After waiting on an elderly couple, both wearing motorcycle jackets, I finally found a moment to catch my breath. As I packaged ready-to-go gyros, I listened in on the roomful of strangers. What blissful chaos.
Multiple conversations carried on at once around the room—in different languages, no less. The laugh-a-minute car salesman talking to a co-worker. The local shop owners snagging a few minutes between customers. The young mothers with their little ones. The whole thing stirred together to create a sound so delicious you could almost taste it.
Off in the distance, the sound of my father’s voice rang out above the noise of the crowd as he bellowed an order to my brother. Mama’s response—in Greek—added just the right flavor to the conversation, drawing my ear. Darian called back in English and reached for a platter, which he dropped with a raucous clatter. This caught the attention of the customers, who stirred in their seats. They chuckled as my brother lifted the broken pieces of plastic and began to juggle them for their entertainment while singing a crazy song in Greek. Yia Yia took to dancing, and soon the customers started clapping out the beat.
Just about the time I found myself completely drawn in, the door opened and Alex, the handsome flower guy, walked in. Oh. No. I ducked behind the counter and pretended to count the pots and pans.
“You all right, Cassia?” Eva gave me a concerned look just as my brother’s song came to an end.
“Yes. Just have a weird cramp in my leg.” I did, actually.
“Probably from bending over like that.” She gasped and then squatted down to whisper, “You need to stand up and check something—er, someone—out. Adonis just walked in.”
“I-I can’t.” The pain in my leg intensified. Ouch. And I certainly didn’t want Alex to see me. He might blow my cover.
Eva must’ve lost herself in Alex’s gorgeous eyes, because she didn’t seem to notice that I crawled along the edge of the counter until I reached the kitchen. Once inside, I finally managed to shake the cramp out of my leg. I peeked through the open door at Alex, who ordered a gyro and a couple pieces of baklava, then left in a hurry.
Eva rushed my way, her eyes bright. “Wow, wow, wow. You missed it, Cassia. The most gorgeous guy . . . and I swear, he must be Greek. But you should hear the way he talks. Texas drawl, fer shure.” She did her best impression and then giggled. “He’s such a . . .”
“Southern gentleman.” I couldn’t help the words. They just slipped out.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, he just looked like it, I guess.”
“Right.” Her eyes narrowed and I could read the confusion in them. “But how did you know that if you didn’t see him?”
“I saw him as he came in the door, but then I got a cramp.” I rubbed the back of my leg. “It’s better now.”
“Well, that’s good, because I need your help clearing the tables. Looks like we’ve got more people coming in the door.” Eva headed back to the front of the shop, still chattering on and on about the guy she now called Cowboy Adonis. Great. Looked like my sister had her eye on the only guy I’d met so far on Galveston Island. Wasn’t that just perfect.
I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting on customers right and left. Several times I glanced out the front window to check the crowd at Parma John’s. They had their usual steady stream of customers, but nothing like what we were experiencing.
Babbas must’ve noticed too. At least once I heard him mutter under his breath, “I’ll show you how to run a business, Mr. Food Network star!” Lovely.
As we wrapped up for the day, I managed to catch a few minutes on the sidewalk, clearing the outdoor tables. I couldn’t help but smile as the trolley zipped by loaded with tourists, cameras in hand. Right away I started humming.
“Great,” I grumbled. “Now that song is stuck in my head again.”
My mother joined me, wiping her hands on her apron as she glanced my way. “Which song?”
“That Judy Garland one, about the trolley.” I started humming it in spite of myself. “Did I ever tell you what happened the time it got stuck in my head and I couldn’t shake it? I was clang-clang-clanging all day long.”
“Funny.” Mama chuckled. “But if you have to get a song stuck in your head, that’s a fine one. Very cheerful.”
“Yes, but not a hundred times in a row. I honestly couldn’t get it to stop. Every time I tried to start humming another one, I’d end up back on that one.”
“Well then . . .” Mama stopped working and looked at me. “Maybe the Lord was trying to tell you something. Did you ever think about that?”
