A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “Wait . . . a show on the Food Network?” Mama looked troubled by this news as she handed him a fresh lightbulb. “What show?” She tossed the old lightbulb into a nearby trash can and crossed her arms.

  “The Italian Kitchen.” Babbas began to spout—in Greek, of course—about what a ridiculous show it was, but I knew better. So did half of America, but I would never tell him that.

  “I love that show.” The words just slipped out. I didn’t mean to say them, but who could deny the obvious? The Italian Kitchen offered not only great Mediterranean cooking but lively entertainment with the elderly husband and wife duo as hosts.

  “I love it too,” my sister Eva chimed in. “It cracks me up, the way that older couple, Laz and Rosa, bicker in the kitchen. They’re hysterical.” She started telling a funny story from a recent episode. From the top of the ladder Babbas sputtered and spewed more adjectives. This time in Greek, thank goodness.

  “So that’s the family we’re up against?” Mama looked as if she might faint. Who could blame her in this heat? “You might as well hang up your hat now, Niko.”

  “Never! I will not give up and neither will any of you. We are the Pappas family. We have superhero powers behind us.” He tried to take a step down from the ladder and nearly fell. Eva and I grabbed it just in time and kept him from toppling. So much for superhero powers.

  “Niko, we need to stop for a while. Take a break. Rest.” Mama shook her head. “You’re going to kill us all if we keep up this pace. We haven’t had time to catch our breath for weeks.”

  “There will be plenty of time to breathe later.” My father dragged the ladder a few feet more to the right and climbed back up again to deal with another burned-out light. “We open on Saturday, remember?”

  How could we forget, with all of the work we’d done? Mama had worn herself to a thread, and even my younger siblings looked exhausted.

  “We’ve been so preoccupied with opening the business that we’ve barely unpacked our boxes in the apartment upstairs.” Mama huffed and puffed her way to the counter, where she grabbed the box of lightbulbs. “I swear, Niko, sometimes you wear me out. Five weeks ago I was settled in my home in Santa Cruz, dreaming of retirement. Now I’m in this humid place without even the benefit of lovely blue waters or white sand. Have you seen the Gulf of Mexico?”

  He grunted.

  “It’s not the Pacific.” Mama sighed and almost dropped the package of bulbs. “Not that I get to go outside. I’m stuck in here, doing the work of three people half my age, and I have no idea why.”

  “You’re here because this is where the Lord led me.” He cleared his throat and reached down to transfer the lightbulbs. “Led us, I mean.” His tone softened, and I could see the pleading look in his eye. “Trust me, Helena.”

  Mama pulled a dish towel out of her waistband and used it to wipe the back of her neck. “If I had a nickel for every time you asked me to trust you, I’d be rich enough to retire right now. We both would. Instead, we’re here, in a place I’ve never even visited, opening a shop across the street from the most popular restaurant on the island and wondering if there’s enough antiperspirant in the world to keep me from melting into the pavement. It makes no sense.”

  “Some of the greatest decisions in all of history made no sense at the time,” Babbas said as he climbed one rung higher.

  “Like boarding the Titanic, you mean?” Mama asked. “Buying stock in Enron? That sort of thing?”

  “Like moving a family all the way from California to Texas. We are here now, and we will open on Saturday. In the meantime, we will all stick together. No strolling up the Strand to look at shops.” He glared at me. “And no comments about how well our relatives are doing elsewhere. From this point on, it’s all for one and one for all in the Pappas family. Understood?”

  We all grunted in response.

  My father climbed down from the ladder and moved it to a new location. “And as for those Rossis, I have an idea that will stop all of the pizza lovers on the island from ever going back to Parma John’s. It’s brilliant!”

  “Oh?” This certainly got my attention.

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “We’ll place an anonymous call to the health department. Create a scare.”

  I could only hope he was kidding. “Babbas, that’s a low blow. And what makes you think the health department would act on a complaint without finding out who had filed it? They’ll come looking for you.”

