by kc dyer
After I realize I’m somehow already holding the phone to my ear, I struggle to sit up. My head gives a little spin, but not too bad.
“No—no,” I mutter groggily. The red LED lights on the little clock by the bed read 8:15. “I have to get up. I need to talk to my dad.”
I try desperately to concentrate as Anthony’s voice floats through the phone. He sounds almost—pleading.
“Gia, babe, listen,” he says. “You just caught me at a bad time earlier, okay? I feel lousy about how we ended the call.”
“I do too.” Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I see with a pang of something close to horror that I am topless and still wearing Sikka’s sparkly black dress, which is pushed down around my waist. I hastily pull the sheet up, as if that will change anything, and drag my attention back to Anthony’s voice. “Sorry—what did you say?”
“Babe. It’s after one and I’m super tired, but I couldn’t go to sleep with things so bad between us. So listen—I need you to know it’s all good now, okay?”
“It’s all good?” I repeat stupidly.
“Yeah. The markets are still a mess, and it means we can delay the fucking IPO for a week. It’ll give me time to get all my ducks in a row.”
“Your ducks?” I get an absurd image of Sikka making duck lips in one of the selfies she was taking last night, and my stomach knots in a way that has nothing to do with my hangover.
“Right. And listen, I talked to my mom, and we’ve got it all worked out. I know you’re worried about your dad, and seriously, it’s okay with me. Stay as long as you need to.”
“I’m—I just have to see him this morning, and then I’m coming home. Anthony, are you saying . . .”
“I’m saying I love you, babe. It was all a misunderstanding—our first fight can’t be our last, can it? I need you, Gia.”
“You still—you still want to marry me?”
“Of course I do. I never said anything otherwise . . .”
I think back to him saying, We are done, man. Done.
“But . . .”
He cuts me off. “No buts. Listen, I even managed to keep the cake people happy, and they accepted the booking over the phone. It’s all taken care of, babes. Deal with your dad, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“All taken care of . . . ?” I can’t seem to knock my brain out of repeat mode. And stupidly, all I can take from this is that I’m not going to get a taste of that chocolate raspberry truffle cake, after all.
“Right,” he says, and his tone softens again. “Honey, listen. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my intentions. I only want what’s best for us—for both of us—right? Now, I’ve got to go before I fall asleep on my feet. Love you!”
“Love you too . . .” I begin, but he is gone.
My phone falls from my numb fingers, and I clutch my hands to my only slightly aching head.
What—in the name of all that is holy—have I done?
Clean yellow light slants through the shutters over my windows and illuminates my face in the mirror on the wall beside my bed. My hair is sticking straight up on one side, both eyes are raccooned with mascara and eyeliner, and every inch of my exposed skin is apparently covered in glitter.
Apart from the glitter, I am the spitting image of the horrified face in Edvard Munch’s famous painting.
I leap to my feet and flee to the bathroom before I live up to the title and scream.
* * *
—
It turns out that curling up in a ball on the floor of a tiny en suite bathroom can’t really solve any problems. And worse, when I pillow my head on the cardigan I find discarded behind the door, I get the faintest scent of the hot guy’s aftershave.
The visceral pang this shoots through me sends me leaping into the shower. I can’t think about how, even when we were both slicked in sweat, he still smelled fantastic. I have to erase everything that happened last night from my memory.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower and wrap my hair in a towel. I have a little headache behind one eye, but nothing that an aspirin and a cup of coffee won’t fix. It’s the giant headache I’m worried about, and that one has nothing to do with alcohol.
A headache that comes from the tiny, niggling thought that Devi might be right.
No. No. I’m engaged to be married. I love Anthony and he loves me. What happened last night was—well, we were on a break. An admittedly very short break, but . . .
Suddenly, I have a thought. Undoing the clasp of my necklace, I replace the ring firmly back on my left hand. There. Physical evidence that Anthony and I are together. All my mistakes are behind me now.
I’m just drying myself off when there’s a rapid knock on the door. Quickly looking around, I see there’s only a single hand towel remaining in the bathroom.
The knock comes again, and this time, a voice hisses through the door. “Gia, is me. Open up!”
“Just a minute,” I yelp, and yanking the towel out of my hair, wrap it around myself.
I grab the handle just as the third set of knocks rattles the door in its frame.
“What the hell?” I say as the door flings open and Sikka pushes herself inside.
“Oh, good.” She looks relieved. “I thought I have to run back for key.”
“What? You can’t just . . .”
“I need dress. Woman came back for it—can you believe?” She strides across the room and plucks the sparkly strapless dress from its spot on the floor where I kicked it off earlier.
She shakes it out and—to my embarrassment—sniffs it. “Is good,” she concedes, and folds the dress neatly. “Good enough, at least. I take now.”
“Fine, fine,” I say. “Happy to be rid of it.”
She looks into my face suddenly and waggles her eyebrows. “You have good time with that gorgeous man last night, eh?”
I nod before I can stop myself and then shake my head hard.
“No. No. It was a mistake. I should have just gone to bed.”
