The Reckoning: Chronicle of Temptation Resurrected

By E. Bacon

Temptation Resurrected

Fleeing, while buying them time as intended, hasn’t exactly been the path to the newlyweds happily ever after they intended. After years of seemingly being left to thrive on their own, the young family has finally let their guards down. But of course those watching from the shadows know that. Waiting patiently, as has always been their way, the opportunity for retribution has arrived in a well chosen space in time the couple least expects.

An evil so sinister it delights in feasting on the lives of all in proximity to her has been resurrected. Having nearly driven her insane the first time she so narrowly escaped with her life, Alina knows such an advisory as that which can escape the very bowels of hell could never have been outrun.

Although Alina has known this time would come, there is little more she could have done in preparation of it. As it seems, she’s made the most grievous miscalculation of her life. One without remedy. A deadly error that will cost more than just their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663227805

E. Bacon

E. Bacon grew up in Chicago Illinois. After a brief career in the Air Force she began writing, a childhood passion, and is currently pursuing a graduate degree. Correspondence to the author can be directed to www.ebaconbooks.com

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 E. Bacon.

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.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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: 978-1-6632-2779-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2840-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2780-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021917958

iUniverse rev. date:  09/03/2021

Contents

Prologue

Part One   The Beginning Of The End

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Two   The End

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

I dedicate this novel to

Courage: The realization of a divine plan presented to me.

You are my Dream Come True.

To all who facilitated, supported and

believed in this accomplishment.

As well as all who enjoy it.

Prologue

I fucked up!

Casting the remainder of the crystal tumbler of Stoli into the fireplace offers only a minuscule degree of satisfaction. Watching the flames erupt in replication of my mood is the second rare occurrence in succession behind witnessing my own inebriation. It’s for good reason that I so rarely allow myself to get this drunk and belligerent.

As rarely as I allow myself to think of her. A man with such a multitude of secrets such as myself can’t afford such commonality. Though the question could be raised: What more have I to lose? Those not privy to the darkest quarters of my mind could never fathom all I’ve housed in them, and thus been made to give up in the keeping of it.

Tonight, the alcohol numbs the edge of a particularly pointed injustice. Though my intoxication poses a hindrance at present, all will be right shortly. I’m nothing if not patient. Drunks make mistakes. I won’t again, having already accomplished my fair share. I’ve come to rectify the grandest of them.

Even with all the windows open, the spacious luxury of this hotel room still feels stale and claustrophobic. Of course, it’s little to do with the space. I’ve come to watch her scream. I must have it. To bath myself in the cries of her misery I’m to accomplish in retribution for her betrayal. A fate she’s created for herself.

But then there’s the child…

The boy has a bit more of his mother’s delicacies than should be allowed a young man. Much to the effect of the magnitude beneath his uncle’s display of lashes, the luminosity of the boy’s eyes tell the tale. He’s already irrevocably damned. Like his stubborn mother. She’s just too close minded to see it. She doesn’t deserve all she was destined to accomplish. Perhaps I no longer love her. I’d assumed I possessed the feeling in equal measure to that of my hatred for all she’s refused us both, but it’s possible tonight’s pushed me over the edge. The equilibrium that’s kept her safe feels tipped to me now.

However, this anger rumbling within me won’t be allowed to spew forth uncontrolled. Not after as long as I’ve mitigated the boil. I’ve decisive intentions for my revenge that roll over the vodka on my tongue deliciously.

I’ve learned quite a few lessons since my last encounter with Lina.

Not that I intend to share them with her.

We’re beyond that now.

She still thinks there’re no worst things out there than myself. She’s about to find out how wrong she is about that. While some do regard me as pure evil, they simply lack the capacity to comprehend an individual capable of successfully executing the unthinkable as a conscious, strategic decision of power.

Had she only embraced her destiny as I have there wouldn’t now be those who seek her tortured death so fervently. As they’d never dare to fathom mine. I could’ve taught her so much. And yet I’ve ever only had a touch of what she possesses. Limited to my unrivaled ability to reach into the depths of the underworld like she’d never be capable of. Her ability comes from the other side of the coin. Not even she understands this.

