A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “Good.” She sat up in the bed and plumped her pillows. “Just FYI, I heard every word Darian said.”

  “Oh, man.” I sat up in the bed and looked at her. “You’re not gonna rat him out, are you?”

  “Are you kidding? Just the opposite.” She lowered her voice and checked the other bed to make sure Gina was still sleeping. “I need to talk to someone or I’m going to bust.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” She leaned toward me. “Houston, we have a problem.”

  “Join the club.”

  “Yeah, I’m a member of the club, all right.” She released an exaggerated sigh and lay back against the pillows in dramatic fashion. “I went to have my hair cut at a new place a few doors down. Sassy Shears.”

  “Great cut, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” She fussed with her hair. “I took Gina with me. She needed a trim.”

  “Okay.” Couldn’t figure out where this was going, but that was often the case with Eva’s stories.

  A delightful smile tipped up the edges of my sister’s lips. “The girl who cut my hair was great. Well, actually, she wasn’t a girl—she’s in her late twenties, I guess. The age part didn’t really matter. Her name’s Sophia, and we totally got along. We just started talking, and before I knew it an hour had gone by.”

  “That’s good, Eva. I’m glad you’re making friends.”

  “Me too. The best part was we had so much in common. She loves great hair, I love great hair.” Eva chuckled. “She’s really into fashion, I’m into fashion. She has an older sister, I have an older sister.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad you’re finding people to connect with. It’s good for you.”

  “Yes, but . . . you didn’t hear the rest.” Eva leaned close to me again and lowered her voice. “Her family runs a business, our family runs a business.”

  “Sounds like a divine appointment.”

  “Only one teensy-tiny problem.” Eva bit her lip. “Her last name is Rossi. Well, at least it used to be. She’s married now, so she has a different last name. But she’s a Rossi, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Oh no.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Another one?”

  “I think they’re everywhere.” Eva smiled. “You know that girl we keep seeing come out of Parma John’s? The one with the perfect life? That’s Sophia’s older sister—”

  “Bella.” I said her name and sighed with relief. It would feel good, really good, to tell someone in the family about my friendship with Bella and Marcella.

  “Wait, you know her sister?” Eva shook her head. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded and then told her all about the Marcella/Bella/Rossi connection at the flower shop.

  “You had no idea when you took the job, though?” She seemed mesmerized by this. “Crazy.”

  “I know. But I love it there. And Marcella and Bella are totally great.”

  “So’s Sophia.”

  “And apparently Bubba’s been a good friend to Darian.”

  Eva sat back and closed her eyes. “We’re doomed.”

  “Doomed might be a little dramatic.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Her expression tightened. “Still, I hate this trapped feeling. There’s got to be a way out. If someone doesn’t do something”—she stared me down—“I’ll never get out of here in one piece. I’ll be tied to Babbas’s apron strings forever. You know?”

  Of course I knew. Those apron strings were choking the life out of me even as we spoke.

  “Sometimes I just want to run away from home.” Eva rolled over in her bed. “Go back to California, where people are normal.”

  I wasn’t sure about that last part, but I did fight that running-away-from-home feeling . . . a lot. Only, now I couldn’t run. Not with Alex in the picture. To leave him would be heartbreaking.

  Eva’s words about the apron strings bothered me all evening. When I awoke Monday morning, I still found myself troubled by our conundrum. What sort of family felt trapped by their father? Sure, we were instructed to respect our parents, but at what cost? Self-worth? Lack of friendships?

  I must’ve been wearing my troubles on my face when I entered the flower shop because Marcella and Bella both gave me concerned looks.

  “Everything okay?” Bella said from behind the counter.

  “Hmm?” I put my purse away in the back room, then came back out to join them. “Not really.”

  “Want to talk?” Marcella asked.

  “No.” I shook my head. “You two are busy. I’ll be okay. I need to go through last week’s deliveries and prune out the dead flowers.”

