“Right.” I didn’t want to discourage Bob, but that screenplay of his had been shopped to every major production company in Hollywood over the past three years, and no one seemed to be biting. While I hated to say his Amish vampire story was dead in the water, I couldn’t help but wonder.
Dead in the water. Hmm.
Those words gave me a great idea for a song-and-dance number a couple of the kids could do, one with a colorful Amazon-themed backdrop. Bob would surely go along with the idea if I told him we could dress up some of the boys and girls as monkeys and macaws and give them great choreography.
Yes, that would work. I could actually see it all now. Everyone would be happy. But what songs could we use?
Half a dozen jungle-themed tunes ran through my head, and I began to hum one after the other. Bob and Paul both stared at me, gazes narrowing. They could tell I was up to something, no doubt.
Within seconds, I was seated at the piano, pounding out “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and a host of other familiar tunes. Oh, what fun!
Bob took the spot next to me on the bench, laptop in hand, as I poured out a plan of action between songs. Thankfully, he and Paul played along, adding all sorts of funny bits. In fact, at one point we laughed so hard I could barely catch my breath. It felt good to be back in the zone again. Very good. And it felt even better to know I’d regained the respect of my fellow writers. Having them on my team meant everything to me.
The words “Tell me what you think about this idea” bounced across the room dozens of times over the next couple of hours as we ping-ponged back and forth, idea upon idea, laugh upon laugh. By the time Bob typed, “The End,” my confidence had been fully restored and all of the baklava eaten. Somehow we’d even managed to squeeze in a toothpaste bit.
Squeeze. Toothpaste. Ha!
Who needed a new writer? Why, we were a great team. A laugh a minute. And I’d actually led the way, offering most of the gags.
Thank goodness. Maybe my funny bone wasn’t broken. Maybe it just needed a little TLC. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I wouldn’t have to find a job as a waitress after all.
On Saturday morning I pushed open the door to my parents’ sandwich shop, the tantalizing smells of lamb, cumin, and garlic greeting me. Mmm. I’d always loved a gyro in the making. Apparently so did the customers, who pressed through the door on a regular basis for my parents’ now-famous foods. Super-Gyros offered sandwiches and desserts but also carried a variety of Greek and other Middle Eastern fare—everything from fresh hummus to pita bread to imported cheeses and kalamata olives. Yum. And what other restaurant in Van Nuys sported a sign with a superhero eating a foot-long sandwich? Classic. My mother often bragged about that sign, which her parents had designed years before.
“Athena-bean.” My father took a few steps my way, his Super-Gyros apron clean and starched. Thirty-seven years of marriage with my mama and she still kept his aprons looking like they’d been professionally laundered. “How’s my girl today?”
“Good.” Except for that crazy dream I had last night, where I was floating down the Amazon on a sixties divan, eating baklava.
He pulled me into his arms and squeezed me so tight I could barely breathe. Not that I minded this routine. No, I’d come to count on it. My father loved me unconditionally and showed me every chance he got. Fortunately, I was the sort of girl who loved being loved. In fact, I never grew tired of spending time with my family. Some people might find that odd at my age, but not me.
I glanced up at his twinkling eyes, then took in his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, noticing something different. “Hey, you got a haircut.”
“Yes. Your mama . . . she made me.” He pointed to the lower half of his face. “Made me trim the beard too. What do you think?”
“Looks nice. Very respectable.”
“Thank you.” He ran his fingers over his thick but tidy mustache and down to his graying beard. Not many men could get away with a mustache like that, but on my father it looked grand. More than grand, really. He looked like he belonged in a magazine for Greek tourism.
“Want an early lunch?” he asked, pointing to the array of meats and cheeses. “Just got a delivery of the most beautiful tomatoes I’ve ever seen. Very fresh.” He reached behind the counter and came out with a box of deep red Romas that took my breath away.
