A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “Cool your jets.” Babbas swept Gina into his arms and gave her a hug, then gestured for her to join us on the Greek side of the street. “We’ll be done soon. Just go back inside and try to come up with a plan to save your business once all of your customers fall in love with my gyro.”

  “Your gyro.” Laz spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of your gyro.”

  Yikes. Babbas might be okay with someone criticizing his children, but not his sandwiches. Slam-dunking the man’s gyro was nothing short of culinary blasphemy.

  Babbas hollered something in Greek. Laz reacted in fluent Italian, cane waving in the air. This went back and forth for a couple of minutes until they both stood face-to-face in the center of the road in a foreign-language duel.

  Laz finally stopped and shook his head. “If you don’t pick up those cones, I will call the police. This is a zoning violation. You are affecting my lunch crowd.”

  Babbas puffed his chest and squared his shoulders. “I’ll show you a lunch crowd!”

  Laz pointed at our shop devoid of customers. “Starting when? I don’t see a lunch crowd. All I see is a pathetic excuse for a sandwich shop and a grown man wearing tights.” He doubled over in laughter and the cane slipped out of his hand.

  “These aren’t tights!” Babbas pointed down at his Santorini-blue tights. “They are . . . are . . .”

  “Skinny jeans?” my sister Eva offered from our side of the street.

  This got another laugh out of Laz. He reached down to get his cane, then with a wave of his hand, he muttered something in Italian and walked back to his side of the street. “I’ll give you five minutes and then I call the police,” he called out in final warning. “They will set you straight.”

  Babbas walked our way and snagged the dishrag from Mama’s hands. He wiped his sweaty face, straightened his twisted tights, and then signaled for Hannah to start snapping photos of him. Minutes later, just as an officer arrived, they wrapped things up.

  Turned out the officer, a jovial fellow named O’Reilly, loved Greek food. Babbas invited him inside our unopened restaurant for a tour and a free gyro sandwich. “As a thank-you for protecting our community from crazy people!” Babbas proclaimed.

  O’Reilly didn’t argue. He followed my father into the kitchen and minutes later emerged with the largest gyro I’d ever seen. Go figure. Judging from the loopy grin on the fellow’s face, we’d be seeing more of him. He gave my father a wave, thanked him, and headed off on his way.

  Mama paused in the open doorway of our shop to give Parma John’s a final look. Then she offered me a weak smile and said, “I think that went well.”

  Mama might cover her feelings with a fake grin, but I knew better. Situations like this broke her heart. She wanted friends. Needed friends. Especially in a new home. But Babbas’s erratic behavior always seemed to isolate her from those most likely to connect with us—our neighbors. Sure, we’d eventually earn the respect of some customers, but customers and friends were two different things. Wouldn’t it be lovely to sit and visit with the folks next door or across the street? Now we’d never get that chance, thanks to the man in tights. Er, skinny jeans.

  Mama did what she always did when she needed to pacify herself. She went into the kitchen and baked. A couple of hours later we had several large trays of baklava and a few other yummy-looking desserts ready to sell on opening day. My mother’s mood appeared to have lifted with the process.

  She offered me a tantalizing piece of baklava from the plate in her hand. I gobbled it down in no time with a dreamy “Yum!”

  “Thank you, sweet girl.” She looked around the empty shop, then back at me. “Where is your father? Still bribing the police force?”

  “No.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “He’s upstairs. Said he needed to work on the computer.”

  “The computer?” Her painted-on brows arched in perfect unison. “Interesting.”

  “I know, right?” Babbas never used it, at least to my knowledge. Might be fascinating to see him try.

  Mama climbed the steps up to our apartment, still carrying the plate of baklava, and I followed behind her. She stopped as we reached the living room, and I nearly ran into her from behind.

  “What are you doing, Mama?” I asked.

  “As I live and breathe,” my mother whispered as she gestured to the living room on our right. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  I followed her pointed finger and saw Babbas seated on the sofa, laptop in hand. Open. I didn’t even realize he knew how to turn it on, let alone use it.

