by kc dyer
“Greek, Italian—I don’t care. Just get out there and hit that hard. Then take a selfie with his beautiful face and e-mail it to Anthony while you’re still mad.”
“I don’t know,” I say, unable to suppress a sigh. “I still feel more sad than angry.”
Her voice softens. “Listen, Gia, you’ve done the right thing. You’ve kicked him to the curb. Let him rot there with the rest of the trash. And promise me you’ll at least try to have fun while you’re still away, okay? When are you coming home?”
“I—I’m not sure. Not more than a week, I think. We’ve got a couple more stops, and I’ve got two more pieces due for NOSH, but . . .”
“Oh my god, Gia—I forgot to tell you. NOSH is amazing!” Devi drops the phone to rustle some papers, so I get a quick look at the ceiling. “Did you know they were the featured magazine inside the New York Times on Saturday? And guess whose story was on the cover?”
Her face suddenly reappears, this time smiling broadly.
“No—that is, I knew the piece did really well, but—did they use my photos too?”
“I guess so—I only checked the byline, not the photo credits. But there was an amazing shot of this perfect cannoli on the cover. Was that yours?”
For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel a stab of pride. My story—my photos—in the New York Times? Okay, in NOSH, but still technically inside the actual, physical Old Grey Lady of a newspaper.
“Yeah, that was mine.”
“Well, GO you! And do not feel bad about dumping Anthony’s ass. He doesn’t deserve you.”
We agree that I am better out of the relationship than in, and then, in a moment of weakness, I tell her about the fistfight.
Her eyes light up.
“What? Are you saying he took a swing at your dad’s colleague without any provocation? Like—straight out of the blue?”
I take a shaky breath. “He says he thought he saw something between me and Raj, but he totally, totally misread the situation.”
“Hold on, back it up a minute here, sister. What was there to misread? Misread like, you’re not even in the same room with the guy? Or like, Anthony caught you guys being meaninglessly flirty with each other and misread that?”
“Neither. Raj helped me rescue my kayak after I got thrown off and . . .”
“What? What? Okay, Gia, this changes everything. Who is this Raj guy? I thought he was some old dude who works with your dad?”
A vision of Raj—wet hair swept back, his already-mocha torso tanned even darker by the Mediterranean sun, sitting beside me on the sand and laughing—leaps, unbidden, into my mind.
“No, he’s not an old dude,” I say carefully. “But he is my dad’s colleague, and really? He’s been nothing but super polite and almost standoffish . . .”
And suddenly I realize why.
“Dev, I’ve got to go. I have to look someone up online, and I can’t do that while I’m on FaceTime with you.”
“No!” she shouts and then, glancing over her shoulder, repeats more quietly, “No. I still have too many questions. And you totally can look something up—it just sometimes makes the camera go off. Anyway, I’m sitting at my computer. What do you need?”
And so, together we look up the name of the girl Raj told me about. There’s a little detour while we search for “Sasha,” but as soon as I remember her name was Sachi, we find her almost instantly.
Sachi Gee.
“She’s an actress,” Devi says, but by this time, I’ve found her too. She lives in London, and she’s gorgeous. Like, Chrissy Teigen gorgeous. Since she’s currently starring in a play in the West End, Devi opens IMDB and learns she got her start on Broadway. I google the play, hit images, and find a picture from opening night.
She wore a skintight sheath dress that fit her body like molten gold.
Her date was Anthony. My Anthony. Or rather, my Anthony no longer.
“Who is she?” cries Devi’s voice from my phone’s speaker. I click out of Google, and her face replaces Sachi’s.
“She’s—the reason for the fistfight, I think.” This gives me pause. “It really did have nothing to do with me—or with that night in Athens—after all.”
Devi looks entirely baffled. “What the actual fu . . .” she begins, and then behind her, I see a door open.
The image disappears so fast, it takes me a moment to realize she’s pulled the covers over her phone. This effectively muffles the voices, but I hear her saying, “Right away, Auntie. Just let me finish this chart.”
There is the sound of a door closing, and then suddenly Devi’s face pops back into view.
“Look,” she whispers, “you’re going to have to give me the short version. I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house, so I can use their desktop to upload some giant files from work, and as soon as I’m done here, they want me to go drink chai and talk about why I’m not married yet.”
“Have you finished the files?”
“Yes. It only took two minutes. I’m stalling, of course. Now talk. Who is this gorgeous woman?”
“Raj and Anthony went to school together for a semester at Oxford about five years ago, and my guess is, they both liked her.”
“Your guess? She’s so gorgeous, I like her, and I don’t even lean that way, as a rule!” She’s quiet a minute and then laughs out loud. “Maybe I’ll tell my auntie that’s why I’m not married yet. That’ll give her something to talk about over chai!”
She peers into the screen. “Anyway, why does it matter? It was five years ago at least, and her Wiki page says she’s married now. Five years ago, you went to prom with Henry Tuttle, for god’s sake. Who knows where he is now? Who even cares?”
“That was seven years ago, but I know you’re right. It’s just . . .”
