Her heart dropped. It was already risky enough meeting the day after Christmas, which was just as much a celebration as any of the other thirteen days between Christmas Eve and the Epiphany, at least if you were Greek. Tomorrow should be called the feast of the sweets, since they’d eat nothing but thiples, kataifi, and baklava, all drizzled with honey and enjoyed with ouzo.
But the only sweet thing that mattered that day to Agnes was Norman.
Yes, the house would be full of family and friends and food, and Agnes would be expected to participate in the holiday traditions. Then again, with her parents so wrapped up with the party, they might not notice if she took a walk for a few hours.
Unless it was snowing and the only way to see him was to take the subway to the city. They’d notice that.
With a sigh, she threw back the blanket and put her bare feet on the cold attic floor, looking at the two other beds in the tiny third-floor bedroom, empty now that both Helen and Irene had moved out. A pang of envy squeezed her heart, not that she was jealous of either of the “good Greek boys” her sisters had met and married.
No, that jolt of jealousy was because they’d escaped the oppressive control of Estevan Mastros, while Agnes remained under the steel hammer of their father. And that hammer was going to come down hard when she told him she’d fallen in love with a man seven years her senior named Norman Anderson.
A little shiver ran over her, and not just because the register up here often broke and wasn’t sending out any steam heat.
“Norman Anderson.” She smiled as his name rolled over her lips, as delicious as his kisses and as…not Greek as any man she’d ever met.
Well, too bad. She was eighteen years old, it was 1955, and she could fall in love with a man who wasn’t Greek. And the fact that he was twenty-five? Well, they shouldn’t have left her alone here for a weekend, forced to answer the door when a brush salesman knocked and swept her right off her feet. She’d fallen hard for his crooked smile and sweet green eyes and long, lean fingers that drove her crazy when they slipped so close to places on her body he really shouldn’t touch…yet.
If Norman couldn’t make it here tomorrow, well, then, she’d walk all the way to New York City if she had to. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for him…except the one thing he wanted so much.
She’d held him off so far, hoping to wait until they got married. Or at least…engaged. Maybe then she’d give in to his pleas. But they couldn’t get engaged until she told her father the truth about him. Well, she told her father the truth and Norman popped the question.
But she wouldn’t be making her big announcement today, she thought as she straightened her long cotton nightgown. She was going to be a bad Greek daughter very soon, but not so bad she’d ruin her family’s Christmas.
Inhaling the aroma of her father’s strong coffee that wafted up the two flights of stairs to her room, she skipped slippers and headed straight there, already tasting the cookie she’d dip in her own cup.
She followed the scent and the sound of her father’s deep voice as he spoke in Greek to Mama, the words of his native language mostly running together in Agnes’s brain.
“Speak English, Baba,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. Norman won’t understand a word you’re saying. Not that Estevan Mastros would ever say anything to a non-Greek twenty-five-year-old brush salesman from Indiana who had the audacity to fall in love with Agnes. Not until he got to know how kind and smart Norman was. Then maybe her father would like the man Agnes loved. “You live in America now.”
He scowled at her from over the rim of his fat white cup. “Kala Christougenna, Agnes.”
She started to answer in Greek, but something stopped her. A gleam in eyes the color of a ripe black olive, and a…wait a second.
Was her father smiling?
The sight was so rare she blinked at him. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Baba,” she answered softly, as if speaking too loud in any language might ruin the moment. Glancing at her mother, who’d taken a break from rolling dough at the counter, Agnes knew something was up. Mama’s dark eyes danced, too, and her dimples were deep. This wasn’t just a nice Christmas morning.
“How’s everyone?” she asked awkwardly, sliding into a chair and reaching for a kourabiedes. The powdered sugar on the cookie flaked like the snowfall that had started last night while they lit the traditional Christmas boat and sang kalanda, or as Americans called them, Christmas carols.
“Tell her, Estevan,” her mother said, coming to the table. “Tell her now. Don’t wait for the whole family.”