If it hadn’t been for that damned sheriff Ipsey… As disposing of the slothful fool had taken considerably longer than I’d anticipated, I’d trusted an entity that never lived to manipulate my pet into the retrieval of a woman whose will has proven stronger than anyone ever expected. Though Astaroth had successfully guided both wolf and Lina on multiple occasions prior to that detrimental night, Lina’s unforeseen ability to resist manipulation had matured over time. Wonderfully astounding in itself. Not that she and I ever required manipulation. Foolishly she’s allowed her potential to stagnate, unharnessed. She wanes here, a fraction of what she could’ve been. A punishment of sorts she’s inflicted upon herself.

I’d considered showing up in her office under a pseudo name yesterday evening as a new client. The thought almost makes me laugh aloud. That once I’d underestimated the depth of my feelings for her to my own detriment. Now, she’s underestimated them to hers.

43535.png

The taste of the wind is so exhilarating it’s delicious, if not suffocating. Pushing me to the brink of self-control, it sweeps across my face, swirls over my naked shoulders and climbs the exposed flesh from my bare toes up my thighs without discrimination.

For the third night in a row, I’ve been torn from slumber.

Awakening not in my bed beside my beloved, but here in the open. Exposed to what everything deep within me, unknown to me, craves.

For the third night in a row, I’ve been beckoned to this cliff’s razor edge in the dark of night, away from my brave guardian’s side.

Again, Astaroth’s managed to invade my dreams, and in doing so, my very being. After all this time she’s never relented. Here, in my place of meditation, where I come willingly to recuperate from her effect in the early hours of dawn by practicing my yoga and watching the sun rise, I sense the truth of her presence now.

She’s with me. The secret I’ve kept of her nightly invasions has grown into an undeniable urgency. She wants me yet again.

The friction produced by my cool fingertips transgressing over the excited erector pili muscles along my arms accomplishes little kinetic energy. My dark hair whips as wildly and untamed in the wind as my darker soul, not yet calmed in the slightest by having been brought to my place of peace.

How befitting.

I stand at the edge of the cliff under the cast of a heavy satellite, tasting. Fighting the will to savor the nefarious qualities that roll over my tongue. The frosty air nipping up my spine. The thin, ruby-colored nylon material of my nightgown is inadequate to bite back the chill of this night.

Fully awakened, I’m more alive in this cloak of darkness than under the authoritative rays of sunlight. The darkness is less obscuring. With my senses heightened to the possibilities lurking in the shadows my body is on full alert. The beauty of a sunny day is but a lovely distraction because these same threats don’t cease to exist with any given hour. That’s why I’ve been compelled to walk through it nightly for many years now. The darkness coddles the truth. Confines it protectively from those who’re fearful of the hunt. Undesiring or undeserving most often, of such knowledge. Guarding this radiance from consumption, as I must, is a terrible burden. Thankfully one that isn’t imposed upon the average individual.

There’s a peace in having been chosen to bare a special gift. One those I’ve briefly known who barter with the other side will never know. And though there’re risks that stem from these gifts, of which I’ve suffered nearly the worst already, there’s protection in the courage that comes from embracing them without fear.

I, Alina Masters, once feared my connection to such an encumbrance for the negativity born of its misuse by others. How drastically I’ve since evolved. Learned to embrace what’s masked with the strength of positivity so that I might never again be used for evil, as I was some time ago. Seekers of extraordinary knowledge such as myself are rare in that we’re guarded by a brightness that must not be allowed to touch the shadows we walk alongside directly. From these shadows currently resounds a truth the light’s attempted to conceal for several weeks now.

An encroaching, foreboding on the wind.

A foreshadowing I’ve turned a blind heart to several times as of late, for the sake of normalcy. In doing so I’ve not prepared myself for its arrival. Now silent, perfectly still, I listen without obscurity to the name whispered on the wind.

This time it’s not my own.

PART ONE

The Beginning

Of The End

Don’t lust for their beauty. Don’t let their coyness seduce you.