  Turned out he didn’t.

  He glanced our way and grunted. “Cassia, come and help me.” He gestured to the spot on the sofa next to him. “We need a plan.”

  I took a seat and took the laptop in hand. “A plan? For what?”

  “I need to get on the internet and research advertising tips. Maybe come up with a slogan, a new way to promote the business. Something we can use in the commercial I’m writing.”

  Mama took a seat in the recliner on the opposite side of the living room, and against my better judgment, I focused on the laptop, scrolling from one site to another. We examined other restaurants’ marketing strategies, but most seemed impractical for Super-Gyros. Too elaborate. Too costly.

  One thing did seem doable, though, so I pointed it out. “It seems like they all have celebrity endorsements.” I pointed at one site that featured a pro football player. “Customers show up because they trust the word of the endorser.”

  “Exactly. That’s what we need.” Babbas leaned back against the sofa, his eyes narrowing. “Someone big. A name that everyone recognizes.”

  “We don’t know any famous football players,” I said. “Or basketball, for that matter. So we’ll have to come at this from a different angle.”

  “Right. The sports thing doesn’t really work, anyway.” My father released a slow breath. “Maybe what we need—or who we need—is someone from Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood?” Mama and I spoke in unison.

  “Yes. Hollywood has produced all sorts of superheroes over the years. Superman. Spiderman. A million more. Why not use Hollywood to promote Super-Gyros? It’s the perfect idea!” Babbas rubbed his hands together and his voice took on a joyous tone. “I’ve got it! The answer was right under our noses the whole time. We have connections.”

  “We do?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He looked at me, his eyes now gleaming. “Your cousin Athena knows people.”

  “Athena?” My cousin might be an award-winning sitcom writer, but I doubted she would hand over the contact information for her Hollywood co-workers. No way.

  “She knows famous people because of her job,” Babbas said. “Maybe she could get what’s-her-name from the sitcom to help us out. What’s that one lady’s name again? The blonde? Or maybe that fellow who plays the part of her husband. He might be good. I could see him as a superhero, couldn’t you?”

  Babbas began to list others from the sitcom, but he’d lost me completely. I still couldn’t get past the idea that he thought my cousin might be willing to connect us with these people.

  “Brock Benson!” From across the room, Mama’s voice roused me from my ponderings. “If you want to get people’s attention, that’s who you need. Brock Benson.”

  “B-Brock Benson?” I quivered like gelatin as I spoke the name of my favorite TV and movie star. “How would we get him here?”

  “We will call Athena and invite her to come to Texas for a visit.” Babbas stood and paced the room. “Once she comes we will mention—in a subtle way, of course—that we would like to meet with Brock to discuss a plan.”

  Like my father had a subtle bone in his body.

  “When he arrives we will show him the commercial idea and ask him to star in it.”

  “Sounds dreamy, but we can’t pay him,” Mama said. “That’s a problem. A big star like Brock Benson will expect to be paid a lot of money.”

  “Of course we can pay him,” Babbas
argued. “We’ll offer him a lifetime supply of sandwiches. No one in his right mind would turn that down.”

  “But if he’s friends with Athena, then he probably gets all of the gyros he wants from your brother’s shop,” Mama countered.

  This garnered a couple of grunts from Babbas, as well as some mumbled words in Greek. “We will figure it out, Helena. The point is, we need to get Athena here. She and her husband can come for a visit to see our new place. Cassia will like that.” He gave me a “please go along with me” look. “Won’t you, Cassia?”

  I would love to see Athena again. Very much. And meeting Brock Benson in person sounded pretty appealing. Still, I hated the idea of bringing my cousin here just to use her. She would never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself.

  “I’ve always loved spending time with Athena,” I said. “But maybe we should wait until we have a real plan, Babbas. You know? We don’t want to appear desperate.”

