by kc dyer
Unfortunately, standing up proves more of a challenge than I expect, and it takes me a full five minutes to navigate the space between my bed and the tiny en suite bathroom. By the time I get there, the nausea has dropped back a little, tamped down behind the giant bass drum that is pounding just beneath the surface of my forehead.
I wash two Tylenol down with water from the shower head and then think, What the hell? and climb in, pj’s and all. Fifteen minutes later, by the time I emerge from my room, I’m freshly showered and feeling well enough to face the smell of food, at least.
My dad is standing at the stove, humming a little and stirring something in a frying pan.
“Just in time for breakfast, darling!” he cries, waving a pink floral oven mitt at me. “Can I interest you in some eggs? I have a hankering for an omelet.”
Catching a glimpse of my expression, he points at an actual briki—a Greek coffee pot—steaming on the table and laughs. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? Luckily, your coffee is ready.”
The coffee is brewed and is so hot and lovely, I’m almost prepared to forgive him for his sexist remarks of the night before.
“This place is nice.” I sip the fragrant coffee gingerly. “More work when you have your own kitchen, though.”
My dad shrugs and then cracks two eggs with one hand into a mixing bowl. This is a trick I haven’t seen him perform since I was very small, and it makes me suddenly nostalgic.
“It’s the only accommodation Teresa Cipher could find near the caves. Matala is such a small village. And I like to cook breakfast. We’ll go out for a nice dinner with Taki tonight, yes?”
“Where is Taki?” I look around. No wonder the place seems so quiet—no morning chatter from Herman.
“He’s visiting his family for the day. You and me, we walk down to the caves this morning. Taki will pick us up later, okay?”
“Okay.” Flipping open my iPad, I discover that the local internet company has come through, as Tira predicted, and the Wi-Fi is working. I take another sip of coffee to steel me for the horrifying task of checking my e-mail, but there’s nothing new waiting in my inbox. Hope surges through me. Maybe the Wi-Fi is still down and last night’s ill-advised e-mail didn’t send?
I click through to “Sent Mail,” and sadly my e-mail to Charlotte is at the top, complete with the drunkenly penned subject line “GIANT Edits.” This so discourages me, I toss my phone over onto the couch and swallow the rest of my still-warm cup of coffee. Between the coffee and the Tylenol, my headache is starting to recede, but the sick feeling in my stomach settles over me like a shroud.
“All ready!” My dad flips his spatula in a display of showmanship that backfires when he misses catching it. As the spatula clatters into the sink, he says, “Ha! Meant to do that!”
Scooping up a plate in each hand, he waltzes across to the table and slides one of them in front of me. It contains a perfectly formed omelet, two golden-brown pieces of toast, glistening with butter, and a pair of cherry tomatoes that have been fashioned to resemble rosettes.
“What on earth is this?” I’m shocked out of my gloom by the sheer prettiness of the presentation.
My dad sets his own plate down, discards his floral oven mitts, and gives me a shy grin.
“I want to make up for giving you a hard time last night,” he says, spoiling the effect by shaking pepper all over his plate.
“Okay, that’s nice and all, but when did you learn to make a perfect omelet like this? And what about these?” I hold up one of the intricately sliced tomato rosettes.
He shrugs and scoops a section of omelet onto his toast before devouring an enormous bite. “I take a cooking class with Kallie—uh—maybe two years ago?” he says, gently spraying toast crumbs.
“So—before she threw you out?” This comes out perhaps a teeny bit more cuttingly than I intend.
His face takes on the resigned look I know so well. “Before she threw me out.” He points at my plate with his fork. “You should eat this. You need strength for our hike today, yes?”
I pour a second cup of coffee. I notice someone has freshly replenished the store of sugar packets on the table, so I grab a couple.
“Maybe I’ll save mine for later,” I say, ripping open the packets. “I’m not feeling that great at the moment.”
My dad shovels another forkful of food into his mouth and chuckles. “No? But I hear from Rajnish that you had a lovely meal last night.” He points at his phone. “Scampi was it? I’m sorry I missed it.”
I manage to answer without blushing.
“It was really good. The wine was too. I only had a couple of glasses, but it was clearly too much.”
My dad waves his fork dismissively. “Greek wine takes getting used to, koritsi. You just need more practice.” He points again at my plate. “This sort of breakfast is very good for hangover.”
Before I can say anything, he adds, “And yes, I learned that after Kallie threw me out too.”
I sip my coffee, vowing silently that I will never drink again.
My dad mops the last of the egg off his plate with a crust of toast, pops it in, and then reaches for his backpack.
“I’ve already packed treats for later, darling. Taki brought a whole selection of kalitsounia, perfect for our hike down to the beach. We go explore the caves, yes?”
I groan inwardly and possibly aloud too. “Uh—Pops, I need to do some . . .”
“Gianna Marie Kostas,” he interrupts. “Don’t forget your promises to your papa, eh? This is our last full day in Crete, and these caves? They have art from the Minoans. The Minoans, koritsi. Old when even Odysseus made his way past. You will not regret it. And I promise, I have you back to your precious computer by three. That is only eight a.m. in New York, yes?”
