by Sandra Scott
10
At brunch, Al studied her youngest daughter as she chewed in silence, knowing Racine deliberately ignored her watchful stare.
Sighing in an exaggerated manner, the girl used her fork to worry her scrambled eggs. Concentrating hard, Racine picked up her triangularly cut wheat toast. She smelled it before taking a small bite only to then return it to her plate at an exact ninety-degree angle. She munched the bread mechanically and finished by washing it down with a long swallow of orange juice.
Her second sigh deeply soulful, she placed her glass on the table at a precise distance from her plate, rotating it once to her specifications. She forked her eggs once more. Seconds later, she dropped the utensil with a clatter, her voice contrastingly quiet.
“You don’t want to hear it, Mother.”
With agitated importance, Racine retrieved the downed fork, meticulously folded her napkin, and placed the utensil on it.
Al observed her daughter’s precise actions before wiping her mouth. However, unlike her daughter, she tossed her napkin haphazardly over her half-eaten brunch. “So tell me anyway,” she said.
The third sigh escaped with a blast, its sound a combination of resignation, anger, and worry. Her eyes swung in Al’s direction. “I’ve texted Andra three times since she left, and I’ve yet to get an answer back.”
Wanting to keep her demeanor void of the same worry she currently witnessed in her daughter, Al plastered a serene expression upon her face. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe she hasn’t had time to respond to your texts.”
Racine scooted back in her chair, throwing one arm carelessly over its back. “Look, I texted her twice during their flight over there.” Racine’s dangling hand lifted when Al was ready to interrupt her. “I know, I know—she probably turned her phone off for the flight. But that shouldn’t have stopped her from calling the minute she landed.”
“And when was the third time?”
“Right before I came to the table.”
Al glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s around dinnertime over there, so maybe …” Al’s head lifted at her daughter abruptly rising. Warily, she watched Racine round her chair to stand behind it, her hands straining as they gripped its headrest.
“Mama, there’s no excuse. Either Andra’s too selfish to give us a heads-up she made it to Athens—”
Al shook her head. “No, Andra would never make us worry.”
“Okay. So the only other alternative is that she couldn’t contact us.”
Al sat forward in mute contemplation, studying her daughter’s rigid posture. As if unable to stomach the silence, Racine pushed her chair under the table, stopping it a near-perfect two inches from the table. Without another word, she pivoted on her heels and headed for the exit.
“Wait, Race. What are you trying to say?”
Racine stopped. Calmly, she faced Al again, her expression now determined. “What I’m saying is, I’ll give her a few more days to get in touch.”
Across the room, Al’s chair scraped loudly against the polished linoleum when she too rose. “Or else what?” Stepping around the table, she moved toward Racine. “What are you planning to do, child?”
“Mother, I’m going to get my passport in order,” Racine said. She turned to leave. “And I’m heading for Greece.”
Al swiftly closed the distance between them and grabbed her daughter’s arm, spinning her around. “Racine, you can’t just go over there unannounced!”
“Watch me.”
Under her grip, Racine’s limb was hard and unmovable, and her facial features were just as inflexible. Al withdrew and crossed her arms. Leaning back on her heels, she stared unblinking at her obstinate daughter. “And once you get over there, where do you plan on staying, hmm? With them, I suppose?” She produced a mocking laugh. “The so-called enemy?”
Racine’s chin lifted defiantly. “Maybe,” she said. A second later, she grinned wickedly. “They are family now that she and Jayson are married, right?”
Saying nothing, Al blinked twice.
“See ya, Mama. I gotta go dust off my passport.” Racine paused. She looked toward Al’s chair, which was all askew. “Don’t forget to push in your seat.”
It was Al’s turn to sigh heavily as she watched Racine spin on her heels and disappear through the door.
Returning to the table, she straightened her seat and wearily deposited her body in it.
Her eyes immediately traveled across the cozy room to the north wall.
