by Alice Duncan
“Goodness gracious, Daisy, what’s this?”
I’d thought the title of the book was pretty self-explanatory, but I told her, “I loved the food in Turkey, and they fix eggplant in all sorts of delicious ways. I just thought you might like to try a couple of the easier recipes.
Her head went back on her neck and she stiffened. “The easier recipes?”
Oh, dear. “I mean, it’s exotic foreign food. I don’t know if the family will like it. But it’s really good. I didn’t mean easier recipes, exactly. I only meant you might want to try a couple that aren’t . . . aren’t too . . . exotic.” I decided I’d probably be better served by shutting my mouth, since I only seemed to be flailing more deeply into the verbal quicksand.
Then Aunt Vi smiled at me, and I relaxed. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Daisy. I think I’ll enjoy trying some Turkish recipes.”
Thank God.
Pudge absolutely adored his Turkish dagger, although I’m not sure his mother and father shared his joy.
Ma and Pa exclaimed over the beautiful Egyptian rug and the camel blankets I brought back. And Ma was almost overwhelmed by the fabulous Turkish shawl and ceramic bowl I’d bought for her in Grand Bazaar.
Both Pa and Pudge loved their fezzes. I told Pudge I’d make him a Turkish costume like the one Ali, our guard at the Sultanahmet Hotel wore, and he thought that was a swell idea.
Aunt Vi loved the Turkish carpet I’d bought for her upstairs room.
Both Johnny and Flossie claimed to adore their embroidered Turkish slippers. I’d had to guess at the sizes, but they said they were perfect. And Flossie exclaimed in genuine delight over the fabrics I’d given her from both Egypt and Turkey. I’d been teaching her to sew, and I could just imagine their little bundle of joy—if it ever left its present cozy nest—all wrapped up in a beautifully woven blanket sewn by its loving mother.
I’d bought literally dozens of Turkish symbols said to ward off the “evil eye,” whatever that is, and all the neighbors and assorted friends seemed pleased with them. My brother and sister were absent from my homecoming, but I aimed to give them, and Daphne’s daughters, their presents the next time the family got together again for a holiday. Which, come to think of it, would probably be Thanksgiving. My, how time flies.
And then it was dinnertime.
A knock came at the door at a few minutes before six. I, after fortifying myself with a lungful of deliciously scented air—Aunt Vi had made her special beef Wellington for my homecoming—I nervously went to answer it. Sam. With a bouquet of flowers.
“Good to see you, Sam,” said I, taking the flowers. “Thank you very much.”
He hesitated for a moment as if ascertaining the validity of my gladness before he said, “Good to see you, too. Especially here in Pasadena.”
“Oh, come on. Things weren’t all that bad in Turkey.”
“Good God.”
I backed up in order to let Sam in, and he entered the house. I’d bought a gloriously inlaid vase in Turkey, and I went to fetch it and deposit the flowers Sam had brought in it. This time he’d come armed with yellow roses and babies’ breath. I think there’s something called the “language of flowers,” and I’m not sure what yellow roses meant, but I was pretty sure that red roses were the ones you gave someone if you were in love with her. Or him, depending on the case.
They looked very pretty as a centerpiece on our dinner table, whatever they meant. Dinner was, as ever, delicious, and it was good to have some of Vi’s cooking. Not that I hadn’t enjoyed the cuisine on our trip—well, once I got my appetite back, I mean—but you really couldn’t beat one of Vi’s meals. She was an expert. In fact, if she were a man, she’d probably be called a chef. And if she were a man and called a chef, she’d make a heck of a lot more money, too, but don’t let me get started on that.
Ma wouldn’t allow me to help wash up after dinner, and before Sam and Pa set up the card table and broke out the cards for gin rummy, Sam and I stepped out onto the front porch for a breath of air.
So I handed him the present I’d bought for him in Egypt and at Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. “You didn’t stay long enough in Istanbul to get anything for yourself, so I got you this.” My face was hot and I knew I was blushing, but it was dark, so I don’t think Sam noticed. “And I also got you a sphinx in Cairo.”