“What? What?” Devi jams the phone so close I can see right up her nose. “There’s something missing in this picture. Who cares if stupid asshole Anthony fights with someone over an old girlfriend? I always told you he was the jealous type. Did the other guy—what’s his name?—did he win, at least?”
“Raj. I guess so. Anthony got a bloody nose, so they sort of just stopped.”
“Yay! Go other guy!” Her eyes narrow. “So, tell me again who this Raj is?”
“He’s a colleague of my dad. He’s—uh—remember that night I got drunk and . . .”
Devi shrieks and drops the phone. “Holy shit, Gia—he’s not the hot Prince Charming?”
Behind her the door opens, and the image suddenly vanishes again as a muffled voice speaks out.
“Are you all right, Devi dear? I thought I heard a scream!”
“I’m fine, Auntie. It was just—a—a difficult photograph. Accident victim, you know.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry you have to deal with that. But just part of the job, eh? We have a fresh pot of chai waiting for you in the front room, as soon as you are done.”
“I’m coming, Auntie. Two minutes. And you’d—you’d better close the door. I’ll be quicker if I’m not distracted.”
“Fine, fine. Mrs. Gupta has brought along some of those biscuits you like, darling. See you in two minutes!”
The door finally closes, and Devi’s bulging eyes reappear. “Okay, she will literally be back here in one minute fifty-nine seconds, so you need to spill, and fast. Are you telling me that the guy you nailed that first night in the toilet—the Prince Charming who found your shoe—is RAJ? And he works with your dad?”
“It was a janitor’s closet, not a toilet.”
“Listen. To. Me,” she whispers hoarsely. “Do NOT let that get away.”
“Too late,” I say as lightly as I can manage. “He’s gone.”
This shuts her up. “I’m sorry, Gia,” she says, at last. “But don’t forget what a rock-star journalist you are. That’s going to be the best thing that comes
out of this whole crazy adventure, right?”
“Right. Thank you for being here for me, Dev.”
“I love you,” she says simply. “Where else would I be?”
Sure enough, the door behind her opens again.
“Love you too.”
And with that, she is gone.
* * *
—
So.
I’d like to say I take my best friend’s advice and run off to have my way with assorted Italian stallions. But since there’s only one stallion I’m actually interested in and there’s nothing remotely Italian about him—and worse, he’s not only not interested in me back but has actually left the building—I am seriously out of luck.
Of course I am. Even if I wasn’t his colleague’s daughter, as far as he knows, I cheated on my fiancé. Which, plainly, he has a bad history with, in light of Sachi. So, even if he actually does believe me, I’m still the unreliable party in this scenario.
I get it. I do.
And so, for once in my life, I take the only sensible option open to me and go to bed.
chapter forty-one
SUNDAY FOR REAL
Tiramisu
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on an Italian train
You may have tasted this dish at the finest of Italian restaurants Stateside, and if you have, you will know that nothing cures a broken heart like the true delicacy and flavor . . .
I sleep through until my dad knocks on my door just after seven, telling me we have ten minutes before we need to go catch our train.
After one look in the mirror, I throw myself in the shower. I’m not going to be able to do anything about the dark circles under my eyes, but I can at least rid my face of all the mascara streaks from crying.
I lay the phone on the counter beside the sink while drying my hair. I’m so tired, I can hardly think, and the shower hasn’t helped as much as I hoped. The only thing I can say for myself is that when my dad shows up at the door, I’m dressed and have at least managed to get some eyeliner on.
We don’t have time for anything—coffee or conversation—but manage to make the train just before it pulls out of the station. I follow my dad, who has the good sense to march us down to the café car and secure us a table. We are drinking steaming espresso and eating cannoli and croissants before Naples stops flashing past outside the train windows.
I’m on my third coffee before my dad leans forward.
“It’s my fault,” he says so quietly, I almost can’t hear him over the sound of the engine. “I told Anthony where we were going to be. I thought he was just checking in—I had no idea he was going to show up in Capri.”
Sighing, I push away my cup. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. I didn’t know things would go so wrong.” I look over at my dad’s face. His nose is sunburned, but he looks somehow pale all the same. He’s probably just as tired as I am, and his worry over me doesn’t help.
“I thought you liked Anthony.” I finish the last bite of my cannoli. The old, pre-odyssey Gia would never have eaten a pastry this rich for breakfast. But if Italy has done one thing for me, it’s shown me that it’s never too early for dark chocolate and cream. Especially combined with morning coffee.
He shrugs. “I like him well enough. I just think you can do better.”
This makes me laugh. “Better than the heir to a publishing empire?”
He laughs too, and drains his coffee. “Okay, you may not be able to find someone richer. But I want you to be happy. Happy is more important.”
I sigh, not—truthfully—feeling very happy at all.
“Well, whatever the result, I’ve broken it off with him. We’re done.”
My dad wipes croissant flakes off his fingers, then reaches across to squeeze my hand.
“That you are happy is all I want. Even if you find no one, as long as you are happy, I am happy.”
