“Tell me about this beautiful painting,” I said. “It doesn’t look like one of Spiridon’s.”
“It’s my dad’s. Well, mostly. I helped him paint it.”
“Really? When?”
“When I was like seven or eight.”
“Wow, Christos, it’s really nice. And that’s so cool that you did a painting with your dad!” I envied that he had, or used to have, such a close relationship with his father.
All I could imagine doing with my own dad was drawing up a balance sheet. Even then, he’d be controlling everything, correcting me and telling me how I was doing everything wrong.
“Yeah,” Christos continued, “my parents were still together at the time. I used to love hanging around in my dad’s studio. I’d be in the corner drawing or painting on an easel he’d bought for me. He’d set up fruit or stacks of books or whatever for me to practice still lifes. He’d always be checking in to see what I was doing. Looking back, I think he was getting bored with his abstract work and loved having me as a distraction. It was only another couple years before my mom took off.
“Anyway, the day me and my dad did this painting,” he motioned at the big painting on the wall, “he came over to watch me work for awhile. I remember I was working on a still life of a vase of flowers and a little tin box and a tea kettle. It’s still hanging in my grandpa’s bedroom, by the way. My dad told me to give it to Grandpa for a birthday present.
“Anyway, my dad’s watching me work, and he says, ‘Agoráki mou, help me fix my painting. It’s no good. Yours is so much better.’ I told him I couldn’t fix it, I didn’t know how.”
Christos paused from his memory to look at me directly. “You gotta remember, I’d seen all of my dad’s paintings at this point. Not just the abstract stuff he sold for crazy money, but also his realistic work. He was and is so amazingly talented, it would blow you away if you saw his realistic work in person. So, when he tells me to fix his painting? I’m ready to crap my pants. In my eyes, my dad was the greatest painter on the planet, and all I would do was fuck it up. I mean, I’m working on my own little still life, sweating bullets, trying to get it right—”
I interrupted him. “I’m sure your painting turned out awesome, Christos.”
He grinned dimples and nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty damn good for an eight-year-old.”
“Cocky bastard,” I swatted his arm.
“You love me for it.”
I did. I kissed him on his cheek. “But I want to hear the rest of your story.”
“Okay, so I walk over to my dad’s canvas and look at it. At that age, I was never sure what to make of abstract art. I was so focused on trying to do realistic stuff, like my dad.”
“So what did you do?” I was totally curious.
“Well, my dad said, ‘Look at it for awhile. Take your time to soak it in. When you’re ready, grab a brush and some paint and add something. You’ll know what to do.’ So I stared at it, like he’d said. After awhile, I grabbed a big brush, loaded it with cadmium orange, and carefully made those shapes right there.”
Christos pointed at the complex orange pattern of slashes curving across the right side of the painting.
I was in awe of the connection he’d shared with his dad. “Wow, that was like fifteen years ago, and you remember all of that?”
“Hey, getting to paint on my dad’s painting was a big deal. It was like getting the keys to the kingdom.”
“So, how come your dad didn’t sell it, like his other paintings?”
“Funny you ask. The next time my dad had a show, this was the featured piece. Everyone was talking about it. When my dad told them that I had helped, they creamed all over themselves. Started calling me a prodigy right there on the spot. People offered exorbitant amounts of cash for the painting. They wanted me to sign my name to it too. But at the end of the night, my dad refused to sell it. He wanted to keep it for himself. It’s been hanging in my grandfather’s house ever since, right here in this room.”
I was in awe of Christos’ story. Nothing remotely this grand or romantic or exciting, or this loving ever happened in my family. All I could picture was my mom or dad shouting at me that I was going to ruin something whenever I’d tried to help them out on some project or other around the house.
But at least I had Christos in my life, I reminded myself. He was as grand, romantic and loving as his story about his father’s painting. Maybe more so.
Christos was the sensational celebrity in my life.
I sighed deeply, trying to clear my welling emotions. I looked around the room again, taking in the rest of the decor. “Well, this is an awesome bedroom you’ve got here,” I said, trying to shift the subject into territory that wouldn’t make me want to break down in tears. “And in your grandfather’s house, no less.”
“Yup. I hate the idea of him living alone, plus the studio is downstairs. It’s convenient. And hey, it’s free, so I can’t complain.”
I felt yet another pinch of jealousy. Make that a Vise-Grip of jealousy. I wished that my parents were equally understanding, that their house was an awesome artist’s mansion within walking distance of the beach, and that I had my own breathtaking studio. Oh well. Maybe with the money I earned as a cashier at the campus art museum I could afford something, ahhh, similar.
Yeah, right.
“What’s wrong, agápi mou?” Christos asked, cupping my cheek in his hand. “Something’s bothering you.”
“It’s nothing,” I demurred.
“You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” I leaned into his chest. I felt like I was spoiling our mood.
“Don’t worry about it, agápi mou. You’re part of my family now. My domain is yours. My family is yours. Let me show you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Downstairs.” He opened the bedroom door and nodded toward the hallway, “Your surprise.”
We went downstairs together.
Chapter 17
SAMANTHA
Spiridon stood at the stove in the kitchen, tending to food.