  “Waiting is good,” Mama said. “We’re not ready for visitors yet. Besides, where would they stay? Our little apartment isn’t company ready. It’s filled to the brim with people and boxes.”

  “Athena and her husband are famous Hollywood writers. They have money. They can stay at a hotel.”

  “Niko!” My mother looked horrified by this suggestion. “We can’t put family up at a hotel. It’s just not done. Imagine what your brother would think!” She began to argue the point, insisting that she’d never heard of such a thing.

  I had a feeling Athena and Stephen wouldn’t mind staying at a hotel. In fact, I felt pretty sure they would prefer that idea to staying in our tiny little apartment that was already crammed full. If we could talk them into coming. I still couldn’t see why they would want to leave California and come to Texas just because Babbas asked them to.

  “We can worry about where they will stay once they accept the invitation,” Babbas said. “In the meantime, I need to create a commercial with a superhero theme. And we will need a jingle. Something catchy.”

  “A jingle?” Mama asked.

  “Sure, you know. You hear them all the time on TV and radio.” He started singing one from an insurance company commercial and Mama nodded.

  Then my father decided to sing every well-known jingle that came to mind. He covered everything from McDonald’s to Burger King to Oscar Mayer Weiner. Soon Mama was singing along. So were my brothers and sisters, who’d drifted in upon hearing the McDonald’s jingle, likely hoping we were going out to eat for a change. Like that would happen.

  When they finally stopped singing, Babbas rose and paced the room. “We need a jingle with a superhero theme. Something catchy. You can help with this, Cassia. You’re musical.”

  I started to argue, but a couple of catchy ideas came to mind. Ten minutes later I’d written a tolerably good jingle for Super-Gyros. Where it had come from, I could not say. Still, Babbas fell in love with it, and even Mama offered a “Wow!” My siblings joined me and before long we were all singing—with harmony, even.

  “It’s perfect, Cassia! And just right with your singing voice on the lead.” Babbas snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Our family will sing the jingle in the commercial!”

  “Oh no.” No, no, no, no, no. I would not, could not, sing in a commercial for the family business, especially not if my father—

  “I’ll wear the Super-Gyros costume and you can sing. It will be perfect.”

  The next thing I knew, we were talking about adding a stage in Super-Gyros where we could perform the song on a regular basis. No thank you. But how could I go about defying him when he looked so excited and so proud of my song?

  “This will save the day, Cassia. Brock Benson will do a cameo in the commercial and your song will play in the background.”

  I had to admit, the idea of my song playing behind Brock Benson did hold some appeal. But from the devilish grin on my father’s face, I knew he was up to something more.

  “We will put those Rossis in their place.” Babbas rubbed his hands together. “Wait and see.”

  Ack. The Rossis. I still needed to let Babbas know about my new job at the flower shop. Marcella would be waiting on me tomorrow morning, after all. Maybe I could tell him without mentioning the Rossi connection. Sure. He didn’t have to know that part.

  After releasing a cleansing breath, I dove right in. “Babbas, working with family has been so much fun. But you know how much I love to design flower bouquets—”

  “Flowers.” He snapped his fingers. “Excellent idea. You should wear a flower wreath in your hair when the commercial is filmed. All of the girls should. Oh, and your dresses—they must be traditional. Yia Yia can make them.” He clasped his hands together and his eyes appeared to glaze over. “We will all look so . . . Greek!”

  I didn’t mean to groan aloud but must’ve done it involuntarily. Not that it stopped him. Oh no. On and on he went, ideas flowing as freely as the honey my mother had poured over the sumptuous baklava.

  By the time the conversation ended, Babbas had pretty much planned out my future. Apparently it included several thrilling commercial appearances with me dressed as a young Greek virgin. Terrific. Now I just needed to figure out a way to balance my career as a jingle writer with my job at Super-Gyros. Oh, and my new position at Patti-Lou’s Petals. I couldn’t forget about that.

  Or maybe, just maybe, I’d better forget about that last one. And while I was at it, I’d forget about the ache that consumed my heart every time I thought about giving up on my childhood dream of working with flowers. Surely it would never come to pass now.

