“Isn’t there a Bible story with that name in it?” Marcella looked up from her work, curiosity in her eyes.
“Yes. A crippled man at the edge of the pool of Bethesda. The waters had curative powers.”
“Well, think about it, Cassia.” Marcella gave me another one of those motherly looks. “God has graced you with a name that has a special meaning. He wants to use you to bring healing to relationships. That should bring you some comfort as you think about the situation with your dad, right?”
I pondered her words as we continued to work. I’d never once given thought to the idea that God would use my name as a reminder that he longed to bring healing in my life. Now I couldn’t shake the idea.
With the sting of fresh tears in my eyes, I nodded and whispered, “I think you’re right. I’ll pray about that.”
For whatever reason, this conversation reminded me of Alex—of the feud between his twin sisters. Everyone else in the family seemed to get along fine, but those two sisters just couldn’t see eye to eye, especially with a fella in the mix. Why did some family situations have to be so complicated?
Marcella went into the back room to put the bouquets in the walk-in cooler, and I sat in silence, my thoughts firmly rooted in what she’d said. If only Babbas wasn’t so . . . difficult. Then perhaps I could see things through hopeful eyes like Marcella did.
A short while later the bride-to-be’s mother picked up the bouquets. I stretched my back, which was aching from working all morning. I prepared to head home but then ended up taking care of an elderly customer named Frank instead. I’d heard all about him from Marcella. Apparently this dapper fellow showed up every Saturday to purchase two dozen carnations, which he handed out to the widows at his church on Sunday morning. “So they never forget they are loved,” he always said.
In spite of his slow gait, Frank looked pretty chipper in his seersucker suit, bow tie, and circa 1980 shoes. I also noticed his trendy hairdo. Interesting.
“How are you today, Frank?” Marcella asked.
“Oh, the arthritis is giving me fits.” He put his hand on his right hip as he moved slowly in our direction. “And getting a good night’s sleep is getting harder with this bad shoulder of mine. But I’m still blessed by the best.”
His response brought a smile to my face.
“You want your usual order?” Marcella asked.
“Well now, yes and no.” He rested an elbow on the counter and I noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll take my usual two dozen pink carnations, but throw in a pink rose too.”
“A pink rose?” Marcella looked perplexed.
I walked over to the case and started pulling the flowers out.
“Yep. And wrap it separate.”
“Something we should know, Frank?” she asked.
“Maybe.” He arched a brow. “When I’m ready to talk. Right now just hand over the flowers and no one will get hurt.”
This got a laugh out of us. Marcella got busy with another customer, so I wrapped the flowers—all of the carnations in one bundle and the rose by itself, per Frank’s request—and then handed them to him. After giving me his usual cash payment, all in ones, he leaned toward me and whispered, “There’s a certain lady I’ve got my eye on, just so you know.” He gave a little wink.
“I thought so,” I whispered in response, then gave him his change.
He looked at me kind of funny as he examined the money. “You didn’t charge me for the rose.”
“It’s on me.” I smiled. “You just go nab that lady friend of yours.”
“Will do, will do.” He turned and whistled his way out of the store.
I reached into my pocket for money to cover the rose, but Marcella stopped me. “Oh no you don’t.”
“But—”
“Nope. This one’s on me.” She chuckled and the wrinkles around her eyes spoke of mischief. “But just FYI, you have no idea how many times I’ve given away roses to that man. He’s had his eye on at least five or six of the widows in his church over the past six months.”
“Oh. Oops.” I laughed as I tried to picture Frank courting the ladies. Couldn’t envision it. Still, the ladies had to be flattered. Or creeped out.
I walked home from the flower shop that afternoon, my arms loaded down with leftover roses that Marcella insisted I take home with me. As I sniffed the roses, I thought about Frank. Some men aged gracefully, retained their charm. Some men—like Babbas—seemed to get rougher with age. Maybe when I got to heaven I could take this up with the Almighty. He could surely let me know why I ended up with a grumpy man for a father. Of course, by the time I got to heaven, that probably wouldn’t be a top priority on my list. I’d be too busy singing in the heavenly choir or planting flowers in my heavenly garden.
This last thought led to some great internal questions about what flowers would be like in heaven. My imagination went crazy as I tried to picture the vibrant colors and luscious scents.
Thinking of flowers, as always, reminded me of Alex. I couldn’t help but smile as I thought about how great I always felt when we were together. I decided to shoot him a quick text just to let him know that, followed by “Wish I could see you.” He responded moments later with “We need to remedy that. Soon.” My heart burst into song, and I nearly forgot about the situation with Babbas. Nearly.
When I arrived at Super-Gyros, I put the roses in vases and used them as centerpieces on the tables. While I worked, Mama filled me in on the day’s details. I learned that my cousin Athena had called to let us know that she and her husband planned to come to Galveston the following week. To celebrate that great news, I decided to go for a bike ride. I put on my new riding shorts and brightly colored T-shirt and reached for my helmet.
Eva’s curiosity must’ve gotten the better of her. She followed me out to the storage room where I kept my bike, chatting all the way, first about Athena’s visit and then about my desire to ride.
