The Shadows Behind the Olive Trees

The cicadas were still buzzing when Nika drove her little blue Fiat along the winding coastal road to Orebić. The sun dipped low, gilding the Adriatic with a copper sheen, and the ferry to Korčula shimmered in the distance like a toy boat. Nika lowered the window and inhaled the sea-salt air, savoring the breeze before it was stolen by another humid night.

At thirty-three, Nika was restless. She had returned from Zagreb to Pelješac after her father’s death, inheriting a small stone house and a neglected olive grove. The grove was wild now, tangled with weeds and forgotten by time, but she liked it that way. She wanted to write there, she told herself, maybe turn the house into a retreat for artists. That was her story when friends asked why she left the city.

But the truth was murkier. She had been burned—professionally, emotionally, financially. A publishing job that dissolved when her boss “restructured.” A fiancé who confessed, over coffee, that he loved her sister. A savings account that barely held enough to keep her afloat. Returning home to Pelješac wasn’t an act of renewal—it was retreat.

Still, she told herself, there was hope in beginnings.

The Man by the Church

It was on her second week back when she first noticed the man near the old Franciscan monastery in Orebić. He was tall, in his late forties, with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and a linen shirt too crisp for the dusty road. He stood by the gate with a notebook, sketching or jotting something down.

Nika, curious as always, slowed her steps. The man looked up, smiled politely, and nodded.

“You live here?” His accent was refined, Zagreb with a trace of Belgrade.

“Yes,” she replied. “Well—again. I grew up here.”

He extended his hand. “Marko Radić. Historian. I’m researching maritime families of Pelješac.”

A historian. It fit: the notebook, the way he studied the monastery walls like they could confess secrets.

She introduced herself, and they fell into conversation. He knew about the great captains of Orebić, about the villas with faded Venetian facades, about ships that once sailed to Odessa and Alexandria. He spoke with knowledge but also with something else—admiration, almost reverence.

“History,” he said, “isn’t dead. It waits for someone to ask the right question.”

She found herself smiling. He had that gift: making you feel like he’d drawn you into something important.

The Invitation

Days later, she ran into him again, this time at the small café on the riva. He waved her over.

“I’ve been reading about your family,” he said, eyes gleaming. “The Lovrić name is mentioned in several shipping ledgers from the 19th century.”

“My family?” she asked, startled.

“Yes. Your great-great-grandfather captained a brigantine. Did you know?”

She didn’t. Her father had rarely spoken of family history, preferring to discuss grape harvests or fishing. She leaned forward, intrigued despite herself.

Marko promised to show her documents, maps, even diaries. “Come tomorrow evening. My rented house is just outside town, among the olive trees.”

It seemed harmless. Noble, even. Someone preserving history, linking her to it.

The next evening, the path to his house was half-hidden by oleander and lavender. He greeted her warmly, pouring red wine into heavy glasses. Inside, the walls were lined with books and maps.

He laid out copies of old ledgers, pointing at names and dates. “See here—Lovrić, captain, brigantine Sveti Nikola, 1872.”

Her pulse quickened. To be tethered to history, to see her name in ink older than her, was intoxicating.

“You should be proud,” he said softly. “Blood like yours built empires on these waters.”

She flushed, embarrassed but pleased.

Then he leaned closer. “Do you know how much of that history was stolen?”

She frowned.

“Documents lost. Land titles erased. Families dispossessed after the war, after the communists.” His voice sharpened. “But some of it can be reclaimed. With the right heirs.”

The word “heirs” hung in the air.

Doubt

At first, she dismissed it. Marko was a historian, after all. Of course he would be passionate about land, property, legacy.

But the next time they met, his tone had shifted.

“You still own your father’s olive grove, yes?”

She nodded cautiously.

“Good. Land is power. Do not sell it. Ever. Foreigners are circling—Germans, Austrians. They buy with euros, then build villas, swimming pools, fences. But the land should stay in Croatian hands. In your hands.”

There was intensity in his eyes now, almost feverish. She sipped her wine and looked away.

The Revelation

The realization came weeks later, slowly, like tide filling a bay.

It was during a local gathering in Trpanj. People drank gemišt and sang klapa songs, children chasing each other through the square. Marko stood apart, speaking in hushed tones to two men she didn’t recognize.

Curious, Nika edged closer. She heard words like investors, titles, inheritance. One of the men muttered, “And the girl? She trusts you?”

Marko’s reply was quiet but sharp: “She will. She’s naïve. She believes she’s preserving history. By the time she understands, the land will be transferred.”

The words struck her like a slap.

She stumbled back, heart pounding.

The Confrontation

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind replayed every smile, every glass of wine, every story he had told. She saw it now: the noble historian was not noble at all. He was circling her land like a hawk.

The next morning, she marched to his rented house. He opened the door, surprised but composed.

“You lied,” she said flatly.

His brows rose. “About what?”

“You don’t care about my family’s history. You care about my land.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “Both can be true.”

Her stomach turned.

“You think I don’t see?” she pressed. “You talk about heritage, but it’s greed. You wanted me to trust you so you could—”

He cut her off, voice cool as steel. “So I could protect what is ours. Or would you rather see your olive trees bulldozed for German swimming pools?”

It was cunning, the way he framed it: patriotism, protection, duty. But she had seen behind the curtain.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t protect. You take.”

For the first time, his eyes hardened. “Be careful, Nika. You don’t know who your friends are. Or your enemies.”

She left, pulse racing, certain she’d just stepped into a larger web.

The Weight of Knowledge

After that, Orebić felt different. She noticed men she hadn’t seen before, strangers lingering near the port. She overheard talk of land deals, old houses suddenly bought by “foundations.”

Was Marko orchestrating it all? Or was he just one of many?

She returned often to her father’s olive grove, sitting among the gnarled trunks, breathing in the sharp green scent. She felt both proud and terrified. The land was hers—but it made her a target.

For the first time, she understood her father’s silence. He must have known that history wasn’t just pride. It was burden, too.

Weeks passed. Marko avoided her now, though she sometimes saw him at the café, always with others. His smile never reached his eyes anymore.

Nika made her choice quietly. She would keep the grove. She would restore it—not for him, not for his “heritage,” but for herself. She began pruning, clearing weeds, pressing olives with neighbors.

Word spread: Nika was staying, investing in the land. The villagers nodded, some approving, some wary.

One evening, as the cicadas sang and the Adriatic turned violet, she stood among the olive trees and felt something solid under her feet. Not just soil—resolve.

She had seen the mask slip, had faced the truth: not all intentions wrapped in history and patriotism were noble. Some were hunger in disguise.

And knowing that, she would guard her land with more than fences. She would guard it with awareness, with choice, with the refusal to be fooled again.

Months later, Marko left Orebić. Some said he moved to Zadar, others that he went abroad. His name still surfaced in whispers, attached to “foundations,” “investors,” “deals.”

But for Nika, the story had shifted. She had entered his orbit naïve, seeking connection to the past. She emerged sharper, less trusting, but strangely stronger.

In the end, she realized, history wasn’t just what was written in ledgers. It was what you chose to carry forward—and what you refused to let others steal.

And under the olive trees, in the quiet hum of Pelješac, she chose to stand guard.