Proverbs 6:25 TLB

Chapter One

H ow I cling to him as Jordan guns the engine and we take a fast right on the last wink of yellow light before the traffic behind us is made to halt. The bike’s engine roars as we lurch out ahead of the next wave of cross traffic, speeding beneath the temporarily unobstructed sun overhead.

He hasn’t yet outgrown terrifying me and it’s doubtful after all this time that he ever will. Thunder grumbles at our backs from the congregating west. The imaginary strings tethered to my stomach muscles tighten and tremble with our acceleration. The thrill has found me. But the flutters I feel within are more than just my own nerves, they are hers as well. Though oddly I’ve no concept of her directly, or even the nature of her gender other than my private postulation, her tiny, developing nerves must be reveling in this exhilaration just the same. Something like me. Likely she’ll be a thrill seeker like her father, not a coward like her mother.

The obstetrician’s assured us the nearly four-week embryo embedded and growing in my womb won’t be effected by the occasional, leisurely weekend ride. Jordan and I’ve built up something of a rapport with Dr. Chien over the last couple weeks. Surely, she suspects he’s no Sunday driver. For an island as invigorating as historic Corfu very few people are. Having fallen under Venetian, Turkish, French and British control at one point or another, the island is punctuated with the diversity of cultural influences I love. None more strongly than Venice’s. It’s easy to tell myself I’ve come for the culture as much as the castles that pepper the landscape, marking the battle conquests of the past so much so that the Greek government’s officially declared Corfu’s capital the Castle City.

The perpetually rainy climate here in northwestern Corfu is usually a mild, romantic upper fifties this time of year, but this one’s been an exception. Torrential freezing rains, hail storms and frosts have wreaked havoc on the vineyards. While the locals are working through the pandemic they remain as friendly and inviting as last season’s tourists were eager through the extreme heat. They understand their fortune in comparison to the erratic weather and health concerns pummeling other locations elsewhere on the globe as of late, such as the earthquakes that rocked Brazil and California last week measuring nine and eight points on the Richter scale respectfully. Two of California’s aftershocks measured more than half the latter. Meanwhile victims are still being reported from last month’s typhoon in Japan. That these awful occurrences do happen regularly enough over the human lifespan to remind us of what is important, I have a certain feeling about the current climate change pattern. Particularly as of late.

Thus, life has continued on in a very peculiarly isolated manner here. On the cobbled roads we ride over there’s a slight measure of mayhem as we collectively attempt to beat the afternoon storm home.

Jordan loves it here. Initially I’d been concerned he wouldn’t take well to the change in time or climate. Both he’d faired easily, without complaint. Following the withdrawn months ensuing subsequent to his father’s execution by lethal injection, despite all his great efforts, I’d never have expected he’d be this comfortable away from what he’s always known. Texas. I believe he’s been better for the change his half of his and Dirk’s selling the rights to the film project that, while it gained unexpected popularity, failed to rally the support necessary to serve his father’s purpose, has afforded us. At least for the time being.

But we hadn’t come to Corfu directly from Castlegrove. Understanding that our initial movements would most likely be monitored we’d chosen tactfully, intentionally spreading rumors of a local honeymoon, we’d ventured to Montana to visit his family on their reservation after a few weeks in Vegas. We hadn’t intended on such contentment with the humble lifestyle, but after the glitz and distastefulness of Vegas’s blood sucking lifestyle it’d proved a much-appreciated reprieve. Our life here’s been the honeymoon.

After Sunday service this morning Dr. Chien, whom Jordan’s construction company did a considerable amount of work for last year, had kindly granted us special hours in her private practice on the Arillas coast. It was Jordan’s idea to make a lunch date of it along the shore. Now as we rush back from one appointment, we’re late for another, of sorts.

With Jordan’s precision on the bike, he pulls up to the private residence of Mrs. Pully, sixty-one-year-old, retired nurse and widow. He navigates the vehicle alongside its mirror image. I trot up the cobblestone path ahead of him as I usually do in my anxiety, much to his amusement. When I ring the chime scarcely finishes before Bell opens the door. Slight in stature, she’s all big, round, dark eyes and short curls. More than merely a regular visitor to the one story, one acre property, she’s Mrs. Pully’s granddaughter, and a rare breed of truly exceptional help. Mine more than Mrs. Pully’s, who in her mid-sixties doesn’t yet require assistance. Bell utilizes these occasional mid-day dates to check up on and visit with her grandmother.