She looks puzzled. “You did go bed. I put you there—early early—myself.”
I sigh. “I know. I just—I should never have gone out. My—my fiancé just called.”
She chuckles. “Your ex? I thought he dump you last night?”
I swallow hard. “Apparently not.”
This makes her laugh out loud. “Oh—ho! So he was home feeling bad, and you were out having sexy times with elkystika Ellines agoria.”
My face immediately flushes at the memory. I so was.
“No—nothing happened, okay? It was a little harmless flirtation, nothing more.”
Sikka shakes her head and sets the dress firmly on the table beside my bed. “Gia. I saw you come out of that room. I saw his face—and his neck! You don’t need to be ashame. I would have gone for him if I didn’t have Ivo. He was—how you Americans say?—so much a hunk!”
I clutch her arm. “I know, but you have Ivo. Just like I have Anthony. I’m not a cheater, Sikka. I’ve never had anything like this happen before.”
Her face clouds. “You no cheat. He dump you—your man dump you. I saw you cry!”
“I know, but it was a mistake. He was just—there’s too much going on right now, and me coming all the way here to Athens to find my dad—he was upset.”
She shrugs and picks up the dress. “You no cheat. He dump. If he wants you back now, fine. No problemo.” She grins at me. “Or maybe you stay apart? I bet I could find your hot man for you, and you give him another chance before you choose?”
I’m shaking my head furiously, but she’s not paying attention.
“No way he from here.” She taps one temple. “Must be guest. I do laundry in many hotels. You want me find him? What’s his name?”
“No—no. It was a mistake, I told you. I—”
Sikka shakes the dress at me. “U
nless you don’t know his name?”
Opening the door, she roars with laughter at the look on my face. “Okay, I go. And you? Have happy memory, nothing more.”
She steps out the door, then pauses, and sticks her head back inside. “Every girl need happy memory sometimes, eh?”
Then she winks at me and vanishes down the hall.
* * *
—
By the time I’m dressed, I’ve got the worst of the anxiety under control. Right now, my focus has to be my dad. He must have missed a couple of doses of his meds, but at least I got the pill into him last night. I’d planned to be up at six, ready to plant myself outside his door, but—well, there’s nothing I can do about this now.
I drape my cardigan over the back of a chair so it has a chance to air out and leave to find my father.
* * *
—
In the corridor, I run into Konstantin, who is in the middle of yawning widely.
“I beg your pardon, Meez Kostas,” he says apologetically. “My shift is end now. Time for me to go to bed.”
“No worries,” I say. “I’m still a bit jet-lagged myself. Can you point me to the breakfast room? I’m trying to find my dad.”
“Point you?” Konstantin says, looking horrified. “I take you there this minute!”
He sweeps an arm out to indicate our direction, and then bustles ahead of me down a long, dark corridor.
“Is just this way,” he says, making a sharp left and then, before I can quite negotiate it, a second.
I crash full out into his back as he stops abruptly to throw open a door. The light from outside pours into the dark entranceway, effectively blinding me for a moment. Eyes narrowed to slits, I am in the midst of apologizing for the collision when a voice drifts in from outside that I recognize.
Before I can react, Konstantin strides out, sweeping an arm back toward me like he’s announcing the arrival of royalty. “Dr. Ari—your beautiful daughter. She is here!”
Embarrassed, I scuttle behind him into a tiny, sunlit courtyard. The flagstone surface is large enough to hold only three slightly rusty wrought iron tables. The whitewashed brick walls are overgrown in lush greenery dotted with nodding pink flowers. A large tree dominates the space, providing shade for the diners at the only occupied table.
As I step out onto the patio, the conversation falls silent, and I find myself looking at a statuesque blond woman sitting beside my father. Her tremendous height is clear from the impossibly lengthy legs crossed beside the table, and she smiles up at me. Most of her face is obscured by sunglasses, but I can’t miss the lift of a single eyebrow as she glances from my face to my dad’s. Beside her, my father looks up in surprise.
“Gianitsa! You are here after all. I thought I only dreamed of you last night!”
He leaps to his feet and wraps his arms around me.
“Not a dream, Pops.” I thrust my hand in my bag for his pill bottle. “The real question of the moment is—why are you here?”
In the silence that follows my words, the attractive woman turns to my father and clears her throat. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion another time, Dr. Kostas,” she says quietly.
Her voice is deeper than I expect, and clearly American, and the sight of my dad’s abashed expression suddenly infuriates me. Finally, my hand closes around the familiar shape of the pill bottle inside my bag.
“No. No—don’t let me interrupt. I’m only here as an errand girl.”
I toss the bottle of pills at my father, who snags them out of the air and slips them into his pocket in a single smooth move.
Evidently pleased with this feat of hand-eye coordination, he smiles and gestures at an open chair. “Darling—sit down. Let me introduce you to my friend, and then all will become clear, hmm?”
As much as I want to vent my exasperation into his face, I’m genetically unable to create a scene in front of a stranger. And with the warmth of the sunlight on this little alfresco patio, relief surges ahead of my anger. I’ve done my job. My dad has his medication. The rest is up to him.
