The House Guests

by Emilie Richards

  Luckily Seattle had been too far away for holiday weekends, which had saved Cassie from telling the senior Westmores she would not share Thanksgivings with them in the future. From that year on their family had celebrated with staff from Church Street Psychiatric.

  Now she was surprised how comforting it was to be with her own family. A few at a time they had sought her out during the afternoon to tell her how sorry they were about Mark’s death and share what memories they had. One of Yiayia’s contemporaries remembered how Mark’s eyes had crossed the first time he slugged down a shot of ouzo. A woman who was only vaguely familiar to Cassie shared that Mark had taken her aside during a visit to ask about her husband, whose depression had been so obvious that he’d wanted to be sure the man had at least spoken to their family doctor.

  “I made an appointment the next morning,” she said softly, “and they put him right in the hospital. He’s much better now, but only because your husband paid attention.”

  Cassie hadn’t realized that Mark had made such an impression, or that people she’d become so distant from would make such an effort to comfort her. She wished she could share some of those good thoughts with Savannah, but the teen had spent the afternoon aiming her iciest stare at the poor fish in Spring Bayou.

  Now Roxanne put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. “Do you miss New York?”

  “Not as much as I expected. And having the dinner here is great. Everything’s running so smoothly.”

  “I haven’t seen any blood. No fistfights, no kids jumping off the roof into Mama’s pool. It’s probably too much to hope there won’t be any before—”

  Roxanne’s words were interrupted by the scurrying of footsteps and a screech. “What is wrong with those people! My Kouzina is not even among the top five restaurants in Tarpon Springs? My Kouzina needs updated menu and decor? They couldn’t send a Greek to write their reviews?”

  Cassie turned in time to see Yiayia, who had just come into the room, slam down a copy of the Sun Sentry, the daily newspaper for a wide swath of Florida. The kitchen table, worn from countless meals, shuddered.

  “Oh, Lord.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Who showed her that?”

  Cassie moved closer to whisper. “Who showed her what?”

  “Yesterday’s Sun Sentry.” Roxanne whispered, too. “Their food critic did a review of local restaurants and ranked the top five.”

  “And the Kouzina isn’t among them?”

  “In the ‘other possibilities’ section it says that while the Kouzina once flourished, now it’s tired and dated.”

  “Who’s the critic?” She hoped he slept with a gun.

  “The name’s Dallas Johnson. Nobody knows who he or she is. They sneak around doing reviews and nobody even knows a critic’s been there.”

  “What are you saying over there?” Yiayia demanded.

  “I was telling Cassie that nobody knows who this Dallas Johnson is, Mama.”

  “He’s a bad man, that’s who he is.”

  “We don’t know it’s a man.”

  “You think a woman could write this trash?” Lyra pounded a fist between her breasts. “Women have hearts and souls. We cook out of love. Of family. Of food. Of home! You think a man understands that? This Dallas person is a man!”

  Roxanne held up a hand. “Mama, the restaurants he or she named are good ones. You have to agree they were good choices. This person was probably limited to only five. It would be hard to choose.”

  “No, it would not! And he did not eat at my restaurant, or he would know that Yiayia’s Kouzina is the best in town, in Florida. The things he said about us? He could not have eaten our food or visited our beautiful dining room. Best of everything, I serve. Freshest fish brought to our door, special delivery every day of rich cream from a dairy in Odessa. Your uncle Felix himself brings me tomatoes. From his own garden patch. And his oregano?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so fresh it doesn’t know it’s been picked!”

  “Don’t worry, Mama. Opinions are subjective.”

  Cassie watched the other women in the room. Four—two she recognized as possible relatives—had been chatting happily among themselves when she came in. Now they were pressing against walls and into corners. The one who had been at the sink was drying her hands, as if readying for a quick escape. She hoped they left a clear path for her.

  “You are sure you didn’t talk to this man? That you didn’t tell him what to say? That you are not trying to tell me what you think through this...this back door? This piece of trash?” Yiayia grabbed the paper and shook it in Roxanne’s direction.

  “The Sentry is a good paper, and it’s one review. And no, I have never talked to a person named Dallas Johnson that I know of, and I have never seated a food critic at the Kouzina. Okay? Enough!”

  “But you agree with him. You say as much when we are alone, and I try to reason with you. You want to fix dishes no Greek woman has ever made in her kitchen. This is not why people come to my restaurant.”

  Roxanne was losing patience. “You no longer know what Greek women make in their kitchens, Mama. You haven’t been home for at least a decade. So maybe if you took a nice trip there, you would see that there are a hundred wonderful new things to do with lamb and octopus, and women and men all over the country are doing them. You’d see that moussaka can be made in new and interesting ways, and fresh fish? The things we could do with it. Cassie’s chocolate baklava would be a hit in Athens, or on Hydra or Santorini, but it wouldn’t be new to people there. Because things have changed in Greece, too.”

  “You think she’s right?” Lyra turned to Cassie. “You think my daughter knows more about Greece than her mother, who was born there?”