  “Hmm. Something to think about.” He shrugged. “Then for now, I will focus on making a television commercial. The villain will be a pizza shop owner.” Babbas laughed. “Won’t that be perfect?”

  Hardly. But none of us would tell him that, at least not yet.

  “If you’re going to make a commercial, I hope you will shave first.” Mama pointed to his stubbly chin.

  “I do shave.” Babbas put his hands on his hips. “Every day.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never seen anyone who can grow a full beard in a day. Your five o’clock shadow shows up at noon.”

  This got a snicker from my younger brother Filip, who then clamped a hand over his mouth and took a step back.

  “Making a first impression is important,” Mama said. “And you’re always a stubbly mess.”

  Babbas stroked his chin. “Is it my fault if I’m a hairy man?” He started to climb the ladder once again. “What’s next? You want me to shave my legs too?” He wiggled one in the air, kind of like a cancan dancer, and Gina laughed.

  “Of course not.” Mama pursed her lips. “Well, unless the hair gets in the way when you put on your tights.”

  “They’re not tights!” Babbas’s voice elevated to a higher pitch. “We’ve been over this a hundred times, Helena! They’re pants.”

  “Whatever.” Mama waved her dish towel in the air. “Point is, I saw a sign advertising a hair salon a few doors down. They do waxing.”

  “Waxing?” My father leaned down from the ladder, his presence even more ominous than usual. “I don’t own a surfboard.”

  “I’m not talking about a surfboard, Niko. I’m talking about those bushy things you call eyebrows. They need to be thinned out in the middle.”

  “What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” He reached up to rub the spot she’d referred to, almost falling from the ladder in the process. Filip reached out to steady him.

  “When you’re mad, they run together.” Mama rolled her eyes.

  “Are you saying I have a unibrow?” He looked down, revealing the bushy thing in all of its glory.

  “Sometimes,” Mama said. “But the reason I brought up waxing is because of that back of yours.”

  “My b-back?” Babbas twisted around on the ladder as if trying to see his back. A panicked look followed. “No one is going to touch my back with hot wax!” He raised one hand in the air, his voice so loud the neighbors could probably hear. “Not now, not ever!”

  And this pretty much ended the conversation on waxing.

  We dove back into our work, spending the rest of the afternoon organizing the restaurant in preparation for opening day. I never mentioned my hour in the flower shop. Wouldn’t dare. And I certainly didn’t say a word about meeting someone from the Rossi family. Babbas’s blood pressure would skyrocket, and we couldn’t risk that, what with him spending so much time on the ladder today.

  Still, as I thought about the day’s events, I wondered how I would balance the new job against my hours here. Babbas would eventually have to know. No way around that. How would this play out, though?

  I pondered the various scenarios as I worked, and all the more as I climbed the stairs to our apartment above the store. After a quick shower—really, what other kind could it be when you shared a one-bathroom apartment with seven other people?—I slipped into the tiny room I shared with my sisters and sat on the edge of the twin bed, my gaze landing on the curtainless window with its broken blinds.

  Strange. We’d spent days organizing the shop downstairs, but barely ten minutes on our a
partment. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I’d better snag this alone time to think through my job dilemma. Surely I could come up with a solution.

  Minutes later Eva entered the room, her hair still wet from the shower. She took one look at me and her eyes filled with concern. “Cassia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s going on with you today? You’re not yourself.”

  Eva might be two years younger than me, but she seemed to know me better than I knew myself at times. I wanted to tell her about the new job. Tell her that I’d rather work in a flower shop any day than open the new business with Babbas. But I couldn’t. Not yet. After all, I hadn’t even committed to take the job. Okay, I’d agreed to come back on Friday and work for four hours, but other than that, I’d given the woman—what was her name again?—no formal commitment.

  “You look sad.” Eva’s nose wrinkled as she stared at me.