“Okay, fine. Let me . . .”
But just as I reach for my phone on the couch, it pings.
A text from Charlotte. Shit. I haven’t even had a chance for a sober look through the file I sent her last night. And it’s—I check the time—got to be after one in the morning where she is. This can’t be good.
I swallow hard and click on her text.
Now THAT’S what I’m talking about, baby!
Baby? I hastily check the source. It is Charlotte’s number. As I’m checking, another text comes through.
LOVE Paulo. More like this, Gianna. I’m going to run this one on Friday. Need another piece for Sunday’s newsletter. Same length. More pix, tho. Give me lots to choose from. Way to go!
“Holy shit,” I blurt, feeling stunned.
“What kind of language is that, coming from the mouth of my baby girl?”
I look up at him and grin. “Sorry, Pops. But—listen to this! Charlotte loved my edits. She’s running the piece in the Friday edition and wants another one to run on Sunday!”
“Woo HOO!” He throws his arms wide and dances a quick Greek sirtaki across the tiny kitchen, crossing his legs and bobbing a few times for good measure. “That’s my little Barbara Walters!”
“Geez, Pops—can you come up with a more contemporary role model for me, please?”
He laughs. “Okay, she’s too old, but she is a go-getter, and so are you.”
I’m so stoked by this good news, my headache vanishes. A strange feeling of lightness floods through me. I have, quite literally, zero obligations at the moment. The wedding plans are under control. Anthony’s mother may come across as a little—ah—opinionated, but she seems very happy to tackle jobs on the wedding list. We can decide on the details—and the dress—when I get back. And my piece for NOSH has been submitted and accepted. A day of wandering in and out of a few caves down by the beach might be just what I need.
To celebrate, I pull up the camera app on my phone, take a picture of my breakfast, and then sit down and eat it. The omelet is nearly cold, but it’s loaded with mushrooms and onions an
d is actually quite tasty.
Since Taki is spending the day with his family and Raj is over at his own worksite on the other side of the island, there’s no one else I can pawn the care of my dad off onto, so as I finish the last of my toast, I concede defeat. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I join him at the door.
“That was a most excellent breakfast, Pops,” I admit and scoop the key into the pocket of my sundress.
He beams. “A man who lives alone has to learn to look after himself,” he says. “Besides, Taki brought almost all the ingredients.”
I grin and swing the door open. “Well, you added your own magic, anyway. It’s a memorable meal just because you cooked it.”
He smiles skeptically at this, but as I will soon discover, truer words were never spoken.
“Maybe you write a story about it?” he says, shouldering his backpack.
“Maybe,” I agree, and we head out down the path to the beach.
chapter nineteen
FREAKY FRIDAY
Mushroom Omelet
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, along the southern shore of Crete
Who can deny the pleasures of a warm, cheesy omelet to start the day? Strewn through with mushrooms, which bring their own special something, this omelet is an adventure in eating. You might not be surprised to learn this fine meal is standard the world over, but is never more Greek than when served with . . .
After breakfast, it’s an easy fifteen-minute stroll to the beach from our villa. I’m feeling uncomfortably full, so a walk is just what I need. I left my bag behind, tucking my phone and wallet into my pocket with the key. No use risking sand getting into my tablet. In any case, after that weird and joyful text from Charlotte, I’m ready to take a few hours off, for real.
My dad, on the other hand, is wearing his little canvas rucksack, a water bottle for each of us tucked into the outside pockets, and god knows what else inside. In his hands, he carries some kind of elaborately folded paper map, which keeps catching the breeze off the ocean and snapping into his face.
“It’s a surveyor’s map of the caves,” he replies when I ask. “They are usually filled with tourists, but maybe not so much lately. Best to have a map to be safe.”
“Can’t you just use Google Earth?” I point out the app on his phone. “Easier to read it off your screen, don’t you think?”
The delight I get from the look of horror on his face lasts the rest of the way down to the beach.
The sky is a clear, perfect blue; paler over the land than the sea. Where the water and sky meet, the competition between the shades of blue is breathtaking. It is a simply gorgeous day.
I don’t really know how the tides work here, but as we step off the path onto the rocky shore, the water seems very close. There’s no sandy or pebbled beach, just a shelf of carved volcanic rock against which the waves slap and splash. This section of the cliff face has been eroded by wind and water, and as we turn our backs on the ocean to face the rocky cliff, a cave entrance looms up only a few feet away.
“Okay, well, this is way scarier than I pictured it.” I step closer to peek inside. “I thought it was just going to be a few little holes in the rocks by the beach.”
“Darling, it looks worse than it is. And see?” He rustles around inside his pack. “I’ve brought us both headlamps. It’ll be as bright as daylight in there, I promise you.”
It takes a few minutes to strap on the headlamps, and when we do, the little beams of light jump all over the inside of the cave walls, bringing back my earlier feelings of nausea.
“How deep does this one go, anyway?” I ask as I follow him inside. My head is actually starting to spin a little.
“Not far.” My dad trains the beam of his headlamp onto his map. “Perhaps a few hundred yards to the next section.”
“The next section? Just how many caves are there down here?”
“We don’t have to go all the way through them, darling, if you are nervous.”