  “I think my name should never have entered the conversation.” Cassie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her grandmother. “You and Rox are fabulous cooks. And both of you know how to run a restaurant. I see no reason why both of you can’t have your way. You can make some of this, some of that, and together decide what customers like best. Why not?”

  “I want to find this Dallas Johnson. I want to make him eat my food while I sit there watching, and then I want to hear him squeal like a little girl and say how good it is!”

  Outside the window the loudspeaker, which had been playing music all afternoon, screeched. Then a man spoke, twice, because the first time there was too much feedback for anyone to understand him.

  “Before people begin to leave, we want to have a time to remember our loved ones who have passed on. Will you join our circle?”

  Cassie released her grandmother and looked at Rox. “What’s this?”

  Lyra answered. “It’s a thing the Costases do on this day. We are thankful for so much, and thankful for those who were with us but have left. When your father died, we did this. You weren’t here?”

  “I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving since before I was married.”

  “Then it’s past time.” Lyra straightened her shoulders, sent a glare in her daughter’s direction and stalked out of the kitchen.

  Cassie looked at Roxanne. “Do I have to stay?”

  Roxanne put her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “One year Mama convinced a priest to sprinkle holy water on anybody who spoke. Unfortunately nobody opened their mouths after the first person got splattered.”

  “How many people will be remembered?” she asked. “I probably ought to get Savannah and the Blairs back home. It’s been a long day.”

  “If you don’t mind upsetting Mama...”

  The other women had already abandoned the kitchen, which was looking well on its way to clean. “You know how to turn on the guilt, don’t you?”

  “Guilt about disappointing Yiayia is a sure thing.” Roxanne raised her hand and left for outside.

  Cassie debated, but in the end she had no choice. She couldn’t wander the grounds looking for Amber and Will and then c
orral Savannah while Yiayia’s family and guests were remembering their loved ones. She started outside, and in the hallway nearly bumped into a man she’d seen at one of the tables but hadn’t recognized.

  “Whoa, sorry,” she said. “I guess I need to watch where I’m going.”

  He didn’t move away. “Cassie Costas. You don’t remember me, do you?”

  She stared a moment. He was taller than she by at least six inches, broad shouldered and muscular. His hair was cut short and already turning gray, although they were probably close to the same age. He had olive skin and dark eyes that looked as if they’d seen more of life than they should have. The creases around them hadn’t been caused by laughter.

  “I’m afraid I’m on information overload,” she said. “You look familiar and that’s as far as I can take it.”

  “It’s been a while. Nicos Andino. We went to high school together.”

  “Nick.” Suddenly she remembered all too well. Nick Andino had been a year ahead of her, popular with everyone, but never full of himself. They had both been in drama club, with roles in Our Town during Nick’s senior year. She had played Julia Gibbs, the mother of one of the main characters, and Nick had been the milkman. While they’d never shared more than a casual friendship, she’d had a secret crush on him. Unfortunately Nick had never lacked for girlfriends. She hadn’t stood a chance.

  “I heard you were back,” he said. “Are you settling in again?”

  “Trying to. Looking for a job and taking care of my daughter. You stayed in town?”

  “I came back after college to join the police force. Their dive team convinced me that was the thing to do.”

  She remembered now that Nick’s family had been spongers, too. Diving for sponges was a large part of the history of Tarpon Springs, and Greek divers, considered the best and most knowledgeable in the world, had been brought in as early as the late nineteenth century to help with the harvest. At one time, sponges had been the largest industry in Florida, larger than tourism or citrus. The divers had stayed and raised their families here and sponging was still part of the local economy and culture. In the old days her family and Nick’s had probably vied for the same underwater treasure. Of course his presence here was proof nobody held that rivalry against him. It also made sense he spent some of his time underwater. He’d been born to it.

  “It’s nice to see you after all these years. Tell me, you’re not a long-lost cousin?”

  “My wife maybe, but your grandmother’s not into specifics. Last month I escorted a customer out the door at the Kouzina when he started causing trouble, so now she has me picking up the night’s receipts and depositing them.”

  “She’ll be your friend for life.”

  “That, and I think she was hoping a cop at the dinner today would be a subtle reminder to keep things friendly.”

  “You can never be too careful, huh?”

  “There are a lot of people here. Not to mention a lot of ouzo and beer.” He smiled. “It’s nice to see you again. Call me if you run into any trouble settling in.” He continued down the hall.

  Outside the sun was sinking, and the sky, streaked with clouds, was a shimmering wash of bronze and rose. Those who hadn’t yet gone home were gathering loosely into a circle, about fifty stalwart souls who’d had a long, happy day together.

  She headed toward Roxanne, who was standing catty-cornered to Yiayia. Cassie looked up the bayou, where Savannah had fumed alone, but she was no longer there. She wondered if her daughter had walked home, and what she’d done when she got there. Cassie had wanted to go to her a dozen times during the day and carry food. But not only would she have been soundly rejected, catering to her daughter’s tantrums was unwise.

  “Those who’ve lost someone always stay. It’s a comfort to bring their loved ones back into the family circle,” Roxanne said, when Cassie reached her.

  “All these people?”

  “Some are here to offer support.”

