A Terrible Beauty by TASHA ALEXANDER Read Free Book Online Page B

exploring every inch of the ruins—and had done so in years past—but recognized Jeremy would not enjoy the activity so much as I. So we returned to Athens, made leisurely visits to the museums, dined with other travelers in the Grand Bretagne, and shopped. Jeremy, we discovered, loved to haggle with local traders. He acquired three pairs of tsarouhi shoes—complete with woolen pom-poms—despite the insistence even of the seller that no one outside remote rural areas wore them anymore.
    â€œThey shall prove remarkably useful for fancy dress,” Jeremy said, pleased with his purchase. “You ought to throw a ball for me, Em. A masquerade. The theme can be folk costumes.”
    He became rather attached to the idea. Colin told me in no uncertain terms that he would not allow it, and if I insisted, he would come dressed as a Red Indian, wearing only a breechcloth and a feather headdress. If anything, this encouraged me rather than putting me off the notion, and as a result, he refused to discuss the topic any further.
    The time had come to leave the mainland and make our way to my island villa. We left the port of Piraeus on a day bright with sunshine. Colin, as was his custom, had hired a sailing yacht and its crew to bring us to Santorini. The trip would take longer than if we booked tickets on a steamer, but we had no reason to rush, and there are few activities more pleasant and relaxing than cruising on the Aegean. Each evening, we dined beneath the stars on the deck and afterward would sit out for hours over whisky (for Margaret and the gentlemen) and port (for me). Whenever we approached anything that could be considered rocky—be it island, islet, or an actual rock jutting up from the sea—Margaret and I would leap up and start to sing the Sirens’ song:
    Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise,
    That dost so high the Grecian glory raise.
    Ulysses! Stay thy ship, and that song heare
    That none past ever but it bent his eare,
    But left him ravishd and instructed more
    By us than any ever heard before.
    This display generally led Colin to threaten flinging us off the boat. I credit this not to our lack of singing ability, but to the loss of the song’s original melody over the many centuries since Odysseus returned from Troy. I am certain had he heard the original version, my husband would have been charmed. Margaret returned his threat with one of her own, swearing she would tie him to a mast if he did not show better appreciation for our endeavors.
    Despite our best efforts, Jeremy and I had started to burn in the hot sun, and Margaret, in addition to turning quite pink, had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that would have horrified my mother. Colin, whose skin never burned, but rather turned a deep golden shade, looked more and more like the inspiration for a Praxiteles sculpture with each passing day. His dark curls, permanently tousled by the ocean breeze, tumbled over his forehead, and when he stood on the prow of the ship, pointing to identify the islands in the distance, the sunset coloring the sky around him, I was so moved by his beauty I was forced to push dinner back three-quarters of an hour and to request his immediate assistance in our cabin.
    The last morning of our voyage saw the steep cliffs of Santorini—Thera, as it was called in ancient days—rising from the ocean, puzzle-piece white and blue and buildings clinging impossibly to their sides. Because it was still spring, lush greenery covered the dark volcanic rock of the island, with yellow, white, and pink wildflowers dotting the view. We pulled into the port below the small capital city of Fira, where a well-tended group of donkeys stood ready to transport us and our baggage up the six hundred steps to the top. Mrs. Katevatis, whom I had hired as a cook on my first visit to the island, had taken on so many additional duties at the villa after her husband died some years ago that to call her