“Tempting, but I don’t think so. Kat is meeting me and we’re having a girls’ day. Pedicure and the whole bit.” I smiled just thinking about it. How long had it been since I’d had a relaxing day with a friend? “We’re probably going out to lunch for Italian food after. Dying for fettuccine with Alfredo sauce.”
“Italian.” He sighed as if I’d somehow betrayed the family with my craving for pasta. “I see.” He pushed the box of tomatoes out of sight.
“It’s okay, Babbas.” I grinned. “If I know Kat, she’ll buy a gyro or two to take home to her hubby afterward. Scott loves our food. He sings your praises all the time, and so does she.”
His eyes sparkled. “That Kat is such a good friend to my girl . . . and to our family. She brings us lots of business. It’s good to have a star in your corner.”
“Yes.” My heart warmed as I thought about my best friend. Playing the role of Angie in Stars Collide had propelled her to superstar status. Why she’d chosen to hang around a nobody like me remained a mystery. Still, I appreciated the fact that she never seemed to notice I was a nobody. And she occasionally joked that she always knew what was coming next in her life, since I scripted her lines. I always got a laugh out of that one.
Not that I felt like laughing right now. Thinking of Kat reminded me of the pressures of my job. What a week!
Leaning against the counter, I sighed. “I could use some R & R. To be honest, I wanted to spend all day sleeping after the week I’ve had. Kat had to talk me into getting out of bed.”
“Are they giving you a hard time at the studio?” My father’s bushy brows furrowed in concern. “I’ll come up there and give them a piece of my mind, if so. No one messes with the daughter of Alex Pappas.” He stiffened his stance, his broad shoulders suddenly more intimidating.
I smiled. “Nah, they’re not too rough on me.” Trust me, I’m rough enough on myself.
“Good.” He ran his fingers over his mustache. “But you know what they say in the old country: ‘A person can be as sweet as honey or as heavy as steel.’” He gave me a pensive look, one I attempted to interpret. For whatever reason, I couldn’t figure it out.
“Huh?”
“There are two ways to go about handling an attack, sweet girl—the heavy-handed approach or the sweet-as-honey approach. It’s your choice. I prefer the tough approach. Your mama . . .” He gestured with a tilt of his head to my mother, who worked on the other side of the counter. “She’s sweeter than the honey on those pastries she’s baking.”
My mother flashed a bright smile. “Thank you, Alex. I’ll take that as a compliment. And besides, I like it that you’re tough. One of us needs to be. I’m an old softie.” She pointed to her rounded midsection and laughed. “In more ways than one.”
“Just don’t want to see anyone upsetting my girl,” my father said. “If they do, I come after them like a papa bear protecting his cubs. Understand?”
“Yes.” I shifted my gaze to the counter, where a customer stood waiting to order. “We’ll go easy on ’em this time, Babbas. It’ll be okay.” He turned to wait on the man with a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. Big spender. We liked those at Super-Gyros.
I’d just started to take a step toward my mother when my older sister’s toddlers raced my way, squealing with delight. “Aunt Athena!” Three-year-old Mia leaped into my arms, all giggles and smiles. I cuddled her against my shoulder, her dark curls bobbing up and down in excitement as she squirmed. Oh, what a beauty queen she was. And how my heart sprang to life every time I held her in my arms.
“How’s my big girl today?” I asked after giving her a dozen little kisses on her cheeks.
Her lips curled down in a pout. “Mama says no candy. Can I please, Aunt Athena?”
“If Mama says no, it’s a no.” I leaned down and whispered, “But I’ll bet you can change her mind if you behave.”
“I will! I be good girl!” She gave me a mischievous grin.
“Me too!” little Becca said, clinging to my thigh. “I be good!” The two-year-old looked up at me with a smile so sweet it melted my heart. I would have given her candy right there on the spot if she’d been mine. Unfortunately, her mother would’ve killed me.
“Thank you, girls. Now go play with Mary and Trina.” I shooed them toward the room in the back, where my two teenage cousins waited to babysit them.
“When will you marry and give them more little ones to play with, Athena-bean?” My father crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a stern look once his customer had left.
