Bound by Hope: Do You Believe in Fate?

By Leona M Xidas

As seventy-eight-year-old Penelope Daos watches the waves crash along the beach beside her Long Island home, she reminisces about her past. Her mind is full of secrets she kept from everyone, including her late husband and her family. These secrets have haunted her for the past fifty-eight years.

She wonders if her children and grandchildren will believe her story. Is it possible to accept that pirates and treasure exist outside of fairytales? Could a summer love be so strong it would save Stavro and Penelope? Or will they be destined to perish at the hands of the thieves of Chios?

This novel for teens follows Penelope through her journal filled with detailed memories of the adventures, love, demise, and heartbreak she experienced at the age of twenty in 1957 on a little island in Greece called Chios.

It was the most beautiful view I had ever seen. The neighboring mountains stood tall and strong across from the one we were on. In the distance, right where one mountains edge met another’s, I could see the ocean; a deep blue Aegean dotted with white specks here and there from the menacing white caps. The mountains were layered with rows of mastic and olive trees. Grays and browns colored the petrified mountainous terrain. The breeze seemed to whistle through the space between them … I turned to look at Stavro; his eyes set on the view ahead. He seemed to be at peace again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532065903

Leona M Xidas

Leona Xidas was born, raised, and currently resides in Long Island, New York. Her families’ roots are in Chios, Greece, and her many travels there provided much of the inspiration for the landscapes and culture that color this novel. This is her first published book. In addition to writing, Xidas also has a passion for photography and art.

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Copyright © 2019 Leona M Xidas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6591-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6590-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019901302

iUniverse rev. date: 02/01/2019

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Lexicon

Acknowledgments

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to Mom and Dad, whose love for each other serves as an inspiration.

Prologue

I waited patiently as the sun set across the horizon. A beautiful iridescence red and orange sunset slowly lit up the sky but I couldn’t enjoy it. Not without Him. He told me to wait here. He told me he would be back to get me. Why hasn’t He come? The waves rolled closer and closer as time passed. Hours morphed into minutes and minutes into seconds. How long had it been? The explosion only happened a day ago, or did it? Confusion overran my mind and all I could think about was His poor body blown to pieces. Disbelief continued to flow through my brain. It had to have been a nightmare. He had to be out there somewhere; I just had to wait for Him.

A dragonfly buzzed around me, flittering to and fro through the misty ocean air finally taking its place on top of my knee. Its bulging red eyes glittered in the sunset’s light. Its’ body was blue but when the sun shown a certain way it would shimmer green. I sat and analyzed this perfect little creature; my mind finally escaping the single thought that had engulfed it. I watched many small boats pass by but none stopped. The single hope I was clinging to was on a rollercoaster ride every time one passed. I kept thinking that inevitably He would be in the next boat that passed by.

But it never happened.

July 26, 2015

I am seventy-eight years old and for the past fifty-eight years, I have held on to one life-altering secret. A secret so big I hardly believe anyone would even trust it be true. I hadn’t even told my late husband, Harold Greenburg, about it. When my life began here in New York, I decided to take it upon myself to write a journal. Every detail, every memory, just about anything I could think of, I wrote it down. I took a drawing class in college so that I could learn how to draw and recounted people, landscapes, beaches, trees, and anything else that I could remember so that I would have those visual memories forever. After all, I was left with no photographs of the past.

At first, the journal was more of a diary. Over the years, I would go back to it and add in more illustrations just to jazz it up a bit, but the additions made it more of a book, and I never wanted to publish it. I wanted to, at some point, be able to read it to my children who would, I hoped, then pass it on to their children, but I never had the courage to go through with it. I was always afraid they would think I was lying. Who would believe it? It seemed like more of a fairy tale than a true-life story.

It’s the small things in life that I enjoy nowadays. Seeing my children faithfully complete the tasks and chores I begged them to do when they were younger and now have the opportunity to teach and enforce their children to do them too, is simply gratifying. Sitting at the dining room table, I watched my children and grandchildren: Sarah, my daughter, cleaned the dishes while her youngest, Bethany, dried them. My son Andrew made coffee and his fiancée, Patricia, served the aromatic cookies they had brought with them. Christopher, Sarah’s eldest, took out the trash. The house rang with giggles and smiles once again. And our weekend together was just beginning.