“Tell me what?” she asked, looking from her mother’s pretty face to her father’s oddly happy one. Baba was rarely happy. This must be important. “Wait,” Agnes said around a mouthful of cookie. “Let me guess. Helen’s pregnant. Finally.” She’d begun to think Cosmo was shooting blanks.
Baba’s eyes flashed with something that was probably disappointment, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. “No baby for Helen yet.”
“Then Irene?” she guessed, swallowing the sugary cookie bite. “Mama, can I have coffee?”
Her mother ignored the request and put her hands, strong from kneading dough, on Agnes’s shoulders. “Baba has news for you.” She tightened her grip, as if this news was so exciting, it might make Agnes pop up from the table.
“What kind of news?”
“Good news,” he said. “Very good news, koukla.”
Koukla? He called her that only on her birthday. Silent, she lowered her cookie and stared at him, her brain zipping through the possibilities. A job? A car? A change of heart about going to secretarial school? Those requests had been scoffed at over the past year, so why would they change?
Not that it mattered now that she had her future planned with Norman, but she was curious what he’d say.
“We have found you a husband.”
She blinked at him, a nervous, sickening laugh bubbling up. “A…what?”
Mama’s hands pressed harder. “Do you remember the man who does the landscaping in the park? Allessandro Santorini?”
That laugh came out, a little more like a horse’s snort. “He’s damn near sixty, Mama!”
“Agnes.” Her father’s reprimand came through in the word, as sharp as if he’d snapped a whip at her. “You do not swear, in any language.”
“But that Santorini guy is old!” Of course, if Baba thought that coot was husband material, then twenty-five might not sound so bad when they met Norman. “And I’m not marrying anyone just because you picked him.”
His fist came down on the table with a thud so loud, they had to have heard it in the next row house. “Not him!” her father said. “His nephew, who has just arrived here from Greece. He’ll be here tonight for dinner. Nikodemus Théodoro Santorini. He has agreed to a betrothal, and the engagement will begin tonight at midnight.”
Each word hit her harder, like repeated slaps that knocked all the ability to think out of her head.
“Baba.” She barely whispered the word. “You cannot make me marry some man I’ve never met.”
“I can and I will.” He picked up his coffee as if the discussion were over.
“You cannot and you won’t. This is 1955, not 1055! This is America, not the old country. And I am old enough to make my own choices, thank you very much.”
His eyes shuttered closed as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.
Agnes whipped around to her mother. “Mama! Tell him. You can’t want this for me.”
But Mama looked like she wanted it very much. “He is handsome, Agnes. And strong. And he cooks. He plans to open a nice diner as soon as he saves some money and learns the language. He’s smart, too. He’ll make a good husband.”
“For someone else.” Her voice was low and harsh, almost drowned out by her chair scraping the linoleum as she stood. “Why?” she demanded. “You didn’t arrange marriages for Irene or Helen. Why? Can’t you trust me to find my own husband?”
Slowly, he
r father lifted his gaze to meet hers, any spark of joy gone from his eyes. “You are my youngest, and he is Greek, plus I am indebted to the Santorini family for a favor Allessandro has done. I do not have a son to marry his daughter, but he has a nephew, and you’ve been promised.”
“Promised?” She choked on the word, backing away, looking from one to the other. “You can’t do that to me!”
“Wait until you meet him, Agnes,” her mother whispered. “He’s very—”
“I don’t care if he’s goddamn Zeus!” she screamed, the exclamation like a shot that sent her father to his feet, knocking the table so hard his coffee spilled.
“You will not talk like that in this house!” he bellowed.
“No, I won’t, you’re right.” Indignation bolted through her like a lightning strike. “I won’t do anything in this house. Including live here. I’m leaving!” She ran from the room and ignored her mother’s pleas to stop, her bare feet flying up the stairs two at a time.
They were serious! They were dead serious. Didn’t they know that of all three Mastros daughters, she’d be the least interested in being manipulated like this? They knew she was strong-willed, independent, and…
In love with Norman Anderson. No, of course they didn’t know that, but she was, and that was the only thing that mattered in the whole world.
