Wait just a booger picking minute. He’s discussed you with his parents! We’ve made an impression, darling!
I was sure wehadimpressed something on Acosta. Whether that impression was a good one or not was the burning question.
“Come, get some coffee. It will warm you up. The walk over was so cold. Bitter in the bones. Acosta, stop staring at Mr. Fitzgerald and spoon him up some of the lemon potatoes and some of the spinach pie. Unless you like American food more than Greek dishes?” Mrs. Melios shushed me along the line with a motion of her hand. She had lots of gold bangles. They clattered merrily when she gesticulated, which she seemed to do a lot.
“No, I love Greek food. I have Greek blood from my mother’s side.”
She lit up like the big pine by the bay doors. “Yiorgos, this boy has Greek blood!”
Acosta looked like a caged hare as his father bustled over to shake my hand. Mr. Melios had a hand the size of a hubcap and the grip of a bodybuilder.
“Where does your family come from?” Mr. Melios asked while Mrs. Melios shoved a cup of dark roast coffee at me, then pointed at her son.
“Move down and eat. Acosta, stop fish-facing this young man and feed him! Go, no, do not give him the macaroni and cheese, give him some of thetiropita. Oh, and some of the feta salad. Dig deep for the black olives. All Greek men love the olives. Acosta, what is your face doing now?”
“Nothing. My face is doing nothing, Mama,” Acosta huffed while filling a glass plate with enough food to feed the defensive line of the Pittsburgh Steelers.
“Go, eat, we will talk later!” Mr. Melios said with volume. A guy behind me in line asked for some of the Greek meatballs and some pasta salad. I was hustled along, taking the plate from Acosta, our gazes touching for a moment. There were so many emotions brewing in his gray eyes that I couldn’t decipher any of them. “Acosta, give him some dessert. No, not that cupcake, give him theportokalopita. Yes, a big slice of the orange pie. Good! Hello, mayor! Your suit is ho-ho-ho good!”
I moved along, taking the slice of orange pie from Acosta, and strolled around the chilly garage to one of several long folding tables by the Christmas tree. I sat, ate, and sighed in pleasure after each bite of food. The memory of my grandmother rose just like a Dickens story, only this Ghost of Christmas past was a friendly one. Grandma Lydia had always made sure I was filled up on great food and plenty of hugs. Given I got little love at home—especially when my brilliant, gay self started to emerge—nestling into her arms made me feel valued. Loved. Warm. Safe. All things that kids should get from their parents.
Holiday music played through some pretty scratchy speakers, but no one seemed to mind the low quality sound system. Laughter and kids giggling filled the old brick fire station. I’d just moved onto the orange pie when the Melios family appeared at my end of the table, each one sitting nearby. Mr. and Mrs. right across from me with grins and plates piled high with delicacies. Acosta glared at the empty chair on my left. He appeared as if he wanted to say something, but instead he just planted his tasty backside in the folding chair without looking my way.
“Mr. Fitzgerald. Did you like the food?” Mrs. Melios enquired while placing a cloth napkin on her lap. Her dress was a pretty forest green with white lace along the modest neckline and hem of the skirt.
“Zita, don’t ask the boy that fresh from the door.”
“Right out of the gate, Papa,” Acosta mumbled before slicing into a fat grape leaf roll. His plate held several of them. I’d sampled one on my way down the buffet line. The stuffing of rice, lemon, dill, onion, mint, and pine nuts had been delicious. Grandma Lydia used to add ground lamb to her dolmades, but these were vegetarian, probably made just for Acosta.
“Fence, gate, who matters? He knows what I mean,” Mr. Melios announced, tucking his napkin into the collar of his red shirt to protect the front of his eye-meltingly ugly red with garish holly leaves on the shoulders suit. “Acosta tells us you are here for contracts for the rescue. He says he would sooner shove akatsavidiinto his ear hole than sign for the fracking.”
I tossed a look to the side. Acosta refused to look at me. Fine. Whatever. I dabbed at my lips with my napkin, then glued on my best public relations smile.
“We’re hoping that we’ll be able to convince your son to sign over the mineral rights. Our scientists are predicting that the well we place on the back forty—as the cowboys would call it—will be one of the biggest veins of natural gas ever tapped in this state. The royalty payments from Fitzgerald & Sons Well Services would make your son a wealthy man in a very short amount of time.” I gave them all a knowing nod.
Mrs. Melios remained silent, her dark eyes weighing my words carefully.
“Money will mean little when the water on my farm is tainted,” Acosta snarled, cutting into his grape rolls with vengeance. “I’ll be happy to see your week done so you can return to your father and tell him to remove my name permanently from your files.”
“Acosta, perhaps you should think over the offer,” Mr. Melios said, dark chocolate eyes filled with worry. “We’re happy to help you out monthly, of course, for the rescue was Cassandra’s dream, but when we sell the restaurant in a few years and go back to Greece, how will you survive?”
His chin came up. I sat back, digesting not only my dessert but the knowledge that without funds from his parents, the rescue would fold. I’d known his financial situation was tight. Most animal rescues barely scraped by. Donations were always hard to come by. That I knew from my years of volunteering for an LGBTQ rights group back in college.
“I’ll survive perfectly well. Thank you, Papa, for making my personal affairs public,” Acosta spat, shot up to his feet, and stormed back to the buffet line to dish up food to a few latecomers.
Both of the elder Melios sighed wearily and began apologizing.
“Please, no need to apologize,” I earnestly replied. “I can tell he’s still suffering from the loss of his sister. They were quite close, I take it?”
“Yes, very close. Cassandra doted on her baby brother from the moment we brought him home,” Mrs. Melios whispered, her tone bittersweet. “He and she were close like twins. Always it was them together. She never treated him bad like a typical annoying little brother. Her passing has changed him.”
“Mm, he is unwilling to see the signs of the rescue falling into hard times,” Mr. Melios added as he poked at his food with his fork, his sight on me. “We worry. So when the offer from your company comes, we tell him to sign. Make his life easy. But no, he refuses to sell, for it would make Cassie sad. She is gone now though, and he is all we have left. We do not wish for him to struggle. Perhaps you keep talking to him? Do not give him up fast?”
Their worry was a thick cloud that engulfed all three of us. “I’ll do my best to help him choose the right path.” They nodded, smiling as concerned parents do, hope filling their deep brown eyes. “So, tell me about your retirement coming up. How exciting to be returning home!”
That lifted the mood a little. Yiorgos and Zina were outgoing people who loved to talk. They bent my ear for the better part of an hour, only stopping when they had to begin cleaning up the tables for the arrival of Santa Claus in an hour.
“Are you seeing your family tomorrow?” Zina asked while they were rising from their seats.
