by Moss, Brooke
“Huh.” I slammed the car door. “Seems a bit excessive.”
He folded his arms across his chest. He’d not yet put on his coveralls, so his thin grey tee shirt did little to hide those delicious muscles. “You seem a bit nitpicky.”
Matching his pose, I let the smile drop off of my face. “You seem a bit overly sensitive.”
He took a step closer to me. “Well, you seem a bit rude.”
“Well, you seem a bit bipolar.” I took a step closer to him. We were only about a foot apart now, and I could feel electricity popping and crackling between our chests. I couldn’t tell if it was because we wanted each other… or because we wanted to throttle each other. Maybe it was both.
A line appeared between Demo’s dark eyebrows. “Bipolar? That’s the best you got?”
“Seriously!” I threw my hands up. “You work on my car at the crack of dawn to be nice, and then you treat me like garbage when I come to pick it up! I came in here in the hopes of making peace with you, but your mood swings are shifting like a hyperactive pendulum!”
He glared down at me. “You think coming in here dressed to the nines is going to make me give you some sort of discount or something?”
“I don’t need a damn discount.” Tugging my purse open, I produced my credit card. Again. “Four hundred sixty two dollars. Take it.”
Demo snatched the card out of my hand. “And seventy-two cents.”
“Fastidioso,” I muttered under my breath.
He leaned in close. There was that aroma again. Why oh why did it smell so good to me? “For the hundredth time, I know what you’re saying. And I’m not annoying.”
“Good.” I met his steely gaze with my own. “And yes, you are.”
For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. I mean, we probably looked pretty ridiculous. Chest to chest, leaning into each other like two dogs ready to fight. If I’d walked in on the scene myself, I would’ve assumed that these two people were seconds away from killing each other… or making out. But from where I stood, making out was nowhere on the horizon.
I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad about that. On one hand, Demo looked beyond delicioso this morning. His dark hair was every bit as messy as it’d been yesterday, but not yet soaked with sweat around the neckline. And his dark eyes positively shone as he razzed me, goading me into yet another argument.
But on the other hand, Demo was a serious jerk. He was moody and surly, and had an obsession with knocking the wind out of my sails at every opportunity. Why he hated me as much as he did, I didn’t know. But I no longer wanted to change it. Sure, making Demo Antonopolous want me would’ve been a fun accomplishment—one to put down in my diary, if I had one, I’m sure of it—but it wasn’t worth standing in the filthy garage arguing anymore.
We stared at each other with a venomous current buzzing between our bodies. Neither one of us willing to look away first. Neither one of us willing to admit we were behaving like idiots. I heard the sound of a car pulling up in the small parking lot outside, but still we stood there, unmoving.
Finally, at the sound of a car door shutting, Demo blinked. “On your Visa?” he asked mildly.
“Please.” I replied, my tone icy. Screw this crap. It wasn’t worth it.
He went into the office, leaving the door open behind him. There were dozens of framed pictures hanging on the wall, and stacks and stacks of paperwork everywhere. Each of the frames was different, each bearing a different family portrait. Some were faded and discolored, and the clothes the people were wearing looked dated and out of style. Others were bright and new, and the clothes in those pictures were trendier and more up to date. The resounding detail in each of the shots was that they all the same dark eyes and wild black hair Demo had. The Antonopulous genes ran strong with this clan, and in each of the pictures, their smiles were wide and joyous.
I wanted to ask him if those were all pictures of his family? How big was the Antonopulous family tree, anyway? How many generations had worked in Three D’s? Who pissed in his Cheerios that morning, making him grumpier than all the smiling people in those pictures?
But instead, I just stood there with my arms folded. My stubborn streak was that of legends.
“Oh, yeah, You’ll have to come back,” Demo called, tearing a receipt off of the credit card machine, and lumbering back towards me.
“I what?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He looked about as cranky as I felt. “I looked it up. Your BMW has two recalls out.”