  Bella still looked concerned. “No, we’re just talking about centerpieces for a wedding that’s months off. I have a feeling you’re dealing with something a little more pressing than that.”

  Pressing. Sounded like the right word. With Babbas demanding so much of our family, I felt like he was pressing, all right—pressing the air right out of my lungs.

  “How can we help?” Bella asked. “I mean, I know I’m not involved in the situation—whatever it is—but I want to be there for you. That’s what friends are for. You know?”

  How could I resist the hand of friendship Bella was offering? To do so would be ridiculous.

  “Sometimes it helps to have an outsider weigh in,” Marcella said. “To give an unbiased opinion. That sort of thing.”

  “But that’s just it.” I turned to face them, the sting of fresh tears in my eyes. “You’re not outsiders. And Bella, you’re wrong to say you’re not in the situation. You’re involved. You just don’t know it.” Moisture spilled over my lashes and down my cheeks.

  Bella rose and took several quick steps toward me. “I’m sorry, but I’m so confused. Have I done something to hurt you? To offend you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Is it me?” Marcella looked worried. “I’ve been leaving you at the shop alone way too much. I knew it. You’re feeling taken advantage of.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just . . .” I brushed tears away with a swipe of my hand. “I’m not supposed to like you.” A dramatic groan escaped, and I slapped myself on the forehead.

  “Not supposed to like me?” Fine lines appeared on Bella’s otherwise perfect brow.

  “I think she was talking to me.” Marcella drew in a deep breath and held it as if preparing for bad news.

  Bella shook her head. “No, she was definitely talking to me.”

  “I . . . I’m referring to both of you. I’m not supposed to like anyone in the Rossi family. Not Marcella. Or Bella. Or Scarlet. Or Uncle Laz. Or Aunt Rosa. Or Bubba. Or Sophia. Or anyone else whose last name is now or has ever been Rossi.” I slid down into the chair behind the counter and put my head down.

  “Why?” Bella sat next to me.

  “Because you sell pizza.” I lifted my head and glanced her way.

  “Technically, neither of us sells pizza,” Marcella argued.

  “True. But you’re both Rossis and the Rossis sell pizza. Really, really yummy, gooey, amazing, can’t-wait-to-have-it-again pizza. On the Strand.”

  “And this is a problem because . . .” Bella said.

  “Because my family is Greek.”

  “Okay.” She looked more perplexed than ever.

  “Greek. As in . . . Greek food.” Just come out and say it, Cassia. She’s going to find out anyway. “My parents own the restaurant directly across the street from Parma John’s.”

  “Super-Gyros?” Her gaze narrowed. “The new place?”

  “Yep. The finest in Greek cuisine, run by a man—my father—who happens to have the most competitive spirit on the planet. He won’t stop until . . .” Nope. Wouldn’t finish the sentence.

  Bella’s brows creased. “So, the guy in the photo shoot—the one who has Uncle Laz so worked up. The one with the tights. He’s . . .”

  My gaze shifted to the window. Oh, how I’d hoped to avoid this conversation. “Yeah. That’s him. My dad. Niko Pappas, su
perhero extraordinaire, star of stage and screen. Well, he will be, as soon as the new commercial airs. We were supposed to film it yesterday but the videographer had to cancel. And that reminds me, I wrote a perfectly ridiculous jingle for Super-Gyros, so I’m about to be famous too. For all the wrong reasons, I mean.”

  “Oy.” Marcella’s hand covered her mouth and she grew silent.

  Bella’s eyes widened. “This changes everything.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much. But it doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends, right?”

  “Right.” Bella nodded, but I could read the concern in her expression.

  I looked Marcella’s way, and she nodded too but didn’t say a word.

  “Of course we’ll still be friends.” Bella smiled, but it looked a bit strained. “We can’t let our silly families separate us.”

  I could tell she was trying to sound convincing, but I didn’t buy it. Not for a minute. My heart felt as if it had taken a swan dive into the icky waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “What can we do?”

