Part 16 (1/2)
”I don't know if any of these people think much about satisfaction. It's simply what they do. They fish or work in Nick's olive groves. They've been doing one or the other for generations.” Toying with his own drink, Andrew studied them too. ”I do think there's a contentment here. The people know what's expected of them. If their lives are simple, perhaps it's an enviable simplicity.”
”Stil , there's the smuggling,” Morgan murmured.
Andrew shrugged. ”It's al part of the same mold, isn't it? They do what's expected of them and earn a bit of adventure and a few extra drachmas.” She shot him a look of annoyed surprise. ”I didn't expect that att.i.tude from you.”
Andrew looked back at her, both brows raised. ”What att.i.tude?” ”This-this nonchalance over crime.”
”Oh, come on, Morgan, it's-”
”Wrong,” she interrupted. ”It should be stopped.” Morgan swal owed the innocently clear but potent ouzo. ”How do you stop something that's been going on for centuries in one form or another?”
”It's current form is ugly. I should think the men of influence like Alex and ...
Nicholas, with homes on the island, would put pressure on whoever should be pressured.”
”I don't know Alex wel enough to comment,” Andrew mused, fil ing her gla.s.s again. ”But I can't imagine Nick getting involved in anything that didn't concern himself or his business.”
”Can't you?” Morgan murmured.
”If that sounds like criticism, it's not.” He noted he had Morgan's ful attention, but that her eyes were strangely veiled. ”Nick's been very good to me, lending me the col age and the money for my pa.s.sage. Lord knows when I'l be able to pay him back. And it irks quite a bit to have to borrow, but poetry isn't the most financial y secure career.”
”I think I read somewhere that T.S. Eliot was a bank tel er.”
Andrew returned her understanding smile with a wry grimace. ”I could work out of Nick's California office.” He shrugged and drank. ”His offer wasn't condescending, just absentminded. It's rough on the ego.” He looked past her, toward the docks. ”Maybe my s.h.i.+p wil come in.”
”I'm sure it wil , Andrew. Some of us are meant to fol ow dreams.”
His gaze came back to her. ”And artists are meant to suffer a bit, rise beyond the more base needs of money and power?” His smile was brittle, his eyes cool.
”Let's order.” Morgan watched him shake off the mood and smile with his usual warmth. ”I'm starved.”
The evening sky was muted as they finished their meal. There were soft, dying colors flowing into the western sea. In the east, it was a calm, deep violet waiting for the first stars. Morgan was content with the vague glow brought on by spiced food and Greek ouzo. There was intermittent music from a mandolin. Packets of people shuffled in and out of the cafe, some of them breaking into song.
Their waiter c.u.m proprietor was a wide man with a thin moustache and watery eyes. Morgan figured the eyes could be attributed to the spices and cook smoke hanging in the air. American tourists lifted his status. Because he was impressed with Morgan's easily flowing Greek, he found opportunities to question and gossip as he hovered around their table.
Morgan toyed with a bit of psomaki and relaxed with the atmosphere and easy company. She'd found nothing but comfort and good wil in the Theoharis vil a, but this was something different. There was an earthier ambience she had missed in Liz's elegant home. Here there would be l.u.s.ty laughter and spil ed wine. As strong as Morgan's feelings were for both Liz and Alex, she would never have been content with the lives they led. She'd have rusted inside the perpetual manners.
For the first time since that morning, Morgan felt the nagging ache at the base of her skul begin to ease.
”Oh, Andrew, look! They're dancing.” Cupping her chin on her hands, Morgan watched the line of men hook arms. As he finished up the last of a spicy sausage, Andrew glanced over.
”Want to join in?”
Laughing, she shook her head. ”No, I'd spoil it-but you could,” she added with a grin.
”You have,” Andrew began as he fil ed her gla.s.s again, ”a wonderful laugh. It's rich and unaffected and trails off into something sensuous.” ”What extraordinary things you say, Andrew.” Morgan smiled at him, amused. ”You're an easy man to be with. We could be friends.”
Andrew lifted his brows. Morgan was surprised to find her mouth briefly captured. There was a faint taste of the island on him-spicy and foreign. ”For starters.” At her stunned expression, he leaned back and grinned. ”That face you're wearing doesn't do great things for my ego, either.” He pul ed a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, then dug for a match.
Morgan stopped staring at him to stare at the thin black box.
”I didn't know you smoked,” she managed after a moment.
”Oh, not often.” He found a match. The tiny flame flared, flickering over his face a moment, casting shadows, mysteries, suspicions. ”Especial y since my taste runs to these. Nick takes pity on me and leaves some at my cottage whenever he happens by. Otherwise, I suppose I'd do without altogether.” When he noticed Morgan's steady stare, he gave her a puzzled smile.
”Something wrong?”
”No.” She lifted her gla.s.s and hoped she sounded casual. ”I was just thinking-you'd said you roam al over this part of the island. You must have been in that inlet before.”
”It's a beautiful little spot.” He reached over for her hand. ”Or it was. I guess I haven't been there in over a week. It might be quite a while before I go back now.”
”A week,” Morgan murmured. ”Don't dwel on it, Morgan.”
She lifted her eyes to his. They were so clear, so concerned. She was being a fool. None of them-Alex, Dorian, Andrew-none of them were capable of what was burning into her thoughts. How was she to know that some maniac from the vil age hadn't had a taste for expensive tobacco and backstabbing? It made more sense, a great deal more sense than her ugly suspicions.