  “Not really sad,” I responded. “Just . . . confused.” An awkward silence rose up between us. My sister continued to towel her long, dark hair. I finally finished my thought aloud. “Have you ever just wished you had a different life?”

  “Like, wished you could trade places with someone else, you mean?” Eva slung the towel over the bed’s footboard, then walked to the vanity mirror and gave her reflection a pensive look.

  “Not really that.” I rose and stood alongside her, staring at our dual reflections. “Just wished that things were different. Like maybe wished you had the courage to stand up to someone who micromanaged your every move.”

  “Oh, that.” My sister groaned and turned to face me. “Why didn’t you just say this was a conversation about Babbas?”

  I sat in front of the vanity, frustration gripping me. “Because I’m twenty-three. I’m a skilled floral designer, but no one would ever know it, thanks to him. He doesn’t think I can cross the street by myself without getting hit by a car.”

  “Well, there was that one time in Santa Cruz where you—”

  “Why does everyone have a story about the way I was as a kid?” I slapped myself on the forehead. “The point is, I’m so tired of being treated like a child. I’m not. I’m responsible. Have I ever given him any reason to think otherwise?” My sister opened her mouth to respond, but I added, “Recently?”

  “Not recently.” She grinned and gave her reflection another look.

  I rose and walked to the window. Peering outside, I surveyed the Strand under the glow of the setting sun.

  “I’m twenty-three. Other girls my age are married. Have babies. They’re not stuck at home under their father’s thumb. They’re chasing their dreams.”

  Across the street, something caught my eye. The door to Parma John’s opened and that woman—the one with the gorgeous curly hair and svelte physique—stepped outside onto the sidewalk. The handsome cowboy followed with the adorable little girl in his arms. Behind him came the feisty little boy. I watched as they all made their way toward a truck parked nearby.

  I envied her—the girl with the picture-perfect figure and flawless hair. No doubt she had a perfectly sane life, one not riddled with overbearing parents and wacky family members who were always in her business. Clearly she got to eat all the pizza she liked on top of that. Oh, and that dreamboat of a cowboy who always kissed her at every turn? I envied her for that too. Where did a girl have to go to find a guy like that?

  My thoughts shifted to Alex, the guy in the flower shop. Apparently a girl didn’t have to go far. Just up the street. At Patti-Lou’s Petals, I could sneak away from my everyday life and spend a little time with a handsome Greek guy from . . . what was that small town called again? Oh well, it didn’t matter where he came from. The conversation we’d shared almost gave me hope that I could one day settle into a happy relationship like the girl across the street had done.

  I couldn’t help the sudden burst of happiness that took hold of me as I thought about him. What a dreamy life that would be!

  My sister tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to face her, she grinned and said, “‘The Boy Next Door.’”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re humming ‘The Boy Next Door.’ It’s one of my favorites. Could’ve guessed it would be a Judy Garland tune. You’ve been on a kick lately with her music, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize I was humming.”

  “I know. You never do. But don’t let that stop you. I love that you’ve got a song in your heart.” Eva dove into the lyrics of “Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart” and sang it in multiple keys. Not that I minded. A Judy Garland song sounded great, no matter the key. Or keys.

  I eventually worked up the courage to tell Eva my secret about taking a new job. Just when I’d fully unloaded on her, I heard a sound coming from the doorway and looked over, horrified to discover Yia Yia standing there with little Gina at her side, listening in.

  Oh no.

  My grandmother hobbled into the room, her stooped frame causing her to appear even tinier than usual. She gestured for me to sit on the bed and I did. Then she took the spot next to me and reached for my hand.

  “Your father, he is a good man.” Yia Yia patted my arm. “I raised him right.”

  “He’s a tough man.” I sighed as I thought it through. Too tough.

  Yia Yia’s wrinkles softened like a bar of chocolate left sitting in the sun. “He wants what’s best for you, Cassia. Always. Like every parent.”

  “What’s best for me is doing what I was created to do, working at the flower shop.”