I slump onto the chair and watch Ari pour me a drink from a frosted pitcher sitting on the table.
The blonde slides her glass forward with one perfectly manicured red nail, and my dad hurries to fill it as well. The liquid is the palest orange and cold enough to immediately frost over the outside of both glasses.
“Thank you, Dr. Kostas,” she says in a throaty baritone.
This is confusing on several levels. My dad’s conquests often run to the squeaky-voiced, ingenue variety, but this woman definitely does not tick any of his usual boxes. She’s wearing a light linen dress, which fits her toned body like it was made for her, and four-inch turquoise stilettos, the quality of which I’ve only gazed at longingly in Fifth Avenue window displays. Her hands and feet are both larger than my father’s, but she moves with a grace that I can only aspire to. And while entirely glamorous, she is no ingenue. Her makeup is immaculate, but in this clear, Greek sunlight, the fine lines around her eyes are unmistakable. Whether she’s midthirties or midfifties, I cannot hazard a guess, but at least she is not—praise the gods—younger than me.
My dad’s hand closes around one of mine and gives it a quick squeeze before I yank it away. “Darling, I know you are upset, but hear me out. This is my friend Teresa Cipher. Ms. Cipher is the proprietor of a company called ExLibris Expeditions, and I have been working with her for the past six months.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Teresa Cipher says with a nod. “Gianitsa, is it?”
“Just Gia,” I reply shortly, and sip my drink to avoid further explanations.
My mind reels. So at least my dad hasn’t run off with another conquest, then. In any case—not one of his usuals. But six months? Before any of the questions squelching around my brain can take a useful form, my dad is speaking again.
“Between Ms. Cipher here and an archeology colleague I’ve just connected with, I plan to retrace the steps of Odysseus on his way home from the Trojan War.”
chapter eight
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Bougatsa
A recipe by Gia Kostas, aspiring journalist, poor social skills
Generally considered an after-dinner sweet, or perhaps an addition to afternoon tea if one is feeling decadent, this flaky custard pie is an Athenian favorite. It’s served in tiny, rich slices garnished with . . .
I narrow my eyes at my father, who is beaming across the table at me like he’s just announced a cure for cancer. “Who?”
“His name is Dr. Rajnish Malik. I’m sorry you missed him—he was here last night before you arrived. He’s made some amazing new discoveries at old sites using a new technology known as photogrammetry.”
I sigh impatiently. “No—I meant Odysseus. You’re following in the footsteps of Odysseus? Why on earth would you do that?”
Just as my dad takes a deep breath, ready to launch into whatever weird justification he has for traveling halfway around the world, Teresa Cipher leans forward.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to step away from this fascinating discussion,” she says. “Your completed file is here as we discussed, Dr. Kostas, with paper tickets clipped inside to the itinerary”—she shoots me the ghost of a smile—“since you weren’t comfortable using the e-tickets. If you have any questions, I won’t be far away. You have my contact details.”
“Not heading straight back to New York, then?” My dad jumps to his feet as she rises, and beams up at her. She is a full head taller than he is, and my stomach clenches just a little. He always goes for the tall ones.
She settles her sunglasses firmly into place. “No, not back to New York, at least for the moment. I’m in London at present, setting up a new satellite office there.”
My dad chuckles. “Glad to hear business is good, Teresa. So I’m not the only one following an Ex
Libris flight of fancy these days?”
She gives a little sigh. “Well, like everything, it was touch and go there for a while. I’m not completely confident the travel industry is out of the woods just yet. But ExLibris serves a certain clientele, and of course no one offers the level of service that we do, so I hold out hope. Thank you again for your custom, Dr. Kostas. It’s been a real pleasure revisiting Homer again, I must say. My card is inside the package, and should you need anything on your journey, I am always at your disposal. Lovely to meet you, Ms. Kostas.”
Scooping up the manila envelope, my dad starts to reach a hand across the table but hesitates and then hastily withdraws his arm.
“Old habits die hard—I know,” Teresa Cipher says, smiling again. “However, the whole elbow-touch alternative to the handshake appalls me, I must say, so I prefer to default to literary precedent.”
She steps away from her chair, bends gently at the waist, and gives my father an unmistakable, formal bow.
After bestowing a final, smaller nod to me, she strides off. The distinctive click of those turquoise Manolos fades quickly away into the darkened interior of the hotel. My dad settles into his seat with a sigh and leans forward to pour the last of the carafe’s contents into his glass. Returning the empty container to the table, he glances across to my glass.
“Oh, you need a refill, darling. Let me order another pitcher.”
I stare at him in exasperation. “I don’t need a drink, Pops. I need an explanation. A proper explanation.”
He chuckles uneasily. “Well, in that case, I’m the one who needs a drink.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, waiting. He drains his glass and then rattles the ice cubes inside. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was nervous.
“Papa,” I begin, in the most menacing tone I can muster, but he waves me to silence.
“I’d planned to tell you everything,” he says quietly. “Before the—the incident at work.”