“Oh, right.” I waved a hand dismissively. I remembered getting a letter in the mail from the dealership a month or two ago—or maybe more—about that. “Okay. I’ll make an appointment with the dealership.”
“I ordered the parts through my friend.” He put the receipt down on the corner of the metal desk and fished a pen out of one of the drawers. It was plastic and chewed on, just like the one I’d used the other day. “They’ll be here in a week or so.”
Shaking my head, I took the pen and scrawled out my signature. “Not necessary. It’s free if I go through the dealership.”
“They’re only free within a year of the recall,” Demo explained. “After that, you have to pay for labor.”
I shoved the receipt at him. “Then I’ll pay them for labor. I’ll pay whatever—”
He rolled his eyes and tossed it onto the desk. “I know. But for what it’s worth, though, I charge half of what they charge. Half. You won’t find that anywhere else in town.”
I watched Demo for a beat. The garage itself had seen better days. The doors were rusted, and the sign out front had begun to crack and curl around the edges. It was clear he needed the business, especially if Candace was right and he fixed cars for trade.
“Demetrious, are you groveling?” a little voice scolded from behind my back.
Demo looked over my shoulder, and his surly expression melted away. “Good morning, Yiayia.”
I turned around and was met with a tiny old woman who was eye level with my chest. Her head was covered with a perfect helmet of white hair, and the handbag hanging from her elbow was at least half the size of her little body. On her wrinkled face, she wore a pair of thick glasses adorned with a blue and white beaded chain.
“Morning, Demo. Who’s this?” she asked.
“A customer.” He nodded at me. “She was just leaving.”
Trey sauntered into the garage, carrying an oversized tray of fresh baklava. “Geez, Yiayia, do you think you made enough this morning?” He chuckled, before stopping when he saw me. “Oh, hey. Marisol, right?”
I nodded. “Yes. Hi, Trey.”
“She remembered my name,” he said to Demo with a grin.
“Congratulations,” growled his uncle.
“Ugh. So grumpy.” The old woman swung her giant black purse at Demo, swiping him on the hip. “He’s always grumpy. Even when he was a kid. Grumpy.”
I laughed despite myself. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“No way. Uncle Demo’s always in a mood.” Trey lifted the corner of the plastic wrap on the tray. “Baklava? My yiayia makes the best around. It’s won contests at our church. She makes treats every morning for our customers.”
“Thank you.” The smell was heavenly. I plucked one from the tray, knowing my trainer would punish me for it later. But once I took a bite, and the rich, heavy sweetness filled my mouth, I knew it would be worth it. “This is incredible.”
The old woman beamed. “Thank you, dear.” Her tiny, wrinkled hand slapped the side of Demo’s arm. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to your girlfriend, Demetrious?”
“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend,” I said at the same time Demo said, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
She winked at me. “But you will be.”
“Like I said, Marisol was just leaving.” Demo plucked my keys off of a hook above the desk and handed them to me. “Have a good one.”
Her little hand smacked his arm a second time.
“Ow, Yiayia,” Demo said, rubbing his arm. “Easy.”
Giggling, I shared a smile with Trey. It was nice to see someone of Demo’s stature getting his ass kicked by an old lady.
“Be polite, young man,” she ordered. “Introduce me.”
Demo drug a hand down is face. “All right. Yiayia, this is Marisol Vargas. I replaced her alternator this morning.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Trey snickered. When his Yiayia smacked the back of his head, he added, “Ow. Sorry.”
Demo looked at me. “Marisol, this is my grandmother, Thea Antonopolous.”
I shook her bony hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Antonopolous.”
“Oh, please.” She grinned. “That’s too formal.”
“Very well, then, Thea.” I popped the rest of the baklava into my mouth and chewed it slowly. Seriously… so good.
“Call me Yiayia,” she ordered.
I shook my head. “Oh, I couldn’t. I barely know you—”
“Well, you know me now. My grandson just introduced you.” She patted my hand kindly. “Tell me, Marisol. Do you have a grandmother?”