“Hey, Pappoús,” Christos said to him.
“Your lamb is almost ready, Christos,” Spiridon said.
“Thanks, Pappoús,” he said.
“I kept an eye on it while you were upstairs. Hello, Samantha. Good to see you again,” he smiled at me.
I blushed instantly. How long had Spiridon been inside the house? How loud had Christos and I been? How much had Spiridon heard? I tried to hide behind Christos, almost like a little kid hiding behind their parent’s legs.
“Give me a hug, koritsáki mou,” Spiridon said, grabbing me from behind Christos. “I haven’t seen you since December!” His arms swallowed me up.
I hugged him back, surprised by the warmth of his affection. He barely knew me, and yet his hug felt more loving than any I’d ever received from my parents. When he released me, he was smiling, and I almost thought his eyes were tearing up.
“How have you been treating my grandson, huh? Have you been good to him?” He wrapped an arm around Christos and rubbed his other hand against Christos’ stomach.
Yeah, my parents would never act like that around me. I could imagine myself flinching in a combination of surprise and discomfort if they ever tried.
“She’s been treating me like a king,” Christos said.
“Show her your present, paidí mou,” Spiridon grinned at Christos.
“He helped me with it,” Christos said to me. “That’s why he’s all excited.”
“With what?” I asked.
“Come on, I’ll show you,” Christos said, leading me to the studio.
When we were out of the kitchen, I asked, “What was that your grandfather called me?”
“Koritsáki mou? It means ‘my little girl.’ I told you, you’re family now.” Christos rubbed my back as he said it.
I was going to cry. I sniffled back my tears as we walked into the studio, all the way to the end.
There was a little work space set up in the back that hadn’t been there before. An angled drafting table with a lamp clamped to the desktop was surrounded by trays full of pencils, pens, erasers, markers, rulers, everything you might need to draw. Next to it was a small easel. By small, I meant small in comparison to the other ones in the studio. But it was more than big enough for any painting I could ever imagine painting, and it looked brand new. Beside the easel was a table on wheels with paint brushes in jars, tubes of paint, a palette, clean rags, everything.
“What’s this,” I asked. “It all looks brand new.”
“It is. And it’s yours. You need your own workspace.”
My eyes goggled. “What?! I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
“Don’t worry about it. It won’t cost you a thing,” he winked.
I was overwhelmed. “I can’t, Christos.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s just so much.”
“So?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
“If it makes you feel any better, I buy art supplies all the time. I would need to buy this stuff anyway, sooner or later. If you want, think of it as my stuff, and I’m letting you borrow it.”
“I can’t—”
“Sure you can.”
“Christos!”
He ignored my protest. “Now you can do all your art studies right beside me. While I’m busy working, you’ll be twenty feet away.”
That sounded pretty awesome.
“We set it up this afternoon,” Spiridon said, now standing beside us. “I hope you like it. Is the easel big enough? Christos insisted it would be, but I wasn’t sure.”
I gaped at Spiridon. What was I going to say?
“Here’s a key,” Spiridon said, holding a brass key out to me. “For the front door. You can come and go whenever you want.”
I tried my best, but the tears poured out of me.
I couldn’t speak, I could only sob softly.
Christos reached out and hugged me and stroked my hair. “It’s all yours, agápi mou.”
Spiridon patted my shoulder. “Make yourself at home, koritsáki mou.”
I realized at that moment that I could now accurately describe what heaven was like.
“Dinner, anyone?” Spiridon asked.
SAMANTHA
Dinner was a Greek cucumber salad with kalamata olives and feta cheese, and roasted lamb with yogurt sauce over rice.
“Wow, this is really good,” I said. “Are you sure you made it, Christos,” I jabbed, having recovered from my earlier tears in the studio.
“Totally,” Christos insisted.
“He did,” Spiridon assured. “I just made sure nothing burned while you two were, ahem, upstairs.”
I sank down in my chair. Was there room for me to slide under the kitchen table?
Spiridon chuckled. “I didn’t hear a thing,” he smiled.
I literally slid under the table.
Christos and Spiridon laughed.
I wondered if I could wait down there, staring at their knees, until they forgot I was there and they left the room to go looking for me. Probably not. I struggled back into my chair, the legs squeaking on the kitchen floor, further embarrassing me. My face was hot, my cheeks redder than ever.
“Don’t worry about it, koritsáki mou,” Spiridon said. “We’re all grownups.” He lifted a bite of lamb to his mouth and chomped it down. “I was young once too, you know. I remember what it was like.”
I held my napkin in front of my face. I wanted to beg them both to stop. But I also didn’t. They weren’t at all uncomfortable with the topic. They both behaved as if sex and love were a normal part of life, something that normal people could talk about instead of hiding it and pretending it didn’t exist, skulking around the topic like it was offensive, which was stupid.
There was nothing stupid about love and sex.
Where had my parents gone wrong? They never talked about sex, unless it was the topic of birth control or STDs. And they NEVER talked about love. I mean, never. Zero times. I suddenly wondered if perhaps I had been a test-tube baby. Probably.
“Christos told me you changed your major to art?” Spiridon asked.
