by kc dyer
“Uh—Pops?” I fling open one of the empty cupboards. “There’s nothing to eat in this place. Like nothing. Not a cracker. In any case, as you can clearly see, I’ve been working all afternoon, myself.” I somehow manage this last with a straight face, mostly because I’m so irritated at his presumption.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he crows, oblivious. “Self-catering, and we didn’t bring anything with us. I forgot completely. But not to worry, darling. Taki promised to drop by later to bring a few essentials. You can whip up breakfast tomorrow to make it up to me, eh?”
He turns and winks at Raj, who has taken an unconscious step back. Only the irritation I feel at myself for wasting the whole afternoon prevents me from taking my dad’s head right off.
Instead, I smile sweetly and pick up my cardigan. “I didn’t realize you brought me along as domestic help, Pops. But since there’s nothing I can whip up for you at the moment, should we go in search of some food in the village?”
Raj winces at this, but my dad, curse him, still misses my sarcastic tone entirely. Instead, he claps his hands delightedly.
“Of course, of course! But darling, you’ll have to stay here. I’m quite sure that our friend doesn’t want to double us both on his scooter.”
I narrow my eyes at him and snatch up my bag.
“Quite unnecessary, I promise you.” I stomp out of the house ahead of both of them. “As I plan to walk.”
chapter seventeen
STILL, ASTONISHINGLY, WEDNESDAY
Scampi
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, outside Matala, Crete
A dive into the cuisine of Greece is like slipping beneath the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean; filled with adventure and with new knowledge at every turn. You may well have gone all your long life believing scampi to be shrimp, but I am here to tell you . . .
In the end, we all walk down to the village together. The two men follow behind me, Ari telling Raj about the accident with the basketball players.
“Damnedest thing you ever saw, all those enormous boys pouring out of that tiny car,” he says.
I’m still cranky, so I snort a little at this, coming from a man who had been safely ensconced in the front of the vehicle and who couldn’t possibly have seen any of what he’s describing.
My dad crinkles his eyes at me. “Of course, Gia had a bird’s-eye view, didn’t you, koritsi?”
I think back to the accident, to being at the bottom of a pile of bodies when Spiro hit the brakes and then suddenly being at the top of the pile after the Mini bumped us.
“It was more like being in a rugby scrum.” The ocean breeze has loosened my ponytail, so I tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “I had to disentangle myself from all those Panagiotakises in the back, first. But yeah—I have no idea how they crammed so many giant guys into one tiny car.”
Raj laughs out loud. “I am so sorry I missed it,” he says. The wind has finally blown the helmet-head out of his hair, and he’s rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.
I grin back at him. “You have to understand, these guys were huge—like, almost the size of Paulo, every one of them. Watching them tumble out of that little car . . . It was pretty amazing.”
My dad waggles his eyebrows. “I think we got away lucky. When Odysseus met his giants, the Laestrygonians, they wrecked all his ships and ate his men.”
As he speaks, he catches the toe of one of his shoes in a section of crumbled sidewalk and stumbles. Quick as a flash, Raj reaches over and steadies my dad back onto his feet.
“Whoa—thank you,” gasps Ari. “It’s been a long day. I’m ready for a bite to eat and a nice cold G&T.”
Raj smiles. “Almost there. I’ve had enough of this sun too.”
As we carry on walking, I notice he positions himself just a little closer to my dad’s side, one tanned, muscular forearm held cautiously at the ready.
My heart gives a thump that I am so not ready for, it actually stops me in my tracks for a minute.
As my dad describes the experience of driving in Spiro’s amazing vehicle, I try to shake it off and hurry to catch up with them again. I spend the rest of the walk into the village silently castigating myself. This is Greece, filled with the buffest of man bods, and here I am, fixated on an unexpected kindness and a glimpse of forearm.
I’ve been away from home—and from Anthony—too long.
As we walk up to a likely looking taverna on the waterfront, I decide to throw expense to the winds and call Anthony as soon as I can get service on my phone.
There are a handful of tables scattered on a deck hewn from the smooth wood of olive trees. We are seated right away at a table beside the water. The deck is bleached almost white from the sun and forms a part of the dock. There is a quiet splash of waves against the hulls of a dozen or more fishing boats that are moored nearby, and the air is alive with the gentle tinkling of wind through the riggings. The taverna deck is festive, draped in wisteria and fairy lights, though only two of the tables have diners. A family of four, plus a round, happy baby, enjoy a meal consisting of a dozen communal dishes crammed into the center of a large table. I resist the urge to lean over and photograph the whole thing.
Barely.
Once I know where we are to be seated, I mumble something about needing the washroom and then head off to find a quiet spot to make my call.
The time difference is seven hours, so I feel like I have a good chance to catch him, especially if he’s on his lunch hour. I check my phone and see I’ve got three out of four bars—that should be plenty.
It takes a moment for the call to click through, but it only rings once before it’s picked up.
“Anthony Hearst’s office,” says a light, young, decidedly not-Anthony voice.
“Uh—his office?” I ask, feeling stupid. “Isn’t this his cell phone?”