“Wait a minute—are you saying that you—my Greek father, who has spent a good chunk of my adult life trying to marry me off—are you saying that you think I’m not going to find anyone?”
He laughs and signals for the bill. “You need to find the one who is right for you, my sweet koritsi. When you find him? You will know.”
This advice would be more heartwarming if I didn’t know my dad’s romantic history.
Just saying.
* * *
—
Once we clear the city limits of Naples, our train picks up speed until it’s flying along. The scenic beauty of what I think must translate roughly to the instep of the Italian boot whizzes by so fast, it’s a blur outside the windows. After breakfast, we find our assigned seats, which are just comfortable enough that I conk right out for the rest of the journey. A couple of hours later, I awaken as the train slows down outside an Italian town called Taranto and disembark, blinking into a brilliant, crystal clear afternoon.
We alight at the Taranto Galese train station and take a taxi down to the waterfront, where we’ll pick up the boat Teresa Cipher has arranged for us. Our taxi takes us along the shores of the Mare Piccolo—the Little Sea—which is separated from the Mediterranean by a tiny arm of land. On this land stands the Castel Sant’Angelo, a huge fortification built on the ruins of older castles by the then king of Naples, Ferdinand of Aragon, in 1496. The stone of the castle walls is brilliantly white against the cerulean blue of the sea, but this glimpse is all I’m going to get of it, as our trimaran is waiting.
It is the Celere once again, and I could not be more delighted. The Wi-Fi connection onboard means I’ll be able to submit my stories to NOSH on time without worry, and since my job is the only thing really going right in my life at the moment, I am happy to put all my attention there, at least for now.
As we climb aboard, my phone pings, which surprises me for a moment, before I realize it’s just reconnected itself to the onboard Wi-Fi.
The ping is a text from, of all people, Raj Malik. My heart lifts at just seeing his name, but the contents are obscure enough that I have trouble following at first.
Bad signal, so only time for a quick note. Tell your dad I’ve found something. Can’t believe it, but he might have been right all along. Not a vessel: a tablet. Will need carbon dating to confirm, but will try to catch you with the piece I’ve found before you leave the country to be sure. Stay tuned!
When I show it to my dad, all the color drains out of his face for a moment, and then he insists I read it out loud to him. When I finish, he grabs the bag out of my hand, tosses it carelessly to the floor, and dances me wildly around the deck, much to the amusement of the crew.
After a final twirl, he drops me into a deck chair and runs over to shake the captain’s hand. “This boat—she is taking me to find my destiny,” he crows joyfully and then rashly runs down to the galley to order a round of champagne for the crew for after dinner.
I take a quick look to make sure my iPad has survived this rough treatment, which thankfully, it has. However, moments later, my hat is not so lucky. There is a huge gust of wind as we round the corner of the point at San Vito, and my hat sails off so high in the sky I lose sight of it long before it hits the water.
I stare out to sea while the boat skirts the point of land, and then watch as both the wind and the waves settle back into their usual placidness. Losing the hat doesn’t matter so much now—we have only a couple of days before we have to fly back to New York, and anyway, if I want to, I can buy another one at our next stop in Gallipoli. But somehow, after all we’ve been through together on this trip, I feel deeply sorry to see it go.
* * *
—
Once we pull out into the sea, I head back to my favorite spot in the lounge and settle in for a good writing session. I need to sort through all the pictures I have taken of the various meals so far on the trip and decide what recipe to feature for my penultimate article. Outside the lar
ge, rectangular window, the coastline of Italy streams by, an unending vista of long, deserted beaches. The land is very flat here, and the sky is overcast, which should make it easier to concentrate on my work.
But before I get a single word down, my dad slides into the seat across the table from me. He’s got his phone in hand, and he gives me what I can only describe as a shy smile.
“I have something to confess, Gianitsa,” he says, eyes twinkling. He slides his phone across to me, which is open to an e-mail. I read through the e-mail and then read it again before looking up at him.
“So, you pitched this book to publishers before you had even finished it?”
He actually giggles. “I know. Naughty of me, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about ‘naughty,’ Pops, and—correct me if I’m wrong here—but you still haven’t got the hard evidence to prove your theory. How long have you been up to this?”
“A few weeks, maybe.” He shrugs. “In any case, young Raj has found something at Circe’s cave. You read the text he sent—this is really happening!”
“Okay, I admit it sounds promising for sure, but you haven’t seen an artifact with your own eyes yet, right? And there’s also the minor detail that you pinpointed the location when you were high on mushrooms.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ve never known you to be such a doubter, Gianna. In any case, I have finished it now. I made a printout of the first draft of the book in Naples. You can read it for yourself whenever you like.”
“I’m not doubting you, Pops. I’m just trying to think critically. With scientific principles.”
He smiles gnomically. “As do I. But, mushrooms aside, you can’t discount the value of serendipity throughout history to scientific discovery.”
I look back at the letter on his phone. “Okay, fine. But—am I reading this correctly? You’ve got a publisher interested in the manuscript?”
He laughs delightedly. “Apparently so. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been pitching my idea to all the big publishing houses in New York . . .”
