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It must have been the truth because the next thing she knew, they had landed in Athens. Rafael was equally groggy and sullen as they were driven to an unfamiliar villa on the outskirts of Athens. It was more modest than the places they usually stayed in, but it had a pool and a casita where the nurse went to unpack.
“There are too many stairs in our home in Attica,” Rafael explained as he limped into the lounge behind her. “Also, my assistant said it was staked out by paparazzi. I bought this for my mother, not that she lived to see it. An agency manages it as a vacation rental, but it happened to be empty. You’ve never been here so it won’t be familiar to you.”
Sasha took in the open plan of the main living area with its tasteful, if generic, furnishings. An L-shaped countertop divided the kitchen from the dining area and sliding doors led out to the patio.
“When did she pass?” It was a natural question to ask under the circumstance, even though she already knew the answer.
“A few months before you and I met.”
He had told her that in the early days of their marriage, but had barely mentioned his parents since then. Sasha hadn’t asked a lot of questions because she hadn’t wanted him to pry into her own past.
That risk was no longer a factor, though. Was it?
“Were you close with her?”
After a hesitation, he said, “I’m adopted. Have you read anything about me online?”
“No.” She was dying to check in with Molly, but... “My phone is broken. The doctor said I should stay off screens anyway, because they’re likely to make my headaches worse. Is that your answer? That you weren’t close to your mother because you’re adopted?”
He was opening the cupboards in the bottom of the china cabinet and came up with an unopened bottle of Scotch and a heavy sigh.
“I had a closer relationship to my parents than you have with yours,” he said drily. “But they adopted me at eight, almost nine.” He glanced up from pouring a generous amount of Scotch into a glass. “I was about as civilized as a feral cat.”
She wanted to ask if he thought alcohol was a good idea, but she had never heard him describe himself that way. “How do you mean?”
“I was skittish. Didn’t want to be touched. My birth mother brought me from Romania when I was four. She was trying to find my father, who was Greek, but I have come to believe he lied to her about what kind of man he was.”
“Greek?”
“Rich,” he clarified pithily.
He stacked his crutches under his good arm and leaned on the cabinet, then used his injured arm to lift the glass to his lips. He took a deep gulp, as though he’d been waiting a year for that alcohol to hit his bloodstream. His breath hissed out in a mix of relief and burn.
“She wasn’t trying to cash in,” he continued. “Only force him to support the child he’d made. I can remember her saying, ‘He can give you a better life than I can. We just have to find him.’ We had nothing when we arrived and never managed to accumulate more than a few blankets and enough food to keep us alive. I don’t know what kind of work she did. Something menial. She would leave me with a woman I didn’t understand and snot-nosed children who weren’t afraid to knock me around for whatever I had that they wanted.”
She couldn’t help the pang of protest that resounded in her throat.
“I learned to knock back,” he assured her with a negligent shrug. He gave his glass a dispassionate swirl before taking another sip. “One morning she didn’t wake up. I didn’t know what to do so I walked to the day care and told her. She turned me away, told me to go home. I realize now that she was afraid she would get in trouble for taking in too many children and helping illegal immigrants. She must have made a call, though. When I got back, police were there. I was taken to a home, but I ran away. I wanted to find my mother.”
Her hand lifted to cover where her heart turned over in her chest, hurting for that lost little boy.
“I was on the street for three or four weeks, I guess. There was an older girl—a prostitute and way too young for it—it’s all a blur, really, but she was nice to me. Taught me how to shoplift and how to find a place to sleep. I really liked her, but I was caught stealing and sent to a group home with bars on the windows. I couldn’t run away and find her to tell her what had happened to me. That’s always bothered me, that I didn’t say goodbye to her.”
He shook off the memory and gulped again from the Scotch.
“How old were you?”
“By then? Six. I overheard people talking about sending me back to Romania. I kept telling them my father was Greek, that they had to find my father. They never did. I have no idea if they tried, but I was put in a school for troubled boys. Between the strict teachers and my fellow students and the toughs in the group home, I got plenty of lessons on how to ignore pain.” He nodded at his broken leg.
As it turned out, she was glad she hadn’t known this about him. It was far too painful to hear, but she stayed silent, letting him continue.
“By the time I was adopted, I was a rough piece of work, but I had come to appreciate a dry bed and regular meals. I knew how to mind my manners to get those things. I was competitive as hell and had realized there were many ways to beat someone, so my grades were top of the class. I guess that’s what my parents saw in me, a boy who was intelligent enough to take over the business and hardened enough not to collapse under the pressure the local thugs put on them.”
“That’s a lot to ask of anyone, let alone a boy.”
And why had he never told her any of this? It was taking all her control not to ask that.
“They lost their son in a drowning accident or they would have put it on him.” He shrugged. “They were adamant that I wasn’t a replacement for him, but what else was I?” He topped up his Scotch. “They were close to fifty when they adopted me. My mother was the driver in that, wanting someone to look after them and the business once they retired. My father and I got along well enough, but we were very different. I was ambitious and driven. He was...tired. Grief-stricken and worn down by life. We didn’t talk much unless it was about the business. He didn’t take care of himself. He had high blood pressure. His heart attack wasn’t a shock.”