“Our little girl’s so much like you, Raymond,” she said, looking toward a silver-framed picture atop the fireplace mantel. A striking dark-skinned man proudly wearing a tailor-made Marine Corps uniform stared out at her. “Obstinate and headstrong, trying my last nerve.”
She smiled fondly at her husband’s stately image, mentally hearing the answer he would’ve spoken if he’d stood before her alive and well.
“Okay, okay,” Al said, rolling her eyes in exasperation toward the ceiling. “I guess I’d better dust off my passport too.”
11
The dining room remained politely quiet.
Helena, hired help from a nearby village, served their first course: Mediterranean salad greens appetizingly topped with onions, creamy feta chunks, and plump black olives, drizzled with a light olive oil. The table, recently loaded with a variety of savory-smelling dishes sporting exotic-sounding names, such as moussaka, baklava, and halva, was set in a way that allowed everyone to self-serve at any time during the salad consumption.
Waiting until the last salad plate was placed on the table, George gave Helena a smile, relaying brief instructions in Greek. Dressed in a simple dress overlapped with a big white apron, she nodded pleasantly and disappeared after closing the dining room door.
At that moment, Sly lifted her wineglass and waited for everyone at the table to duplicate her action.
“Stin iyia sas!” she exclaimed.
Andra noticed everyone, with the exception of a reticent Stefano, boisterously repeated the Greek toast.
Tentatively, Andra took a sip from her wineglass and immediately delighted in the wine’s sweet, subtle bouquet. After taking one more approving swallow, she returned her stemware to the table and looked across at Sly.
“I’m not quite sure what we toasted to,” she said, a little embarrassed. “My Greek is not where it should be. What does ‘Stin iyia sas’ mean?”
Sly giggled with delight, and Andra hoped she was not laughing with her, not at her naïveté. She still hadn’t quite gotten a handle on the attractive younger woman.
“It means ‘To your health.’ It’s an old custom,” she said. A twinkle appeared in her green eyes as they shifted to Stefano, who was sitting at Andra’s right. “It’s so ancient that it’s even older than Stefano. Am I right, Stefano?”
Andra turned to casually glance Stefano’s way. To her trepidation, she somehow had managed to be seated next to him, even though it had been her intention to do the opposite. To her amazement, a faint, indulgent smile appeared upon his face; it was so quick that Andra thought she might’ve imagined it.
“Yes, Sly,” Stefano replied, “and that is old.”
Grinning happily, Jayson reached for a thick porcelain platter filled with a delectable eggplant concoction smelling of spices and roasted onions called imam baildi. Using the accompanying silver spoon ladle, he scooped a hefty portion of it from the platter and, with gusto, deposited it onto his plate.
“I have to agree; Stefano is pretty ancient,” he said. He handed the large platter off to his left, where George took it. “I believe he’s even older than our father. Right, Papa?”
George chuckled as he carefully spooned the stuffed eggplant onto his empty plate. “It does sometimes appear as though Stefano was born aged.” He passed the dish to Stefano, who immediately took it. “Yes, yes, my son is well beyond his yo
ung thirty-five years.”
Stefano grunted noncommittally. After ladling a much smaller helping than the previous men had, he shifted the dish Andra’s way. Reaching for it, she grew mortified when Stefano placed it on the table next to her flatware. Trying to repress her resentment at the subtle yet deliberate snub, Andra quickly glanced around to see if the others had caught the action.
Fortunately, the other men were engaged in conversation while attempting to choose from the remaining dishes located at the table’s center.
Unfortunately, Sly focused upon her with a closed expression. Blanching inwardly, Andra knew the girl had witnessed Stefano’s slight. Eternal seconds ticked by under the other’s scrutiny, and her body sagged in relief once Sly’s attention eventually turned to Jayson, who was sitting on her left.
Andra mentally massaged her stomach’s queasiness, again wishing she was anywhere but there. Dorothy, you’re surely not in Kansas anymore!
Yet unlike the beloved heroine associated with Wizard of Oz fame, she couldn’t simply slap on jewel-encrusted shoes, click their heels, and magically appear inside her bedroom back in Florida.
