Antonides' Forbidden Wife

by Anne McAllister

  She smiled at Ally and greeted her warmly. “So glad to meet Peter’s wife,” she said in a lightly accented voice that reminded Ally of the spread of warm honey. Even her thick luxuriant eyelashes were perfect.

  Maybe she was a perfect shrew, too. But somehow Ally doubted it. PJ’s father didn’t look like the sort of man who would have chosen a shrew as a potential daughter-in-law. Ally suspected Aeolus Antonides had terrific taste in women.

  She slanted a quick glance at PJ, who was being mobbed by his aunts and mauled by his brothers. He didn’t seem to be noticing Connie. But no doubt he would.

  Maybe he would even marry her. After all, she could be his, once the divorce was final.

  The thought made Ally stiffen involuntarily, and she narrowed her gaze at the other woman, as if she could discern at a glance whether she was worthy of a man like PJ. Would she love him?

  Would he love her?

  The question made Ally stumble as she was being led up the steps to the house by a couple of PJ’s aunts.

  “Are you all right, dear?” one asked her, catching her by the elbow to make sure she didn’t fall.

  “F-fine,” Ally stammered. But she wasn’t all right. The truth was that while she might be able to cope with the idea that PJ didn’t really love her, she didn’t want him falling in love with anyone else, either.

  Mortifying, but true.

  “Come and meet Yiayia.” The aunts drew her into the house.

  The house PJ had grown up in was as lovely and warm within as it was without. There was a lot of dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a massive field-stone fireplace, which could have been oppressive but was softened by overstuffed sofas and chairs and balanced and lightened by high ceilings and French doors. These faced south and opened onto a deck that led to a lawn, then down a flight of wooden steps to the sand—and the ocean and horizon beyond.

  Ally, seeing that, felt a moment’s peace. She would have preferred to stop there, admire and take a breath, try to regain her equilibrium.

  But the aunts were towing her on through the dining room and into the kitchen where a small still-dark-haired elderly lady was in the middle of a rather elaborate baking project. Her hands were stuck in something that looked like honey and ground nuts. A very sticky business.

  Ally wondered how they would handle the requisite hug.

  But though the older woman looked up when they came in, her eyes, bright and curious as they lit onAlly, she made no move to take her hands out of the bowl. She simply looked Ally over.

  It was clear she needed no introduction to the new arrival. She was already assessing her carefully. She did not smile.

  And Ally, who was still feeling overwhelmed, was almost grateful. And her gratitude had nothing to do with avoiding the sticky stuff.

  “This is Yiayia,” one of the aunts said. “Grandma,” she translated in case Ally couldn’t.

  Ally could. PJ hadn’t said much about his grandmother. He’d indicated that she would be there, but nothing more.

  She smiled at the old woman who didn’t smile back. She was still studying Ally closely and in complete silence. Ally wondered suddenly if PJ’s grandmother spoke English.

  Well, if she didn’t, they’d certainly figure out another way to communicate. The family seemed big on kisses and hugs. At least, all of them but Grandma.

  “Hello,” she said at last, when it was clear that PJ’s grandmother wasn’t going to take the conversational lead. “I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Alice. Or Ally if you prefer. Or Al if you’re PJ,” she added with a small conspiratorial grin, inviting PJ’s grandmother to share a grin with her.

  She was surprised to discover how very much she wanted the old lady to smile.

  “Alice,” PJ’s grandmother said quietly at last, her gaze still fastened on Ally’s face. But even then her expression didn’t change. She turned and looked up at the aunts. “Alice will help me. Go now.”

  They looked at her, then at Ally, then at each other and, with only that much hesitation, they nodded and left.

  Outside Ally could hear a multitude of voices, laughter, scuffling. But no one came into the kitchen. In the kitchen it was just she and PJ’s grandmother. It felt like having an audience with the pope.

  Like going to see her own father who was distant and formal and also rarely ever smiled. Ally almost breathed a little easier. This was more what she expected.

  And then suddenly the door opened and PJ strode into the room. At the sight his grandmother burst into an absolutely radiant smile. And when he crossed the room in three long strides to pick her up bodily, sticky hands and all, and kiss her soundly, she crowed with laughter, then put her honey-coated hands on each of his cheeks and kissed him right back.

  Ally felt her mouth drop open.

  Both PJ and his grandmother turned toward her. “So, what do you think of my wife, Yiayia?” he said. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  “A beauty,” his grandmother agreed. She was still smiling, still patting his cheek with her sticky hand but her eyes were shrewd when they met Ally’s. “So, this is Alice.” It sounded like a pronouncement.

  PJ nodded. He was still smiling, but there was a seriousness in his expression that told Ally something else was underneath the smile.

  “You went to get her?”

  “She came to me.”

  “Ah.” His grandmother’s brows lifted. Her gaze softened a bit, a hint of a smile touched her face. “Ne. This is better.”

  Better? Than what? Ally could tell there was a subtext to the conversation, but neither PJ nor his grandmother enlightened her. And all the vibes she was getting said it wasn’t better at all. She was very much afraid that PJ’s grandmother, like his sister Cristina, was misunderstanding the situation.