  One thing remained clear—I couldn’t do anything to stress out my father right now, not with Super-Gyros opening in two days. Our family’s survival depended on keeping him in good spirits.

  And so, with a smile plastered on my face, I rose and sang that goofy little jingle all the way into my room, where I climbed into bed fully dressed and pulled the covers over my head.

  6

  By Myself

  You might be Greek if you’re 5′4″, can bench-press 325 pounds, and shave twice a day, but you still cry when your mother yells at you.

  By Friday morning we nearly had the new shop ready for the following day’s grand opening. Never mind the fact that my father flaunted our write-up in the local paper every chance he got and littered the island with flyers. Most of the passersby seemed genuinely interested. Many even promised to come by when the shop opened for business, especially those with the coupons for free gyros.

  Midmorning on Friday Babbas prepped the fire to roast the lamb. Perfect opportunity for a getaway. He didn’t even seem to notice I’d left. Then again, he rarely noticed anything once he got busy doing what he loved to do. When a Greek father babied his lamb, the rest of the family could do as they pleased. My sisters headed off to the beauty shop, and I bought myself a few precious hours working at the florist shop while Babbas tended to the meat.

  I jogged the length of the Strand, past the luscious smell coming from Parma John’s, to Patti-Lou’s Petals a few blocks down. The bell on the door jangled as I walked inside, and Marcella looked my way and clasped her hands together. “Oh, good! You’re back.”

  “I’m back.” A whiff of the fragrant flowers made me forget all about the lamb I’d been craving.

  “I’m just so thrilled you’re here.” Marcella rushed from one side of the shop to the other. “After you left the other day, I got on my knees and thanked God.”

  “Thanked God that I left, you mean?”

  She giggled and tossed me an apron. “No, silly. Thanked God you’d come in the first place. Thanked him that you’d seen the advertisement on the trolley.”

  “So you’ve really needed help?” I tied on the apron, suddenly energized by its bright colors. My thoughts went back to Alex’s comment about how it suited me. Yep. It suited me, all right.

  Marcella continued to talk, oblivious to my thoughts. “Girl, you have no idea. I’ve been balancing motherhood with my work.” She stopped
to brush a loose hair out of her face. “I love both. I really do. But with a little girl in the mix now, as well as the two older boys . . . well, let’s just say I’ve got my hands full.”

  She dove into a story about her husband and his work at Parma John’s, and I swallowed hard. Great. Just what I needed to hear. My boss’s husband co-managed the pizza parlor with his uncle Lazarro. Perfect. Couldn’t wait to share this news with the rest of my family.

  Not.

  Thank goodness the conversation shifted as customers flooded the store. We stayed busy until around noontime, when a familiar woman entered with a sleeping toddler in her arms. I recognized her as the young woman I’d seen across the street, the one the hunky cowboy had swept into his arms. The one with the picture-perfect life.

  She headed Marcella’s way, and seconds later the two were enmeshed in a quirky conversation about an upcoming wedding for Gabi, their mutual friend. Marcella made introductions, and the woman—Bella Neeley—drew me into the conversation. The three of us ended up chatting like old friends. Turned out the girl with the picture-perfect life had a picture-perfect personality too. And a great sense of humor to boot. And speaking of boots, she confirmed that the handsome cowboy with the Stetson was indeed her husband.

  Bella had me laughing at least a dozen times as she shared stories from past weddings she’d coordinated.

  “So you’re a wedding coordinator?” I asked after a particularly funny story. “Where do you work?”

  “At Club Wed,” she said. “On Broadway.”

  “Wait, Club Wed?” I clamped my mouth shut, unwilling to voice the obvious question that came to mind. The one owned by the Rossi family?

  “Yes.” The little girl in her arms began to stir, and Bella comforted her. “My parents owned it for years, but they passed it to me. I’m the manager and coordinator there.”

  Parents? But her last name’s not Rossi.