Forcing aside her anger at the useless make-believe, she calmly used the serving spoon to ladle up a small helping of the imam baildi. The eggplant delicacy, which initially had smelled like heaven on earth when Helena placed it on the table, had somehow lost its savor. Its aroma instead caused her already diminished appetite to shrink further.
Why had she been forced to sit next to this insufferable man?
She shifted the platter Paulo’s way, and he charmingly smiled his thanks. After easily loading his plate, he handed the dish off to Sly, who scooped a hefty ration onto her plate, more than twice Andra’s. Gracefully, she returned the platter to the table’s center and then immediately dug into her food with delight.
“Mmm,” she moaned, her chewing wrapped in a smile. She swallowed slowly. “This is my favorite dish. I love coming here for the delicious meals.”
Stefano took the time to sip his wine. After picking up his knife and fork with long fingers, he cut into perfectly grilled sea bass stuffed with garlic and herbs. His glance traveled across the table to touch upon Sly’s face. “Yes, I know. I asked Helena to prepare it especially for you.”
Again, Andra tried not to flinch at his statement, yet she experienced a sharp stab in her gut all the same. At first, she didn’t understand why Stefano’s words stung so much that time around.
Eventually, it came to her: she was the guest there; the dinner should’ve been prepared in her honor, not Sly’s.
The churning in her stomach increased a notch in its intensity. As a physician, Andra knew if she didn’t control her toxic emotions and stop allowing her infuriating brother-in-law to upset her, by the time she and Jayson returned to the States, she’d be in possession of a full-blown ulcer.
Determined, she willed herself to an emotionally serene place. However, she had to take a sip of wine, straighten her napkin on her lap, and lastly force-feed herself some imam baildi in order to get there. A short time later, an invisible force tugged at her senses, alerting Andra to the fact that Jayson now studied her. Glancing over at him sporting a frown, she squashed the desire to stick her tongue out when he mouthed, “Are you okay?”
Instead, Andra nodded diplomatically. Forced to plaster on a neutral expression, she ducked her head to study her half-empty plate. Casually, she played with her food until she chose to spear a black olive from her salad and slip it inside her mouth.
“Andra, my dear, would you like to partake in an entree other than the imam baildi? Some grilled bass or pasta salad perhaps?” George asked. “There is plenty here. I hope it is to your liking.”
Startled at being addressed, Andra almost choked on her food. Coughing once, she stole a moment to sip her wine to wash down the half-chewed olive. Pushing aside her self-consciousness, she smiled at her father-in-law. “Uh, no, thank you, Georigios.” She willed her smile to brighten for his benefit alone. “I’m not too hungry this evening. You know, jet lag and all.”
George nodded, his expression sympathetic. “I understand.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Andra, it would please me much if you called me Papa George. We are family now.”
Andra glanced over at Jayson, who gave her a winning “See? I told you they’d like you” grin. Personally, she wanted to slap it off his face. She curtly dismissed him, returning her attention to her father-in-law.
“Yes, of course,” she said, her smile sincere. “I would be honored, Papa George.”
Sitting directly across from her, a taciturn Sly speared a feta cube with her fork and slipped the morsel between her lips. She chewed carefully, her eyes intense upon Andra. Suddenly, her expression turned innocent as she looked upon Stefano. Her green orbs studied him for a moment before they eventually slid back to Andra. “So how are you adjusting to the Grecian life, Yatros?”
Having just placed some salad in her mouth, Andra paused at the question. Instinctively, she knew Sly had waited for her to put food in her mouth before deciding to ask her a question. Calmly, she took time to chew and then swallow. Glancing over the flawlessly arranged flower centerpiece at Sly, Andra put on an affable smile. “Yatros?” she asked. “What does the word mean?”
“Let me provide the answer for you, omorfi lady,” Paulo said eagerly. He smiled generously. “Yatros is Greek for ‘doctor.’”
Annoyance lit up Sly’s face as she threw Paulo a “Mind your own business” glare. To counteract it, Andra smiled gratefully at him before directing her less-than-congenial attention back to Sly. “Well, I’m adjusting as well as can be expected, I suppose. Everyone’s been so cordial.”
