“Ya Ya?” He tried to catch her eye, but she had retreated into a dark cave where he could not follow. “You haven’t eaten anything since that little bowl of yogurt and honey at breakfast. This moussakas is superb.”
She sighed. “I know it’s superb without tasting a bite. You’d be surprised how many times I’ve eaten it.” Again, her eyes darted everywhere—the kitchen, the tables, a house up the road from the taverna wreathed in fairy lights to which she paid close attention. His mother had told him about a man Cora once knew who lived on Mykonos and sold paintings to tourists. Yes. This was the house in the painting in Cora’s room, he was sure of it. She had treasured it all these years, brought it to the retirement home when she’d been forced to leave so much of her life behind. Why?
“Ya Ya