  “Yes. Flowers. You always make them beautiful. And God . . .” She leaned over to whisper in my ear, “He makes all things beautiful, child, in his time.” A pat of her wrinkled hand on my shoulder nearly brought me to tears.

  All right then. God would make all things beautiful—like a fragrant bouquet—in his time. If I could just hang on for the ride.

  5

  A Star Is Born

  You might be Greek if you were as tall as your grandmother (Yia Yia) by the age of seven.

  The day after I landed the new job, chaos broke out between the Greeks and the Italians. It all started when the photographer—a very pregnant woman named Hannah—showed up to shoot some images of my father wearing his superhero costume. The shoot was supposed to take place outside our shop. Hannah suggested long shots of my “superhero” father in front of our newly installed Super-Gyros sign so that the Santorini-blue coloring in his tights would—as she put it—force the eye to gaze upward at the blue store sign above.

  Unfortunately, complications arose at every turn.

  For one thing, the lunch crowd across the street made things difficult. Hannah couldn’t really figure out a good place to stand to get a long shot from the opposite side of the Strand. With the mob of people coming and going from Parma John’s, she simply couldn’t find a safe spot to stand for more than a second or two at a time.

  “Sorry, Mr. Pappas,” she called out from in front of the crowded pizzeria’s door. “I’m doing the best I can. Could you scoot a little bit to the left so I can get your shop in the picture?”

  Babbas tried to move, but a passing tourist nearly knocked him down. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he sputtered and spewed like an ’87 Chevy with bad gas.

  A Parma John’s customer got into his car and pulled away from the curb, and Hannah snagged the spot right away. She set up three orange cones to mark the area so that no one else could pull in, then gave Babbas a thumbs-up.

  Apparently this decision didn’t sit well with the elderly gentleman who ran the pizzeria. He came storming out into the middle of the street, waving his walking cane in the air.

  It took a minute, but I finally recognized him as Laz from the TV show The Italian Kitchen. Oh, wow. Talk about starstruck. I wanted to rush his way and tell him just how much I loved his show. After he finished yelling at my father, anyway. Then I remembered . . . Rossi. Marcella. Flower shop. I hid behind a lamppost and peeked out to watch the rest of the goings-on.
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  In spite of the need for the cane, Laz carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence. “What is this?” he hollered. His jaw tensed visibly as he gestured to the coned-off area.

  “This is necessary for my photo shoot,” Babbas responded.

  “And what is this?” Laz pointed to my father’s costume.

  “This”—Babbas pointed to himself in his ridiculous costume—“is how you market a business.”

  “By looking like a schmuck in the middle of the street?” Laz spouted.

  “I’m not the one standing in the middle of the street,” Babbas countered.

  I had to give it to him there. He was standing on the sidewalk, after all.

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t. My father had taken several angry steps toward Laz. Wow. I hadn’t seen him move that fast since the Texas-size cockroach scurried across the kitchen floor a few days back. I pinched my eyes shut, unwilling to watch.

  Only, who could look away at a moment like this? I opened one eye just a bit as Hannah hurried to the middle of the two men and did her best to calm things down, to no avail.

  “Someone help that poor pregnant girl.” My mother twisted a dishcloth in her hands. “Oh, I can’t watch this!”

  At this point Yia Yia began to pray in Greek. I couldn’t make out much, but I got the part about delivering us from demonic spirits. Alrighty then.

  I peeked out from behind the pole just in time to see Gina run into the street. My mother let out a scream as my little sister came within feet of a passing horse and buggy loaded with tourists.

  “You nearly killed my daughter!” Babbas shouted at Laz as he pulled Gina to safety.

  “I did no such thing!” Laz shouted, his face growing redder by the moment. “I just came out here to tell you that you people cannot cone off the area in front of my store. You are using my designated parking spots.” He pointed at two spots marked “Designated Parking for Parma John’s.” Yep. Hannah’s cones were clearly blocking the man’s designated parking spots. Still, why the fuss? Couldn’t we all just get along?