He shades his eyes from the sun that is slowly sinking into the horizon.
‘Come in, come in.’ I open the door and lead him through Epeolatry.
I watch his expression as he takes it all in. As with my very first visit to the library, awe is evident on every line and plane of his face.
‘Wow.’ The air is ripe with the earthy scent of leather-bound books. The perfume of libraries, and antiquarian bookshops. A heady, enveloping musk that provokes comfort for those who recognise it.
‘That about sums it up.’ I laugh. Unsure of how to proceed. Alcohol? Numb the senses – what could go wrong? A memory forms of my last first date. I drank for liquid courage and ended up expounding on the many vagaries of first-date etiquette on which we had vastly different ideals, culminating in me drinking alone, telling the bartender how hard it is to find a hero like the ones in a romance novel.
In the end, after a spot of karaoke atop the bar, bellowing the lyrics to ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ I made my way home. The next day my impromptu singalong went viral on a stranger’s TikTok and I vowed to remain sober on all future dates. I mean, how is it legal they can film a person like that when I didn’t grant permission? I’d have sued their butts off, but the thought of my family seeing the video ruled that out. Posy would never let me forget such a thing. Thank God she’s not a TikToker. So, no cocktails for me.
Books, focus on the books.
‘How did Floretta even come up with this idea?’ Georgios has love written all over him, like he’s fallen for Epeolatry. Any man who worships words is good in my eyes, and I just might be able to pull off this plot if we share this one great passion – literature.
‘Gran’s always been a lover of words, the rhythm, the shape of them. I got my love of reading from her. Whenever she’d return to home base in Brooklyn from one of her jaunts around the world, we’d read together. She’d point out the melody of a certain sentence, how the pulse of letters gave a word its own heartbeat. I’d never heard of such a thing before. It made my storybooks mythical, magical,alivealmost. And I was hooked from those early fairy tales.’
He takes a stool at the bar, his expression contemplative. He’s only half here, half in the land where stories are conjured. Where words matter. And the order they arrive in.
I go behind the bar to fix us a drink, allowing Georgios time to soak up the atmosphere. I read the literary cocktail menu and choose the Sophocles for my date. Who doesn’t love a bit of Greek tragedy in their tipple? For myself I make the Maya Angelou, which is a little more subdued, being a mocktail. Even though I’m tempted to imbibe alongside him, I must keep my wits about me and in situations like this, alcohol just doesn’t help. Next minute I’ll be telling Georgios every thought that flutters through my intoxicated mind.
I pass him the cocktail, and he thanks me, reeling back when he takes his first sip. I’m used to mixing these at Gran’s level, which is more alcohol less mixer.
‘Too strong?’
He coughs. ‘No, it’s great. A little fire down the gullet never hurt anyone.’
‘It’s the Sophocles – it’s supposed to be dramatic. Would you like me to show you around?’
‘Sure.’
We leave our drinks on the bar and he follows me. I point out rare book collections that Gran has magicked up, safely tucked behind temperature-controlled glass to keep them pristine in the hot Greek climate.
‘They’re magnificent. So, are they just for display purposes?’
‘Not exactly.’
He gives me a questioning look. ‘What is this place, Evie? It’s more than just a bar; it’s too special a place for beachgoers.’
‘Far too special. It’s a night-time library bar named Epeolatry, which means the worship of words. Gran’s big idea is to have a launch party with all the bells and whistles. Patrons will have to pay for membership – yearly, monthly, or weekly – to fit in with locals and holidaymakers. It’s an exclusive club for bibliophiles, where they can read rare books, listen to live jazz and consume literary cocktails, use the space for events. Let me show you some more.’
I take him down the hallway of intrigue. Works of art adorn the walls. Between them are open archways that lead to small rooms, furnished in the same aesthetic, bookshelves lining the back walls. ‘These spaces are set up for book clubs, or author events. Intimate gatherings between friends. Engagement parties. Marriage proposals. Anything goes. Heavy velvet drapes can be pulled across for privacy. Each room has a theme: romance, poetry, history, the classics.’
Georgios goes to the shelves and plucks out a book. ‘Where did she get them all?’
‘They’re all from her personal library. A collection she’s amassed over her lifetime. It’s so special to me that she’s willing to share her cherishables with like-minded souls who understand the value of such a thing.’
And this is an indicator to me that Gran is deadly serious about Santorini. Never in all of her travels, has she shipped her beloveds over. Part of me is happy she’s surrounded by her books, but the other part is forlorn that Gran isn’t keeping her rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn, New York. It’s been her base as long as I can remember and we’d had many an adventure together when she returned from an overseas jaunt (and possibly another deceased husband) to immerse herself in the Big Apple for a bit until the next place beckoned.
We won’t link arms and go for pizza at Lombardi’s where Gran’ll reminisce about her first visit there back in the Sixties. There’ll be no more roller skating at Rockefeller Center where Gran will hitch arms with whichever hottie takes her fancy as she plays the old lady card to flirt and get up close and personal. There’ll be no more sneaking into art gallery exhibitions to guzzle free champagne and act haughty, as if we’re collectors lamenting our conflict about how the daubs ofredmake us feel. While Gran making this place her full-time home feels bittersweet, I’m also happy I got to have so many madcap escapades with her.
Maybe she’ll visit from time to time, but it won’t be the same as when I sleep at her condo, and we spend all night watching romcoms, eating our bodyweight in caramel popcorn and chocolate chip cookies and rating the heroes on a one-to-ten scale – me for their moral code and Gran on their looks alone.
New memories will be made here in Santorini, if we can get things on an even keel quick enough.
‘Why didn’t you show me this place before, Evie? It changes everything. Now I understand how Floretta’s spent so much money renovating and why she’s protecting it so fiercely. I’ll have to convince my grandfather.’ With that his face twists as if he’s pained.
‘What’s that look?’
