The Mayor’s Daughter Returns

The ferry didn’t lie.

It was the first thought that crystallized in Dora Fabijanić’s mind as the Jadrolinija vessel, a white hulk of metal and noise, chugged its way through the impossibly blue channel. Ferries were honest brokers. They didn’t care about your failed marriage, your expensive Milanese tailoring, or the carefully constructed armor of indifference you’d spent two decades building. They just took you where you had to go. And right now, this one was taking her back to the one place on earth she had sworn, with the absolute certainty of an eighteen-year-old, that she would never, ever need again.

The Adriatic Sea sparkled with its usual, almost obscene beauty, a sheet of crumpled sapphire under a late-summer sun. The mainland had long since dissolved into a hazy purple smudge on the horizon, and ahead, the familiar jagged silhouette of her island, Korčula, was growing sharper, more defined, with every passing minute. The island of her father. The island of her humiliation. The island of Luka Kovač.

The thought of his name sent a physical ripple through her, a ghost of a shiver that had nothing to do with the salt-sprayed breeze. She pushed it down, the same way she’d pushed down the memory of his face that night—earnest, hopeful, devastatingly young—just before she’d annihilated him. She was a different person now. Divorced, yes. Thirty-six, yes. But also confident, successful, and armed with a wit that could flay a man at twenty paces. She was returning not as the humiliated party, but as the conqueror. Or so she told herself.

The air changed. It was the first thing that truly ambushed her. One moment, it was just generic sea air—clean, salty, fresh. The next, as the ferry rounded the point of the Pelješac peninsula and the town of Korčula came into full view, it was specific. It was the air of her childhood. A complex, intoxicating, and slightly suffocating perfume. The dominant note was pine, sharp and resinous, from the dense forests that climbed the hills behind the town. Underneath that was the warm, yeasty scent of sun-baked stone, the ancient limestone of the city walls and the terracotta roofs that had been soaking up heat for centuries. And then, the human elements: a faint, savory whisper of garlic and grilled fish from some harborside kitchen, the diesel tang of the ferry’s own exhaust, and the clean, slightly musky smell of the sea itself, mingling with the sun-dried towels and salty skin of the tourists crowding the rails beside her.

It was the smell of summers long past, of riding her bicycle down to the harbor with scraped knees, of her mother’s kitchen on a Sunday, of the illicit cigarette she’d smoked behind the cathedral with her friends. It was the smell of home. And it hit her like a wave, a physical force that loosened something behind her ribs. She gripped the polished steel railing tighter, her knuckles whitening. The designer suitcase—a sleek, charcoal-gray Tumi that had survived a dozen international flights—stood primly at her feet, an absurdly out-of-place symbol of the life she’d built. It looked as alien here as she felt.

The ferry’s horn blared, a deep, mournful sound that bounced off the surrounding hills. It was a sound of arrival, but for Dora, it felt like a summons. The town sprawled before her, a postcard-perfect vision of Venetian elegance. The round, defensive Tower of All Saints stood guard at the entrance to the old town, its stone bleached gold by the sun. The tiny, narrow streets, like fishbones, radiated off the main spine of the town. She could see the bell tower of St. Mark’s Cathedral, the red-tiled roofs of the palazzos, and the glint of sunlight on the yachts and fishing boats bobbing in the marina.

And there, on the main quay, the Riva, she could already see him. Even from this distance, the figure was unmistakable. Her father, Mayor Tonči Fabijanić, stood ramrod straight amidst a small cluster of people, a lone statue of authority in a sea of chattering tourists. He was wearing his standard uniform: dark trousers, a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, and a look of stern expectation. He wasn’t waving. Tonči Fabijanić did not wave. He presided. Next to him, a smaller, more flustered figure was patting her elaborately coiffed hair—her mother, Mare, no doubt trying to look her best for the return of the prodigal daughter.

Dora took a deep breath, filling her lungs with that pine-and-garlic air. She straightened her back, smoothed down the impeccable white linen dress she’d chosen for the occasion—simple, elegant, European—and pasted a smile on her face that she hoped looked serene and confident, but probably looked a little bit like she was about to be sick. The chip on her shoulder, the size and weight of the nearby Biokovo mountain, felt particularly heavy.

The ferry nudged the massive rubber tires along the dock with a final shudder. The gangplank went down with a clatter, and the human tide of tourists, cars, and locals began to flow. Dora waited, letting the chaos swirl around her. She was in no hurry to step into the arena. Finally, gripping the handle of her Tumi, she walked down the gangplank, her low-heeled sandals clicking against the metal.

The moment her feet touched the ancient stone of the Riva, the sound of the town engulfed her. The shrieking of gulls, the tinny pop music from a nearby kafić, the put-put of a small fishing boat’s engine, and the overlapping conversations in Croatian, German, and English. It was a wall of noise.