I turned and looked out the dining room bay window and watched as the waves crashed along the sandy beach, one after the other piling up and raging with power. A storm must have been brewing somewhere. I noticed the wind had begun to pick up a bit, the seagulls just above the water danced and twisted as they struggled through the windy currents. I quietly grabbed my cup of coffee, my journal from the bedroom, and walked out to the back porch. The same ocean sounds that tickled my ears long ago still did and with each rhythmic surge across the beach, a smile spread across my face.

I sat down on the swinging bench and took a sip of coffee. Ugh, my son always puts in too much sweetener. I cringed as my heart began to race from the overdose of sugar. I poured my coffee into the gardenia plant next to me. What? Haven’t you heard that old wives’ tale? They say that coffee gives plants nutrients. I giggled as I stretched out my legs giving a little nudge to get the bench swaying, and looked out at the view in front of me. The wind was blowing gently and the sun’s rays were strong; just like my home long ago. I was in the perfect place to reminisce about what could have been and what had become.

Harold and I would always argue: he wanted an apartment in the city and I wanted a house by the beach. Of course, Harold won those arguments, but after he passed I decided enough was enough of living in a tiny cooped up apartment. I decided to pick up and find a better home, somewhere I could live out the rest of my days near the ocean, my true life source. I laughed to myself as I was thinking that fifty-eight years ago the very idea of ending up here would have never even crossed my mind…an entire ocean away from the country where I grew up.

For the past couple of days, I have been having these unstoppable daydreams where it almost seems impossible to snap out of. Most of them are of my love (and I don’t mean Harold). It must be some sort of sign. The days are leading up to the anniversary of the tragedy. I wonder if that’s why? I laid the journal across my lap and unraveled the tiny strap that held it all together. The tiny plump book was jam-packed and spewing pages out at the edges. The poor old thing was tattered from so many years of use. Nearly sixty years ago, during my freshman year of college, I bought this journal from a nearby store.

Scanning the yellow stained pages, I smiled as I relived memory after memory. I decided it was time. I was going to read it to my family. Why not? I have nothing better to do and I am tired of hiding it.

If you’d all be so kind as to join me in the den? That would be lovely, I said as I tried my best not to let my voice crack from anticipation. I took a seat in my old rocking chair across from the stone-cold fireplace.

Slowly, one by one they came in and sat down, each with the same questioning look on their face.

"I am seventy-eight years old now. I think it’s about time I read you guys a story I had written in college about my past. I wrote it throughout my first year here in America. It’s not published, or even edited. It’s just something I wrote to get all of my memories down on paper before I began forgetting them. As you obviously know, my surname is Daos. But that isn’t the name I was born with. I changed it long ago, even before I married your father. It used to be Karayannis.

"You all know about my life here with your father, grandfather, but I also had a life in Greece. A life I chose to hide from you until now. I loved your father very much and I am blessed to have created a life with him but all these years have come and gone with a single regret. A regret of having left a life filled with adventure, extraordinary memories, and most of all my one true love."

But Grandma, I thought that Grandpa was your one true love, said little Bethany.

"Yes, I loved him too, but there is a difference. Let me read the book; I believe you’ll all understand once you hear it. It’s a long story so you’ll want to get comfortable. I truly feel the need to tell at least some people about this part of my life."

Can you make it quick? I have to go into town to buy some new soccer cleats before the store closes, said Christopher.

"Sarah? Is it ok if you take him into town tomorrow? I just know he’ll like this story what with all the action and adventure."

"You? Action? Chris, tomorrow’s another day, we can go then. I thought there was no action or adventure in Grandma’s life. This story has got to be good."

But, but…

No buts. Put your phone away and sit down please, his mother demanded.

Christopher slumped down onto the couch as he crossed his arms across his chest. Bethany crawled up in front of me and pulled a blanket around her. Andrew grabbed the plate of sprinkle cookies and sat down on the couch next to Patricia. Sarah sat on her father’s rocking chair and pulled out her phone. Ever since her husband’s job transferred him to Arizona, they communicated constantly with that new texting thing. Her face was plastered to that little gadget 24/7. I doubted she would keep that up once I started talking.

Now, let me explain. This story doesn’t really start until I was about twenty. I was born in Greece on an island called Chios. We spoke Greek. For your sake, I will translate the conversations to English.

Andrew’s mouth full of cookie spewed all over the living room from amazement. "You speak Greek?"

It was my first language, yes.

Prove it, he demanded. His eyes squinted with speculation.

Sas’agapo para poli. That means, I love you all very much.

