The Last Summer in Corfu

Elena Kallias did not trust anything that arrived in Corfu only for the summer. She did not trust the pop-up bars that charged twelve euros for watered-down cocktails. She did not trust the tourists who declared the island their spiritual home after six days and forgot its name the moment their plane lifted off. She especially did not trust the men who came on yachts, wore sunglasses before breakfast, and smiled at local girls as if the whole island had been built for their entertainment. By six in the morning, while most of those men were still sleeping off whatever they had done the night before, Elena was already at the harbor. The streets behind her were still quiet. A few shutters had opened along the waterfront, and the first delivery trucks were parked outside the bakery. The air smelled of salt, coffee, wet stone, and diesel, the ordinary scent of a working island before it dressed itself up for visitors. Corfu looked softer at this hour, before the sun sharpened the white walls and the tourists filled every corner with noise. Elena preferred it this way. For a little while, the island still belonged to the people who lived on it. She stepped onto the family boat, set her coffee beside the wheel, and looked around for damage. There was always something. Today it was a cracked plastic storage lid, two missing towels, and a stain on the back bench that looked suspiciously like sunscreen mixed with strawberry ice cream. Elena stared at it for a moment, then reached for the cleaning spray. “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Very glamorous.” Kallias Boat Tours looked charming online. Small family business. Local experience. Hidden beaches. Authentic Corfu. The website did not mention that authenticity involved scrubbing strangers’ messes before breakfast, negotiating fuel costs, and trying not to panic every time the engine made a sound it had not made the day before. Her phone buzzed. Theo: I’m awake. Elena wiped the bench harder than necessary. Elena: Congratulations. Come be awake at the harbor. A pause. Theo: Harsh. Elena: Ice. Towels. Now. She put the phone down before he could reply. Theo was eighteen, charming, unreliable, and entirely too loved by everyone who met him. Elena loved him too, which was inconvenient because it made staying angry with him difficult. Not impossible, just difficult. She finished cleaning the bench and checked the booking list for the day. Almost full. A honeymoon couple, two families, three students, and a woman from Lyon who had sent four emails asking about seasickness, jellyfish, sun exposure, and whether the boat had adequate shade for emotional comfort. Elena still was not sure what emotional shade was, but she had promised there would be a canopy. A scooter coughed near the pier. Theo arrived with one bag of ice under his arm and his helmet hanging from two fingers. Elena looked at the bag, then at him. “I asked for three.” Theo stopped smiling. “You said ice.” “I said three bags of ice.” “I heard the important part.” “The number was the important part.” He glanced toward the cooler as if it might defend him. It did not. “I’ll go back.” “You will.” He stepped onto the boat anyway and kissed her cheek quickly, before she could move. “Good morning, captain.” “Don’t captain me when you’re late.” “I’m only eight minutes late.” “That is a confession, not a defense.” Theo laughed, and despite herself, Elena’s irritation softened at the edges. He had their father’s eyes. That was sometimes comforting and sometimes unbearable, depending on the morning. Today she chose comforting because she had a tour to run and no time to let grief slow her down. “Check the snorkeling masks before you go,” she said. “The blue one was leaking yesterday.” “Aye, captain.” “Elena.” “Aye, Elena.” “Better.” He disappeared toward the storage compartment, still grinning. By the time Daphne Rallis appeared with two iced coffees and sunglasses pushed into her dark curls, Elena had already found three more things to fix and added them to the list in her head, where all unpaid problems lived. Daphne handed her a coffee without being asked, which was one of the many reasons Elena allowed her to interfere in her life. “You look like you’ve been awake since the invention of boats,” Daphne said. Elena took the coffee. “I feel like I’ve been awake since the invention of debt.” “That bad?” “That normal.” Daphne leaned against the railing and watched Theo untangle snorkel straps with the concentration of a man solving an international crisis. “You know, most people your age are still asleep right now.” “Most people my age have parents with retirement plans.” Daphne’s expression shifted, just slightly. Elena regretted the sentence immediately, not because it was untrue, but because truth had a way of making people careful around her. She hated being handled carefully. She took a sip of coffee and changed the subject. “How’s the bar?” “Full of Italians, Australians, and one man from London who says he’s here to find himself.” “Did he?” “He found tequila.” “That’s close enough.” Daphne smiled, but her eyes stayed on Elena’s face. She was too observant for someone who dressed like she had never had a serious thought in her life. That was one of the reasons Elena trusted her. “You should come tonight,” Daphne said. “To the bar?” “No, to church. Yes, to the bar.” “I have invoices.” “You always have invoices.” “And they always have consequences.” “You need one night where nothing has consequences.” Elena almost laughed. “That sounds like something said by people who cause consequences.” Theo appeared behind them. “She’s right.” Elena pointed at him without turning. “You forgot two bags of ice. You don’t get an opinion.” “I support joy.” “You support avoiding work.” “Sometimes those are the same thing.” Daphne lifted her coffee in agreement. Elena rolled her eyes, but she was smiling when the low horn sounded across the harbor. It was deep enough to make everyone look up. The marina changed before the yacht even