An Accidental Odyssey

by kc dyer

  My dad, though, is in his element. For the first time, he’s using his phone to snap photos, and he’s got his trusty coil notebook in hand, taking notes. I even see him jotting down measurements.

  After a quick look around, I fall into a bit of a “if you’ve seen one site, you’ve seen ’em all” kind of mood, so I find a spot in the shade and secretly try to tether my phone to the mobile of one of the tour guides. When my phone pings, I’m not sure if I’m more delighted by my skill at stealing Wi-Fi or the distraction of a new text.

  In spite of the fact that it is now well into Anthony’s working day in New York City, the text is not from him. It’s an invitation from Talia for my dad and I to join her for dinner at seven. Do we need directions? When I check with my dad, he looks stricken, and I fear a return of the Kostas flood, but somehow he manages to keep it together.

  “Please tell her I will remember the way to that house forever,” he says, one hand over his heart. “Tell her I could never forget.”

  I type a quick reply.

  We’ll be there. No directions needed.

  A few hours later, we arrive on the stroke of seven, freshly showered and with appetites primed by our day in the open air. This turns out to be a good thing, as Talia? Can cook.

  The meal she serves us makes me forget I have ever eaten before. It is nothing short of magnificent.

  Her table, a behemoth that takes up most of the large farm kitchen, puts even Nonna Rosa’s selection to shame. She has set up a smaller table on the shady veranda behind the kitchen and hops up periodically to bring new dishes out for us to try. There is sausage and salad and pasta and seafood—and seafood pasta!—and fresh bread with home-churned butter, plus a spicy frittata made with eggs from her own chickens in the coop out back, and rich fruity wine to wash everything down.

  We have nearly demolished a tray of ciusòni, which are small, perfectly cylindrical dumplings, when it occurs to me that I have not yet documented a single meal in Sardinia. When I broach the subject to Talia, she agrees enthusiastically and plunges into the process of food journalism with great glee. As each new course arrives, she pauses to arrange it beautifully on her table, even running to get a couple of lamps to improve the lighting for the photographs before we can take a single bite.

  This focus on the food turns out to be a good thing. Our plan is to leave tomorrow, and Talia helping me with my job takes some of the attention away from the fact that my dad is going to have to say goodbye. And even as the evening is drawing to its natural close, as we drink coffee and eat the tiny aranzada that melt away as my mouth closes on them, Talia is one step ahead.

  She pulls out pen and paper and carefully copies down Ari’s entire itinerary from his ExLibris file.

  “I have already made arrangements,” she says, smiling. “You are here for one more week, yes? I think that is enough time for you to meet up with my mother. Do you think you might want to do that?”

  And for the first time in my life, I see Aristotle Kostas at a total loss for words.

  His face reddens as Talia speaks, and he clasps her hands—pen and all—into his own and silently nods before throwing an arm around each of us and—not a real surprise—bursting into tears.

  Both of us caught up in this awkward group hug, Talia catches my eye over Ari’s shoulder and, closing her eyes, gives her head a tiny shake. The idea of watching our father face the music with Pene after all these years is clearly as interesting to her as it is to me. The end of the journey is going to be more eventful than any of us ever expected.

  My dad manages to get a grip on himself after not too long, and we walk away from Talia’s house full of love and hope for the future and possibly a few too many of the round, sweet sospiri.

  * * *

  —

  On our last morning in Sardinia, I wake to a weird sort of pseudoapologetic e-mail from Anthony.

  My dearest, sweet Gia,

  I’m writing you this note in bed after an eighteen hour day that’s left me completely done in. You might say I’m exhausted but exhilarated—the IPO went off without a hitch! I tell you, the complexities of bringing this company into a public offering felt like nothing when I was invited to ring the bell at the stock exchange this morning. You should be so proud of me. What a rush!

  But listen, babe—I’ve got a big surprise in store for you. You thought that wedding dress was the best thing that ever happened—after meeting me of course, ha ha—but this is going to blow that out of the water. Talk to you soon as I can get a minute to call. Really sucks how badly the time zones clash with you, bolting off on your little unplanned adventure. Get ready to have your mind blown!

  Love ya, babe.

  Anthony xoxo

  I bring the phone into the bathroom with me and read the e-mail a second time while I brush my teeth.

  He makes no mention at all of my news of meeting Talia, nor of any of the many voice mails I’ve left, excited about the success of my series with NOSH. I’m not sure if I should be upset that he’s showing exactly zero interest in what’s going on with me or relieved that he’s not completely freaked out by my sudden—and unique—change of family circumstances.

  He must feel a little bad at not taking my calls, however, because of the promised surprise. If there’s one thing Anthony is good at, it’s surprises. The wedding dress thing was a little misstep, sure, but to be fair, I haven’t really had a chance to share my thoughts on the subject. As a swimmer since I was a child, I’ve always secretly dreamed of being married in a mermaid dress—one that celebrates my curves, not hides them.

  I spit out the last of my toothpaste, my finger hovering over the “Reply” button. Should I send Anthony a note to remind him just exactly what I’ve been doing all this time? I settle on sending him a reply expressing excitement about his surprise, along with a selection of the pictures from Talia’s amazing meal last night that I plan to feature in my next installment for NOSH.