No way, you just made that up.

"No. Now would you stop delaying me? I have a story to tell!"

Ok, ok, they muttered as they got comfortable.

I smiled. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to tell my family of the adventure that changed my life. It was unnerving yet exciting. I couldn’t wait. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Ok, chapter one.

Chapter 1

"You are late for dinner again," said Mother as she brought Fathers’ cold meal to the table.

Father replied with nothing more than silence. His eyes were distant and glazed over the small plate of food. Pushing the plate away from him, Father rose up from his seat and began to walk into the living room.

Penelope asked to go to the beach again tomorrow. I told her she can go, Mother continued.

Did she finish her homework?

"She isn’t in school anymore so obviously she has no homework."

"I still will not allow her to go. Her place is here, in the house. Not out there on the beaches gallivanting around like some street tramp."

She is twenty-years old now; and you should know that Penelope is not a tramp. She should be able to do as she pleases! Mother yelled.

Father towered over Mother and his countenance was fierce as he glared down at her. "You will not raise your voice to me. I bring the money into this family, so I will decide what is what. I forbid Penelope leave this house until the day she marries. You belong to me; you cook, clean, and do your duties as every other married woman does without question. Is that clear?" Father’s tone of voice rang with disgust; his words were as sharp as a knife.

"I belong to you? Is that what you tell yourself? You come in here, smelling like ouzo, pipe, and the neighbors’ perfume and you have the audacity to tell me that I belong to you?" Mother’s eyes were dry as the last of her tears were shed long ago. The hatred she felt toward Father made each of her words even more bitter and justifiably harsh.

I stood, shaking, as I watched my parents begin one of their brawls. The walls I leaned on for strength were colder than ever. The air before Father came home smelled of brandy and wine; Mothers’ favorites that meant she was indeed drunk. She would often obey my Father but when she drank she would gain the courage to take a stance against him. These fights were absolutely unbearable and I would become physically sick every time one of them started. Lately, Mother has been standing her ground more and more and because of it, Father had grown even more violent.

I knew I couldn’t bear another minute in that brawling house so I gathered some of my belongings; a pocket full of change, my headband and then stuffed them in a bag I had knitted. I didn’t say good-bye, I just up and left. At that point I knew anyplace would be better than that house. Chances were they hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

I still remember how I felt when I stepped foot out the door knowing it was going to be for the last time. It was euphoric. Thoughts of freedom and happiness filled my insides but contradicted those feelings of fear and regret. What was I going to do now? How was I going to live completely on my own with no place to stay? Where would I start?

Taking a turn down one of the streets I caught a glimpse of my house. I stopped for a moment as I watched the balcony windows. The lights were dim but bright enough to make out two silhouettes from behind the curtains. I saw them arguing, their arms flailing around vigorously. That was when I noticed the larger silhouette; Father raised his hand and brutally hit Mother. She fell to the ground. That day, the metaphorical door to my childhood closed and locked itself forever. That was the last time I thought I would see my parents. The last of my love for Father died that night. I could only pray for Mothers’ sake that she would come to her senses and follow me out the door.

I prayed that I wouldn’t end up like my mother, weak, sick in the head, and fearful of change. Nowadays, divorce is as common as marriage. But back then it was practically unheard of. I wanted to be strong, confident, and unafraid.

The land I called home was Chios, Greece. It is a beautiful island filled with mastic and fruit orchards, crystal clear beaches, historical treasures, and very attractive men. In all honesty, there was really only one who caught my eye, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Every landscape was rhapsodic with invigorating beaches and oceans so blue they defied nature. As I sit here now and think about that island, a stream of memories automatically runs through my head.

The night that I left home I decided I would sleep on the beach; the one place I was forbidden to visit. I also knew that it was one of the only places where I wouldn’t need money. I just had to make sure that I wouldn’t be spotted by anyone. Only the homeless go to the beaches at night to sleep; at least that’s what the rumors are. The closest beach to my house was Agio Emiliano but I knew that might be a problem because there’s a pier in the middle of the beach where ocean-goers sometimes dock. Realizing the inevitability of being seen there, I decided on walking just a bit further to Agia Fotia. It would be the best solution for my situation. The last time I was there had been a couple years prior when my school took a class trip. All I could remember was that it was nice and secluded.

My favorite part about the beach was the noise the water made when it splashed against the pebbles. See, unlike many popular sandy beaches, this beach had white and gray pebbles or