LITMIR.BIZ

      Lysander Rosakis climbed out of the small fishing boat with ease, gave a brief salute to the man who had accompanied him but who was going on to a restaurant in another cove to sell his catch, laughed when his companion of the morning called out a witty reply, then headed back along the road beside the harbour to his house. As the sun beat down in a steady throb of heat onto his already sun-drenched limbs, Lysander tried to push away the little nugget of unease that arose in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t name or account for his fear right then, but he didn’t have to. He was already well acquainted with what it was.

      The last time he had stayed in the plain whitewashed house on the island he had been with Marianna—his wife. Now he was visiting the holiday destination he so loved alone. They’d come out to the island two summers ago now—just a couple of months before their baby was due—trying desperately to put a plaster on the gaping wounds of the previous year, when Marianna had had an affair. Lysander recalled that summer with pain, his footsteps slowing a little as the bittersweet memory cruelly submerged him. How could he have known then that his misery at the brittleness of his marriage would be devastatingly compounded by the dreadful events that had occurred on their way home to Athens? That Marianna would give birth to their son prematurely and, shockingly, that neither of them would survive?

      A slashing hot pain knifed itself deep into his temple, and he drew his hand there in an automatic attempt to make its throbbing cease. But the acute discomfort was distressingly obstinate and, coupled with his frustration and rage at God for not intervening in the terrible chain of events that had blighted his life, it meant Lysander could not withhold the ripe curse that emanated from his lips.

      What had he done to deserve such living torment? Hadn’t he been a good Greek son? Following his illustrious father into the shipping business, forging his own equally illustrious career path, becoming a force to be reckoned with and revered amongst his peers? Hadn’t he shelved his own compelling desire to make photography his career in lieu of carrying on the family tradition? Marianna had never understood Lysander’s photographic work. She had sided with his father, loving the kudos and social cachet that marriage to a man of his wealth and lucrative associations had brought her, which even her own family’s distant but much-mentioned connection to the aristocracy was not able to provide, and had constantly urged him to put aside his ‘crazy’ dreams and concentrate instead on being a successful businessman. Now the fruits of his success had definitely palled, and Lysander hardly knew what to believe in any more.

      Marianna’s betrayal, and then her death along with his expected child, had created scar tissue deep within his soul that would probably never really heal. The whole experience of marriage had left him with a scathing regard for romantic relationships that almost reached the point of contempt. His youthful dreams of a loving family of his own had crashed and burned, and changed his life undoubtedly for the worse. He might at last be making strides with his consuming passion—photography—these days, as well as continuing as head of the Rosakis business, but he was more alone than he’d ever been in his life. He had no son and no wife, and had developed an increasing preference to keep himself to himself—apart from occasionally seeking the company of a few close and trusted friends.

      Thankfully, this was one of the few places he could come to in Greece where he would be largely left alone. The local people knew of the tragedy he had suffered, of course—the gossip grapevine extended to most of the outlying Greek islands, and with the illustrious name of his family, how could it not? But the islanders were respectful and kind, even protective of his privacy, and Lysander was grateful for that.

      Almost wishing he had gone on to the other cove with his friend, instead of returning home to an empty house to eat lunch alone, he glanced towards the high walls of his friend Ari’s art gallery. The twin doors to the cool interior were flung wide open in the almost midday sun and, making a spontaneous decision, Lysander decided to go in.