“Trying to tell me that I’m supposed to ride the trolley?”
“No.” Mama reached to touch my arm, her eyes spilling over with tenderness and passion. “Maybe you’re going to meet your future husband on the trolley.” She kissed her fingertips and lifted her hands to heaven. “From my mouth to God’s ears.”
“Or maybe . . .” This time it was my father’s voice sounding behind us. “Maybe we’re supposed to take out an advertisement on the side of the trolley.” He extended his hands as if creating a sign. “‘Eat at Super-Gyros and get a free token to ride the Galveston trolley.’” Babbas snapped his fingers. “Perfect!”
“I don’t know, Niko.” Mama went back to work clearing the tables. “The Super-Gyros logo is a superhero in flight, cape blowing in the wind. He’s not riding a trolley. That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Just trying to tie the marketing into something islanders are familiar with,” my father countered. “Work with me here, Helena.”
“Of course, of course.” Soon the two of them were coming up with the wording for the promo. I couldn’t help but hum that goofy trolley song as I listened in. I wouldn’t mind spending a jolly hour on a trolley if it meant meeting Mr. Right.
Mr. Right?
For whatever reason, my thoughts flitted back to the day when I first saw Alex riding the trolley. The moment I saw his face, I’d felt butterflies take flight in my stomach. They’d stirred again that first day at the florist shop. And today, when he’d walked in the door, I’d pretty much felt my heart burst into song. But the cramp in my leg had squelched the melody in a hurry.
My parents droned on about marketing strategies for the sandwich shop. I tried to act interested, but my heart just wasn’t in it.
“I think the day went well.” Babbas slung a dishcloth over his shoulder, then gazed across the street at Parma John’s. The business on their side of the street appeared to be growing by the minute. People flooded inside, and strains of a Frank Sinatra tune drifted out. My father’s brow wrinkled in concern. “But we can do better.”
“Better?” I bit back a groan.
“Always looking ahead, Cassia,” he said. “That’s what a businessman does.”
I was looking ahead too—to Monday, when I would go back to the florist shop for a few precious hours. Babbas hadn’t approved the idea, but at least I’d worked up the courage to tell him my plan. Sort of.
Not that he cared about anything related to flowers. Or me. Oh no.
Darian joined us with a notepad in his hand. He rattled off clever ideas for marketing the sandwich shop, and Babbas listened in, eyes glazed over.
“We can sell coupon books at the register,” my brother suggested. “Or maybe offer a discount card for repeat customers? Buy so many gyros and get one for free?”
“I always lose those cards,” Mama said. “So I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What we really need are interviews from local customers,” Babbas said. “Maybe at the same time we film the commercial with the new jingle. We will ask some of our new friends to give an honest opinion about Super-Gyros.”
“Unbiased, of course,” Mama said.
“Yes.” Babbas nodded. “Officer O’Reilly might be a good choice. He has the respect of the community. Although I might need to coach him just a bit, to make sure we don’t have to use too many takes.”
“You can’t put words in the
customer’s mouth, Niko.” Mama rolled her eyes.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Helena.” He glanced across the street one last time, crossing his arms as he took note of Uncle Laz going into Parma John’s. “Soon everyone on the island will be singing the Super-Gyros jingle that Cassia wrote. Just you wait and see. Our family—we will be television stars too. All of us, in our beautiful Greek costumes. And some people”—these last words he called out in a loud voice—“will learn to eat their own words!”
“Ugh.” My cue to exit. I walked back inside the shop to help Eva clear the tables. She took one look at me and stopped her work, dropping the pan of dirty dishes in the process. I caught it before it hit the floor.
“Good catch.” Eva smiled. “So what happened? Babbas again?”
“Yeah. Now he’s determined to get us on TV, singing that stupid song I came up with. I could kick myself.” I watched through the plate-glass window as he carried on in animated fashion, speaking so loudly I could hear him from inside the shop.
“It’s your fault for being so brilliant,” Eva said.