“Aw, Babbas.” I groaned. “Again with the getting married stuff? Give me time.”
“I like to tease you, that’s all,” he said. “You can stay single as long as you like. Break every man’s heart if you wish. It’s fine with me.”
“Break every man’s heart. Humph.” I groaned inwardly this time. In order to break a man’s heart, I’d have to get to know him first. Right now, the only guys I knew were Bob and Paul, and they were scarcely husband material. Bob was married to his screenplay, and Paul . . . well, after his third divorce, he’d given up on the idea of marriage altogether. Or so he said. Not that he was my type. No, I hadn’t exactly found my type yet. Not since the breakup of a lifetime four years ago, anyway. Ack. No point in going there today.
“You break their hearts”—my father’s voice lowered to a whisper—“and I’ll take care of breaking their necks.” His face turned red and the veins in his neck began to throb. Never a good sign. “The next man who hurts you like that”—he muttered something in Greek—“will see my wrath firsthand.”
“Alex, not in front of the customers.” My mother looked my way and shook her head, her thinly plucked brows elevating at his word choices, even if most of the others in the shop didn’t have the proper translation. “Our customers might not speak Greek,” she whispered, “but the Lord does.”
My father rolled his eyes. “I feel sure even the Lord himself would find a few choice things to say about that so-called man who hurt my daughter.” Off he went again, proclaiming his disdain for the man who’d broken my heart by ditching me just weeks before our wedding. Nothing like a little public humiliation.
“Athena, come,” Mama called out. “I need you.”
Sure she did. I could tell a diversion when I saw one. I took a few steps in her direction, grateful for the reprieve.
“Try the loukoumades,” Mama said. “I think this is my best batch so far. So sweet and delicious, just like me!” She laughed and I couldn’t help but join in. My mother didn’t usually sing her own praises, but she wasn’t above a bit of comedy when the situation called for it. Hmm. Maybe that’s where I’d gotten my flair for the comedic.
She held out the plate of loukoumades, and I sighed with delight. I’d never turned down the little golden puffs of goodness before, and I wasn’t about to start now. Making my way behind the counter, I reached for the plate of golf ball–sized fritters and popped one in my mouth, savoring the gooey honey and cinnamon topping. Yum. A second bite revealed another tasty treat.
“Love the extra walnuts,” I said after licking my fingers clean. “Perfect.” I reached for another, gobbling it down.
“Save some for the customers.” Mama slapped my hand and I feigned offense.
“I only had two!”
“Still, you don’t need the calories,” she said. “Do you want to turn out like me?” She began to rant—in Greek, of course—about how many pounds she’d put on this past month alone. I stifled a grin and said nothing, as always.
“Leave Athena alone,” my sister said as she passed by with a tray of cheeses in hand. “She’s thin as a rail. She could stand to put on a few pounds.” Larisa turned my way and sighed. “Must feel lonely being the only skinny one left in the family.”
Skinny? She thought 138 pounds at five-four was skinny? And had the girl seen my thighs? They were covered in cellulite.
I refused to comment on the grounds that it might incriminate, well, any one of us. Mama, God bless her, was short in stature and had passed “pleasantly plump” about fifty pounds back. Still, her beautiful brown eyes and gorgeous olive skin made up for any other imperfections. And who could argue with the woman’s cooking? As for my sister, who cared if she hadn’t taken off a few additional pounds since baby number three’s arrival? These things took time. I happened to love my family members just as they were—chubby or not.
“I’ve finished up the rice pudding,” Mama said, interrupting my thoughts. “Want to help me with the baklava? Aunt Melina was supposed to be here an hour ago, but her liver is acting up again.”
“Ah.” This wasn’t the first we’d heard about my aunt’s liver condition. I suspected it had a little something to do with the ouzo she used to wash down the chocolate koulourakia cookies after dinner each night. Just one more thing we never talked about in the Pappas family—my aunt’s drinking problem. One thing about our close-knit group—we loved both the sinner and the saint. No family member was outside the reach of our circle of love and trust. Still, I had to wonder how long Melina could go on drowning her sorrows. Made me a little sad, really.