entered. Fishermen paused mid-conversation. A waiter stopped dragging chairs into place. Two tourists lifted their phones at the same time, ready to record whatever expensive thing was about to appear. Elena followed their gaze. The yacht came in slowly, white and enormous against the blue water, with dark glass windows and three polished decks. Crew members moved across it in crisp uniforms. Music drifted faintly from somewhere on board, too smooth and expensive for six in the morning. On the upper deck, several people lounged around a breakfast table as if champagne before noon was a medical necessity. Theo whistled. “That’s insane.” Daphne’s eyes brightened. “That’s beautiful.” “That,” Elena said, “is a floating tax problem.” The yacht eased toward its berth, drawing half the harbor’s attention with it. Elena had seen luxury before. Corfu attracted money every summer: old money, new money, loud money, bored money. Still, this was different. This yacht did not just announce wealth. It assumed obedience. Elena disliked it immediately. Not because she was jealous. Jealousy required wanting the thing. Elena did not want that life. She wanted a reliable engine, a full booking calendar, and for her mother to stop pretending the unpaid pharmacy bill did not exist on the kitchen counter. A man stepped onto the upper deck. Elena noticed him because everyone noticed him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and sunlit in a way that felt almost deliberate. His dark blond hair was pushed back by the wind, and his white linen shirt was open at the throat with the easy carelessness of someone who had never had to ask how much the shirt cost. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but they did nothing to soften the impression he gave. Rich, bored, and dangerous in the way beautiful men were dangerous when life had never taught them restraint. Daphne leaned closer. “Oh, no.” Elena kept her eyes on the yacht. “What?” “He’s attractive.” “So are cliffs. People still fall from them.” “You’re exhausting.” “I’m alive. That matters more.” The man on the yacht turned slightly, his gaze moving across the marina. Elena looked away before his eyes could reach her. She had no interest in being seen by men like that. Men like that mistook attention for invitation, kindness for weakness, and silence for consent. They smiled, took what they wanted, and left someone else to clean up the damage. Elena had spent enough of her life cleaning up damage. “Tour starts in thirty-five minutes,” she said, picking up a crate of bottled water. “Theo, ice. Daphne, stop matchmaking with strangers on boats.” “I haven’t said one word about matchmaking.” “You thought it loudly.” Daphne laughed. “You’re impossible.” “Efficient,” Elena corrected. She carried the crate onto the boat and forced herself back into the rhythm of the morning. Towels, water, masks, receipts, fuel. The yacht could exist over there, where people had time to be bored with luxury. Elena existed here, where a missing towel mattered because towels cost money. She did not look back, not when Daphne made a small sound under her breath, not when Theo said, “I think he’s still looking this way,” and not when the music from the yacht grew louder for a second, followed by laughter. Across the harbor, Adrian Davenport had been in Corfu for less than an hour, and already he wanted to leave. The island was beautiful. Annoyingly so. Green hills rose behind the harbor, old buildings glowed in the morning light, and the water looked like something designed to make unhappy people feel guilty for staying unhappy. His father had called the trip necessary distance. His publicist had called it a controlled reset. Adrian called it exile with a better view. Miles stood beside him at the railing, perfectly pleased with everything. That was because Miles had not been ordered out of New York after a club fight, three ugly headlines, and one phone call from Richard Davenport that had contained more threats than concern. “You’re doing that face again,” Miles said. “I only have one face.” “No, you have the one for cameras, the one for your father, and the one that says you’re considering ruining everyone’s day.” Adrian looked down at the harbor. “Maybe I am.” Miles followed his gaze. “Careful. The locals look busy. They might not have time to worship you.” That was when Adrian saw her. The blonde on the small tour boat was carrying a crate onto the deck, her hair tied up carelessly, her movements brisk and irritated. She had sun-warmed skin, a strong mouth, and the kind of blue-green eyes that looked bright even from a distance. She did not glance toward the yacht. Not once. Around her, people stared openly, but she worked as if a vessel worth millions had not just docked a few meters away. Adrian found that more interesting than he wanted to. Miles noticed, because Miles noticed anything that could become entertainment. “That one,” he said. “The blonde. I bet you couldn’t get her to smile.” Adrian finally glanced at him. “That’s your idea of a challenge?” “With your ego? Absolutely.” Below them, the woman said something to a young man on the boat. The young man laughed. She did not. Then she turned away from the yacht again, dismissing it completely. Dismissing him. A slow smile touched Adrian’s mouth despite the headache behind his eyes. Miles grinned. “So?” Adrian should have ignored him. He should have gone inside, called his lawyer, and stayed out of trouble for once in his life. Instead, he looked back at the woman on the boat. The blonde had already turned away from the yacht, as if he were no more interesting than a weather report. That was new. That was dangerous. And that, Adrian knew, was exactly the kind of thing that made him reckless. “One smile,” Miles said. “That’s all I’m asking for.” Adrian watched the woman lift another crate onto the deck without looking back once. Then he smiled. “One smile?” he said. Miles nodded. Adrian’s gaze stayed on her. “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll get more than that.”