She opened her tiny wardrobe and stared into it, her mind whirring. She’d run away, that’s what. She’d run to Norman, and they’d elope. Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon.
Spurred by that thought, she reached under her bed for the tapestry bag she’d last used when she visited her aunt in Chicago, unclasping the strap to stuff clothes inside. She had no idea what she was packing, a dress, some skirts, some lingerie.
Lingerie that Norman would see if…
He’d wait until they eloped. Of course he would. He was a gentleman, and he’d wait.
She found a pair of leather shoes, brushed her hair, and put on some lipstick, then shoved her purse and some cosmetics into the bag, mentally calculating how much money she had. Enough to get her to the city, a little bit for food.
After that, Norman would take care of her. Wouldn’t he? She kicked the uncomfortable thought away. Of course he would. He loved her.
She whipped around and stared at the oversize window, visualizing how she could climb down the fire escape. It would be tricky, but doable. And cold.
Her coat was downstairs by the front door. Damn it! Well, she’d have to freeze, then.
Grabbing the heaviest wool sweater she could find, she pulled it around her and buttoned it with shaking fingers.
Her mother hadn’t followed her up here, thank God, but both her parents probably thought she was already lying on her bed, doodling “Mrs. Nikodemus Santorini” on a piece of paper.
Because they didn’t know her at all.
But Norman did. And he loved her. He told her all the time that he loved her. When they fogged up the windows with hot kisses in his fancy company car, he said it over and over again.
With one last look in the mirror, she flung the bag over her shoulder and pushed the window all the way up to step out into the bitter air, her body quivering at the sudden cold.
“Agnes?” Her mother’s voice outside the attic bedroom door froze her more effectively than the air. She’d miss Mama. She really would. But not the ogre her mother was married to.
“Agnes, let me talk to you!” Mama called. “This boy is very handsome, Agnes. From a good family, and he’ll learn English!”
She took one deep breath, grabbed the rail, and climbed down the icy metal stairs. There was only one boy for her, and by New Year’s Day 1956, he’d be her husband.
Chapter Four
“You ran away to marry a man named Norman Anderson?” Pru nearly choked on this revelation about Yiayia.
“On Christmas Day?” Gramma Finnie added, her own shock proof that her best friend had never shared this fun fact before.
“Quiet now,” Yiayia said as they climbed the stairs to the front of the church. “We’re in God’s house.”
“Where dogs are not usually welcome,” Pru added, gesturing toward Gala and Pyggie. “One of us needs to stay out here with them. So I’ll—”
“I’ll stay with them,” Yiayia said, taking Pyggie’s leash from Pru. “You and Finnie go in and beg for the ticket.”
Finnie and Pru shared another look of surprise.
“’Tisn’t like you to give up control, Agnes.”
She swallowed and looked up at the church. “I’d rather not go in, if you don’t mind.”
The way she said it sent a little chill through Pru, mostly because she hadn’t ever heard a terribly contrite tone from this strong, highly controlling Greek woman.
“Of course, lass,” Gramma said quickly, probably thinking the same thing. “This won’t take but a moment.”
“There’s a coffee station over there on the grass,” Pru said, pointing to some of the festival booth spillover and a large, enclosed tent. “They have plastic around the awning and warming lights, in case you and the dogs are chilly.”
Yiayia nodded and took a step in that direction. “All right, then, go, you two,” she ordered, sounding much more like herself. “Get that ticket.” She glanced up at the church one more time. “I need that dog.”
Without a word, Gramma Finnie and Pru headed up the last few stairs and opened the front door of the church. Although the large fellowship area was empty, they could hear voices, hammering, and some music coming from the massive sanctuary.
“You think she’s okay?” Pru asked, pointing her thumb in the direction of the door behind them. “I’m surprised she’d give up the reins at a moment like this.”