“What’s up with all the bike riding, Cassia? Why do you go out so much?”
I slipped the helmet on my head and clicked the ends of the strap together. “It’s the only time I can truly be alone, away from all the chaos of the shop and the hundreds of people who surround me on every side. When I’m on my bike, I’m . . . free.” I didn’t mention the fact that my family—God bless them—was the loudest I’d ever known. The screaming, even the friendly bantering, was so high-pitched I could hardly stand it at times.
“Could I go with you sometime?” she asked.
“Sure. But we’d need to get a second bike.”
“I think I’d like that.”
I gave her a smile and climbed aboard. After waving goodbye, I set the music on my phone to exactly the right song—“Somewhere over the Rainbow”—and stuck in my earbuds. Then I took off, ready to be free from all of life’s struggles, including the obvious ongoing issues with my dad.
Well, until the trolley rolled my way. As it went on by, I noticed a new sign on the side: “Parma John’s Pizzeria, the island’s favorite eatery. Now featuring the Venus de Milo, a tasty Mediterranean pizza.”
Oh. Help.
Babbas would have a fit.
I rounded the corner, the wind blowing against my face. My thighs felt the burn as the breeze offered a little more resistance than normal. With my earbuds in, the music provided the perfect backdrop to convince me to keep going.
Off in the distance I caught a glimpse of seagulls circling a trash can. If I pinched my eyes shut for a second—not a wise move on my bike, of course—those seagulls might just resemble my family members, hovering around me at every turn.
The song on my phone changed, and I found myself caught up in a familiar worship tune. The upbeat melody kept my feet firmly on the pedals, which moved in perfect timing. Talk about a great motivator.
After a couple of minutes, I turned onto a back street and slowed my pace as the music shifted to a new tune. The words to the worship song hit my heart, and I pondered the situation with my parents, how I�
��d come to resent the fact that Babbas expected so much from me. Seconds later I felt a tug on my heart as the Lord whispered words of peace over the situation. I thought about what Marcella had said, about how my name meant healing.
In that moment, I saw hope for my situation. Maybe my father would never change, but I could. My heart needed an adjustment, a shift.
As I rounded a bend in the road, the gulf came into view. With the sunlight reflecting off the water, it took my breath away. Sure, I’d bragged that the Gulf of Mexico couldn’t hold a candle to the Pacific, but the glistening waters called out to me, drawing me in. I pedaled toward the seawall, slowing as I reached the crossing point. After waiting for the traffic to clear, I made my way across and went to the sidewalk on the other side. There I parked my bike and walked to the stairs, then headed down to the sand.
While I strolled along the water’s edge, I was reminded of everything Bella had said, how she had suggested I play up the similarities between Babbas and Uncle Laz. Maybe we really could bring the two together. I would implement a plan as soon as I arrived back home, and I would do so with a new attitude and greater patience.
Turned out the ride home was tougher than I’d imagined. The breeze picked up and worked against me all the way. By the time I got back to Super-Gyros, I felt winded in every sense of the word. Still, I needed to talk to Babbas, and I needed to do it now . . . before my courage slipped away on the afternoon breeze.
18
What’ll I Do?
You might be Greek if you think that activated charcoal, garlic, and vitamin C are the solution to all medical problems—including broken bones.
I passed off my bike to Eva, who looked terrified to get on it. Moments later, however, she took off down the Strand, all smiles, and I went inside the shop. I located my father in the kitchen, working alongside Darian. Perfect opportunity.
“Babbas, I really need to talk to you. It’s important.” I drew in a deep breath, whispered a prayer for God’s help, and waited for my courage to rise.
Babbas continued to work, not even looking up. “What is it, Cassia? I’m busy.”
“I know, but this is important. I want to talk to you about the situation with the Rossis.”
I noticed Darian cringe, but he said nothing.
“Rossis?” Babbas mumbled something under his breath. “I know all about it, Cassia.”
My heart went a little crazy at that proclamation. “Know about . . . what?”
“Their new sign on the trolley. Yia Yia saw it. But don’t you worry. Our sign will go up in a few days.” He spread his hands as if showing me the sign. “‘Enjoy the finest Mediterranean food on the island at Super-Gyros. Now featuring a meatball sub. Buy one, get one free.’”
“Well, that’s great, Babbas, but that’s not really what I meant.”
“What, then?”
“I’ve been thinking about what a great thing it would be for our customers if you and Mr. Rossi got along. Made peace.”
“Made peace . . . with that man?” Babbas turned to face me, a large slab of lamb in his right hand. He shook it in my direction. “Over my dead body! And explain to me how conceding to the pizza lovers will help grow our customer base?”
“It will, Babbas,” I said. “They will see you as gracious and hospitable, and that will make them want to come back.”
He grunted and kept working.
“I think Cassia is right,” Darian added. “I’ve been researching, and Italy and Greece are like Uncle Alex’s children and your children. They’re both Mediterranean cousins.”
“Why did you have to bring my brother into this?” Babbas’s face turned red, and he slapped the piece of meat on the counter. “Not all cousins were meant to get along!”
“But Athena is coming soon,” I said. “Surely you want me to get along with her while she’s here. Otherwise why would she want to help us?”