“Guess so.” I sighed. “But the idea of doing what he tells me instead of what I want to is eating me alive.” I made my way to the window and peered through the glass as Bella and her husband came out of Parma John’s. Something about the duo always made me feel . . . Hmm. I couldn’t find the right word to describe it.
“Something’s bothering you.” Eva joined me at the window, her gaze drifting to the Parma John’s sign across the street and then down to Bella.
“Wouldn’t mind trading lives with someone normal, that’s all.” I sighed as I watched Bella’s husband slip his arm over her shoulder. She must’ve said something funny because he laughed.
“Well, I would offer to trade lives with you.” Eva rolled her eyes. “But mine isn’t normal either. I wonder if anyone has a normal life. You know?”
“Yeah.” I still couldn’t take my eyes off the two across the street. Bella glanced toward our shop, and I turned quickly so as not to be seen.
“You okay?” Eva asked.
“Yeah.” I went to work clearing a table, my back to the window. After a moment I paused and leaned against the counter. “This is going to sound weird, but I feel really lonely sometimes. Do you?”
“Lonely?” Eva snorted as she scrubbed a nearby table. “Seriously? We’re surrounded by people on every side, especially on days like today. Who could be lonely?”
“I know, but it’s possible to be really lonely when you’re in a crowd, trust me. Sometimes a girl just wishes she had someone . . . I don’t know . . . someone to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.” I craned my neck to catch a final glimpse of Bella and her husband as they made their way on down the street, hand in hand. “To tell her she’s pretty. To tell her that she means the world to him.”
“Yeah, I get it.” My sister released a giggly sigh. “You’re looking for Prince Charming.”
“I guess. But I seriously doubt he’s going to appear in Texas. You know? I always pictured him to be tall, tanned, and very Santa Cruz–ish.”
“Oh, trust me, there are plenty of hunky guys here in Galveston.” Her eyes lit up as she began to gush over Cowboy Adonis, aka Alex. I couldn’t chime in, of course. To do so might give away my little secret. I’d seen those eyes first, and they’d captivated me too.
I found myself deep in thought until Eva looked my way and grinned. “You’re doing it again,” she said.
“What?”
“Humming ‘The Boy Next Door.’”
“At least it’s not that goofy trolley song,” my mother said as she entered the shop, broom in hand. “I was getting a little tired of that one.” She whopped me on the backside with the broom and I started laughing.
“Enough singing, already!” Babbas said as he made his way back inside. “Unless it’s our new jingle. We have costumes to design, a commercial script to write, and dishes to wash!” He headed to the kitchen, carrying on about his plans to grow the shop into a coast-to-coast chain. “Before long there will be a Super-Gyros on every corner!” he proclaimed.
Alrighty then.
Crazy or not, my family always brought me back around to reality. Their version of it, anyway. And with a family like mine, who had time to dream of Prince Charming?
8
Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart
You know you’re Greek when you teach all your friends curse words and tell them they mean “hello.”
On Sunday morning we visited a new-to-us church. Not one of those megachurches. Babbas had sworn off those years ago, claiming it was too hard to make connections.
Interpretation: It’s easier to sell people your wares in a smaller setting.
This new church seemed pretty great. I really liked the pastor and his daughter, who, it turned out, ran the bakery next door to Parma John’s. I’d seen the Let Them Eat Cake sign, but I’d never dreamed I’d end up in church with the owner, Scarlet. We met, of all places, in the ladies’ room.
Maybe it was wrong of me not to come clean about my last name or to introduce her to the rest of the family. Still, I needed time to figure out the best plan when it came to social situations like this. Not that gabbing with a new friend in the ladies’ room is exactly something you could add to your social calendar, but we seemed to hit it off regardless. Might as well enjoy it before she met my father and realized he wanted to join her family-friendly church to garner new customers.
Somehow the conversation turned to my job at the flower shop. From there we shifted to a terrific conversation about wedding bouquets. Before long Scarlet filled my ears with stories of wedding cakes she’d made. My heart celebrated as she shared her vision for working with local brides. A soul sister! A fellow businesswoman, one who loved talking about weddings.
