by kc dyer
I sigh and lean my own head back. “What were you even thinking, Pops?”
His smile broadens. “I was trying to get Paulo to tell me the story of how he lost his eye.”
I turn and stare out the window until I can’t stand it any longer.
“How did he?” I ask in spite of myself.
But my dad only shrugs as Taki bumps the car up against the curb. “When I ask him, all he will say is ‘Nobody knows.’ ”
As I open the door, a wave of exhaustion wafts over me. My dad, perversely, seems to have recovered and climbs out of the back seat by himself with only a small groan at the effort.
I’ve always felt in pretty good shape for a city girl, but it turns out my ability to walk sixty blocks in Manhattan at the drop of a hat doesn’t translate all that well to having to mountain-goat my way around these Mediterranean highlands. I don’t know what I would have done if Raj hadn’t been there to help get my dad back to the top of the path. I feel torn between being grateful to him and being mortified by the entire afternoon.
I trail in the front door of the guesthouse behind my dad, determined to put this day behind me. I’m going to send Anthony a little love note and then spend the rest of the evening finding a flight home. Drunken father be damned—I can’t stand the idea of having my own mistakes thrown into my face every time I look at Raj Malik.
My own searing hot mistakes.
Grabbing a handful of grapes from the huge bowl on the front desk, I turn and head up to my room.
The cool of the guesthouse is so welcome after the long, hot afternoon in the sun. In the bathroom, as I’m washing my hands and splashing my face, I notice my engagement ring is covered in dust. This rapidly turns to mud as the water hits it, clogging all the fittings. I snatch the ring off in horror.
It’s a gorgeous ring, a ten-karat diamond surrounded by twenty smaller but perfectly identical stones, though it’s always felt a little too big for my hand. There’s no doubt this is the most expensive thing I have ever owned, and for that alone, I feel duty bound to look after it. I think of all the times Anthony has held my hand up to the light so we can admire the sparkling radiance dancing off all the stones.
It’s not sparkling now. I close the drain carefully to prevent disaster and spend half an hour gently scrubbing away the ancient dust and grime from the site. When the ring is sparkling again the way it should be, I unfasten the chain around my neck and return the ring onto it, where it clinks against my small cross. Just for now, and only for safety’s sake.
Throwing open the window of my bedroom, I take a deep breath of the cool night air. The heat of the day has abruptly fallen away, and I can smell the salty tang of the sea on the cool breeze. It smells so different from the sea at home, notes of fish mingling with the fresh scent coming from the grove of trees planted below the guesthouse. Leaving the windows wide open, I sink down onto my bed, log on to the internet, and type the airline into the search bar.
As the Wi-Fi connects, my tablet pings with notifications of new mail. Scrolling through, I see most of it is wedding-related spam, but a note from Charlotte Castle catches my eye. The subject line reads: Your crazy idea.
My heart sinks. Charlotte has been a great boss, but one thing I have learned over the past few months is that she has no time for banter. She’s also almost militant in her ability to maintain an empty inbox.
I lean against the wrought iron of my headboard and steel myself for the worst. So it is with total shock that I click open the e-mail to find that she is not only open to my idea of a modern Mediterranean odyssey but already has a plan for publishing a series of installments in NOSH over the coming weeks.
I’m visualizing a new post from each of your destinations. Simple, local food, deliciously described and with accompanying recipes. We’ll need good, clear photographs to highlight the stories and will promote the series through social media and on the blog. Travel stories are so rare these days, people are clamoring for them. Think you can manage it?
I’m so delighted with this news that I’ve leapt right out of bed before I notice a second e-mail has arrived while I was reading Charlotte’s.
This one is from Anthony. My heart sinks when I see the subject line, which, strangely enough, echoes Charlotte’s: This crazy idea of yours.
Why would he bother sending an e-mail when he could just message me back? Or call? I quickly scan the contents.