“Yes—yes it is!” the voice chirps animatedly. “But Mr. Hearst is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. Who’s calling, please?”
I am so thrown off I forget my own name for a moment. Anthony never hands off his cell phone. He turns it off all the time—most irritatingly—but will never relinquish it to anyone.
“I—it’s Gia. His fiancée,” I stammer before I manage to get a grip on myself.
“Gianna!” The woman’s voice warms immediately. “I thought I spotted your name on the screen. How are you? Are you still in Athens?”
This warm, lovely voice throws me right off. In the first place, it does not sound at all like it belongs to a fifty-year-old spinster. “Is this Melanie?” I ask cautiously.
There is a squeal on the other end of the phone that makes me pull it away from my ear for a moment. By the time I put it back, I’ve missed half of what she’s said. “. . . told you about me? I’ve heard so much about you! It’s great to finally meet you, even if it’s only over the phone. Are you so excited to see all the plans falling into place for the wedding? And when will you be back? Sometime this week?”
This barrage of questions is too much, when all I have in my head is an exchange of a bit of anticipatory sexual banter with my fiancé. “I—uh—no, probably not this week,” I say, grasping onto the easiest question to answer. “Is there any way I can speak to Anthony for a moment?”
“Not right now—oh, hold on, Gianna, just a sec—”
Melanie’s giggle is almost as shrill as her shriek, and even though she’s no longer talking to me, her voice is still so loud I have to yank the phone away from my ear a second time.
“Suze!” she crows. “You are such a babe! I love cupcakes! This totally slaps!”
Suddenly Melanie’s voice is back and thankfully closer to a regular volume. “Oh, hey, Gianna, sorry ’bout that. The people who work in this place are so sweet, honestly. Listen, let me make a note, and I’ll have him call you back this afternoon.”
“Uh—thanks,” I mumble. At that moment she gets interrupted again, and I’m finally able to end the call.
I take a minute to go stare at myself in the ladies’ room mirror, but it’s cracked across and makes me look even more discombobulated than I feel. This is my own doing—I’m the one who took off on this trip, leaving Anthony to deal with all the wedding stuff right in the week before his company goes public. It’s no wonder he doesn’t have time to talk with me.
I use a tissue to clean up the sweat-smudged eyeliner under my eyes and decide that when he does call back, I’m definitely going to make it worth his while. Then I make the mistake of Googling “best phone sex techniques,” and after a moment or two of scrolling, I wonder if I’m going to need to bleach my phone—and maybe my eyes—before I go out to meet my dad again.
When I finally do make it back to the table, I find that my dad and Raj have been joined by Taki, who has managed to escape his family and order a round of appetizers, in the time I was frantically trying to erase the search history on my phone. Luckily, the food is so good, it’s all anyone can talk about. I get a ton of pictures of a brilliantly yellow salad of squash blossoms known as kolokoythoanthoi, some deliciously fragrant lamb apáki, and the most warm and garlicky pita bread I’ve ever tasted.
But before we can order the main course, my dad pushes back his chair. I roll my eyes, fully expecting the usual garrulous Aristotle Kostas toast. Instead, he gives me a gentle smile.
“I’ve had a bite, koritsi, and I’ve taken my medication, and believe it or not, right now your papa is done for the day. Can you drop me at the villa, Taki? I think a good sleep is in order for this old man.”
Raj and I both jump to our feet. “I can come with you, Pops,” I begin just as Raj says, “Let me see you home, Ari.”
But my dad waves his hand at both of us and points at the bottle of wine the server has left in an ice bucket by the table. “Nonsense. You two sit down. Finish your dinner. Drink the wine—it’s the specialty of the house, yes? Infused with lotus flower.”
In the flickering candlelight from the tables, he does look tired.
“Are you sure, Papa? I’m happy to . . .”
“Stay, darling. And don’t forget our walk down on the beach in the morning,” he says. For the first time, his eyes twinkle a little. “After you make my breakfast.”
With a chuckle, he takes Taki by the arm, and the two of them head out the door.
The air is warm, slightly sweetened by the flowering wisteria, and heavy with humidity. I should follow my dad’s lead and head home, but when Raj holds up the wine bottle, I slide over my glass.
The wine is rich, and its fruity sweetness masks a solid kick that doesn’t arrive until a moment or two after swallowing. However, without my dad and Taki present, the atmosphere becomes instantly awkward.
“Listen,” I manage, at last. “We can just head off after this drink.”
“If that’s what you’d prefer. But seriously, I think we’ve already established that we can have an adult conversation without me being—ah—indiscreet.”
“Indiscreet?” This makes me laugh out loud, and he actually blushes a little.
I take a big swallow of the wine. “Considering it was me ripping your clothes off that night, I don’t think your indiscretion was ever the issue.”
“That’s—not the way I remember it.” He leans back in his chair. “In any case—we’ve already decided to put the whole thing behind us. And since we both love your dad, I think we’d best just agree to be friends, all right?”
He holds out his wineglass, and I clink the edge with my own. “Friends.”
Raj smiles, and we are both saved from saying anything else by the arrival of the server, who recommends the scampi. As she leaves, I narrow my eyes across the table.
