitsos sees her and gives a little wave back.

‘I’d better go. I’ll see you later.’ Stella lifts her glass to Loukas as she leaves.

It is quiet after she has gone. He can even hear the lapping of the waves. The murmurs of the diners’ voices blow away from him, inland, by the slight sea breeze.

Having eaten his plate of food, he sits back on his stool as the bouzouki player takes up a tune. The musician plays whilst the guests eat dessert, but some of the women cannot resist and one by one, they stand and gather to dance. The melodies pick up and the more lithe men join them. Loukas watches from afar. A part of him would like to be in there dancing with the rest of them, a guest, but he is also content to be sitting in the evening without the pressure of watching the time, thinking he should be in bed.

A lone figure breaks from the group. He recognises her outline. But she heads away from the bar to the end sunbed, where she sits. Why there? Why so far away? Is she playing games, teasing?

Fine, he can play games too. This is as good a time as any to collect some of the used glasses. Taking a tray, he gathers the ones nearest to him first, not looking at her. If she is staying away for a reason, he does not want to appear pushy. God forbid that she has changed her mind. Maybe he was mistaken and the kiss was not for her as it was for him. He glances at her. No, she felt the same way, he is sure. Her eyes said so much. He calms his racing heart and, when he is within earshot, he asks casually, ‘Are you having a good time?’

‘Oh, Loukas. Yes fine. Thank you.’ Cold, distant.

‘Everything alright?’ His heart is out of his control. She must be able to see it thumping through his shirt.

‘Yes, why wouldn’t it be?’

There is definitely something wrong. He puts his tray down.

‘Hey, what is it?’ He sits beside her, his arm casually, tenderly around her shoulder. She shrugs it off.

‘Nothing.’

She cannot look at him. Would she see hurt in his eyes? But better to hurt now than pretend everything is alright, grow increasingly fond of him only to leave for England in two weeks and never see him again. How cruel would that be? To both of them.

‘Ellie?’

Even the sound of his voice hurts, tears at her insides, the knowledge that what she desires will never be.

‘Ellie? Am I mistaken? Is what I thought, what I hoped, not?’

She cannot speak. If she makes any sound, she will either cry or give in. She should have stayed with the crowd, she should have gone onto the lane for some space, not here.

‘I thought we both knew.’ Loukas has a break in his voice. He sounds so young.

Trying to swallow, she takes in air. It sticks like a lump in her throat, so painful.

‘I think I must have been wrong. I think I must have imagined something that was not. When I looked into your eyes, I saw such possibilities, I saw my dreams. If I am wrong, you must tell me.’ The break in his voice is stronger now. If she looks at him, she knows she will see tears in his eyes.