She experienced the temperature drop another degree beside her. In her peripheral vision, she witnessed Stefano stiffen. He made a strange, throaty noise she somehow knew came from his irritation.
Good. “However, Sly, it is only my first night here.”
Again, Sly’s attention landed upon Stefano, who rarely lifted his head from his plate, and then she scanned the entire table. “Yes, we all must make sure Yatros feels right at home,” she said irritably and to no one in particular. “How do Americans say? Show her the ropes?” She graced Andra with a subtle, hardened glance. “I say it correctly, yes?”
Puzzled, Andra noted Sly’s cheerful demeanor had dropped a notch since she’d first entered the dining room. “Sure,” Andra said, unconsciously massaging her neck. It appeared Sly not only desired to show her the ropes but also wanted Andra to hang on them.
The question was, why?
Jayson winked suggestively across the table at Andra. “You’d better believe I’ll make sure she feels at home—after we retire,” Jayson said, wiggling one eyebrow her way.
To Andra’s left, Paulo laughed robustly. “And if you need some help tonight, my friend, please ask.”
Jayson produced a mock frown. “Paulo, why would I need help with my own wife?”
“Children,” George said, smiling indulgently, “we must display some decorum at the dinner table, yes?”
Throwing his napkin over his plate, Stefano abruptly stood. The blunt action caused Andra to jump in her seat. All heads jerked in his direction.
“If you would excuse me, I’ll be a little under the weather this evening.” Embarrassment touched his face. “I am a little under the weather,” he said, correcting himself, nodding in general at the table. “My apologies, family.” He bowed slightly in Andra’s direction. “Madam. Good evening.”
The entire room remained quiet at Stefano’s curt departure. Andra, now stiff with humiliation, strained to suppress the fiery tears that pressed with intensity behind her eye sockets.
The last snub separating her from what Stefano considered family was not lost on her.
From the smug expression on Sly’s face, Andra realized it wasn’t lost on her either.
The mattress dipped gently and immediately sprang back. Yawning, Andra woke. Blinking against the early morning sunlight streaming both invitingly and intrusively through the balcony’s twin doors to their bedroom, she rolled over to see Jayson lazily stretch. Andra’s sight roamed over bare muscles that bunched and released across his bare back, and as usual, his nakedness stirred a primal response deep inside.
Andra experienced her own abdominal muscles clench at his nearly perfect physique.
However, her overwhelming desire for him couldn’t stop her internal alarm from chiming; the warning bell rang with an urgency that forced her into a sitting position. Simultaneously, last evening’s dining fiasco downloaded into her brain, bringing to mind the tension that had thickened with each passing minute, her horrible fate of having to sit next to Stefano, his deliberate snubs, and, finally, his abrupt departure from the dinner table, which she knew had everything to do with her.
“Hey, mister, where’re you going?” she asked. Dread infiltrated her brain, causing her mouth to dry. “What?”
As if caught doing something illegal, Jayson slowly turned. His eyes immediately lowered to her exposed breasts, where the sheet had slid unnoticed to her waist. His eyes glazed over before he lifted them. Taking note of the look on her face, he frowned. “Doc.” He sighed heavily. “I’ve got to meet Stefano before breakfast to discuss family business. I told you last night.”
He glanced away to read the nightstand clock, although Andra thought he did so guiltily.
I can only imagine who the family business is about, she thought miserably.
She fidgeted with the top sheet, which lay soft and cool across her lap, experiencing her once unfamiliar yet now constant companion: jealousy-driven insecurity. “And will Sly be there also? Evidently, your brother considers her part of the family too.”
Andra’s tone, combined with the name she threw out with it, caused Jayson to quell her with an irritated look. “Why don’t you give it a rest, Andra?” he said. Placing one hand on his hip, he used the other to comb through his tousled hair. “I don’t get where this is coming from, but there’s nothing going on with her—and nothing ever will. I love you.”