  And then, as I jam the rest of my clothes in a bag, I begin to feel annoyed with myself for justifying to Anthony what I’m doing here. I’m here to support my dad and to further my career. Also? The groom never has a say in the selection of a wedding gown. And in any case, the silhouette of the dress should be nobody’s business but my own. No self-respecting food writer should have to camouflage her assets.

  Should she?

  My heart lifts as I follow my dad back onto our old friend the Celere, which is waiting for us—and a few other passengers—in the port of Olbia. This is going to be a much shorter sea journey than the last two. Today we will arrive at San Felice Circeo, a tiny spot on the coast just south of Rome. My dad waves his coil notebook at me and starts in on a long explanation of the importance of yet another cave associated with his research. As I lean on the railing of the boat and look across the water to the distant mainland of Italy, I can’t help tuning him out. The next week is going to hold the reunion with Pene, a couple of more stops in Italy, and then on to Athens before we head home. But before all that, we’ll be in San Felice Circeo, and I remember that Raj will be there.

  For some reason I’m not willing to examine too closely, I can’t wait to see him again.

  chapter thirty

  FRIDAY

  Spaghetti a Napoli

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Naples, Italy

  This most commonplace of American dishes is taken back to its roots here in the brilliant Mediterranean city of Naples, where the garlic is fresh and the pasta is without . . .

  The trip across the gently rolling waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea is as short as a ferry ride, and it’s not even ten o’clock when the boat docks in Naples. This is the first major city I’ve been to since Athens, and the noise and activity of the docks remind me a little of home. Container ships, huge cranes, the bustle of stevedores loading, unloading, and yelling. Everybody yelling.

  Strangely, I find I
haven’t missed that part at all.

  Through the glass to the waiting room, I spot Raj and wave eagerly when we come through. In return, his greeting is very reserved.

  He reaches out to shake our hands. “So nice to see you again, Dr. Kostas, and you, Ms. Kostas.”

  Ms. Kostas? I feel a sudden, irrational surge of disappointment. He’s still perfectly polite, of course, but the warm friendliness of the last time we were together is noticeably absent.

  “I’ve arranged a car to take us to the site, sir,” he says before turning to me. “Happy to drop you off wherever you’d like, first, of course. Perhaps the guesthouse?”

  “That sounds ideal,” says my dad heartily and, hooking an arm through Raj’s, launches into his plans for the day.

  I trail along behind, expertly third-wheeling it, as usual.

  As we step out onto the street, Raj raises a hand, and a car pulls up to the curb, the trunk springing open.

  “No motorbike today?”

  Raj swings open the back door, and my dad hoists his bag into the trunk. “Change of plan now that you’re here. I can double, no problem,” he says, laughing. “But the last time I’ve ridden three on a bike was in Delhi, visiting my cousins when I was fifteen.”

  I slide into the car beside my dad, and Raj hops into the front passenger seat. While he gives an address to the driver and then turns around in his seat to chat with my dad, I sit quietly, thinking.

  Of course plans have had to change since I’m here. I might be here keeping an eye on my dad, but my very presence is making more work for everyone, including Raj. No wonder he’s acting so reserved.

  And regardless of his motivation, I feel annoyed with myself. I mean—one nice dinner does not a friendship make. And what do I need to be friends with this guy for, anyway? I have friends. And I am engaged, after all.

  At this thought, my hand goes to my neck, and I make a decision. While my dad machine-guns questions about San Felice and Raj does his best to answer them, I carefully undo the clasp to my necklace, take my ring off the chain, and slide it back onto my finger.

  Twenty minutes later, after pulling up to the guesthouse, I head in alone.

  “I’ll check us in and get some work done,” I insist, and the two of them, eager to go explore the next site, drive off without looking back.

  Which suits me just fine.

  The place we are staying is on the seaside, north of Naples and south of Rome. The coast here is craggy and rocky and absolutely beautiful. The white wind-weathered cliffs have a similar look to the shoreline of Crete, where we got lost in the caves.

  And in our own minds, at least for a while.

  After checking in, I walk out to the communal terrace, which happens to be on the roof of the guesthouse. Directly below me, the water is emerald green and very shallow at the moment. Even from way up here on the rooftop, I can see purple and red sea stars filling the rocky tide pools far below.

  To my left and just up the coast a bit, a broad stream tumbles down from the rocky highlands into the sea. Where it meets the shore, it runs beside a public campsite, its entrance dotted with snack bars and sea sport equipment rental shacks.

  According to the ExLibris itinerary, this is the last stop of any length on this crazy trip, and I stare down thoughtfully at the little rental shacks. I decide that if I get my next article for NOSH ready to go by this evening, I might take the morning off for a little ocean exploring. Why should Ari and Raj have all the fun?

  Inspired by the thought of a swim in those crystal clear waters, I get down to work on my next piece right away. This rooftop terrace is empty of other humanity and dotted with the ubiquitous cast-iron tables, each topped with a furled white umbrella. I choose a likely spot, crank the umbrella skyward, and settle down to work.