I lowered my napkin to my lap. “Yeah. I did.”
“That must be exciting,” he said.
“It is. I dropped my accounting class and added Figurative Sculpting.”
“I bet that Marjorie Bittinger is your instructor, right?” Spiridon asked.
“Yeah,” I smiled. “Have you met her, Christos?”
Christos was chewing on salad, and wiped his mouth with his napkin when he was finished. Mr. Manners, as always. “Yeah, once. She’s a tough nut.”
I chuckled. “I think she has it in for me.”
“Really?” Christos asked before taking a swallow of milk.
“Yeah, she took an instant hating to me when I walked in late the first day. And, I think she has a crush on the model. Do you know a guy named Hunter Blakeley?”
“No,” Christos answered.
“Well, I think Major Marjorie has a thing for him big time. I think she sees me as competition.”
“Major Marjorie,” Spiridon chuckled and smiled, “that sounds like her.”
“What’s her issue?” Christos asked.
I suddenly felt like I’d let the genie out of the bottle. Or maybe the fart out of the jar. Was I going to be in trouble for answering this honestly? I sighed. After holding in so many secrets in high school, I was tired of it. I trusted Christos wouldn’t freak out. He wasn’t a Lamian Damian. “This Hunter guy was hitting on me during the breaks, and I think it made Professor Bittinger jealous,” I said nervously.
“No surprise there,” Christos said smiling. “I’d be jealous of you too, if I wasn’t me.” He winked at me.
I smiled at him while I chewed on some lamb. I waited a few moments to see if Christos said anything else on the topic of Hunter Blakeley. Nope. He didn’t seem to care. Wait, did that mean he didn’t care at all? I was suddenly confused. Wasn’t a guy supposed to bang his chest and hoot and holler and fight for you?
Christos was watching me closely. “Don’t worry, agápi mou. If this Hunter guy doesn’t leave you alone…”
I expected Christos to say something violent like he’d beat Hunter up or challenge him to a duel.
“…I’ll set him up with Bittinger. She’s a good looking woman, and I hear she’s a wild cat in the sack.”
Spiridon chuckled. “Send her my way first,” he grinned. “I’ll set her straight.”
I gawked at Spiridon. My grandparents never talked like that!
“I’ll bust that Hunter character’s head myself,” Spiridon finished. He leveled a gaze at me. “You tell him Spiridon Manos is still young and spry, and he better not lay a finger on you,” he chuckled.
Christos grinned. “He’s not joking. He can still throw a wicked uppercut. I know from experience.”
“And don’t you forget it, paidí.” Spiridon said to Christos shrewdly.
When we finished eating, I cleared the table and did the dishes while Spiridon and Christos chatted and joked with me from the table. I so loved being in their house.
When everything was rinsed and in the dishwasher or put away in the fridge, I leaned against the countertop, watching the two of them.
“So, Pappoús, did I tell you that Brandon’s phone is ringing off the hook?” Christos asked. “Seems like everybody wants my paintings after my show.”
“The Charboneaus do good work,” Spiridon said. “I knew choosing them for your first solo show was a wise decision. And that Franco Viviano acted like there was no art market in San Diego.”
Franco was the guy Christos had introduced me to in Los Angeles, the owner of Spada Gallery, which sold Nikolos Manos’ paintings. I felt like I was listening to some private, upper echelon art talk or big back-room deal making bull session.
“Yeah,” Christos continued, “Bra
ndon’s got buyers lining up. He keeps raising the prices every time someone new calls begging for my work.”
“Congratulations, Christos. You’ve worked hard to get this far. You deserve it.”
“I totally forgot!” I blurted. “I need to look for a job!”
Christos and Spiridon turned to face me.
“I’m sorry, I totally interrupted you guys,” I said. All their deal-making money talk reminded me that I wasn’t in nearly such an enviable financial position. It was such a dramatic contrast between Christos’ situation and mine. I had rent to worry about, and groceries, and everything else.
“No worries,” Christos said, slightly confused. “I thought you said you found a job at the museum?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “but it’s only like ten hours a week. I’m still looking for a second job to pay all my bills.”
“Do you want to use the internet here?” Christos suggested. “See what you can find?”
“Uhhh,” the idea of looking for a minimum wage part-time job while surrounded by the Manos Mansion and the Manos family’s love was somehow depressing, like the good vibes were only fleeting for me, and my reality was back in my lonely one-bedroom apartment.
“I’ll grab my laptop and you can work right here on the kitchen table with us,” Christos said.
“Stay, koritsáki mou,” Spiridon said warmly.
I wanted to cry again. Compared to the way my parents had thrown me to the wolves, I felt like this was a hero’s homecoming.
“I should go home and do it there,” I said, holding back my tears. “I have Sociology and History homework anyway.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Christos asked.
“No, I, I bah-better go,” I hitched, heading out the kitchen and toward the front door, hoping to reach my car before tears fell.
SAMANTHA
I was almost to my VW when Christos ran outside behind me. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” I said, grabbing the door handle of my VW.
“Why don’t you move in with me?”
“What?! I couldn’t do that!” I yanked my car door open, my tears threatening to spill.
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