And then her father was there, having navigated the crowd with the silent efficiency of a shark. He stopped a foot away from her. He didn’t reach for her suitcase. He didn’t open his arms. His eyes, the same dark brown as her own, traveled down to her feet, then slowly back up, finally resting on her face.

“Those shoes,” he said, by way of greeting. His voice was a low rumble, a voice accustomed to silencing council meetings. “You’ll break your ankle on the old stone within an hour. This isn’t Milan.”

Dora’s serene smile tightened at the edges. She had imagined this moment a hundred times on the long journey from London. In her imaginings, there had been tears, perhaps a gruff embrace, a sense of homecoming. She had not factored in a critique of her footwear within the first five seconds.

“Hello to you too, Tata,” she said, her voice even. “The shoes are fine. They’ve conquered far worse terrain than a UNESCO World Heritage site.”

Tonči grunted, a non-committal sound that could have meant anything from “I doubt it” to “I’m glad you’re not dead.” He finally looked past her, at the ferry. “The 4:15 is five minutes late. It’s always five minutes late.”

Before Dora could formulate a response to this pearl of harbor wisdom, her mother materialized at Tonči’s side, a whirlwind of floral print and aggressive optimism. Mare’s arms were open, and this time, Dora was pulled into a tight, perfumed embrace that smelled of lavender and vanilla and years of unsaid things.

“Dora, dušo, draga!” Mare exclaimed, her voice a little too high, a little too bright. She held Dora at arm’s length, her eyes scanning her daughter with the same critical intensity as her husband, but for entirely different reasons. “You’re too thin. And so pale! Don’t they have sun in London? Never mind, a week here and you’ll have some color. And we must do something about your hair, it’s very… straight.”

Dora’s mother, she remembered now, viewed the world as a series of problems to be fixed, and her daughter as the primary project. Dora’s perfectly highlighted, professionally blown-out hair was apparently the first issue on the list.

“It’s good to see you too, Mama,” Dora managed, extracted from the embrace.

“Now,” Mare said, immediately switching gears, her eyes gleaming with a familiar, terrifying light. “You must be exhausted. And hungry. We’re having a little dinner tonight, just family. Well, family and a few close friends.” She linked her arm through Dora’s, effectively claiming her from her husband and beginning to steer her away from the harbor. “You remember Dr. Kralj? The dentist? His wife passed, poor soul, two years ago. Such a shame. He’s very distinguished. Very stable. And his practice is right on the Riva, you can’t get more central than that. I’ve invited him.”

Dora stopped dead, causing a tourist with a rolling suitcase to curse under his breath as he swerved around her. “Mama. No. Absolutely not. I’ve been divorced for five minutes. I’m not here to be set up with the local tooth-puller.”

Mare waved a dismissive hand, the hand that had been arranging her daughter’s life for thirty-six years. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just dinner. A chance to be social. And he’s an orthodontist, Dora, not a tooth-puller. There’s a difference. Very good with his hands, I hear.”

Tonči had caught up to them, and for the first time, a flicker of something that might have been amusement crossed his weathered face. “He’s also got the personality of a dental drill, Mare.”

“Tonči! Don’t listen to him, Dora. He’s just worried the man isn’t good enough for you. No one is good enough for you, according to your father.” Mare gave Dora’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

They walked along the Riva, the afternoon sun warming the tops of their heads. Dora’s Tumi bag trundled behind her, its perfectly engineered wheels clicking and clacking over the uneven stone, a jarring, metropolitan sound in this ancient setting. She saw faces she recognized—older women in black, sitting on their doorsteps; a fisherman mending his nets, who gave her a long, assessing look before spitting expertly into the water; a group of teenagers on a moped, the boy driving giving her a cheeky grin.

Every look felt like a judgment. They knew. They all knew. They knew about the divorce, they knew about the humiliation of Luka Kovač all those years ago, they were probably placing bets on how long she’d last before fleeing back to her big city life. The chip on her shoulder grew a little heavier.

They passed the harbor master’s office, a small, squat building of white stone with a blue door. Dora’s eyes involuntarily darted towards its shaded window. Was he in there? Was he watching? She felt a prickle on the back of her neck and forced herself to look straight ahead, her gaze fixed on her father’s ramrod back.

Her mother was still chattering. “…and the new supermarket is a disgrace, absolutely no charm, but they have a good bakery section, so one must compromise. And the American tourists this year, so loud. But they tip well, Kate at the kafić says. You remember Kate? She’s still there, of course. Never married. A shame. But she has her cats…”

Dora let the familiar, domestic monologue wash over her. It was almost soothing, the way white noise was soothing. It required no real engagement, just the occasional nod or murmur.

“And you must tell us all about London,” Mare continued. “And that man. Your… ex.” She said the word with a slight flinch, as if it were a contagious disease. “What happened there, dušo? Was he unkind? Did he not appreciate you?”

“It was mutual, Mama. It just… didn’t work.” The standard, diplomatic answer.

Mare sniffed, a sound that conveyed profound disbelief. “Mutual. Nothing is mutual. Someone always wants it more. I suppose we’ll get the real story from you later, over some rakija. It loosens the tongue.”

