of dread never far from the pit of her stomach, wondering if this would be the day when she would be made to pay for the past.
Knowing that this brief respite could not last, and that, for her, time was running out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
J OANNA blew her nose vigorously, swallowing back the threatened tears. The last thing she wanted was someone to see her crying and misinterpret the reason, she thought, as she closed Watership Down and slipped the paperback into her bag together with her hankie.
During the past week, she’d devoured a Raymond Chandler and discovered Ernest Hemingway from the bookshelves in the saloni, but had hesitated to begin the book that Julie had given her, knowing that it would revive memories of the quiet evenings with baby Matthew—and a time when all she had to trouble her was shortage of money.
I didn’t realise how lucky I was, she thought bitterly.
Suddenly restless, she got up from the lounger, putting on her hat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. Lunch would not be served for another hour or more, so she could fill in some time with a walk.
She’d explored most of the immediate vicinity, and all that remained was the unexciting prospect of the olive groves, where Stavros had assured her almost vehemently that there was nothing to see, and it would be better to go to the beach instead. He was probably right, she thought, but at least the trees would provide some shade, and less chance of running into an armed guard.
And it was pleasant to wander along, her espadrilles making no sound on the loose soil of the path winding between the trees, listening to the faint rustling of the silver leaves above her. There were nets spread on the ground beneath the branches, presumably to catch the fruit when it was harvested, in the way it had been done since the first olives were grown.
She recalled reading that the trees could live for hundreds of years, and, judging by the gnarled and twisted trunks she saw around her, some of these were very old indeed. Just being among them was an oddly peaceful experience.
And then she paused, frowning a little, as that peace was suddenly disturbed by the sound, not far away, of a child crying.
Except there were no children on the island. The only residents at the villa were Hara, who was a childless widow, and Andonis and Penelope, whose two sons were grown up and working on the mainland.
Puzzled, she followed the direction of the crying, and found herself on the edge of the grove, looking at a neat two-storey house fronted by its own fenced garden.
Yet Stavros had implied that the Villa Kore was the only house on the island.
And the house had occupants. A very small girl, incongruously clad in a pink taffeta dress, with a number of lace-edged underskirts, plus white shoes and socks, was standing at the gate, sobbing, her gaze fixed on a blue ball lying on the other side and well beyond her reach.
Joanna said gently, ‘Oh, dear.’ She picked up the ball and walked towards the gate, and saw the child retreat a couple of steps, her thumb in her mouth.
‘Yours, I think.’ Joanna pushed the ball carefully though the bars of the gate so that it bounced gently at the little girl’s feet. ‘And now you should say efharisto,’ she prompted.
But the thumb stayed firmly and silently in place. Big dark eyes surveyed Joanna solemnly.
She was not, Joanna thought as she straightened, a very pretty child. But that was hardly her fault. Her black hair was pulled back into stiff braids, and the dress did nothing for her, either, being the wrong colour, and far too elaborate for playing in. What could her mother be thinking of?
She gave the little girl a swift, reassuring smile, then started back the way she’d come.
She heard a slight noise behind her and, turning, saw the ball was outside again, and the child back at the gate, watching hopefully. She said softly, ‘So it’s a game, is it?’
Retracing her steps, she returned the ball, but this time she
Knowing that this brief respite could not last, and that, for her, time was running out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
J OANNA blew her nose vigorously, swallowing back the threatened tears. The last thing she wanted was someone to see her crying and misinterpret the reason, she thought, as she closed Watership Down and slipped the paperback into her bag together with her hankie.
During the past week, she’d devoured a Raymond Chandler and discovered Ernest Hemingway from the bookshelves in the saloni, but had hesitated to begin the book that Julie had given her, knowing that it would revive memories of the quiet evenings with baby Matthew—and a time when all she had to trouble her was shortage of money.
I didn’t realise how lucky I was, she thought bitterly.
Suddenly restless, she got up from the lounger, putting on her hat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. Lunch would not be served for another hour or more, so she could fill in some time with a walk.
She’d explored most of the immediate vicinity, and all that remained was the unexciting prospect of the olive groves, where Stavros had assured her almost vehemently that there was nothing to see, and it would be better to go to the beach instead. He was probably right, she thought, but at least the trees would provide some shade, and less chance of running into an armed guard.
And it was pleasant to wander along, her espadrilles making no sound on the loose soil of the path winding between the trees, listening to the faint rustling of the silver leaves above her. There were nets spread on the ground beneath the branches, presumably to catch the fruit when it was harvested, in the way it had been done since the first olives were grown.
She recalled reading that the trees could live for hundreds of years, and, judging by the gnarled and twisted trunks she saw around her, some of these were very old indeed. Just being among them was an oddly peaceful experience.
And then she paused, frowning a little, as that peace was suddenly disturbed by the sound, not far away, of a child crying.
Except there were no children on the island. The only residents at the villa were Hara, who was a childless widow, and Andonis and Penelope, whose two sons were grown up and working on the mainland.
Puzzled, she followed the direction of the crying, and found herself on the edge of the grove, looking at a neat two-storey house fronted by its own fenced garden.
Yet Stavros had implied that the Villa Kore was the only house on the island.
And the house had occupants. A very small girl, incongruously clad in a pink taffeta dress, with a number of lace-edged underskirts, plus white shoes and socks, was standing at the gate, sobbing, her gaze fixed on a blue ball lying on the other side and well beyond her reach.
Joanna said gently, ‘Oh, dear.’ She picked up the ball and walked towards the gate, and saw the child retreat a couple of steps, her thumb in her mouth.
‘Yours, I think.’ Joanna pushed the ball carefully though the bars of the gate so that it bounced gently at the little girl’s feet. ‘And now you should say efharisto,’ she prompted.
But the thumb stayed firmly and silently in place. Big dark eyes surveyed Joanna solemnly.
She was not, Joanna thought as she straightened, a very pretty child. But that was hardly her fault. Her black hair was pulled back into stiff braids, and the dress did nothing for her, either, being the wrong colour, and far too elaborate for playing in. What could her mother be thinking of?
She gave the little girl a swift, reassuring smile, then started back the way she’d come.
She heard a slight noise behind her and, turning, saw the ball was outside again, and the child back at the gate, watching hopefully. She said softly, ‘So it’s a game, is it?’
Retracing her steps, she returned the ball, but this time she
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