She awoke with a start. Nothing she could quite put her finger on, but she had a sense of a something that woke her in that moment.

The soft breeze brought with it that distinctive saltiness from the deep blue sea in the distance, wafting the lace curtains, newly cleaned for the occasion and showing off their delicacy in their sculptured dance. Their intense whiteness complementing the 400 thread Egyptian cotton sheets upon which she lay. Anna was insistent on these, preferring their cooling softness, without the sheen and slipperiness of an even finer quality.

After the surprised awakening, she lay, eyes open and mesmerised by the fluttering movement to the side. There was nothing to hear; for there was no sound at all, yet her intuition was still on high alert after her awakening. Usually a life of high alert indeed, wherever she was in the world.

She reached for the heavy crystal water glass on the bedside table and found it empty. She drank a lot of water in the nights, especially after an evening in the bar down by the harbour, her usual watering-hole. Especially with Stavros’ own retsina, made in the still in the wooden shed, behind the bar. And particularly last night, for he knew that was the time to acknowledge the moment and that today, the anniversary so precious to her, Anna was to be left alone.

She opened the battered refrigerator in the kitchen and poured water from the jug. And as she set off back to the bedroom, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. The flickering of the flame caught her attention at first and then the unusual turquoise of the icing offset with the clashing lime colour of the ribbon.

She smiled a wry smile as she acknowledged the tiny cake and why it was there. She knew it meant only one thing, for although she did not yet know how, she knew it was from Michael. For of those people in the wider world who were interested, he was alone in knowing she was there. Only Michael knew the truth about her.

Not a sound could be heard, apart from the now strengthening breeze which caused the curtains to flap harder, but only in the bedroom, the only place in the house where they were to be found.

She left the tiny flame to run its course as she looked back at the cake once more. She did not understand how it got there until she recalled the moment she woke and realised that there had been some sort of sign. Some inkling in her fading sleep as she lay in the hinterland between dreams and consciousness. That was when the cake had arrived, and its careful placement had woken her.

He had remembered, as he always would, for their love had been that unforgettable sort which first loves sometimes are. Never forgotten. Never bettered. Always to be measured against and rarely standing up to the test.

They had been fourteen and made that virginal love to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. Its fever pitch matching their own climaxes, such that he could never play it again without recalling the moment. The smell of her hair and the warmth of her hold in the aftermath. As for her, she never listened to it after that – not even once – even as the distances grew between them, both physically and emotionally.

Yet the cake had appeared, once again, as it always did on that day of the year.

This was a special year for her, of course, and in the days recently passed, she had wondered if he would continue the game every year or there would be one when suddenly the ritual would cease, and she would only be left with the old memories. She might never see Michael again, except, perhaps in those strange early morning dreams that left her sweating; wanting him with her; wanting him again.

But on this momentous anniversary, he had come through again, and she considered whether he had set a new plan in motion for the next decade too and where that would leave them both. What would life look like at forty, she pondered for a moment. Would it see her in England in a humdrum Surrey mansion; a nanny for the kids; a 4×4 on the drive and yummy mummy school runs in the mornings? How would she remember island mornings like this? Would he continue the surprise that was not a surprise every year, even if he was not father to those kids? How would that all work out?

She smiled again at her fanciful thinking, came back to earth and laughed out loud, for she knew what was next. She returned to the bedroom and he was there already, waiting for her.

“One year, you’ll show up and there’ll be someone else in my bed!” She teased him.

“Never,” he replied, “I’ve spoiled you for all time for anyone else.”

She unpeeled the white cotton shirt she wore to sleep, matching his nakedness, and eased herself across to him. They laughed out loud and she noticed that whilst he looked just a little older, he was still in excellent shape.

“You’ve put a bit of weight on.” She attempted to chide him, safe in the knowledge that he hadn’t.

“So have you.” Was his response, as he inspected her up and down, perfect as she was everywhere he looked.

She threw the pillow at him in jest, and he threw it back at her as the game proceeded, until after a few moments, she folded into his arms, and they just held each other before the serious stuff.

But first, spooning on their sides, he cupped her breasts gently as she loved him to. She eased her hand down his leg in a stroke that he yearned for every one of the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, until the spell broke and she turned to him. Their familiar postures fitting together perfectly before they settled into other precise caresses that would end in the regular way, irregular though their passion was.

After it was over they both slept for an hour and, as was the custom, he would make her real leaf tea through a strainer and bring it to her, scalding hot before he added the milk, just as she liked. He sat on the wicker chair in the corner drinking his, watching her, occasionally smiling to himself, for the day had come again and his journey was, as it always was, well worth the time zones he sliced through each year for her.

One last time.

“What’s it like here?” he asked her after a while.

“What do you think it’s like?” she replied, “What’s not to love?”

“Is it safe?” he asked, “Do you know many people?”

“I take care,” she said. Her standard response. “It’s been OK so far.”

“The people?” he asked a second time.

“Good. Yea, they’re all good.”

In that moment he made an error that she might have noticed had she not been so besotted with his visit to her every year.

“Ever notice anything odd?”

“Nah. I lie low, and they leave me alone, except when I want more from them.

“I’ll not be here forever. You know that.”

And she had missed the little prompt that could have prepared her.