She leads us back to the family room where the sound of the ebony grand piano draws us in. Chopin’s Nocturne in C minor wafts through the air like fresh baked bread. He knows it’s my favorite piece, but apart from it particularly, to the tone-deaf ear such as mine, it could be any other just the same. However, I’ve managed to develop a taste for Bach and Schubert overall. I’ll never have the ear he’s inherited, and thus only the novice’s appreciation for classical music those lacking the passion for such artful things strive to accomplish. Still, I do my best for him. To those such as myself it’s simply soothing. Inspirational. Every bit as profoundly breathtaking as I’ve heard it described many times at the Municipal Theatre.

In the family room of brightly haloed, museum quality white walls, every colorful glass, clay and porcelain animal figurine glints against the backdrop under harsh lighting. Destin plays under the watchful eye of Mrs. Pully’s instruction. Slight as her grand-daughter in stature, she beams at her pupil with pride. Under her skillful instruction since the tender age of three, he doesn’t look up as I enter. Would never risk opening his lovely eyes and missing a key stroke. The wee, nimble fingers of my dear, sweet boy glide over the contrasting keys with a precision his mother couldn’t manage in a lifetime, I’m not ashamed to admit.

At all of six and a half years old and currently teaching me to read music, Destin’s surpassed my interests in a great many things. Socioeconomics for instance, in his fascination for the structure of things being his foremost curiosity. Though he plays with lego’s like other young boys his age there’s often where the commonality ends. Perhaps I’ve kept him too near to me in a world of adults. Though he’s diligently home schooled by Bell and I he thrives in his extracurricular activities. Piano aside, Destin, undefeated in his three years of competition, has advanced to first geup in taekwondo. As his only means of socialization with children his age, his scope of priority hasn’t been what I’d expected concerning the sport in the least. More determined n everything, he’s set his goal on obtaining poom, his junior black belt, within the next year.

Jordan and I couldn’t be more proud.

He’s come such a very long way from the sickly, premature infant I delivered at seven months. Small, but otherwise well developed for his early departure, he’d been riddled by a succession of illness after illness for the first two years of the lilliputian life he’d been granted. In that time, he’d succumb to such ailments as pertussis, chicken pox, typhoid and sleep apnea that threatened not only his health but his young life before persevering. Destin’s immune system has apparently thus since kicked into hyperdrive because oddly enough he hasn’t had so much as a cold since those tumultuous times. Aside from his gluten and lactose sensitivities I consider him out of the woods. Still, I keep him under very close watch, given all we’ve fared.

That’s why hiring Bell became necessary. With Jordan launching his construction business from the combined proceeds of the inevitable sale of the gym by him and his former business partner Mike, in his absence, and the successful film project, alongside the completion of my doctorates in psychology during my time here the regimental cleaning duties required for a sickly toddler’s care alone had been overwhelming. For the first three years I’d insisted on doing it all personally. However, the day Jordan brought Bell home from Destin’s second piano lesson had been one for the history books. Her quiet, efficient way has improved the quality of our lives ten fold ever since. I couldn’t be more grateful for her extension of our family.

Destin’s thin fingers reach up to touch my cheek.

I lower to my haunches to meet him at eye level. The music’s long since stopped. The fingertips of his left hand play against the tear streak apparently streaming from my right eye. He says nothing. While an affectionate boy, he isn’t highly emotional or easily excitable. With his antisocial tendencies he isn’t particularly talkative in public either. This has never concerned me in the least because he’s always been so exceptionally bright, I’ve never considered it to be any more than an eccentricity. A couple years ahead in his studies already, Destin’s particularly curious, often inquiring relentlessly about a great many things beyond his six years in private. I hug him to me and praise his musical genius. He giggles emphatically as my own fingers play the score under his armpits.

Chapter Two

I ’m not crying when we leave Mrs. Putty’s home but Destin reports to Jordan that I am just the same.

Babe, no. I thought we had this under control.