I blinked at her. Nobody had ever asked me that before. “I, uh, don’t. Actually. My father’s parents are deceased, and I’ve never met my mother’s parents.” I felt Demo’s eyes boring into the side of my head, but ignored it.
Her cool hands squeezed mine. It felt like she was made out of crepe paper. “Well, then you can call me Yiayia. That’s Greek for grandma, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
She frowned. “Every girl deserves a grandma.”
Unexpected tears pricked at the backs of my eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, well, that was nice.” Demo took my elbow in a firm but gentle grasp. “Marisol has to go now.”
“Aw, I just met her.” Yiayia’s grip on my hands tightened. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Demetrious. Let me get to know the lady a little more.”
“Yiayia’s been trying to get Uncle Demo married for years,” Trey told me. “All her other grandchildren are married by now, and he’s the only one still not making babies. She’s got expectations, you know.”
“Trey.” Demo shot his nephew an icy glare. “Yiayia, she just came to get her car so she could get back to work. She’s probably in a hurry, aren’t you, Marisol?”
“Hush it,” Yiayia snapped, gesturing to the baklava Trey was still holding. “Eat something, Demetrious. You’re acting like a goat.”
Demo released my elbow and jerked his hand through his hair, standing it on end. I waited for him to retort, but he said nothing.
I hated to admit it, but part of me wanted to stay. This Yiayia character could shut Demo up in one sentence, and for that, I had endless admiration for her. And besides that, the woman’s baklava could have easily substituted sex in my life for a very, very long time. It was if God himself had made it.
I wanted the recipe.
“So tell me, Marisol,” Yiayia said, looping her arm through mine and guiding me into the office, where she settled herself on a stool. I heard Trey sniggering out in the garage, and Demo telling him to shut up. “Are you married?”
I settled across the desk from her. “No, ma’am. Never even been close.”
“My Demetrious hasn’t been married, either.” She nodded her head in his direction. When I followed her line of sight, Demo was bent under the hood of a yellow Toyota, shaking his head at me as he cranked a wrench back and forth. “He got close once, but she ripped his heart out, the little tramp.” I choked on a piece of baklava, and she smiled proudly. “You like those? They’re my mother’s recipe. Best Baklava at the North Spokane Greek Orthodox church bake sale five years running.”
“Yes, they’re incredible.” I looked around for a napkin, but alas… we were in an auto garage, and there were none to be found. I settled for the back of my hand. “Do you only bake? Or do your skills include savory treats, too?”
She pressed a crimped hand to her chest. “Oh, my yes. I cook everything. I learned to cook in Papagos. That’s where my family was from. My parents ran a café.”
Oh, this just got better and better. “No kidding?” I squeaked. “I’m a caterer.”
“Aha, you see?” She shook a finger at me. “I knew there was something about you I liked. What is your specialty?”
I thought for a moment, and heard Demo scoff from under the hood. “Come on, Yiayia. Look at those fancy clothes. Does really she look like she can cook?” he called.
“Hush!” She scolded. “Please excuse my grandson. When he’s around a pretty girl, he gets nervous and puts his foot in his mouth.”
“Yiayia,” warned Demo.
“Demetrious Marcos Antonopolous,” she barked.
Offering him a haughty glance, I giggled. “Is this your family on the wall, Yiayia?”
She nodded proudly. “Yes. My husband and myself. Our children. Their children. Their children’s children. Every generation clear down to Little Demetrious’ generation.”
“Little Demetrious?” The urge to crack up was getting stronger. “Is that what you call Demo?”
Yiayia shook her head. “No, I meant Trey. His full name is Demetrious Bakas, and his mother is Demo’s third sister. We call him Trey for short.”
“His third sister?” I croaked, sitting on my hands to avoid grabbing another baklava. “Out of how many?”
“Six children in that branch of the family tree.” Yiayia beamed up at the wall. “His sister, Leni, is Trey’s mother. She’s this one right here.” She tapped a picture above her head. “And his other siblings are Niko, Agalia, Dion, Athena, and Cyrene.”
