The Window with No House

By the time Mara reached the terrace, Santorini had begun to glow. The white houses spilling down the cliff caught the evening light on their rounded roofs and narrow stairways, while the blue church domes held their color against a sky slowly turning coral. Below them, the caldera lay vast and quiet. A boat moved across the water, its wake briefly silver before the sea closed over it. From the lane behind her came the smell of garlic warming in olive oil, the clink of dishes, and the soft confusion of voices choosing where to spend the last beautiful hour of the day.

She had imagined this evening often enough to feel she ought to recognize it. Santorini had lived for years among the places she saved for later, each photograph another small promise to herself. At thirty-six, she had finally booked the trip without waiting for anyone else’s calendar to clear. Yet now that she was here, she found herself wondering what to do with all this beauty. There was no meeting to prepare for, no one expecting her at dinner, no reason to hurry. She chose a table at the guesthouse bar and opened the battered guidebook she had borrowed from the lobby.

A postcard slipped from its pages.

She caught it against her knee. On one side was a pencil drawing of an arched window, with a lemon tree beside it and a blue dome in the distance. The window stood on a terrace, but the artist had omitted the building around it. When Mara turned the card over, she found a single line in faded ink.

Before the light goes, find the window with no house.

She examined the drawing more closely, looking for something she had missed. It was too careful to be a casual doodle: the uneven stone beneath the arch, a crack in the wood, even the bent branch of the lemon tree had been preserved. Someone had wanted this particular place to be found.

“You won’t find it by the church.”

The man at the neighboring table was watching the postcard with an expression of rueful recognition. He explained that he had discovered it in the same guidebook the previous afternoon and spent part of his evening searching for the window. His attempts had led him to several churches and, eventually, a courtyard where a woman folding laundry had gently informed him that he was standing in her home. He had returned the card to the book afterward, leaving the mystery for someone with better instincts.

His name was Daniel. He appeared to be about her age, with dark hair that needed cutting and the sort of unhurried manner Mara usually found difficult to trust. She was accustomed to people who wanted something from a conversation. Her work as an interpreter had made her attentive to the small movements that accompanied words: hesitation, impatience, the glance toward a door. Daniel listened without looking past her. When she asked about his search, he pulled out the chair opposite him and waited until she decided to sit.

They shared the postcard between them as the terrace filled. Near the stairs, a sultry woman with sea-green eyes and a wine-red scarf leaned over her table to hear her companion above the music. A waiter carried glasses into the light. Mara should have been hungry, but she was becoming distracted by Daniel’s hands resting beside the drawing, by the faint nick near his thumbnail, by the way his smile arrived slowly and changed his whole face. When he suggested trying once more while there was still light, she agreed before considering whether she was interested in the window or in another hour with him.

They followed the lane behind the guesthouse, where the walls still held the day’s warmth. Their conversation moved easily as they walked. Daniel restored furniture in a workshop he shared with his brother, who had finally insisted that he take a holiday. Mara told him about the cities she knew chiefly through hotel windows, and he asked which one she would return to if she could spend her time as she pleased. She began to answer, then found herself admitting that she would have to think about it. She had become very good at traveling without allowing a place to interrupt her plans.

The lane narrowed at a corner. Daniel stepped aside, and as Mara passed him, her arm brushed his shirt. The contact was slight, but afterward she remained aware of the distance between them. When he stopped to examine a gate, she stood closer than she needed to. When they resumed walking, she matched his pace. The ordinary ease of it unsettled her pleasantly; she had known him less than an hour and was already reluctant to imagine going to dinner alone.

They found two lemon trees and several arched windows, all firmly attached to houses. As the color deepened overhead, Mara held the postcard up once more. Only then did she notice the position of the dome. She had seen it from almost exactly that angle while sitting at the bar. They had been looking farther and farther away from the place where they had started.

Back at the guesthouse, a large terracotta pot concealed the entrance to a flight of steps. A lemon tree grew from it, one branch bent toward the sea. Beneath its leaves was a small sign welcoming guests to the lower terrace.

Daniel looked from the tree to Mara, and she could see that he was preparing himself to be teased. She took his hand instead and led him down.

The terrace was small, with two chairs and a broad white parapet overlooking the water. At its far end stood the window. The old wooden frame had been mounted between stone supports, its paint weathered and one corner carefully repaired. There were no walls around it. Through the empty panes, the evening sky looked close enough to touch.

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Daniel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, and Mara realized she had continued holding his hand all the way down the stairs.

The guesthouse owner appeared from a side door carrying a watering can. She told them the frame had belonged to her mother, who had refused to discard it when her house was rebuilt. They had brought it here so she could still sit at her window and look at the sea. The owner recognized the drawing, although she had never discovered who made it. Guests sometimes left things in the books, she said. Whoever had left this had chosen well.

After she went inside, Mara and Daniel stood beside the parapet. The wind was cooler now, and the water beneath them had darkened around long bands of copper light. Somewhere above, a restaurant began setting tables for dinner. Mara could feel Daniel’s thumb moving gently over her knuckles. She looked at him and found that he had been waiting for her attention.

He asked how long she was staying. When she told him Thursday, the pleasure on his face was unmistakable. He wanted to see her again the next day. They settled on breakfast at a bakery she had passed that morning, and making that small arrangement gave her an unexpected rush of anticipation. Tomorrow had acquired a particular hour, a particular face.

She was still smiling when his gaze lowered to her mouth.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he said.

Mara stepped closer and lifted her free hand to the open collar of his shirt. Her answer was quiet, but he heard it.

He touched her cheek before kissing her. At first there was enough hesitation for her to feel how carefully he was attending to her, and she drew him nearer, allowing him to understand that she wanted this too. The second kiss lingered. When they finally parted, she found a trace of uncertainty in his expression that made him more appealing than all his earlier confidence. She brushed her thumb along his collar and smiled; he leaned down to kiss her again.

Applause drifted from the lane above them. Beyond the window, the sun had disappeared, leaving a low brightness over the sea.

Mara reached for the postcard and borrowed Daniel’s pen. Beneath the drawing, she wrote her name and number, then watched him slip it carefully into his book. The person who had left it remained a mystery. She wondered whether they had stood here alone, or whether someone had once taken their hand as Daniel was taking hers now.

At the gate, she paused to look back. The old frame was becoming a silhouette, and lights were appearing on the terraces below. She wanted to remember the bent lemon branch, the warmth of his hand, the evening she had almost spent reading a guidebook.

Then Daniel asked whether she was hungry, and she followed him up the stairs, already hoping they would take their time choosing somewhere for dinner.