  I’m now getting almost daily updates from Charlotte, giving me an idea of the numbers my stories are generating. After a fairly slow start, the readership has soared, with the pieces on Sicily and Crete apparently being the special favorites.

  As I log on to the Wi-Fi, I decide I’m going to blow those earlier likes and numbers out of the water with this next story. Between the careful step-by-step instructions Talia walked me through—and we photographed—and the incredible dishes she shared with me, I feel like the Sardinia piece is going to be the jewel in the crown of this series.

  Before I can get down to work, though, my inbox updates with a staccato series of pings. The first several are notes from Charlotte, and I star those to read—and gloat over—later. There’s also a short message from Devi, telling me that she aced her specialist training over the weekend and can now go back to her normal—but still crazy—schedule.

  Hard on the heels of Devi’s e-mail is a note purportedly from Anthony, but with Melanie’s DNA all over it. I mean, his last note to me was so lovey—all “kisses” and “babes”—so I know that she must have written this one. It’s terse and merely says that he’s read my e-mail and will be replying as soon as he is able.

  I feel a bit ambivalent about this. Does this mean Melanie is reading my private correspondence to my fiancé? I don’t need anyone else knowing about the whole thing with Talia—at least until I’m ready. I haven’t even told Devi about it yet.

  I lean back in my seat—wicker, luckily, not cast iron, and with a very comfy seat cushion—and have a moment of gratitude that Devi is in my life. We’ve been friends since we shared that double desk back in third grade, but these days, we hardly get to see each other. My internship at NOSH meant that I’ve no longer been keeping the more relaxed schedule I had when I was in school, and of course, Devi is up to her eyeballs at the hospital. Lately, it seems that our interactions are mostly electronic, and that makes me a little sad.

  I decide that I need to make some girlfriend time happen as soon as I get back to New York. And then I settle down to pick out the photos that do Talia’s incredible meal the most justice.

  * * *

  —

  Three hours later, the sun has just dropped below the umbrella enough that I am considering finding a spot inside so I can better read my tablet screen, when I hear footfalls pounding up the stone steps behind me.

  Turning, I see Raj Malik pelting up the stairs.

  He spots me and clutches at his chest, panting. “Christ—that was more stairs than I expected.”

  I spring to my feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he gasps and then tries again. “At least not—not actually nothing. It’s just that I’m not sure it’s medical. I mean, he’s just acting a wee bit strange.”

  I’ve already tossed everything into my bag. “Where is he?”

  “Downstairs. I got him into his room, and I’m almost positive he’ll be all right, but . . .”

  “Let’s go.” My mind reeling with possibilities, I follow him back down the stairs.

  chapter thirty-one

  STILL FRIDAY

  Mushrooms Redux

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, near Naples, Italy

  The wide and varied use to which Neapolitans put mushrooms speaks to the truly remarkable creativity in a cuisine that dates back millennia . . .

  My dad’s room is across the hall from mine on the first floor of the guesthouse. Raj, who reaches the door before I do, steps back to let me in first. The room turns out to be a little larger than mine, with its own en suite bathroom. As I hurry inside, he’s sitting in a lovely old chair beside the open window, gazing out over the water. The dark wooden shutters, each with a tiny brass keyhole, run from the floor almost all the way to the twelve-foot ceilings. At the moment, they’ve been unlatched and thrown open to a view of the Mediterranean. There is no balcony, but outside the window, an elaborate wrought iron screen has been affixed across the opening to act as a safety barrier.

  My dad looks fine, but when he turns to smile at me, h
is pupils are huge, making his eyes look like creepy black marbles.

  My heart sinks like a stone.

  “Darling!” he says. “My beautiful girl. My second beautiful girl—conceived in love, wrapped in love.” He turns to Raj. “Thank you for bringing her to me, my friend. My dearest supporter.”

  He waves a hand to encompass the room. “Can you see it—can you see the room is wrapped in shades of love? Blue and turquoise and . . .” His voice trails off and his eyes close gently.

  Wincing, I turn to Raj. “Thanks very much for bringing him back. I think I know what the problem is.”

  My dad, still smiling, turns his gaze to the sea outside the window.

  Raj tilts his head, indicating the door to the bathroom. Reluctantly, I follow him inside.

  “I’m just worried this is a cognitive . . .”

  I sigh and raise a hand to cut him off. “It’s not. It’s . . .”

  My mind races to find an alternative to the truth—and fails. Raj looks so worried. His hair is sticking up, and he’s all sweaty from his race back to the guesthouse, so in the end, I just turn and march back into the room. I kneel down beside my dad, and he’s still smiling out the window at the universe.

  “Pops—look at me,” I say, patting his hand. “What did you eat for lunch?”

  Nothing. His smile doesn’t falter.

  “Dr. Kostas,” Raj says, and I can hear how hard he’s working to keep the panic out of his voice. “Can you hear us? Gia is here.”

  “Gia?” my dad says suddenly. “My Gianna—is the future.” He points to the sky outside the window, which, now that the sun has set, is turning an ethereal pink and gold. “But there—you see her? There is Magdalena—my grandmother. Magda! Magda!”