“That’s different.” The regret in his eyes was palpable. “I know that you and Athena are close.”
I chose my next words carefully. “You and Uncle Alex could be too. For that matter, you and the Rossis could eventually be close. Did you ever think about that? We could all be friends, and honestly, Babbas, we need friends.”
He looked out the window at Parma John’s, which was teeming with customers. “Italy might be our cousin, but that doesn’t mean we have to get along. There’s no law that says we have to.”
“Only that whole ‘love your neighbor as you love yourself’ one in the Bible,” I countered.
Wow. Did I really just say that out loud?
Judging from the scowl on my father’s face, yes.
“It makes sense from a spiritual standpoint,” Darian said. “And from a cultural one. It’s good to meet people who care as much about their heritage as we do.”
Another grunt followed from my father. He took the meat tenderizer and started whacking with abandon at the piece of lamb on the cutting board. Apparently this whole approach wasn’t working.
“Darian is just saying that the two countries have strong cultural ties,” I explained.
“And historical ties,” my brother added. “The friendship between the two goes all the way back to ancient times.”
“You and your research.” Babbas muttered under his breath as he pounded the meat.
“Point is, Greece and Italy are brother nations.” Darian stood a little taller, his shoulders now squared. I liked that confident look on him—a lot. “You might be surprised to learn how many Italians live in Greece, and vice versa.”
At this news my father spouted that he would rather live at the top of an active volcano than ever visit the country of Italy. “We may be cousins,” he said. “We may be distantly related. But that doesn’t mean I’m living on their land . . . or eating their pizza!”
“Even if they came over here and ate our food?” I asked. “Then what?”
“You’re telling me the Rossi family will come here and eat our food?” Babbas stopped pounding and stared at me. “That, I would pay money to see.”
“But if they ever did,” I said, “then you would make peace?”
“It will never happen.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed the idea as foolish. “So stop with all of this talk about Italy and Greece.” He pounded piece after piece, the only sound in the room the whacking of the tenderizer against the raw lamb.
I needed a different approach. I put my hand on my father’s shoulder and felt his muscles flex as he reacted. “It’s for your own good.” I lowered my voice. “We worry about you, Babbas. We all do.”
“Worry about me? Why?” He held the tenderizer but stopped pounding, his back still to me.
I squeezed his shoulder, tenderness rising in my heart as I spoke. “You’re so wound up all the time. It can’t be good for your health. We want you to relax.”
“Relax?”
He started pounding again and I pulled my hand away. “Yes. You work yourself to death. Never take a day off.”
“I take Sundays off. Never miss a church service.”
“Yes, but even then you’re promoting the business. I hear you talking to the choir director, the Sunday school teacher . . . anyone and everyone.”
“No harm in that. Even God approves of marketing.”
That piqued my interest. “Oh?”
“Yes. The Bible says that every tree that doesn’t produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. I’m not willing to be tossed into the fire, so I must bear fruit.”
“Agreed. But sometimes I think you overproduce, Babbas, and you’re too serious.”
He set the meat aside, wiped his hands on his apron, and started lifting cans of fava beans off the shelf. “If I want to feed my family, I must work. I will be found faithful in this.”
“Yes, but don’t you think it would be fun to take a vacation?”
“Vacation?” He snorted and nearly lost his grip on one of the cans. “Not anytime soon. There’s too much to do.”
; “Then a mini vacation,” I suggested. “You and Mama should go bike riding like I do. She would love that.”
“Bike riding?” He turned my way, eyes widening. “You can picture your old Babbas on a bike, wind whipping through my—” He stopped cold and pointed to his thinning hairline. “Scalp?”
I pressed back the giggle that threatened to erupt. I still couldn’t get past the fact that my father had the hairiest arms, legs, and back on the island but was showing signs of baldness on top. “Yes, I can picture it. And besides, you’ll be wearing a helmet, so no one will notice your scalp.”
“Over my dead body I’ll wear a helmet.”
Okay, there would be plenty of time to argue the importance of bike safety with him later. Right now I had to convince the man he could actually step away from his business for a few minutes to take a ride with Mama.
“Who would man the store if Mama and I both left at the same time?” he countered. “You’re hardly ever here anymore, and Eva has her head in the clouds.”
To my right, Darian cleared his throat.
“Babbas, you have to trust Darian to take a more active role sooner or later.” I nudged my brother with my elbow. “He wants to help you more. He’s loaded with ideas, in fact. Right, Darian?”
“Right.”
I nudged my brother again, but he didn’t chime in further. Instead, he shook his head.
“Did he tell you his ideas about articles in the paper?” I said. “And he always wants to help research new ways to get the word out.”
“I know, I know.” Babbas waved his hand in dismissive fashion. “I hear it all the time.”
“And Eva is great with marketing. She wants to go to school to study it.”
“Go to school? There’s no time for that. I need her here.”
“But she would be so good at it. She’s outgoing and bubbly and gets along great with all kinds of people. She’s a good writer too, Babbas. She could do an article about the shop for the local paper.”
“That last ad I put in the paper didn’t bring in much business,” he said.
A Bouquet of Love Page 17