I scowl at him without even considering checking my eyes because I have it entirely so. Jordan’s making fun of me again. He favors tormenting me throughout these assailable epochs though I find his humor positively fretful. The fact that he’s aware of it does nothing to impede him. Not intended to be anything other than good natured, his provocation’s but an angle of Jordan’s undertaking, to promote Delphic confidence throughout our more psychologically compromising spans. For which we initially had our fair share.

Bless his beautiful Native American heart I don’t slap his face as he moves to embrace me. Instead, I shrink inside the envelope because I have no choice. I absolutely adore him as much as the consistent warmth he provides. No relationship I could’ve imagined for myself could’ve compared to the compassionate reality his strong heart’s given me.

So far, he’s traveled through these last few years as if stepping through a time machine. With unwavering resolve. Even through the solitary time mine had, the night under the big, starry Montana sky when Destin was born. Before we’d made the decision to come to Corfu. Thinking I couldn’t possibly go on, I’d wanted to give up. Go back home to Chicago. To my mother. Send him back to Texas where his family awaited his return. He simply wouldn’t have it.

Jordan’s deserving of every ounce of the life we’ve made together. The fulfillment stemming from the occupational success of being his own boss in his growing business as well as the health of his happily growing family more than sustains him. Additionally, the respect he’s earned in the village validates him on some personal level. None of this means he’s forgotten a second of the hell we endured. He never could with the scars left marring his beautiful flesh in souvenir. Although he’s never entirely let his guard down, he remains as warm as would a carefree man where I’m concerned.

That warmth is diminished somewhat by the cool drops of rain that trickle suddenly from the stirring cloud cover approaching.

Normally I wouldn’t mind. I like the rain even more than he does, but as we’ve Destin and company anxiously awaiting our departure, we make the effort to extend common courtesy. My child patiently allows me to place his helmet on securely but doesn’t prefer my assistance. He won’t tolerate my helping him onto the bike however, having already humored my mothering sufficiently enough for now. On the back of his dad’s bike is his favorite place in the world to be. And so, he’s in for a special treat today as we’ll be outriding the storm.

The drizzles that accompany us along our route remind me of the light shower that everyone feared would ruin our wedding. Had they only realized, nothing could’ve ruined the day for either of us. We’d been so relieved to put distance between ourselves and that Castlegrove nastiness that we’d have gotten married during a thunderstorm on a haystack in Kentucky and been hysterically overjoyed for it.

In lobbying for a Chicago wedding, it’d been my father that suggested his brother’s seasonal residence for a honeymoon location, as we’d still not consigned to one upon arrival in Vegas. A memorable road trip for both couples involved, ourselves and Jordan’s best friends, now happily married five years, just starting out on their respective journeys to spend the rest of their lives together. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen much of our good friends Dirk and Nova in the years since. They’d only made the trip once a couple years after our wedding. Likewise, we’ve only visited their ranch once, just last year after the arrival of their third son, Teddy.

As our family and work schedules would have it, it’s been enough. We do keep in touch via internet, particularly through the holidays. Every year Dirk sets about convincing his lovely wife that a girl would be a fitting finale to their legacy. Apparently, Nova disagrees. She sternly asserts that Teddy is perfectly content with the companionship of his male siblings.

The two-part, stone cottage we call home stands resilient against the elegantly streaming rain that only catches back up to us upon arrival as if for effect, as it has for more years than Jordan and I’ve lived combined. Shrouded in strong olive, fig and cypress trees, tested by the recent storms, the property mingles seamlessly with the landscape as if an organic structure in itself. Harvesting the bounty of these endowments has been a labor of diligence that’s left our pantry jars and freezer bags filled. Bell, who’s managed in her tiny, yellow Fiat Panda to keep pace with us, shuffles Destin inside the main architecture under the concealment of her oversized umbrella.

Jordan and I lock arms and stroll to the front door he’s reconstructed in securing our little stone fortress, as if we were still under the protection of the eight hours of flawless sunlight during the tourist season. During the previous years, there’d actually been a tourist season. In all the years we’ve lived here the isolation had never been so real as the latest pandemic’s made it.