  “I dunno.” I gave a little shrug. “Something to end the feuding? A peace treaty?”

  “You obviously don’t know my uncle Laz.” She sighed.

  “And you obviously don’t know my dad. He’s got this mentality that everything he does has to be bigger. Better.”

  “Kind of like My Big Fat Greek Wedding?” She quirked a brow.

  “Yeah, only he’s not interested in weddings unless he happens to be catering one, and even then it’s all about the money he can make off the bride. Now that I’m in the flower business, he’ll probably count on me to send brides to him for food. See what I mean? With my dad, it’s all business all the time.” I paused and thought about that last line. “Well, that’s not true. Babbas loves the family.”

  “Babbas?” Marcella looked perplexed.

  “That’s what we call him.”

  “Ah. Interesting.” She shrugged.

  “And my grandmother is Yia Yia and my relatives are nuts and we really are a lot like that family in the movie you just mentioned. Only weirder.”

  “Impossible.” Bella released a chuckle. “I saw that movie. They were nuts. The whole family.”

  “Oh, we are too. I have six brothers and sisters and we all have ABC names.”

  Bella shrugged. “No idea what that ABC part means, but congrats on all the brothers and sisters. I come from a huge family too. You met my siblings.”

  “Yeah, they’re great too. But imagine living with all of them—or most of them—in an apartment above your store.”

  “Lots of families do.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait . . . I’ve noticed someone sitting in the window, looking down. Couldn’t really make out the face, though. Are you saying that was you all along?”

  “Yeah. Me. And my sister Eva, who, by the way, has struck up a friendship with your sister Sophia.”

  “Priceless.” Bella shook her head.

  “We’ve been watching you and your husband, dreaming of what it would be like to have your life. Seems so . . . perfect.”

  “Perfect?” She erupted in laughter and then looked at Marcella, who sniggered. “That’s so funny.” The chuckles turned into full-fledged guffaws, and before long Bella and Marcella were doubled over in laughter.

  While my friends laughed themselves silly, my sister’s comment about the apron strings consumed my thoughts once again. I forced back the lump in my throat. This might seem funny to them, but I couldn’t find the humor in the situation at all. No, all I saw were a thousand reasons my father could bring all of our new relationships crashing down around us in one swift move.

  “Sometimes I just want to leave. Get out of here. You know?”

  Both women stopped laughing at that proclamation.

  Marcella looked at me, her eyes widening. “Oh, Cassia, it all makes sense now. I understand why you’re so infatuated with Judy Garland.” She gave me a knowing look. “It’s that whole ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’ theme. You’re subliminally longing for a different life.”

  I couldn’t help but sigh. She’d hit the nail on the head, after all. “Do I drive you crazy with the Judy Garland songs?” I asked.

  “Drive me crazy? No.” Marcella laughed. “But I think we’d be safe to say you’ve covered every song in her repertoire since you started working for me.”

  Embarrassment swept over me.

  “Even I’ve noticed.” Bella pointed a slender index finger at me. “And I have to agree with Marcella. I think she’s on to something. Maybe you want to run from your situation—kind of like Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged.

  “Well, remember, it didn’t solve her problems. She ended up doing battle with the Munchkins.”

  “No,” I countered, “she didn’t battle the Munchkins. She battled the monkeys and the Wicked Witch.”

  Bella waved her hand in the air. “Still, it wasn’t all roses.”

  “Poppies.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Weren’t the roses—er, poppies—bad or something?”

  “Poisonous,” I said. “The Wicked Witch cast a spell on them.”

  “Right, right.” Bella shook her head and leaned against the counter. “Anyway, when you run away from home, it never really ends well. You get chased down by an old lady riding on a broom, and then you have to walk a really long way down a yellow road.”

  “Yellow brick road.”

  “Right.”

  “Point is, you’ve got to face your challenges and march through them,” Marcella said. “Not run away from them.”

