Page 134 of Dagger in the Sea

A variety of vintage and modern necklaces and bracelets had been posed around a number of painted seashells and starfish. Many pieces were on leather cords, others on silver and gold chains and a few on a variety of delicate blue cords, the same blues like the painted doors all over town. I found one that was perfect for my girl, and I went in and bought the necklace.

“Is it a gift?” she asked.

“Yes. Very special one.”

Smiling, she nodded and wrapped the necklace for me in azure blue tissue paper and I tucked it in my pocket. “Thank you.”

I made it back to the house and heard Adri speaking in terse Greek in the kitchen. She wore a short, white cotton robe, her hair a mess of long waves down her back. A tray with two white demitasse cups was on the counter. Her face was drawn, and she chewed on her lips as she listened to her caller, the teaspoon rigid in her fist.

I took our breakfast from the bags and placed her orange juice next to her, but her hand curled into another fist. With a steady hiss, the lava-like coffee bubbled quickly, flooding over the sides of the tiny pot. Adri barely noticed.

I shut off the stove.

“Entáxi. Né, né, áde. Yia.”She signed off in a tense barrage of Greek and tossed her phone on the table, a muscle along her jaw pulsing. She cursed under her breath, shutting off the stove, letting out a ragged sigh at the sight of the pooling lake of coffee.

“Hey.” I picked up a sponge cloth and wiped it up. “What’s going on?”

“Everything I’ve been trying to avoid.”

“Who was that?”

She only took in a deep breath, her eyes watering.

“Adri.” My sharp tone made her eyes lift to mine. “Who was that?” I asked.

She touched the orange juice cup carefully as if it were burning hot and not icy cold. “My father.”

I took a sip of juice. “What did he say? Is there news?”

“Plenty. Always plenty of news from him. He always wants something.”

Her bitter tone had me set my cup on the table. “And what is it that Petros wants?”

She let out a short dark laugh. “Not Petros.”

“I’m not following, baby. You said your father—”

She took in and let out a deep breath, her eyes hard, lifeless. She looked years older than her twenty-three. “Petros is not my biological father.”

“Okay. And who is?”

“My mother’s first husband.” She got up from the table and opened a drawer, taking out a pack of Camels. She lit one and inhaled deeply. “Yianni was a former Olympic water polo player who was her windsurfing instructor at this fancy beach resort all upper crust Athenians go to in the summer. Torrid first love. But he wasn’t a somebody. He was a penniless nobody with a perfect tanned muscular body, and an enticing smile. Her parents forbid her seeing him, but she spent time with him secretly, got pregnant, and got her way. Marriage. It was a scandal, but a sexy one that people liked. My grandmother never forgave her for it.”

“How long did it last?”

“Barely two years.”

“But you have Petros’s name?”

“He adopted me about five years after he married Mum.”

“And you and your real father, obviously you know him—”

“Oh yes, I know him.” Her eyes lit up, but the gleam in them was cynical. “Liar, philanderer, dreamer, gambler, egotist, narcissist. That’s my father.” She took a deep inhale on the cigarette.

Huh. That did sum it up nicely for me too, didn’t it? “Why did he call now?” I asked.

“He’s been calling since the shooting in Athens, but I’ve been ignoring his calls. Being in a particularly good mood, I answered today. Shouldn’t have. Same old story. Only worse this time.”

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