They had reached the Fabijanić family home, a tall, narrow stone house on a quiet street just off the main square. It was a solid, respectable house, with shuttered windows and a heavy wooden door. Tonči produced a large, ancient-looking key and unlocked it, pushing the door open with a theatrical creak that Dora was sure he cultivated on purpose.

The interior was cool and dark, a welcome relief from the sun. It smelled of beeswax, lavender, and the faint, underlying scent of her father’s pipe tobacco. Nothing had changed. The same heavy oak table dominated the dining room, the same crucifix hung above it, the same sepia-toned photographs of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls. Dora felt a strange sense of claustrophobia. She had escaped this, the weight of all this history and expectation, and yet, here it was, unchanged, waiting for her.

“I’ll put you in your old room,” Mare said, taking charge. “I’ve aired it out. New sheets. And I moved all your old books into the cupboard, so don’t be alarmed.”

Dora nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. The journey, the confrontation with the past, the relentless cheerfulness of her mother—it all conspired to drain the energy from her. She picked up her suitcase and started for the narrow, winding staircase.

“Dora,” her father’s voice stopped her. She turned. He was standing by the window, his face in shadow. “The town council meeting is Thursday night. You’ll come. We need to discuss the investor.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a mayoral decree.

“Of course, Tata,” she said, and continued up the stairs.

Her old room was a museum of a former self. The single bed with the white embroidered coverlet. The small desk where she’d done her homework, the surface now bare. The window that looked out over a sliver of the sea. She set her suitcase down and walked to the window, pushing it open. The sounds and smells of the town drifted in: a distant dog barking, the clink of glasses from a café, the sigh of the sea.

She had a sudden, vivid flashback. She was eighteen, standing at this very window, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. She could see the harbor below, and there, waiting by the small boat he sometimes used, was Luka. He was looking up at her house, a hopeful, eager expression on his face. They had been circling each other all summer. He was sweet, kind, handsome in a quiet, unassuming way. The son of a fisherman. Not the future her father had mapped out for her. Not the world of university and big cities and important people.

She had agreed to meet him. She’d even put on a pretty dress. But then her father’s words had echoed in her head: “You can do better than a fisherman’s son, Dora. Don’t tie yourself to this rock before you’ve even seen the world.” And her own ambition, her desperate need to escape, had solidified into a hard, cold ball in her stomach.

So instead of going down to him, she’d leaned out the window. She’d seen him wave, that hopeful wave. And she’d called down to him. Loudly. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear, for her friends who were giggling on a nearby balcony to hear. “What are you doing, Luka? Go home! Stop embarrassing me! Did you really think I’d go anywhere with you?”

She remembered the way his face had fallen, the light in his eyes extinguishing like a candle snuffed out. He’d stood there for a long moment, just staring up at her, before turning and walking slowly back towards the harbor. She’d felt a surge of power, followed instantly by a wave of nausea that had lasted for days. She’d told herself it was necessary. A clean break. A way to prove she was serious about leaving.

She hadn’t thought of herself as cruel. She’d thought of herself as strategic.

Now, twenty years later, standing in the same room, the memory had lost none of its sharpness. It was a scar, not a wound, but scars could still ache in certain weather.

A knock on the door startled her. It was her mother, carrying a small tray with a glass of water and a thick slice of almond cake.

“Here, draga. Eat. You look like you need it.” Mare set the tray on the desk and then turned to look at her daughter, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? About that summer. About Luka.”

Dora’s head snapped up. “What? No.”

Mare gave a small, sad smile. “Don’t lie to your mother, Dora. It’s a small island. Everyone remembers. And he’s still here.” She paused, letting the information sink in. “He’s the harbor master now. Very respected. Very steady. Lives alone, with his boat. Doesn’t seem to have ever really… moved on.”

Dora’s heart gave a strange, lurching thump. She kept her face carefully neutral. “Good for him.”

Mare studied her for a long moment. “Is it?” she asked softly. Then, before Dora could answer, she turned to leave. At the door, she paused. “Dinner is at eight. Don’t be late. And maybe wear something… less intimidating. You want Dr. Kralj to be able to speak, not just stammer.” The door clicked shut behind her.

Dora stared at the closed door, then at the slice of cake, then out the window at the impossibly blue sea. The chip on her shoulder, she realized, wasn’t just about proving herself to the town. It was armor. And right now, it felt terrifyingly thin. The ferry hadn’t lied. It had brought her back to the scene of the crime, and the man she’d wronged was not only still here, but he was the respected harbor master. And in less than an hour, she would have to walk past his office again, this time not as a memory, but as flesh and blood.

She picked up the cake, took a bite. It was dry in her mouth. She washed it down with water and turned back to the window, her gaze drifting, almost against her will, towards the white stone building with the blue door by the harbor. The ferry hadn’t lied. And neither, she feared, would the reckoning that was surely coming.