“What do you mean ‘we both love your dad’?”
He smiles without a trace of embarrassment. “Just what I said. He’s a world-renowned scholar and a lovely gent. I feel honored to work with him. Who wouldn’t want to?”
I shrug. “Lots of people.”
His eyes meet mine again, questioning.
“He’s just—such a handful.” I glance down at the wine in my glass. “He’s used to being the boss, and he’s—well, obviously he’s an aging Greek male. He’s got some pretty old-fashioned views.”
Raj’s expression softens. “He knows how to push one’s buttons, no question,” he says, and I can’t argue with that.
The scampi arrives, and rather than objecting to me taking a picture of his plate, Raj offers to assist and gets several great shots. Then, as we dig into the luscious dish, between bites he asks me about the writing gig. Less than halfway into the bottle of wine, and I’m suddenly as garrulous as a teenager. When he asks how I spent the afternoon, I actually tell him, and before I know it, all my anxieties about keeping the job and finding my way as a journalist spill out.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” he says. “I mean—I know you’re following your dad as he chases down Odysseus, but this is your adventure too. That story you told me about the basketball players? Hysterical. You obviously come by your storytelling genes honestly. Work an anecdote like that one in, and you’ll win your editor’s heart.”
“What do you mean, come by it honestly? My dad’s an academic, not a journalist.”
He takes a long sip of wine and leans back in his chair. “You have to understand, I grew up in London. Every year we had school trips to the British Museum, which is filled with items from India. Watching your dad’s show—seeing his interest in repatriating Greek treasures like the Elgin Marbles—inspired me to become an archeologist in the first place. To make new finds, yes, but also to help return objects to the cultures they came from.”
Raj traces a finger along the stem of his wineglass. “Your dad? He’s a storyteller, first. And when he reached out to me last year, I was totally thrilled, to tell you the truth. A chance to work with someone the caliber of Aristotle Kostas? I’m in.”
He drains his wine and then recklessly splits the rest of the bottle between our glasses. “The truth is, I’m supposed to be spending this summer swotting over postdoc grant applications in London. But I’m here because his ideas—well, they captivate me. I want to help him succeed, if I can.”
I shake my head. “He talks a good game, my dad.”
“Agreed, he does. But so do you.”
Enlivened by the warmth and beauty of the night, we end up talking until way too late. The incredible seafood and rich red wine go straight to my head, and soon I am babbling not only about my fears about my father’s health but about my relationship with Anthony and all the balls I am dropping for the wedding by being here.
Raj leans forward in his chair and looks at me with an expression I cannot read. “Did you say Anthony Hearst?”
He pronounces it the British way, “Antony,” but I nod. “That’s him. Why—do you know him?”
He shakes his head. “I—I went to school with someone by that name years ago. But it’s such a common name. I’m sure it’s not the same person.”
“He’s from New York, not London, so you’re probably right.”
Raj leans back in his chair, staring out into the darkened marina, and then with a start, glances at his watch. “Is that the time? I need to get you back. You have an early day with your dad tomorrow.”
He gives our server a little wave, and she starts over to our table.
He taps his card on the server’s machine and then gives me a tight smile. “Ready?”
I tuck my arms through the sleeves of my cardigan and stand up.
His voice takes on an effusively cheerful note. “Now, about that basketball team,” he says as we make our way to the door. “Can you find a way to tie them in to an article about food?”
And, having effectively taken a swift left turn a
way from all personal subjects, he finds me a cab and waves me off.
chapter eighteen
THURSDAY
Lotus-Infused Wine
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the south coast of Crete
Lotus blossom is native to more southern climes than those of Crete but somehow still works its beautiful way into the local cuisine. According to legend, the lotus-eaters were an indolent crew, all hedonists to the core. Rightly so, for who could resist . . .
I sleep through my alarm the next morning and instead awaken to the smell of frying onions and coffee. This provokes a feeling of nausea so great that I pull the covers back over my head. Why did I drink all that wine?
The evening comes back to me in snippets that leave me awash in regret for more than the alcohol. I remember telling Raj my worries about work and about the wedding—a massive overshare brought on by wine and the kind of naturally flowing conversation that has been so absent in all my exchanges with Anthony lately. What I do not remember is him talking about his life.
At all.
So. Once again, slightly sloshed girl acts the fool. At least this time, I didn’t jump his bones. Of course, babbling on about the man he thinks I cheated on, is exactly no better.
I jam the pillow over my face. What. An. Idiot.
The good news is that he’s heading back to his dig very early today, so I won’t have to face him. He is my dad’s colleague. It shouldn’t matter if he can’t stand me.
The bad news is that somehow—it does matter.
I sit up in bed, suddenly struck by another memory. I’m almost positive I took Raj’s advice and wove the story of Paulo into the piece on the lamb souvlaki and drunk-submitted it before I fell into bed. It’s always been a hard-and-fast rule of mine to never submit anything—anything—after I’ve been drinking.
This thought pushes all worries about Raj’s feelings toward me aside and nauseates me for real. I throw back the covers, intent on heading straight to the bathroom.