“Do you visit Demo and Trey at work often?” I asked.
She jutted her chin out at me. “Oh, I’m not visiting. I work here.”
“You work here?” My mouth dropped open. “At your… I mean, even though…” My voice petered out. I didn’t know what to say. I was pretty sure Yiayia was in her early hundreds. There had to be a law against making your grandmother work in a dirty auto shop.
“You mean even though I’m old?” She grinned. “Eh, I’m not so old. I’m eighty-seven years young.”
“Well, I hope your grandson pays you well.”
Yiayia nodded. “I’ve been answering phones here since 1943. My husband started the garage with ninety-three dollars in his pocket and having never driven a car before. Oh, he was always good at tinkering with things, and he learned fast enough. That was the original Demetrious. Then our oldest son took over. He was obsessed with cars, and brought them home from the junkyard to rebuild. That was the second Demetrious. When he died of cancer three years ago, his son took over. That’s the one who’s pouting under the hood of the Toyota over there.”
“Not pouting, Yiayia.” I could hear a smile in Demo’s voice.
She shook her head. “Silly boy. Now he’s training his nephew, and the fourth Demetrious, so that he’ll be able to take over the garage someday.”
“Will you change the name to Four D’s?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” she shrugged her stooped shoulders. “Suppose that’s up to Demo. But who knows what goes on in that boy’s head.”
Demo groaned. “Come on, Yiayia. Stop monopolizing the lady’s time. She’s got to get to work.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure she does.” Yiayia patted my hand, then picked up another baklava. “Here. Take one for the road.”
My brain screamed no, no, no! But my stomach growled for some more. I was going to spend a lot of time on the elliptical this week, that much was certain. “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her. “It was lovely to visit with you, Yiayia.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” she said. “Bring your fancy car back to us anytime. We’ll beat anyone else’s price. I guarantee it.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
“Or just come back to see me,” she offered, winking. “Or to see Demo.”
“You got it.” I stood up and propped my purse
on my elbow. “Say, before I go, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, my dear.” She sat up straighter on her stool. “Shoot.”
“Don’t let her ask you for a discount, Yiayia.” Demo growled in the garage. “She’s got money.”
“Oooh, burn!” Trey laughed.
Ouch. Shooting Demo a venomous glare, I shifted so that my back was to both of the D’s. “I have a wedding coming up this summer. A Greek wedding, in fact.”
“In the Greek Orthodox Church downtown?” Her eyes lit up. “Such a lovely church. All of my children were married there. And some of my grandchildren.” She sent a pointed glance over my shoulder at Demo. “I wonder if I know the family. Where’s the reception, dear?”
“The Montvale Hotel.”
“Oh, they must have some money to spend.” Her white eyebrows pinched together when she smiled. “Greek receptions can get pretty rowdy. Marisol. I hope you make them pay for extra plates.”
Laughing, I tucked my hair behind my ears. I’d forgotten about the plate breaking tradition. Thank goodness for Yiayia. “My partner and I have been asked to cook a full buffet complete with authentic Greek dishes.”
“That sounds lovely.” She sighed contentedly. “Nothing celebrates the start of a life together like some pilafi kritis and dolmas.”
“Good! That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” I clapped my hands together. “Because I’ve been trying some recipes, and haven’t gotten the grape leaves right—”
Demo appeared in the office doorway. “Yiayia doesn’t share recipes.”
“Is that so?” I offered him a haughty glance. “So, Yiayia, what do you think? Can you help me?”
I waited for her reply, watching as her eyes—the same shade of dark chocolate as Demo’s—bounced back and forth between her grandson’s and my faces. Five seconds meandered into ten, and the only sound in the air was Trey singing Nicki Minaj in the garage. After long enough to be officially awkward, Yiayia’s crinkled face brightened, and she clasped her hands together.
Score. Smiling smugly at Demo, I leaned in close to Yiayia. I didn’t want to miss a detail. I wondered what made the recipe perfect? Extra coriander? Maybe some anise?