Gramma slowed her step. “She just confessed a sin, lass. Perhaps she’s not ready to face our Lord yet.”
Pru squished her face, still thinking of the story that couldn’t have ended with her marrying Norman Anderson, or she’d be Agnes Anderson, not Agnes Santorini. “Running away from home isn’t a sin, Gramma. She was eighteen, for one thing. And she didn’t elope, but married a man named Santorini, just like her parents wanted her to. We know that much.”
Gramma shook her head, silent. “Does not explain why she doesn’t go to church.”
“She doesn’t go to church because she’s Greek Orthodox, and the closest one is in Chestnut Creek, and she lives in Bitter Bark now.” A tendril of frustration rose in Pru’s chest, along with the need to defend the other woman. “Not to mention that it was pretty darn outrageous that her dad wanted her to marry some guy just because he was Greek and he owed a favor.”
Gramma didn’t say anything, but placed her hand on the large handle to open the door, her eyes fluttering shut as if she were praying, so Pru got a little closer.
“Gramma? You think she was wrong to run away that morning?”
“’Tis not my place to judge, lass.”
“No kidding,” Pru muttered as her grandmother opened the door.
Inside, the huge sanctuary of Bitter Bark’s oldest and largest church was as decorated for the season as the square it faced. The altar area had been moved away for this event, with a professional-looking stage brought in and draped in red velvet curtains.
Those were open, and a full manger scene was visible, with a painted backdrop to look like the hills of Bethlehem, complete with a night sky and a bright star.
“Can I help you?” A woman approached with a clipboard and headset. “The church is closed right now, I’m afraid,” she added.
“I’m looking for Melvin Jankewicz,” Gramma Finnie said.
“Oh!” Her face brightened, and she looked at Gramma’s arms. “Where’s the baby?”
Gramma stared back and shrugged. “Not on me, lass.”
“But you are bringing one?” The woman glanced at Pru. “We’re good with Mary, but we need a baby Jesus. We thought someone might answer the emergency call we put out to all the churches.”
Just then, a man marched across the
stage and down the stairs on the right, and Gramma turned her attention to him. “Oh, there he is. Melvin?”
As she started to go, the woman put her hand on Gramma’s arm to stop her. “Unless you have Jesus, I wouldn’t bother him right now.”
“I have Him in my heart,” Gramma quipped, escaping the woman’s touch to head to her target.
“I don’t know what she wants from him,” the woman said to Pru, “but this show has never been done without an actual baby, not a doll. The one we had came down with a cold, and his mother pulled him from the show. It’s the worst possible moment to talk to Melvin.”
Pru watched Gramma pad down the carpeted aisle, as determined in her own little Irish way as the much tougher Greek woman they’d left outside with the dogs.
“Melvin, I need to speak with you,” Gramma said as she reached him.
Worried he might snap at her due to his stress, Pru followed, always ready to help her great-grandmother.
The man stopped midstep, scowling as he spoke into a headset, then the frown deepened. “No, you listen to me. It won’t be the Christmas pageant without a real baby. There’s never been a ‘doll’ used in Bitter Bark on Christmas Eve. It’s a sacred tradition for the baby to be real. Even if it cries. Sweet baby Jesus, I need a sweet baby Jesus!”
“Melvin, a minute, please?” Gramma called.
“Finnie, I’m sorry, I know you need a Santa Claus, but I simply can’t do it, and I don’t know a soul who can help you.”
“I don’t need a Santa,” she said, coming to a stop. “I need a ticket to tonight’s show.”
He snorted a laugh. “And I need a winning lottery ticket, which is about as likely as you getting in tonight.”
“I’m sure you have one,” she said. “And you offered a favor to me this morning.”
He huffed out a sigh, pressing the headset to his ear. “I got show problems, Finnie. I have to go. Someone get me the reindeer guy on the line!”
He hustled away, and Gramma’s tiny shoulders dropped in disappointment. And if she was disappointed, what would Yiayia be?
Dachshund Through the Snow Page 3