He was slow to reach out and take the package I held, and he opened it as if he feared I might have brought back a coiled serpent or something. When he opened the box and removed the exquisitely inlaid letter-opener I’d bought for him in the Grand Bazaar, I was pleased to see his eyes widen. Then he smiled at the sphinx and said, “Thanks! Thanks a lot. These are really pretty.”
“I thought you might be able to use the letter opener at work or something, and maybe put the sphinx on your desk. And you can tell all the guys at the station all about your adventure in Constantinople.”
“Yeah. I’ll be sure to do that.”
I almost laughed, but couldn’t quite make myself do it. The notion of Sam regaling his cohorts with adventures of derring-do in foreign parts was pretty funny, though.
Then Sam took a huge gulp of air, as if he were bracing himself to say something he didn’t want to say. “I don’t know if you remember what I told you in your hotel room right after we got back from the police station in Istanbul.”
Bowing my head to face the inevitable, I said softly, “I remember.”
“Well, I meant it, but I didn’t mean to blurt it out that way. And I’m sure you wish I’d never mentioned—”
“No!”
Sam eyed me slantways. “No? No, you wish I’d never said it, or no—”
“No, I’m not sorry you mentioned it. But I’m not sure how I feel, Sam. I mean, Billy’s only been in the ground for—”
“I know how you feel. You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I said—and with a good deal of vehemence, if I do say so myself.
A pause ensued. Then Sam said, “You don’t?” It sounded as if he didn’t believe me.
“No, Sam. I don’t hate you. At all. But I . . . well, I . . . You know. What with Billy’s passing only recently, and—”
“For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to marry me right this minute!”
Good old Sam. From words of love to a temper fit in a split-second. Well, I guess I was used to it by this time. “I know that.” I, too, could be irritable at times, and I was then. “I’m only saying that I think we need to take this slowly. If you know what I mean.”
He let out a huge breath. “I know what you mean. And I agree with you. I won’t push you.”
I glanced up at him, a frown on my face. “You’d better not, Sam Rotondo, or I’ll have Spike piddle on your shoes again.”
And with that, we returned to the bosom of my family. It was so good to be home. I sat up a lot longer than I wanted to that night, petting Spike and talking to Ma and Aunt Vi, not wanting to go to bed because I just wanted to soak in the atmosphere of love that permeated the house. And I don’t mean Sam’s for me. I mean my family’s.
I kind of staggered into the kitchen the next morning, Spike dogging my heels, so to speak, and found Pa sitting at the kitchen table reading the Pasadena Star News. I was so happy to see him there. The scene was so familiar, and yet so different from anything I’d seen for the past couple of months.
He lowered his newspaper and smiled at me. “You look good, Daisy. You’ve put on some weight, and it becomes you. You were kind of . . . um . . .”
“Gaunt? Skeletal? Skinny? Yes, I know. But I got my appetite back in Turkey.”
“Good for Turkey. Speaking of appetites, your aunt made some really good rolls for breakfast. I’ve never eaten anything like them before, but they’re delicious.”
And darned if I didn’t find a plate of lokmas on the table. Naturally, since we were in America, Vi had also cooked some bacon to eat with them. And the coffee was American, too. It wasn’t thick and black and tarry, but drinkable. Breakf
ast was heavenly. I only gave Spike, who’d managed to lose all the weight he’d gained during my starvation period, one tiny piece of my lokma.
Then the telephone rang. I looked at Pa. Pa looked at me. I sighed and went to answer it.
“Gumm-Majesty residence. Missus Majesty speaking.”
“Oh, Daisy,” wailed Mrs. Pinkerton. “I’m so glad you’re home again. I need you!”
So there you are. Things change. People come and go. Relationships change. Good folks die and bad folks live. And life goes on.
About the Author
Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico. She's not a UFO enthusiast; she's in Roswell because her mother's family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Now that Alice’s two daughters have moved to Roswell, Alice no longer longs to return to California, although she still misses the food. Alice would love to hear from you at [email protected]. And be sure to visit her Web site at http//[email protected] and visit her Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/alice.duncan.925