The aroma of moistened cypress follows us indoors where it entwines with pine furniture and ripe citrus from the bergamot oranges, I purchased along the sleepy village roadside yesterday. The house has been staged for our very important visitor. I’m surprised to see that mother, who only arrived yesterday morning, hasn’t yet returned from her sightseeing. I’m not alarmed however. She’s in good hands.

Our neighbor, Adeipho, is wonderful, and a skilled vintner. Serving as an impromptu guide, he’s been unfortunately widowed since long before our arrival. He took an immediate liking to mother, and her to the kind, older gentleman. Adeipho could easily pass for one of your aging action heroes if they were known for manners and elegance. The excursion is as beneficial to mother as it is to him, forcing him away from the vineyard his large family’s perfectly capable of tending without his dedicated diligence. I don’t believe it’s a physical attraction between them, as he’s at least twenty years her senior, but it’s wonderful that she enjoys his company as much as we do. The time must’ve gotten away from them.

There’s no telling how long the phone’s been ringing by the time I make it to where I’ve carelessly left the cellular device behind this time. Answering the call, the news isn’t good. I’ve been making inquiries lately as to the whereabouts of an old friend. It isn’t as if I’m able to maintain close friendships with those off the island, this one in particular, but on average one of us always reaches out to the other every couple of months. As if by obligation. Always from an office or public phone of that nature. It’s only been just over that but I have a terrible uneasiness this time around at my not having been able to reach him.

I’ve only managed to hunt down that Father Talkouski hasn’t returned from his spiritual retreat. But that he was due back several days go. He’s in a very remote site. We’re sending some locals to the area to check up on him, just as a precaution, but it’s possible he could return on his own any second.

Wouldn’t he have called when he reached civilization?

It’s possible he stayed a few extra days. At this point there really isn’t much more I can say other than to give it a couple more days. It’s probably some misunderstanding. I can give you a call back if I hear anything either way.

I thank the woman on the other end he’d last given me as a point of contact and disconnect the call.

As incredibly disturbing as the lack of news is, this doesn’t in any way justify the anxious feeling I’ve been suppressing for some weeks now. I haven’t wanted to worry Jordan with the fact that I’ve once again been wandering by night, three nights in a row now. I won’t be the cause of ending my love’s bliss. I’ll just have to find a way to protect him as he’s protected me. By being strong and pressing forward through the unpleasantries.

Though the onset of this feeling I’m experiencing roughly coincides with the knowledge of my current condition, I don’t believe them to be directly related. There’ve been disturbing images in a few infrequent dreams since I’ve been here some would call nightmares. In them Father Thomas, the main priest that truly attempted to aid me in my time of greatest need, is being sliced slowly, and horrifically to pieces. His frail body gruesomely placed on display by bloody hands. My concern is that these infrequent images come at times of danger to Father Talkouski. Having experienced one of these such dreams several nights ago and not being able to reach him since is cause enough for alarm. For me anyway. Even so, I put this aside for now as collectively we set to work on dinner.

Meal preparations are a family activity in this house. It seems that a great deal more time is spent in the kitchen than in the living area here as appose to the opposite in Texas. We’ve surrounded ourselves with local art, pottery and hand-crafted rugs to warm what could otherwise appear to be the cold surroundings of abrasively bare wood and stone by American standards. The candles I’ve allowed Destin to light as we embellished the cod in its peppered sauce ornamentation, sets the stage for his carefully placed settings. He does a fine job with the large, rectangular, wooden surface as he recites nursery rhymes in Greek with Bell, who’s always cleaning. My Greek being acceptable, my preference is English, so Bell’s being fluent conveniently allows Destin to be as well, as I insist, she speak no English to him.

I remove the tapenade from the refrigerator to allow the spread to breathe while Jordan quarters and bakes the pita triangles. Allowing the goat cheese to absorb the flavors of our most abundant commodities, the olives and figs, overnight has infused these key ingredients with the balsamic vinegar, fresh thyme and olive oil reduction, another additive the region’s never in short supply of. With the appetizer and figgy pudding desert prepared in advance meal assembly is almost effortless.

Practice has made it so.