  “So, you have come,” the old lady said, approvingly. “At last.”

  “Don’t give her a hard time, Yiayia. She’s had things to do.”

  “More important than her husband?”

  “Important for her,” PJ said firmly. “Like when I went to Hawaii for school. That was important for me. You understand?”

  The old lady eyed him narrowly for a long moment, then slanted a gaze of silent judgment at Ally, who stood motionless and didn’t say a word.

  “Ne. I understand, yes,” she said. She sighed. “You are happy now?”

  PJ grinned. “Of course I’m happy now.” He took her fingers and nibbled the honey off each one, making her laugh again. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve got two of my favorite women right here in the room with me. You’re making baklava.” He nodded at the project underway on the counter. Then he sniffed the air. “Mom’s made roast for dinner. And there’s no way Dad can foist any more women off on me.”

  His grandmother laughed, reassured. “Wash your face and go help your brother with his twins. Tallie must put her feet up and rest. She’s going to be a mother again.”

  “Really?” PJ was clearly delighted. “When?”

  “In the spring. Go now. Leave your wife,” she said after he’d washed his hands and face and had turned toward Ally. “Alice and I will talk.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” his grandmother ordered. “Trust me. I will not eat her.”

  Still he hesitated for a moment. “She’s worse than Cristina,” he said to Ally. There was a warning look on his face.

  “We’ll be fine. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make baklava.”

  Yiayia smiled and nodded. “I will teach you.”

  “Just be sure that’s all you do,” PJ warned his grandmother. He dropped another kiss on her forehead, then with a quick smile at Ally, went out the door, yelling for Elias.

  They both watched him go. Then as she cleaned her hands and began to layer the filo and melted butter with the honey mixture, PJ’s grandmother said something in Greek.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand,” Ally said, coming closer and picking up the brush to help butter the layers as Yiayia spread them out.

 
; “I said,” Yiayia repeated clearly, in English this time, “he is my favorite.”

  She smiled fondly out the window where they could both see PJ rescuing his older brother who was being used as a human climbing frame by his toddler-aged twins. “All of my grandchildren I love, ne? But Peter I love the most.” She turned to Ally and shook her head.

  “I don’t say that to anyone else,” she went on. “But I know. He knows. He is the most like my dear Aeneas. Strong and gentle like his grandfather. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy. He is a good man.”

  “Yes.” Ally knew that. She’d always known it.

  “A man who deserves to be happy, too,” Yiayia added.

  “Yes.”

  “He says he is.”

  “I hope he is,” Ally agreed quickly, then felt more was needed. “I want him to be happy,” she said fervently. And that was the truth. “I know he was happy to come home for the weekend.”

  “Now that you are here and his father knows what he says is true. But that is not what I mean. He says he is happy, but I wonder…” Her voice trailed off and her gaze turned to the windows again as she watched PJ and Elias on the lawn playing with the little boys. They all were laughing.

  “He looks happy,” Ally said stoutly.

  “Ne.” Yiayia agreed, nodding. “But then I ask myself—” she looked archly at Ally over her spectacles “—why does a man who is happy and in love, kiss his old wrinkled yiayia and not his lovely wife?”

  As tough as the old woman was, Ally liked her.

  She felt guilty for not confessing her plans. But she’d promised PJ she wouldn’t mention the divorce. And the truth was, even if she hadn’t promised, she wasn’t sure she could have got the words past her lips.

  It felt like a sacrilege to even think it, much less bring it up. And she completely forgot about it after another ten minutes of conversation, during which PJ’s grandmother changed the subject and asked about her art and her retail business.

  Her questions weren’t casual. They demonstrated she was not only knowledgeable but that PJ had obviously told her a great deal about what Ally did.

  “He is very proud of you,” she said.

  “He made it possible.”

  Yiayia smiled. “And now you make him happy.” Her eyes met Ally’s over the pan of baklava. They were back to “happy” again. And this time Yiayia’s words very definitely held a challenge.

  But before she could figure out how to respond, PJ’s grandmother said, “Here comes Martha. You will love Martha.”

  And as she spoke, the door from the deck swung open and Martha stuck her head in. She carried her toddler son on her hip.

  “Oh, good, you are here,” she said to Ally. “I’ve been looking for you.” Then, “Can you spare her, Yiayia? I want to get acquainted with my sister-in-law.”

  When they’d first met, Martha had simply beamed and kissed her. Was she now about to grill Ally the way PJ’s grandmother and Cristina had?

  But before she could demur, Yiayia said, “You go, both of you. Hurry now, Martha, or your mother will put you to work.”

  “God forbid.” Martha laughed. “Come on,” she said to Ally. “We’ll go down on the beach. Eddie can eat sand.”

  She led the way and, bemused, Ally followed.

  “I saw one of your murals at Sol Y Sombra,” she told Martha. “It was amazing.”

  And any concern she might have had about Martha’s reaction to her relationship with PJ evaporated right then. Martha’s face lit up. “You were there?” And when Ally explained, her eyes widened. “Gaby’s showing your work, too?”

  She was clearly delighted and peppered Ally with a thousand questions—about her art, about her shops, about her focus. And she was absolutely thrilled to meet PJ’s wife.

