Page 4 of Villa of Secrets

‘We’re depending on you to do this,’ he said earnestly.

‘But why? It won’t work!’ Naomi said. ‘You can’t just post a gun to England. And what’s Rebecca going to think when she receives it? I’m astounded that my own grandmother and you, Papas, a man of God, have thought up this crazy idea. Have either of you considered the possible repercussions?’

They both pulled in their chins and blinked. She continued. ‘Where did it come from, and why is it in our house – our home?’

‘Naomi, your grandmother will explain the whole thing when she’s stronger. Trust her.’

‘After everything I’ve done for you and your sister.’ Bubba’s one drooping eye appeared emotionless, the other overcompensated and glared angry daggers.

Instantly, Naomi felt the presence of Rebecca; this was about her and, for a second, she resented it.

Now, beyond the striped rug hanging over an archway, Bubba was asleep in her bedroom that used to be their lounge. Papas Yiannis had gone back home across the street. Naomi stared at the gun on the table and tried to rationalise what had happened, but her thoughts were far from clear. She was overwhelmed by relief, grief, and an odd sensation that had made her insides quake the moment she had returned from the beach and saw her grandmother with a gun.

So much could have changed in the seconds after she walked into the cottage. How was she supposed to know Bubba was trying to dismantle the gun? Naomi had thought her grandmother was going to kill herself. The weight of her own emotions pulled at her jaw, turning her mouth down, and aching in her neck. Tears of relief rolled down her face. She found it impossible to imagine life without Bubba.

The weapon lay disassembled and inert on the time-worn kitchen table.

What was her grandmother doing with an old gun? Where had it come from? What awful deeds were attached to its past? Naomi knew the Jews of Rhodes had a disturbing history. As a child, she had visited the museum at the Kahal Shalom Synagogue in Rhodes Old Town with her sister and grandmother. But young Naomi was more interested in the prospect of an ice cream in the square. Impatiently, she had watched Bubba scrutinise faded photographs of skinny men in baggy suits. The old lady often nodded and muttered, sometimes dabbing her eyes or shaking her head.

Naomi took a calming breath. The tension of the evening made her body clammy, like waking from a nightmare. Her white tank top and khaki shorts hung damp and heavy against her skin. She needed a cool bath, perhaps a fresh bar of her latest Palma violet soap, or her homemade honeysuckle shower foam. Sometimes, the only place she could relax or work on her business plan was in the tub.

She stared at the five pieces of gunmetal that made up the pistol. Despite the weapon being dismantled, her heart continued to thud. Reluctant to touch it, she covered the parts with a tray cloth. The contrast of a cold metal killing machine and the embroidered pink flowers seemed ludicrous.

Guns N’ Roses, she thought playfully, recalling her youth. Half-forgotten nights with Costa came rushing back. Loud pop songs blaring from an evil cassette player notorious for chewing their favourite music tapes. They were sitting on a blanket on the roof in the light of a full moon when Costa asked her to marry him. They toasted each other and their future with cheap beer and sang their anthem, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door, until Bubba banged her broom handle on the ceiling under their feet, telling them to turn it down.

At times, their passion for each other would become so intense they wanted to get under that old blanket, but they had feared the priest could see them from his darkened window.

Naomi started up to her bedroom, the stone steps cool underfoot. Shortly after, wearing nothing but the scent of honeysuckle and a bath-robe with Costa Cruises embroidered over her heart, she returned downstairs and rummaged in the kitchen drawer.

Where was the wretched door key?

She glanced around the small room that was desperate for a lick of paint, unable to remember ever locking the cottage, but a gun in her home changed everything. Although the pistol was disassembled, she recalled a film where Al Pacino snapped his weapon together in seconds, and he was blind!

There was a sense of urgency in the night, and she had no chance of sleeping until the house was secure.

Realising the futility of securing the door when the window catch was broken, she leaned out and hauled the louvres closed. Old paint crackled and flaked as rust broke its grip on the hinges.

After bolting the shutters, Naomi spotted the big iron key peeking from behind a length of crocheted curtain. The lock mechanism, also rusted, proved difficult but after a drip of olive oil, the stubborn contraption turned.

Sleep came in fits and starts. She woke in a sweat under the faded patchwork Bubba had sewn together decades back. At four thirty, Naomi abandoned her bed.

In the kitchen, she lit one of her vanilla candles. Released by the flame, the fragrance filled the room along with a glow of soft yellow light. She closed her eyes and inhaled gently.

Ice cream; fudge; Mama’s hair.

Her tentative relaxation shattered when she found herself staring once more at the tray cloth covering the gun. Naomi yanked the kitchen drawer open and swept the offending pistol into it. The clatter made her jump. She glanced at the woven rug separating the kitchen from Bubba’s room. Had she woken her grandmother with the dramatics? She stilled and listened. The gentle snoring paused.

‘Help me . . . help,’ Bubba whimpered.

Naomi’s heart leapt. She pushed the rug aside, turned on the light, and hurried to Bubba’s side. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ She rescued a pillow from the floor, plumped it and wedged it behind her grandmother. ‘Do you need anything? Some tea?’

‘Tea, yes. What time is it?’ Her eyes, huge and slow-blinking, appeared alien-like in her thin face.

‘Early.’ Naomi sat on the bed and rubbed cream into Bubba’s dry hands. ‘I’ll run you a bath later. You can try my jasmine shower foam, then sit outside for some fresh air while I do your room.’

They exchanged a glance. ‘Sorry,’ Bubba slurred.

Naomi recognised the honesty in her word and she filled with tenderness.