If this is more important to you than planning your own wedding, so be it. I’ve spoken with my mother, who is quite frankly delighted by this turn of events. Luckily, she is known for her exquisite taste, and I will oversee any major decisions until you can get home.
It begins to make more sense when I get to the bottom and see the message was sent by Anthony’s executive assistant. Melanie’s worked for him for less than two months—a month shorter than our engagement, in fact—and though I haven’t met her in person, I’ve got a pretty clear impression. I picture her as a woman in her midfifties, her hair in a French twist, her look efficient and severe. And the truth is that while she’s a perfectly capable business correspondent, and is apparently so organized that Anthony’s office has never functioned more smoothly, her notes lack any kind of personal touch.
Regardless, Anthony has a right to feel disappointed, and I am determined to serve my penance. After a snack featuring perhaps the best olive tapenade I’ve ever tasted, I use the inn’s Wi-Fi to file my first proper story with NOSH. Then I leave my dad drinking ouzo in the lounge with Taki and spend the evening scanning celebrity wedding websites on the veranda under the reflected glow of a Mediterranean moon.
chapter fourteen
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Rizogalo
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Alexandroupoli, Greece
This simple, delightful rice pudding is a Grecian favorite, harkening back to childhood. It can be served at any time of the day but is a welcome comfort for breakfast on a spring morning. Start with your preferred rice—I always go for jasmati—and . . .
I knew last night that my dad’s plans involved an early morning visit to another site, so before I drifted off, I set the alarm on my phone. Not that I plan to accompany him. Now that Charlotte has accepted my story idea, I have work of my own to do. Also? The last thing I need is to have to face Raj Malik again.
Now that I am proudly writing as a special correspondent to NOSH, my goals for the morning are to make a list of article possibilities and to check in with Anthony. I found a cache of Idris Elba’s wedding photos last night, and I want him to have a look at the tux.
I mean, Idris in a tux . . .
I fully don’t expect Anthony to have the same reaction I do, but it is a nice tux. The fit is perfect.
So when the ting of an e-mail coming through awakens me, it takes a moment before I realize I must have slept right through the alarm. My first scrambled thought is that the e-mail must be from Anthony. But when I blearily stare at the screen, the NOSH icon jumps out at me. At the same time, the sounds of voices and traffic noise drifting in my window remind me that morning is well underway in Alexandroupoli. Dropping my phone onto the end table, I make a dash for the tiny bathroom.
After throwing on a pair of yoga pants and cleaning my teeth, I stumble out of my room and head for the stairs. Just as I round the last bend in the stairwell, I spot my dad climbing into Taki’s little blue car outside the front door. I lift my hand to wave, but he doesn’t see me before the door slams and the car hurtles away. I’m left standing in the doorway, mouth open, one hand in the air.
“Meez Kostas?” says a voice behind me.
I turn to see a young man, maybe fifteen or sixteen. He’s wearing casual shorts topped with a carefully pressed white shirt and what is obviously a clip-on black tie. He holds out a plastic tray, yellowed, with a cigarette ad laminated to the top. On the tray is a slip of paper with my name on it.
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My Gia,
Dr. Malik has found something he wants to show me in situ. Context is everything. Back before lunch. See you soon!
Papa xxx
PS: Took pills with breakfast. You see? I remember.
By the time I finish reading, the boy in the clip-on tie has vanished with his tray. With at least one obligation safely out of the way, I turn around and head back inside in search of breakfast.
Just past the tiny front desk, I spy an open door and peek through it. Inside, a half dozen small tables are scattered about. There are people seated at only two of them, and behind the nearest couple, a buffet board stretches across the room, crowded with serving platters.
As I step inside, Clip-On Tie reappears, his white shirt now safely wrapped up in an apron. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, his voice squeaking a little on the second word. A blush rises up from his collar as he directs me to an empty table.
As I sit down, I remember to pull out my phone and open Charlotte’s e-mail to find a disappointingly tepid review of my first submission.