  “Dad didn’t think you really existed,” she confided. “It’s so cool to discover you do. And even cooler that I like you!”

  If Cristina had been suspicious, Martha was just the opposite. She was eager to welcome Ally into the family. She practically danced along the beach as they followed Eddie from one pile of flotsam and jetsam to another.

  “We’ll have to get together. Maybe in Santorini—or we could come to Hawaii sometime, Theo and Eddie and I,” she said, eyes alight with possibilities. “Theo would love that. He sails. He and PJ bonded over PJ’s windsurfer. They have a lot in common. And apparently we do, too.”

  And what was Ally supposed to say? No, they didn’t?

  “That would be fun,” she managed. And she was telling the truth when she said it. It would be absolutely wonderful, if only…

  Something of her hesitation must have shown through, because Martha immediately said, “Don’t let me bully you into it. Theo is always telling me I shouldn’t just assume.”

  “No,” Ally said quickly. “I really would love it. I just…We don’t know what we’re doing yet, PJ and I. We have to…discuss things.”

  “Of course,” Martha said quickly. “It must be so weird, getting back together after all these years.”

  Ally nodded. “We don’t really know each other…”

  “Why did you stay away so long?”

  And how, Ally wondered, could she even begin to answer that?

  “There always seemed to be things to do,” she said, “and PJ married me so I could do them.” She knew that all the Antonides clan had heard the story of her grandmother’s legacy by now. But she didn’t know how much else any of them knew. She shrugged and turned to stare out to sea. It was easier that way than when she had to look into Martha’s face. “And once I finally got going, I was a success. I ended up on a fast track. Doing what he’d expected me to do. And—” she shrugged “—as that was what we’d married for, I just…kept doing it. I guess I thought he would have moved on. Got a divorce.”

  “Could he?”

  Ally nodded. “If he had filed and I didn’t respond, yes. He could have got a divorce without my ever having to sign anything.”

  “Bet you’re glad he didn’t. Bet he is, too.” Martha shook her head. “Wow. What if you’d come back and found out you were already divorced? What if he’d married somebody else?” She looked appalled at the thought.

  And Ally had to admit to a certain jolt when she thought about it, too. Of course it would have been easier. She could have married Jon without any of this ever happening.

  “You wouldn’t be here now,” Martha said, making almost exactly the same mental leaps. Then she laughed. “And PJ would be facing a weekend with Connie Cristopolous.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Ally protested.

  “But not PJ’s type.”

  Ally wasn’t sure what PJ’s type was. But before she could ask Martha’s opinion, the other woman went on, “So how did you find him?”

  And Ally told her about going back to Honolulu, about her dad’s heart attack, about looking for PJ. “I thought he’d be there still,” she admitted. “But he wasn’t.”

  “And so you had to track him down! How romantic is that?” Martha was clearly pleased.

  Cristina thought PJ was the romantic. Martha thought she was.

  “Eddie! Ack, no. Don’t put that in your mouth!” Martha swooped down and scooped her son up, taking whatever he’d been about to eat and tossing it into the water. “Kids! What will I ever do when I have two of them?” she moaned.

  “Are you…?” Ally looked at Martha’s flat stomach doubtfully.

  But Martha nodded happily. “Not till January, though. What about you guys? Have you talked about kids?”

  “Not…much.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. They had talked about children—the ones she hoped to have with Jon, the grandchild she wanted to give her father.

  But now in her mind’s eye she didn’t see a child she might have with Jon. She saw PJ as he had been with Alex that evening at his house in Park Slope or, for that matter, PJ now. He had one of Elias’s twins on his hip while he tossed a football with his brothers.

  Martha’s gaze followe
d her own. “Well, it’s early days yet. You will.”

  Ally didn’t reply. Her throat felt tight. The glare of the sun made her eyes water. She swallowed and looked away.

  As a child, Ally had been a reader.

  From the time she had first made sense of words on a page, she’d haunted the library or spent her allowance at the bookstore, buying new worlds in which to live. And invariably the worlds she sought were the boisterous chaotic worlds of laughing, loving, noisy families who were so different from her own.

  Oh, she was loved. She had no doubt about that.

  But the everyday life of her childhood had been perpetually calm, perennially quiet, perfectly ordered. When her mother had been alive, there had, of course, been smiles and quiet laughter. And even her normally dignified taciturn father had been known to join in. But after her mother’s death, after the number of chairs at the table had gone from three to two, mealtimes had become sober silent affairs. After her mother was gone, there had been no more light conversations, no more gentle teasing. There had actually been very few smiles.

  Never a demonstrative man, after his wife’s death Hiroshi Maruyama became even more remote.

  “He is sad,” her grandmother had excused him.

  “So am I,” Ally had retorted fiercely. “Does he think I don’t miss her, too?”

  “He doesn’t think,” Ama had said. “He only hurts.”

  Well, Ally had hurt, too. And they had gone right on hurting in their own private little shells, never reaching out for each other, for years. Hiroshi’s way of dealing with his daughter was to give her directions, orders, commands.

  “They will make your life better,” he told her stiffly, if she balked.

  But they hadn’t.