“I’m not freaking nervous,” I snap.
I totally am.
“It’s just your damn headlamp is making me feel sick.”
This is the truth—I really am starting to feel quite weird. In the harsh halogen light from the lamps, the wet, rocky walls of the cave begin to undulate at the edge of my vision.
Suddenly, though I could have sworn he was at least twenty feet away, I can feel my dad’s hand on my arm.
“Why don’t you just sit down for a minute, koritsi? Look—here’s a nice flat rock. If you’re sitting still, you’ll get used to the light in no time. I’ll just have a peek ahead to the end of this section and be right back.”
And then his hand is gone, and his light is gone, and I am sitting alone in a dank cave that smells of seaweed and salt and maybe something dead.
I drop my head into my hands and rub my eyes. When I look up again, the cave walls ripple out and in, out and in, like they’re made of tidal water and not of rock.
“Pops?” I’m yelling, but instead of carrying, my voice falls like a clump of tangled seaweed from my mouth. Aren’t caves supposed to be echoey?
Not this one.
“Papa?” I try again.
He doesn’t reply.
I stare down at the sand between my feet and watch the clump of tangled seaweed that had been my voice begin to writhe and twist. Like it might really be snakes and not seaweed.
My stomach clenches again, and I scramble away from the seaweed snakes, just in case. My head thrums. The walls shimmy.
“This isn’t the freaking headlamp.” I feel my forehead with both hands. “Maybe I really am sick? What if those eggs were bad?”
My head throbs under the strap of the headlamp, and when I rub the sore spot, one of my fingers trips the switch. I’m suddenly plunged into absolute darkness. There’s a moment where the weird head-spinning is superseded by raw fear pulsing through me like a silver lightning bolt—bright and vicious and murderous.
Then I find the switch and flip it on, and the sharp, almost blue halogen beam shoots across the cave again. Just the sight of the light helps slow my heart rate, but when I turn my head in the direction I think my dad went, the stupid walls are still dancing. Worse, as the light from my headlamp bounces around, the wet cave walls begin to light up with some kind of phosphorescence, flashing green and blue and red and gold. It’s like being at a seventies party with a glitter ball. Except without the party. Or the glitter ball.
I’m suddenly sure the flashing lights are going to drive me into some kind of aneurysm—it’s in the family, after all—so I hurriedly look down again, aiming the light at the sandy floor of the cave. And suddenly, my phone begins to ring.
This makes me jump, triggering the walls again, which means it takes me something like five rings before I finally get the thing out of my pocket.
As I yank it out, I realize I’ve been carrying the solution to my little headlamp problem with me all this time.
“Idiot.” I slide my thumb across the screen. “You’ve got a flashlight on your freaking phone.”
Using the other hand, I snatch the stupid headlamp off and put the phone to my ear.
“Darling,” my mother’s voice trills, a little tinny through the phone. “The headlamp is not the problem.”
“Well, something is making me sick,” I complain.
The beam of my headlamp catches a sudden movement across the sand near one of my feet. I’m pretty sure it’s only a tiny crab, but when I jump, I land almost all the way back at my sitting rock out of sheer nerves.
My mother’s voice continues. “It was your father who made me sick, darling, but you know that. Biggest mistake I ever made in my life, that man. So delighted to not have him to look after anymore. He’s your problem now.”
I shine the light from my phone back at the rock I was just sitting on. My mother
appears there now, reclining a little on one elbow. She’s wearing her cropped jean jacket with the cuffs rolled up, yoga pants, and Uggs. She’s got her big coffee mug that reads “One Cranky Bitch” and takes a swig from the side without the chip in it.
I look back down at my phone. The flashlight is still shining, but the screen reads zero bars.
So. Many. Questions.
“My problem?” is what comes out when I finally manage to form words. It’s not really what I want to ask first, but she’s laughing now, and her voice is still coming out of the phone.
“Yessiree, all yours. I mean, the man can’t even buy groceries without screwing up, right?”
I look down at the phone. The screen actually fades out, but the flashlight is still shining on my mother, who is sitting in front of me clear as day.
“Just a minute, here . . .” I begin, but she cuts me off. And as she speaks, the screen of the phone lights up again.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. But I was nineteen, for Chrissakes. My whole life was rainbows and unicorns. Literal unicorns, Gia. I mean, I still had a unicorn on my backpack that year at university when I first met Aristotle.”
I can’t help wincing, and she raises an eyebrow as she sips her coffee.
“Oh, he was no pedophile,” she says chummily. “I was nearly twenty-one the first time we had sex, and he was cruising in on fifty. But he likes ’em young. How old is that Kallie?”
I lift one shoulder. “Thirty-one, I think. But she’s dumped him now too.”
My mom barks a laugh and pours the dregs of her coffee cup onto the sand. I laugh too—I can’t help it—but I edge a little closer. In the light from my phone, I can see the lines around her eyes. She does love to laugh, my mom.
“I guess he’s on the hunt again, then?” She brushes a fleck of sand from one sleeve.
I shrug and sidle still closer. “He’s looking for something else right now. I’m not really sure what. It’s to do with Odysseus—with his work.”