Workmanlike. But it lacks magic. Needs punching up with sensory detail. I want to taste this food. Rewrite and submit again ASAP!
Italicized commands from Charlotte are too much before I’ve had coffee. I’ve never been a big breakfast person, usually content to grab a banana or, at most, a bagel with my coffee before heading into work in the morning. But I no sooner lift my head from my phone before Clip-On Tie and a young girl, who looks so much like him she could be his twin, leap into action. My small tabletop is swiftly adorned with cutlery, a basket with a selection of different bread rolls and rusks, and a tiny cup filled with muesli-sprinkled yogurt that smells like fresh raspberries.
The girl, who I only just notice now is also wearing a clip-on tie—though hers is a bow tie, and thus more forgivable than her colleague’s Windsor knot version—ushers me over to the buffet. It is, as far as my foggy brain can recall, definitely a weekday, but the food before me has more of a ring of Sunday brunch to it. She gestures me toward a huge platter of sliced cold meats—a selection of which I’m almost positive includes jellied tongue—and slips a plate into my hand. The rest of the table is laden with bowls of fruit, platters of sliced tomatoes, and several varieties of cheese, including a chunk of Roquefort that I can smell from across the room. There’s also a small mountain of baklava awash in slivered almonds and oozing with golden honey, and what looks like a spinach quiche.
My stomach is still in knots from Charlotte’s e-mail, so in the end, I settle on a bowl of fresh fruit with a piece of the baklava perched precariously on one side. This selection is clearly not up to the house standard, however, because when I return to my table, I not only find a cup of coffee waiting for me but a bowl of what I’m almost positive is rice pudding, sprinkled in cinnamon and steaming.
I slide the dishes aside, pull up the article on my iPad, and stare at it glumly. Around me, couples at the other tables engage in lively discussion while they eat, but I tune them out. If only Charlotte had been more specific—I mean, she wants to taste the food? How the hell is that possible?
Defeated for the moment, I remember to take a few shots of my breakfast before I start to eat. This draws the attention of the two elegantly clad servers. They are visibly delighted when I pull out my phone to document the feast, and their enthusiasm cheers me up a little. In no time, we are all fast Insta-friends. I learn that they are indeed twins, and while Ilias has a great deal to say, his sister, Iliana, seems quite shy. She shares his leonine head of thick hair but sports a worry line between her brows that is unmatched in his open expression. Their parents own the guesthouse, and since it is a school break, they are both helping out. Their Instagram accounts, which I dutifully follow, are filled with typically teenage shots; lots of sand and sea and parties, and at least half of Ilias’s recent posts involve some variety of bare-chested flexing.
Which he does pretty well, to tell you the truth.
The twins’ phones vanish in a twinkling when a shout rings out from the kitchen, and I return to the last of my breakfast.
“You America?” Iliana asks quietly as she returns to refill my coffee cup.
“American,” corrects Ilias, discreetly whisking crumbs off my tabletop into his palm. His sister looks mortified, the worry line between her brows deepening.
I nod and smile at Iliana, though my mouth is too full at the moment to actually reply. Her expression clears a little, and she gives me an embarrassed smile back before hurrying off into the kitchen.
“She does accounting books with our mother,” says Ilias by way of explanation. “Very good at numbers, not so good at English.”
“Well, your English is excellent,” I reply. “Much better than my Greek.”
He puffs up his chest. “When I finish exams this year, I plan to head to America.”
“For college?” I ask between bites of baklava.
He shakes his head impatiently and then leans across the table.
“Hollywood,” he says in a stage whisper, “is calling.”
This makes me laugh out loud. “Oh, so you want to be in the movies?”
He shoots me a startlingly white smile in lieu of a reply and disappears into the kitchen after his sister. I can’t help grinning back as the kitchen door swings on its hinges. A smile like his—coupled with that beefcake Instagram—is not going to hurt his chances in Hollywood.