I hummed all the way back to the shop, then spent the afternoon looking over the brochure Scarlet had given me for Club Wed’s vendor area. Maybe someday my bouquets would be put on display at the island’s most famous wedding facility. Better yet, maybe I’d get a write-up in Texas Bride magazine. It could happen.
By Monday morning I could hardly wait to get to work. I said my goodbyes to the family—Really, Babbas? Are the tears necessary?—then walked down the Strand to Patti-Lou’s Petals. I found Marcella inside, already looking frazzled.
“Oh, Cassia, I’m so glad you’re here.” She pointed at the little girl behind the counter. “This is my daughter, Anna. She’s home sick from school today. I hope you don’t mind. I’m praying she’s not contagious.”
The little girl let out a series of sneezes and then started coughing. Looked like I’d have to use a lot of hand sanitizer today. Marcella took Anna into the back room to rest on the love seat, and I waited on a customer. After that, we turned our attention to a meeting with a local bride-to-be named Gabi. A dress designer by trade, she brought several sketches for us to look at. Once I saw the design of her gorgeous wedding gown, I couldn’t help but gasp.
“It’s exquisite!”
“Thank you.” She blushed. “I’ve designed gowns for other brides, but coming up with something for myself wasn’t easy.”
I would think, with Gabi being a size 2 and all, that coming up with a design would be a piece of cake. Then again, what did I know about dress design? I did know flowers, though, so I gave her my ideas, all of which I tailored to go with the lovely gown.
“If you’re going with an all-white theme, then I would suggest orchids and tea roses. Alex brought in the prettiest white tea roses the other day. Let me see if I can find one to show you.” I snagged one and brought it back. “For the boutonnieres I would scale back on the orchids and use more of a rose theme. But if you decide to do corsages for the mothers and grandmothers, maybe just a hint of orchid mixed with a couple of the tea roses. What do you think?”
She stared at the flowers I’d pieced together and then looked back up at me. “I think the flow of the orchids is perfect with the lace pattern in the dress. They�
�re very much alike, actually.”
“Yes, that’s what made me think of orchids. When I saw the fabric I knew the flowers would be the perfect complement.”
“You’re so great at this.” She gave me an admiring look. “What if I just left it up to you, Cassia? Be creative. I’ll give you full rein. Seriously.” She quickly glanced at the time on her cell phone and then rose. “I’m so sorry, but I have to make a stop by the fabric store before meeting Bella for lunch. There’s so much to do when you’re in wedding-planning mode.” She thanked us both, gave Marcella a hug, and then swept me into her arms, gushing over me.
When she left, Marcella gave me an admiring look. “Well now.”
“Hmm?”
“Girl, you really do love flowers,” she said. “And you’re great with them. Very inspiring. The customers are going to eat that up.”
“Thank you. If you look at my résumé you’ll see that I—” Yikes. I stopped right there.
“I can sense it all over you. This is more than a job for you.”
“Oh, you have no idea. There’s something about the scent of flowers that . . .” My eyes stung as a hint of tears threatened to spill over. “It’s so goofy. I can’t believe I get emotional over flowers.”
“No, I think it’s great,” she said. “I wish I felt that way. I’m just so busy these days, I don’t think much about the flowers anymore. They’re more tools of the trade now. Not a passion. I can remember a time when I could look at the design of a dress or even the type of fabric in the gown and know instinctively what flowers to choose. These days I make suggestions and choices out of rote. I’ve done this so many times now. You know?”
“Oh, I’m sure you work with so many customers.”
“You have no idea. Sometimes I forget how much the flowers I’m putting together mean to the people I’m selling them to. They’re going to be given to graduates and prom queens, brides and spouses.”
“That’s what I love.” My excitement grew as I shared my heart. “As I’m putting together the flowers, I’m thinking about the people . . . and praying for them.”
A Bouquet of Love Page 7