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And it was all downhill from there.
She survived her father’s musings on her conception, her birth, her childhood, her first car—a 1980 red Austin Mini Metro, which, he said, “Can go from zero to ninety-seven if you roll it down a very steep hill and get a good tailwind behind you. And to think, I was going to buy her a Jag.”
“I like my Mini better,” Lia said. Hardly a Jag, but she’d paid for it herself.
“Ungrateful children,” her father said. “Scourge of the modern era.”
“Embarrassing story time over, please,” she called out to more laughter.
“In conclusion,” he said, and Lia sagged with relief, “I have the best daughter in the world. No surprise as I also have the best wife and the best house.”
“Daddy.”
“The best art collection.”
“Daddy!”
“The best wine cellar.”
“Daddy, stop or I’ll shoot.” She had a spoon full of caviar in hand, and she wasn’t afraid to use it.
“Sorry, sorry.” He raised a hand in surrender. “I’ll draw this to a close before Lia puts a hit out on me. Lia has always had a passion for Greek mythology. For years now she’s even been weaving mythological tapestries. One of these days I’m going to walk into her room and catch her ritually sacrificing one of her brothers to Zeus. Or both of them, I hope.”
All the parents of teenagers in the crowd laughed. Lia was glad her brothers were still away at school.
“So, as a small token of my love for my daughter, I give her this...”
He put a red wrapped box in front of her. Of course her father was going to make her open it in front of everyone.
She stood up, tore off the paper and lifted the lid. The box wasn’t cardboard but solid wood. That meant the gift was fragile, very fragile. And expensive.
Veryexpensive.
She pushed through the packing material until she found the object. She lifted it out and looked at it.
Lia gazed in wonder at the cup in her hands. She’d never seen a more beautiful Greek relic. The stem was short and the bowl wide and shallow. The colors were black and golden amber. Inside the bowl was painted a beautiful girl who lay seemingly dead on the ground. From her side, a rose grew. Roses were painted on the stem, too. And a continuous three-petal rose motif adorned the lip while the twin handles were painted with vines.
“This,” her father said, “is a kylix. A wine cup, dated to 500 BC. Supposedly used in temple ceremonies to the goddess Aphrodite. A little piece of real Greek mythology just for you, my love.”
Lia was stunned speechless. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hang on to the exquisite 2,500-year-old artifact. Carefully she put the cup down and wrapped her arms around her father, tears hot in her eyes.
The guests said, “Aww...” all at once.
Her father pulled back from the hug but kept his arm around her back so she couldn’t escape.
“Lia got her first drink of wine from a two-thousand-year-old kylix when we took her to Athens a few years ago,” her father said. “She’s been asking for a good drinking cup ever since. Hope this one is good enough for you.”
“It’ll do,” Lia said, laughing and crying.
“A toast to Lia.” He raised his wineglass. “If she’s half as happy in life as she’s made her parents, she’ll be the happiest young woman alive.”
Lia lifted her kylix. The guests called out, “To Lia!” and “Cheers!”
Lia looked around the room and saw everyone had their glasses raised in her honor.
Everyone but August Bowman.
CHAPTER FOUR