My sister’s words startled me back to attention. “No one makes the phyllo dough like you do, Athena. Our baklava is the best in town because of you.” Her smile warmed my heart as she placed the tray of cheeses on the counter and turned back toward the children.
I settled in beside my mother to work, my eyes and ears wide open for things I could use as comedic bits in an upcoming episode. Half the stories I came up with for the show came from my own family. Not that anyone had to know that. So far no one in the family had figured it out. Well, my brother Niko, but he hardly counted. These days he spent more time than anyone else giving me fodder, especially now that he’d taken up professional wrestling on the side. He passed by and gave me a wink, which I returned.
The clanging of the bell above the door alerted us to the fact that someone else had arrived. The mailman. Odd. He usually left the mail in the drop box outside.
“Certified letter for Thera Pappas,” the fellow said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. “From Greece.”
“For me?” Mama paled and clasped her hands to her chest. She whispered up a prayer, asking the Lord for his mercies. “The last time I got a letter from home, the news was bad,” she whispered. “My poor aunt Athena had gone to be with Jesus.”
“Humph.” My father wrinkled his nose. “More likely the old girl is playing chess with the devil right now, and beating him.”
“Hey now, I’m her namesake,” I reminded my father. “Be careful what you say about her.”
“Why your mama wanted to name you after that old—” He rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath in Greek. Hmm. Maybe the circle of love and trust didn’t extend to everyone in the family after all. Looked like my father had a bias against this particular aunt. Must be more to the story than I knew.
“For your information, our little Athena-bean was named after the virgin patron saint of Athens,” Mama said. “It just happened to be my aunt’s name as well. Nothing I could do about that.”
Lovely. I wasn’t sure which made me more nervous—being named after a virgin saint or the aunt everyone hated.
Mama signed for the letter and held it to her chest for a moment, her eyes closed. My father took the opportunity to extend the welcome mat to the postman, offering him a free gyro and a cup of Greek coffee. Within a minute, the frazzled fellow was seated at one of the little tables in the corner, a contented look on his face.
“Mama, come. Sit.” I ushered her to a small table, away from the growing crowd in the shop. She took a seat on the tiny woo
den chair, her ample frame causing the chair to creak. Extending my hand, I offered to open the envelope for her.
“Would you?” she asked, her hands shaking. “With so many relatives left in the old country, I’m a nervous wreck at times like these. Heaven only knows what kind of news this letter holds.” Mama’s lips began to move, and I could tell she was praying. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she drew her hands to her chest. “Read it, Athena. I can take it, whatever it is.”
“If it’s bad, you would have received a call,” I reminded her. “One of the cousins would have phoned you, for sure.” Never one to show much patience, I yanked open the flap on the envelope.
My mother’s eyes popped open, and suddenly she was all business again. “Careful!” She gestured dramatically with her hands. “Don’t tear the stamps. I like to keep them for old times’ sake.” She went off on a tangent about how precious the stamps from the old country were to her, what significance they held.
“Okay, okay.” I did my best to avoid the large, colorful stamps as I pulled out the letter. It appeared to be several pages thick. Unfolding it, I took a look at the handwritten message . . . all in Greek. Hmm. I could speak the language. Mostly. But reading it was another thing altogether. Unlike most good Greek girls, I hadn’t gone to Greek school as a kid. What I’d learned about the language had come directly from my parents and other relatives.
“I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.” Mama reached for the letter with a trembling hand. “Mean-Athena.” She shivered and clutched the note to her chest, then whispered, “She torments me even from the grave.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Read it.”
Mama’s eyes scanned the note, and the hard expression softened a bit as she turned the page. By the time she finished reading, my mother had tears in her eyes. “Oh, praise the Lord. The old girl must’ve softened near the end. It’s a miracle.”