She had written to Aristotle Myconos deliberately. After all, the island belonged to Dion’s father, it was the family estate, and the reason why Roger, and all other archaeologists, were refused permission to work there. Not that either Aristotle, or the members of his family, spent much of their time on Mycos. His shipping concerns meant he, and his three eldest sons, travelled the world quite extensively, and when he was not visiting the Myconos offices in New York or London or Tokyo, he was living in Athens, at his villa, which had a magnificent view of the Acropolis, within easy reach of his headquarters there.
The extent and complexity of the Myconos’ wealth had always been a source of amazement to Martha. She liked money, of course she did, she liked spending it, but the extent to which money played a part in their lives had constantly bewildered her. Her needs had not been extravagant. Food to eat, clothes to wear, a car to drive—and even that had been a luxury, and not essential. It had always amused Dion that she had asked for so little, that she had been embarrassed when he offered her a trousseau from Balmain, or a necklace valued at several thousand pounds, from Tiffanys in New York. He had found it difficult to understand her apparent lack of ambition, the pride which forbade his desire to display her as his possession, and the lingering independence, which had ultimately led to their separation.
It was just as well, she acknowledged now, that she had not adapted too readily to that rarified atmosphere, that sybaritic way of life. It would have been far harder for someone without her streak of stubbornness, someone who had married for money, and not for love. Dion had never really believed that, she had realised long ago. He must always have suspected her feelings for him, been suspicious of her eagerness to become his wife. Deep inside, he had fostered jealousy and uncertainty, and she had finally come to the conclusion that he had confused love with a selfish desire for possession. His feelings had erupted on the night Josy was born, sweet innocent Josy, with that cap of russet-red hair, that had crystallised all Dion’s suspicions into a hard core of distrust.
Aristotle Myconos’s response to her letter had been brief. He refused, he said, to discuss any matter with her in a letter. If she wished to speak to him, she should come out to the islands, and much against her better judgment she had been forced to agree. Besides, she had argued, what could happen to her in Rhodes? She would meet her father-in-law, tell him of Roger’s ambitions and the debt she owed to him, and hope that he would be generous. It was not so much to ask, surely. Roger and his assistant would not bring any disruption to their way of life. And it would be such a coup for the university if he could produce new evidence of what happened to the survivors of that ancient disaster.
The market, across the road from the harbour, was a meeting place for locals and tourists alike. Looking up an alleyway, Martha could see stalls, weighted down with oranges and peaches, and the enormous red and yellow melons, that were so much juicier than the fruit they bought back home. There were toy stalls and clothes stalls, stalls selling leather goods and pottery, and the exquisitely ornamented dolls in traditional costume. She wondered if she ought to buy one of them for Josy, but she couldn’t decide. Might it promote questions she was still not yet ready to answer? Josy had accepted the fact that she did not have a father without too much curiosity so far, but her daughter was an intelligent child, and Martha was constantly aware that sooner or later some more satisfactory explanation would be demanded. That was when the strength of her decision would be tested, and she acknowledged that deep inside her she had doubts as to whether she had the right to lie about the child’s parentage. Since her agreement to speak to Aristotle Myconos on Roger’s behalf, she had wondered whether this might be her opportunity to view the situation objectively, but every time she thought of offering Dion the right to share his daughter, a sense of panic gripped her. She loved Josy so much. Surely that was the important thing—not some nameless sum of money that offered security but nothing else! But if she gave Josy into her father’s care, would the child be able to tell the difference?
She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was after ten, she saw with some misgivings. The butterflies in her stomach responded with an increasing burst of activity, and she glanced about her anxiously, wondering whether she had mistaken the directions she had been given.
‘Martha!’
The accented masculine tones made her heart skip a beat, and as she turned to face the man who had addressed her, her knees felt ridiculously weak. The similarity to Dion’s voice was unmistakable, but to her intense relief the man confronting her was not her husband, but a stockier, younger facsimile.
‘Alex!’ Martha’s voice betrayed her agitation, and she cast a worried look about her. ‘Alex, what are you doing here?’
Dion’s youngest brother surveyed her unsmilingly. He looked much older somehow than when she had last seen him, and although she realised that five years would have wrought some changes, Alex’s transformation from an easygoing teenager into this serious-looking young man was quite startling. Gone were the jeans and sweat shirt, and in their place was an immaculate cream lounge-suit, and a matching silk shirt and tie. In her simple skirt and cotton shirt, Martha felt absurdly youthful, and she wished she had worn something more formal.
‘Martha,’ he said again, inclining his head, but making no move to kiss her, or shake her hand, or offer her any greeting other than his use of her name. ‘If you will come with me …’
He gestured towards a sleek limousine that was waiting at the kerb a few yards further on, and Martha gave him a curious glance before saying doubtfully:
‘Your father? He’s waiting in the car?’
‘Come.’ Alex spread his hands politely. ‘I will explain.’
Martha hesitated. ‘Your father said he would meet me here,’ she insisted, faint colour invading her cheeks as she realised he was not the ally he had once been. ‘Alex, what’s going on? Where is your father? Can’t you at least tell me that?’
Alex pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and rocked back and forth on his heels and toes. Then, with a sigh, he said: ‘My father is not here, Martha. I am to take you to him. That is all. Now, will you come?’
Martha still resisted. ‘Where is he?’
‘Mycos. Where else?’
‘Mycos!’ Martha gasped. ‘Oh, Alex, I can’t come to Mycos!’
‘You do not wish to see him?’
‘Of course I do.’ Martha’s tongue appeared to moisten her lower lip. ‘Alex, I arranged to meet your father in Rhodes. Not Mycos. I—well, visiting the island was not what we agreed.’
Alex shrugged, the dark brows drawn together over darker eyes. ‘So you are refusing to come?’
‘Alex, Mycos is at least five hours from here!’
‘Not by air.’
‘You have a plane?’ she exclaimed, aghast.
‘A helicopter,’ he amended evenly. ‘Endaksi?’
‘No! That is …’ Martha put an uncertain hand to her forehead, ‘I would rather not meet your father at the villa.’
There was silence for a few moments after she had made this statement, a silence during which she became aware of the people going on with their lives around her, unaware of the intense upheaval she was suffering.
At last Alex spoke again. ‘That is your final word?’ he enquired. Then, after a pause: ‘Dionysus went to Amsterdam—two days ago.’
Martha expelled her breath, hardly realising until that moment that she had been holding it. So she was not to meet with her husband. It was quite a relief. Despite what she had told Roger and Sarah, she had been apprehensive of seeing him again, not least because of the rawness of the wounds he had inflicted, and their vulnerability to any kind of abrasion. They were healed, but the scars remained, and she was not yet ready to test their strength.
Alex