  Grief felt so individual, so impossible to share. She and Savannah, who had been closest to Mark, hadn’t been able to share anything, because Savannah had shut her out completely. Then Valerie had abandoned her. Cassie had felt completely alone.

  Across the circle she saw Amber and Will slip into an empty space. She knew so little about Amber. Will’s father wasn’t in the picture. Maybe Amber needed to honor him, too.

  Cassie’s grandmother was standing beside Buck, who had entertained them through the afternoon with bouzouki music and Greek folk songs. Today he wore a Greek fisherman’s cap with dress slacks, and he and Yiayia made a good-looking couple. He removed the cap and held it over his heart.

  When they were all gathered, Yiayia stepped forward. She motioned, and two men came around the circle with plastic glasses and bottles of wine, pouring and nodding as they went.

  Like everyone else, Cassie held up her glass for wine. “Just a bit,” she whispered. She would only raise her glass in toast and touch it to her lips. As a heartbroken teenager whose parents had lapsed so far into alcoholism they never found their way back, she had made a vow. Inside the house just behind her she had sobbed in her grandmother’s arms and told Lyra that she would never take a drink.

  The man on the loudspeaker, whom she recognized as someone she simply called Uncle, held up his glass and took a step forward. “Let’s drink a toast to the good health of all who are here today. Yiamas.”

  Cassie repeated the word, and then Uncle began to speak. “My sister Mary, who lived in Detroit but visited me often.” He held up his glass. “We are thankful, and we remember.” He stepped back into the circle.

  Everyone repeated this and raised their glasses to their lips. Then there was silence. Finally someone else stepped forward and spoke, a woman Cassie didn’t recognize. “My best friend, Alice, who was like a sister to me.” She held up her glass. “We are thankful, and we remember.”

  Cassie felt a lump growing in her throat when Roxanne stepped forward and lifted her glass. “My husband, Gary, who I will miss every day for the rest of my life.” Everyone repeated the now familiar refrain.

  Ten steps, ten names and ten sorrows passed around the circle. But the names were said with love and gratitude. Those who had passed on were remembered, the lives they had lived still vital to their loved ones.

  The next voice was newly familiar. Nick had been standing to her right, blocked from her sight, and now he moved forward.

  “To JoAnn, my wife and friend, who loved this town and would have loved being here with us today. We are thankful, and we remember.”

  Earlier Cassie had jumped to the conclusion that when Nick had referred to his wife, the woman was still alive. They shared another bond neither of them had acknowledged.

  His simple words were the key to unlocking her own grief. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Swallowing her emotions, she looked across the circle to see that Amber and Will had stayed, and just past them she glimpsed Savannah, hanging back, but not far. She looked bewildered and unhappy, but she was there, not hiding down at the water’s edge.

  Cassie stepped forward, locking eyes with her daughter. “My husband, Mark, who had more love to give as a husband and father than I had ever hoped for.” She raised her glass. Everyone spoke with her. “We are thankful, and we remember.”

  Savannah turned and walked away, but not fast and not far. Cassie knew better than to follow and alienate her further. She wished that she and Savannah could mourn without questioning what had happened on the day of Mark’s death or who was to blame. She wasn’t sure either of them would recover fully unless they really understood why Mark had died in the storm.

  And nobody was going to look for the truth and tell them.

  As others finished memorializing their loved ones, the full weight hit her. There was only one person who could determine why remembering Mark today was necessary, only one adult who cared enoug
h to dig through the past for answers.

  She could no longer sit back and mourn for her husband. It was time to find out if the man she’d loved for so many years was really the man she’d thought him to be.

  11

  THE DAY THEY MOVED into Cassie’s house, Amber had insisted Will take the suite’s bedroom so he could enjoy more privacy. She usually came home from Dine Eclectic well after ten, and hours passed before she unwound enough to sleep. The sofa bed in the sitting room was comfortable, and she could wash up for the night in the powder room off the great room without disturbing her son. The suite was tight quarters for a teenage boy and his mother, but they’d shared tight quarters before.

  Now Amber looked up as Will came in from the bedroom. The door between had been open since they returned from Lyra Costas’s house hours ago, but Will had been so quiet she thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

  She smiled a welcome. “Quite a day, huh? You seemed to have a good time.”

  He flopped down in the armchair across the room, stretching his long legs in front of him. “Those people are great. Did you like the...” He paused, and then he grinned. “The galopúla.”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you like the galopúla.” He pronounced the last word slowly. “And how about that sáltsa apó fígi. Although Yiayia—that’s what I’m supposed to call Mrs. Costas—said they don’t really eat sáltsa apó fígi in Greece.”

  “Don’t eat what?”

  “Cranberry sauce! And galopúla means turkey.”

  “Wow. Not only did you learn that, you remember it.”

  “I probably didn’t pronounce it right, but I’m going to study Greek when I get to college. If you really want to understand the origins of language, Greek and Latin are important. Maybe Hebrew, too.”

  She nodded, knowing as she did that Will changed his mind every week about what he wanted to study in college. He never changed his mind about wanting to study, though, and she never changed hers about finding a way to make sure he could. Even when they might be dangerous, like staying in Tarpon Springs until he graduated.