Page 29 of Bluebell Promises

When Wren returned to her hotel room, she braced herself and dialed. But almost immediately, the phone went to voicemail. Shock reverberated through her. She tried again and got the same thing. What could this mean? Of course, his phone might have been off or dead. But it was also possible—and more than likely—that he’d blocked her number.

Her stomach sloshed, and she went to the bathroom and threw up her nonalcoholic cocktail, then went to bed with tears draining out of her eyes.

But over the next few days, as Wren traveled through Crete, taking photographs, eating, and chatting to strangers, Wren’s loneliness began to edge toward anger. She was a strong and confident and capable individual. There was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t storm into Angelos’s family hotel and tell anyone standing there the truth about her pregnancy. They could handle it however they wanted to.

On the southernmost coast of Crete, Wren allowed herself a few days of daydreaming, thinking about what would happen if she told Angelos about the baby and they decided to build a life together. She imagined them living on Santorini at first, so that Angelos could help out at the inn and his parents could help out with the baby. Maybe they’d tell one another they’d move on soon, that they’d leave for another island or another country or another continent, but maybe they’d get stuck there, hypnotized by the turquoise waters and the sunsets until they were old and gray. Would they have more children? Wren felt sure of it. She didn’t want to force her baby to be an only child. Only children were lonely, she felt. And she knew all about loneliness. She was living it.

When June began, Wren decided she’d had enough of daydreaming and getting sick alone in hotel bathrooms. She needed to go back to Santorini and learn how to tell the truth. The ferry left from Heraklion Port at eleven thirty in the morning, and she boarded it, grabbing a seat with an enormous window directly beside it so that she could watch Crete fade into the distance. She would always remember that massive and individual and terribly lonely island. She would always remember it as the place where she learned she would be a mother.

When Crete disappeared, she closed her eyes and fixated on what would happen next. She whispered, “Angelos, I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father. Listen to me. It’s going to be all right. We can handle it. Maybe we really were in love before. Perhaps we can be in love again.”

A few seats away on the ferry, a teenage couple would not stop making out. It was distracting, and the sound was worse. Wren put on noise-canceling headphones and closed her eyes. Soon, she would be in Angelos’s embrace.

When the ferry reached Santorini, Wren was euphoric. She grabbed her bag and hurried to the ramp. She nearly cried when her foot touched Santorini soil for the first time. Up the donkeys went, carrying enormous bags and also people, but after a brief bout of morning sickness earlier, Wren felt stronger than ever and traipsed past them. She knew the route to Angelos’s parents’ inn like the back of her hand, and she decided to go directly there. It was the high season, and even more tourists were on the island than before, which felt insane. But maybe Angelos’s parents would make an exception and find her a room somewhere. She was carrying their grandchild, after all.

When Wren turned the corner onto the street that led to the inn, her heart skipped and skipped. All around her were memories of those first nights with Angelos. Looking back now, it felt impossible that he’d had a wife and kids at home somewhere. He’d been entirely free, save for his responsibilities at the inn. She couldn’t believe she’d let herself worry about that.

But then, she saw it. Just three houses away, the inn was boarded up, with a sign out front that read: CLOSED. DO NOT ENTER. Wren’s heart stopped. She hurried to the entrance and stared up at the inn, searching for clues as to why it had closed.

On her fingers, she counted how many days it had been since she and Angelos had said goodbye. At that time, Angelos had told her the inn was fully operational and needed him. Had there been an accident here at the inn? Maybe a kitchen fire?

Or maybe it was much worse. Wren took a delicate step back and asked herself if she’d imagined all of it. What if her “memories” of Angelos were not memories at all but fantasies? She touched her still-flat stomach and wondered if she was going insane. Was she really pregnant? At that thought, nausea rolled through her, and she knew she needed to get to a bathroom immediately. She needed to check into a hotel. She felt like Mother Mary.

But finding a hotel in Santorini on a random day in June was not so easy. Wren searched her phone for answers and found only a crummy room in a low-rated hotel a twenty-minute walk away. Begrudgingly, she hauled herself out there, searching the streets for signs of Angelos. Twice more, she called him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. She even called the phone number listed on his parents’ inn’s website, but that had been disconnected.

What on earth was she going to do?

In the hotel room, she sat in the drooping center of the bed and then fell back, splaying her arms above her head. She knew she needed to go back out there and start asking the locals in Santorini about Angelos and his parents. She knew that someone, somewhere, would know what happened to them. But fear bit at the back of her consciousness. What if she didn’t want to know the truth?

16

Present Day

Ivy had come to tell Wren that Ben Brooks was waiting downstairs. Despite her exhaustion, Wren pulled herself out of bed, checked her makeup, and spoke sweetly to Pierre the Frenchie. “Let’s go see your friend,” she said. She was sure that whatever it was, it wouldn’t take long.

They padded downstairs to find Ben on the sofa, his ankles crossed nervously as he sipped what looked to be Ivy’s favorite ginger tea. Ivy puttered around the kitchen loudly, plates and bowls crashing into the dishwasher. There seemed to be no end to her anger and malaise. Wren prayed that Elliott would get home soon and help her unwind. He seemed to be the only one capable of it.

Upon seeing Wren, Ben stood abruptly. Wren laughed. “I’m not the queen of England,” she said. “Rest in peace.”

Ben laughed at himself and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I’m sorry to bother you at home like this. I should have called.”

“It’s not a problem,” Wren said. “I should get used to it, anyway. Small-town living.”

Ben bent down and scratched Pierre behind the ear. Pierre panted happily and smiled up at the vet who’d saved him. Another dish crashed in the kitchen, and Ben and Wren made eye contact.

“Maybe we should go for a little walk,” Wren suggested.

“Only if you’re up for it,” Ben said.

Wren was surprised to find a little bit of strength left in her. She put on her shoes, attached Pierre’s leash, and led Ben out back, where they caught the trail that led down, down, down to Bluebell Cove below. Wren felt a strange bubbling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the baby. She could feel Ben’s eyes on her back as he followed her.

Once on the sand, she unhooked Pierre’s leash, and she and Ben watched as he ran up and down the water, panting and kicking his legs up so that sand shot everywhere. Wren laughed, grateful to see the joy written in everything her little friend did.

“Thank you again for everything you did for him,” Wren breathed, glancing at Ben. “Seeing him like that, so helpless under that rock… It did something to me.”

Ben nodded. “I can understand that.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Wren said. “Seeing animals in need all day. Helping them.”