Though we eat this way several times a week due to the availability of quality, fresh fish, simple soups and large salads sustain us typically.

Tonight’s meal of bourdetto over steamed brown rice with black beans in addition to the pastitsada are barely on the table when mother literally blows in from the elements with Adeipho. I’ve known that they would. If not for their heavy rain slickers they’d be soaked to the skin by the strengthening storm. Perfect timing as I pull Destin’s gluten free corn muffins out of the oven. It would be a toss up really, between Jordan and mother for who loved cornbread the most. As it was created by Jordan’s people and adopted by mother’s, they both stake a personal claims to it, but Destin and I alike have grown up with there rarely being a meal on the table that didn’t include it.

All exhausted smiles, ushered in by the chill of icy wind and freezing rain, mother and Adeipho unload their individual burdens onto the kitchen counter. Adeipho, with two bottles of the finest red wine on the island, born from the most well-tended petrokortho vines in as far. They clean up at the sink before sitting.

Had I known you were serving fish I’d have brought the white. The strong lines of Adeipho’s lean face look despairingly remorseful when he rubs his leathery hands through his thick, silver hair as he does. For him he’s committed a vintner’s hypocrisy. As dear as they’ve become to our family, he and Bell haven’t yet been informed that I’m expecting. Only mother and Jordan are aware for the time being.

It’s absolutely imperative that the announcement not get ahead of me as it had during my pregnancy with Destin. I just know it will be less stressful for me in the long run if I just take this in stride.

These don’t feel anywhere near the halcyon days I was trying to catch? Imagine our luck with the unusually warm weather the rest of the world is getting. Mother removes her lovely, silk scarf at the table. I collect it as well as the honey and almonds from the counter she knows we already have stocked to dress the pudding. I hope the photos don’t look too dreary.

You will just have to visit again in the spring, when the climate is nicest. Adeipho takes mother’s scarf from me into the living room placing it on the shelf of the tiny coat closet where she’s stored her purse as I tuck away her purchases in the pantry. When he returns to the meal on the table he joins hands and leads the grace. Adeipho’s a prominent member of the Assemblies of God, a minority of pentecostal protestants locally, numbering over sixty-five million worldwide. Though I remain faithful to the Methodist church, residing in a Greek Orthodox nation where proselytism from other religions is constitutionally frowned upon, I often attend the gatherings of his assembly with him.

With the food blessed mother can’t wait to tell us of her time at the thirteenth century castle and cathedral ruins of the Angelokastro as well as Paleokastritsa, a cluster of small beaches nearby famed as Homer’s City of the Phaecacians where she and Adeipho apparently had lunch. Jordan and I often steal away to picnic there in better weather for the views of the Albanian mountains and the sun setting over the off shore ionian islands.

Excitedly mother monopolizes the majority of the dinner conversation, despite her exhaustion, with accounts of her site seeing and what she’s learned of the measures Adeipho takes at his vineyard against the weather. None of us mind at all. Though the meal sits warm as the cinders wafting up the chimney shaft in our bellies, contending with the smiles adorning our faces, we’re not a talkative group tonight.

The wind swirls sleet against the panes in a light, clammy whisper, as if it carries on it a secret that goes unregarded by all, but me. My heart pauses as I wait for the glass to fog with the glacial breath of night. When it doesn’t, I painstakingly restrict my attention to the conversation around the table. Jordan accomplishes an intermittent preview of the renovation to be contracted in the morning by a luxurious resort nearby, scheduled to become that much more opulent just to the south of us. I find it comforting to know the project is so near. His work has taken him all over the island recently, which never bothered me previously, however I want him here now.

Though I’d never tell him that outright. There’s so much we confide in one another over but our principal interest seems to be to present a strong resolve for one another. He’s our protector and we in turn are his strength. Yet there’re those very few things that are any individuals right to hold onto I suppose. Still, I think he appreciates the fact that I don’t cling to him too closely.

We’ve spent our time here wisely. Strengthening one another in a united partnership we’ve always known would eventually be tested. I believe that time has come. We’ll need to have the conversation I’ve been dreading as of late. Soon.

I’ve felt it on the wind before last night solidified it for me.

And try as I may to bite down against