Ten minutes later, my stomach distended but happy, I manage to make my escape from the food-pushing twins. I head back to my room to give the article another shot.
Someone has made my bed while I’ve been out for breakfast, and suddenly, I feel pathetically grateful that one element of my life is in order. But when I perch on the freshly made bed, the reality of what I’m doing sinks in. I’m here in Greece to keep an eye on my dad, yes, but also—I need to remember the importance of this golden ticket I’ve somehow been granted. Charlotte has given me a shot at actually being able to call myself a journalist. I do not want to blow this opportunity.
I don my sundress—still a trifle dusty from yesterday, but the only one I have with me—and whip on a little eyeliner. Tying my hair into a high ponytail, I briefly mourn the loss of my scarf to the winds and head out to find something in Alexandroupoli that will make my piece sing.
At the front door of the inn, after a single glance into the crystalline blue sky, I shoulder my bag and set out.
Because of our late arrival last night, I didn’t get much of a sense of the city apart from spotting a lighthouse standing sentinel near the sea. Maybe in the daylight, I can garner inspiration to help improve my piece for Charlotte. Armed with a paper map I collected from the front desk, I aim myself toward the sun-dappled waterfront.
This port city, which was a fishing village until the last century, is today the largest in Thrace. As I stroll along the promenade, I’m struck by the fact that Alexandroupoli has all the earmarks of any American resort city. I mean, there’s no Starbucks in view, but the waterfront is peppered with expensive resort-style hotels and restaurants. The biggest difference seems to be the size of the buildings. I remember walking along the Atlantic City boardwalk almost a year ago, celebrating Devi’s twenty-fifth birthday. We strolled from one hotel bar to the next, each one more floodlit and elaborate than the one before.
Here, much like the neighborhood in Athens and very unlike Atlantic City, there’s not a bunch of high-rise hotels. Instead, streets are lined with multiuse three-story walk-ups. At street level, these buildings are filled with storefronts and cafés. Everything seems pretty quiet, with hardly a camera-toting tourist to be seen. People don’t feel comfortable yet traveling around the way they used to, and in any case, it’s shoulder season, which means fewer visitors on the streets than in the busier summer and winter months.
This suits me fine, because it means I’ve got my choice of uncrowded vistas
for optimum photography. I spend a happy morning wandering the streets, taking pictures of all the food I can find in windows and on street carts, and—determined to punch up the story Charlotte deemed “workmanlike”—whispering descriptive phrases into the recorder app on my phone.
I’ve just added “the delicate beauty of lotus petals scattered across the plate . . .” when I spy a cute coffee shop overlooking the beach. The thought strikes me that a little refreshment after the morning’s extensive perambulations might be a good idea. I’ve just settled into a chair on the deserted patio when my phone pings. It’s a reply from Anthony.
Gia baby,
Counting the hours until you return. I miss you more every day. Keeping myself busy by thinking up surprises for you so you know how much you are loved. I have worked out three—yes, THREE—so far, each better than the one before. I’d promise more, but I fear that my talent with gift-giving might encourage you to stay away longer, and we can’t have that, can we? Ha ha.
For now, I will content myself with giving you a hint as to the first of the surprises. Take a look at this, my darling almost-wife, and picture yourself inside something just like it. Soon!
Anthony xxoo
I lean back in my chair to read his note and find myself beaming at the server when she arrives with my coffee. I feel suddenly grateful that Anthony and I managed to get past the rough patch. I mean, apart from that single bad argument, his patience with my weird dad has been amazing. As I take my first searing sip, I mentally enumerate all the ways I’m going to show him my gratitude when I get home. This backfires a little, as I get lost just for a moment remembering the feel of Raj’s hands on my bare thighs, but I manage to dismiss the thought quickly enough.
No more thinking about Raj. Instead, I vow to devote all this new bad-girl energy to making Anthony happy to see me when I get home.
