Page 50 of Given Our History

“Which I was willing to overlook because he was doing us a favor. It’s not like we were paying him.”

Teddy scoffs. “Guys like that don’t work for free. He was doing it for the exposure.” He flings a hand at our surroundings, stacks of colorful flyers and scattered autumn decorations, like a tornado ripped through a crafting store. “The scholarship and the banners.”

“The banners!” I slap a hand to my forehead, rounding again to where the vinyl banners lie in a haphazard pile, waiting to be hung. I lift one by the corner like it’s contaminated, a used napkin or a dirty dishrag. The oversized Bucky’s logo is printed among our other sponsors. “We don’t have time to get them reprinted.”

“I’ll paint over them,” Bel volunteers. Teddy and I both turn to look at her. “What? I have white paint. It’ll be like using Wite-Out, only bigger.”

“What about the food?” I ask.

“Let me make a quick call,” Teddy says before excusing himself and cutting across the hall. His deep voice carries from the other room, too muffled by the old horsehair plaster to hear what he’s saying.

I look over at Bel. “Do you think ordering pizza would be tacky?”

She shrugs. “No tackier than burgers and dogs.”

“Touché.” I search for local pizza places on my phone, to get a feel for my options. Without the full scholarship committee backing this decision, I’ll have to pay out of pocket.

A moment later, Teddy steps back into the great room, pocketing his phone. “All right,” he says on a sigh. “So I found us a caterer.” I open my mouth to ask who, and where, and how, but he cuts me off, holding up a finger. “On one condition.”

I’m pretty sure I’d accept any condition, right about now. But there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye that makes me wary. “What’s that?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, like he’s holding back a smile. “I have to bring you to meet her.”

An hour and a half later, I’m parking outside a restaurant in a town just south of Pittsburgh. The lot is empty, but the building is lit from within, Taverna Eliopoulos glowing in neon blue cursive above the entrance. Teddy’s Datsun creeps into the space next to mine. He shuts off his headlights before stepping out into the brisk evening. We agreed to drive separate so that he can check up on his apartment in Pittsburgh and drive back down with the food tomorrow morning.

“So when you said ‘put down roots,’” I say, coming around to meet him at the curb, “you meant that she finally did it. She got her restaurant.”

Teddy stares up at the white brick building with black-framed windows, the boxes trimmed with greenery that probably flowers in the spring. The lights in the dining room are dimmed, but a warm glow emanates from what I assume is the kitchen. “She sold the auto body shop after my dad passed,” he explains. “Didn’t seem like I was very likely to take over, given—”

“Given your impressive post-doctoral career,” I say, tossing him a sad smile.

He laughs under his breath. “I don’t know about all that.”

“Is she here? There aren’t any cars.”

“She parks around back. Come on.”

He opens the door, unlocked despite it being after hours, and steps aside to usher me in. Faint music carries from somewhere deeper in the building, and he ushers me toward it, past square tables set with wineglasses. The dining room is stylish and modern, with sleek light fixtures hanging from a coffered ceiling. Either the heater’s cranked or someone’s baking. It’s warm enough that I shed my hoodie, folding it over an arm. I’m not exactly dressed to impress tonight, but I don’t have any time to worry about whether or not I look presentable, because we’re rounding the corner into the kitchen.

The kitchen is all gleaming stainless steel. Amidst the assortment of half-chopped vegetables lying on the prep table, a portable speaker blasts “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell. A woman in perhaps her mid-fifties hovers over a metal stock pot, a black apron thrown over her double-breasted chef’s jacket. There’s a familiar furrow to her brow as she lifts the lid, steam billowing around her. Her thick brown hair is knotted away from her face and streaked with wiry grays.

In a blink, I know that Dimitra Harrison is not the meek housewife I’ve always imagined.

“Ah!” Noticing us, she pops the lid back on the pot and wipes her hands on the apron. “There you are. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Can’t hear anything when you’re blasting the music like that,” Teddy says irritably, gesturing at the portable speaker. “And what have I told you about leaving the door unlocked after hours? It could’ve been anyone walking in here. You wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

She makes a pfft sound and pats around her apron. “I only unlocked it because you said you were coming.” She pulls her phone out of the front pocket and pauses the music, but the kitchen doesn’t quiet—it’s filled instead with the bubbling of pots, the ticking of an egg timer. She pockets the phone and fixes me with a broad smile. “Hell-o!”

“Mom, this is Clara,” Teddy says. “You remember, she’s the one—”

She interrupts with an impatient wave of her hand. No rings, her unvarnished nails cut short. “I know who Clara is.”

I extend a hand, businesslike. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.” I’m not sure how to address her. If she were a stranger, I’d have no problem calling her Dimitra, but somehow, even at thirty, calling my former best friend’s mom by her first name feels too familiar. But Mrs. Harrison feels too formal.

She clasps my hand in both of hers, not shaking it, merely holding it. There’s a warmth to her expression that’s a little disarming. She leans in, conspiratorial. “You know”—she casts a glance at Teddy as though checking to see whether he can hear us, even though she’s stage whispering—“I had almost given up on meeting you. So many years of Clara this, Clara that, but he never once asked to bring you home.”

I laugh. “Was he supposed to?”