  “Not that I’d get very far anyway. Babbas would hunt me down. He’d come all the way to Oz to fetch me back to Kansas again. Er, Galveston. I’m never going to get out from under his thumb. That might not make sense to the average person my age, but it’s my reality.”

  “Then we have more in common than you know.” Bella’s expression grew more serious. “I remember a time in my life when I wanted nothing more than to break free from the confines of my very large, crazy family. They are crazy, you know.”

  I sighed. “Tell me about it.” When she gave me a funny look, I added, “My family, I mean. They’re crazy.”

  “Our two families are so much alike it’s nuts. In fact, they’re so much alike that maybe they could be related.” She paused, then snapped her fingers. “Or friends, at the very least. That’s it, Cassia.”

  “What’s it?”

  “That’s the way we get Uncle Laz and your father to play nice. Point out all the things they have in common. Get them to see that they are more alike than they are different.” She started giving me all sorts of facts about our two cultures being related, even stating that Greeks and Italians were technically kissing cousins. Her suggestions to merge the two, however, went in one ear and out the other.

  Get Babbas and Uncle Laz to play along? Yeah, it sounded good in theory. In reality, I could already hear the Munchkins singing in my head. Or maybe those voices were the evil monkeys. Either way, I’d never find my way out of Oz with Babbas controlling every aspect of my life from behind the proverbial curtain.

  17

  Come Rain or Come Shine

  You might be Greek if you hate going out in public with your family because people always think you’re fighting when you’re really just loud.

  On the Saturday after my heart-to-heart conversation with Bella and Marcella, I went back to work at the flower shop. Marcella had somehow overlooked a large order for a wedding and needed my help pronto. Thank goodness we had plenty of flowers in stock. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d managed to forget something this important, though. She seemed to be slipping up a lot.

  We worked at a record pace. Marcella spent much of the time thanking me for helping her pick up the slack. “I truly don’t know how I would manage without you, Cassia,” she said. “More and more I find myself distracted.” She gave me a winsome smi
le. “I guess my heart’s just at home with my family. You understand.”

  “After our conversation the other day, you think I want to spend more time with my family?” I laughed, then shame washed over me. “I’m sorry. I guess it sounds like I don’t love them. I do. Very much.” Even Babbas, though he drove me nuts at times.

  “I understand, Cassia.” Her eyes misted over. “We’ve been through so many ups and downs in our marriage . . .” She grew quiet, then shook her head. “Anyway, I know what it’s like to keep up appearances. It’s better just to come clean and let your emotions out. Don’t let things build up.”

  “Right.”

  She gave me a motherly look. “God has done so much in my relationship with my husband over the past few years. And with his family too. I truly believe he can mend whatever is going on between you and your father if you ask him to.”

  “I have asked.”

  “Well, don’t give up. Keep asking and keep believing. We don’t know God’s time frame, but we do know that he wants us to be in good relationships with each other. One of these days you’ll be proud to be a Pappas.”

  I was proud of it already, though it rarely showed.

  “Hey, speaking of your name, I want to apologize.” She laughed. “I actually thought your last name was Bethesda. I feel awful that I didn’t even give your résumé a close look. Will you forgive me? I was so . . .”

  “Distracted.” We spoke the word together.

  “It’s probably for the best that you didn’t realize I was a Pappas at the time,” I said. “Maybe you wouldn’t have hired me.”

  “Not sure if it would’ve influenced me or not. But to my credit, Bethesda sounds like a last name. Never heard it used as a middle name.”

  “Right? And you probably won’t again.” I quickly lit into a story about how and why I’d been given such an odd name. “My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was a Bethesda before she married, so I was given her name.”

  Oh, wow. I realized in that moment that my parents hadn’t just slapped together ABC names for their kids. Each of us had a middle name from a family member who’d gone before.

  “Bethesda means ‘flowing water,’” I explained. “Or ‘house of mercy.’ I’ve always been drawn to the water.”