#-§-§-#

He walked into the bar straight off the beach, they would recall in the days afterwards, if anyone had asked them, which they didn’t. He had a bottle of the local beer straight from the ice bucket Stavros kept on the bar. The locals helped themselves and paid up when they were ready. It saved Stavros getting up every time someone wanted one and, well, they were all friends of course, weren’t they? No one would remember whether the stranger paid or not, but they were friendly folk, and they didn’t really care.

He asked for Anna’s house like an old friend, and as Stavros himself knew the secret of her birthday, he assumed that he also now knew the identity of the man with the beer and they sent him on his way with laughs and words of encouragement, which he found slightly uncomfortable.

As he walked up the hill, they were still raising their beers to him as he rounded the corner. Once out of their sight he left the original route and skulked off into the woodland scrub behind the houses lining the road. The going was uncomfortable, fighting the chaotic maze through the tangled growth until he reached the olive groves. Here the going was easier, though it also made him more visible.

He arrived close by the house just as the sun reached its zenith and found an elevated spot where he could reconnoitre. Once he had a good idea of their positions in the building, he confirmed his tactics.

He eased his way towards the house, eventually positioning himself below the window he knew was the bedroom and listened carefully. There was only the sound of gentle snoring from there, as he expected. He could hear the soft singing of a female voice coming from the other side of the building where he knew she was preparing food for their lunch. The usual pattern of this day.

Once up on the level of the yard, he knew exactly where each of them was now. He settled in to wait for the right moment, calming his breathing and readying himself. But there was no point in dawdling. That had been his mantra in all the actions he’d taken part in, both those sanctioned by the powers that be, as well as those the world didn’t need to know about.

#-§-§-#

She sang the songs she had gathered over her travels, and on this happiest of her days, she was oblivious to the surroundings. It was only when she noticed that the candle on the cake was lit again, that she realised that it was a different cake and she chose to investigate. She looked once and then again and only when she looked around in puzzlement did she see the balaclava-clad figure pointing the silenced Glock straight at her.

He motioned her to be quiet and to sit as he taped her mouth to ensure her complete silence. He fixed her hands and arms to the chair. She complied with his signed instructions. Her logic was that if he was quietening her, she might be in less danger than the scenario suggested. Otherwise, she would be dead already.

Then, he went in search of her sleeping partner.

In the bedroom, he sat in the chair where the man had drunk his tea and readied himself for the action he would take. He compared the face with the one etched in his own memory. The hiss and pop of the little gun did their work. The hollow-point did its damage inside and left minimal evidence outside, exactly as he wanted. His people would thank him when they arrived for the clean-up.

Before that he needed to return to the woman with the evidence. He rumbled through the man’s discarded clothing and found his phone. With a few presses, he used the password they had copied the previous week and found the file and showed her.

She was scared and distraught when he returned to her and took off his balaclava as he spoke. Her eyes widened with relief as she realised who he was.

“He’d gone bad, Anna,” he said, as he showed her the file. “I’m going to take the tape off, and you have to be in control. You know what to do. Do you agree?”

He made her look up at him until she nodded through the sobs.

“They came after him and paid him, cleared his money troubles and made him do this,” he added, “so I had to come and fix it, once and for all.” Alongside the sobs, she surrounded him with her free arms and held him as tightly as he held her. Then she eased him away and looked at him with a deep fondness.

“How? Where? When…” she rambled on as her brother calmed her. Soothing her with his right hand, the one that only moments ago had taken Michael from her. He who had been a part of their ritual for so many years and would be for no more.

“They found his weakest spots and leveraged him to take you,” he said as she watched him rummage through the man’s small bag. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and showed her the tiny vial.

“Neurotoxin,” he pronounced. “A few drops on the skin is all it would take.”

Aghast, she held it, open-mouthed, and then looked back to her sibling.

“You had become too much of a risk for them, but they struggled to keep tabs on you.” He smiled as he told her, “You were trained well.”

“By you, of course.” She looked over to the bedroom and the stilled inhabitant and her professionalism took over. She was back in control. Her innate sense of self-preservation had returned. She was embarrassed and humbled that she had needed protection and more so by the boy who had protected her since she was born, and he was three.

“Blood is thicker,” he said at last as he went for a knife, the sharpest in the box.

“Cake, I think, before I get the boys over to clean things up.”

As he cut through the white icing, she watched him and was thankful. Next year would be different on her birthday. There was no place for sentiment in her world, and she had been a fool to ignore the risks.

He found two delicate white plates from the cupboard, placed a piece of the cake on each, and they watched the sailboats out on the ocean, saying nothing, safe in the awareness that each was at peace with the other. Rarely had she depended on anyone else in her line of business, for she worked best alone.

She went to the fridge and brought over the Krug she’d bought in specially for the day.

“Have a glass with me?” She appealed to him.

“Just the one,” he replied. “There are things to do.”

She acknowledged this, and they clinked their glasses together. Anna looked over to the bedroom and considered the close call.

She ate her cake and drank her champagne and was grateful for the brother who came to her in her time of need. Her time of crisis.

She would pack her things up and they would take her with them when they came, and another place would be found for her to rest between assignments. But for the moment, in a way different than she could ever have expected, today was a day to celebrate.

Topic: A Celebration | Word Count: 2500 | Genre: Thriller