“Merry Christmas, darling. I see that you’ve been trying to contact me. I’ve been out of range on a deep sea diving expedition.”
Uh-huh. Was that what the kids were calling shacking up with your younger Greek lover on a private yacht off the coast of India? It was a better lie than last year when she claimed to be scaling Mount Eiger ala the old Clint Eastwood movie—which is where I think she got the idea—while she was, in fact, lounging with Adrastus in a chalet at the base of the Bernese Alps. The only thing my mother scaled was social standing.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with everyone,” I huffed, my breath fogging in front of me. “This is the only family I know of that hides from each other over the holidays.” I glanced back at the Melios clan. Acosta and his father were laughing about something. And while Acosta’s smile was a little strained, the love in his eyes for his sire was obvious. I was super envious.
“Oh posh, Decker, we’re not hiding from each other. We’re simply enjoying our holidays away from home. Now, what is it that you wanted that was so desperate?” I heard someone whispering to her and then the sound of clinking glasses.
“Do you have any idea why my brother would sabotage my file for the Acosta Melios parcel? There are tons of key facts and important information that were omitted from the files. And Frank Jr. was the one who signed off on it!”
“Decker, is this work related? Oh no thank you, I’d like more of the caviar. Yes, on that flat cracker.” I waited while she scolded someone. A server or staff member, I was sure. “You know I don’t do work-related issues. Fitzgerald & Sons Well Services queries have to be directed to your father or brother. And as for Junior, I’m sure you’re simply over-exaggerating. You tend to do that when it comes to your brother. You’re too old now for that sibling rivalry to be so pronounced as it was when you were a child. No, no. I said the flat cracker. Oh honestly, give me the spoon! You cannotfind reliable staff anymore.”
I counted to ten inside my head. Then to twenty. Mom kept berating whoever was trying to pass off a fat cracker instead of a flat one. Dear God. No wonder the working class hated the rich. I did too, and I was one of them.
“Mom, I have to go now. I’m going to go have dinner with the Melios family.”
“Oh? That’s wonderful. Oh! Are those the shipping magnates from Athens that your grandmother was friends with? What was his name? Aristotle? Yes, it was, and his wife was Jacqueline.”
“Mom, that was…” I blew out a breath. Obviously, she’d been sampling more than caviar already. She did enjoy her mimosas with breakfast. “Never mind. Just…enjoy your deep sea diving. We’ll catch up soon.”
“Yes, of course, happy holidays.” With that, the call ended. I stared at the tree, then swatted at a heavy bough. Snow fell to the ground with a soft plop. Right. Onward as they say. I blew out a long centering breath, turned, and came nose to nose with Acosta.
“Were you eavesdropping?” I barked, shoving my phone into the pocket of my winter coat.
“Of course not. I was merely waiting for you.”
“Right. And pigs fly. Whatever. I don’t even mind that you were listening.”
“I wasn’t.” He pointed to his earmuffs. “I can’t hear a thing.”
“If you can hear me now, you could have heard my conversation on the phone.”
His self-satisfied expression fell away. I waited, one neatly plucked eyebrow raised, while he searched the data banks of his brain for a worthy counter.
“Fine, I was eavesdropping. Your brother sabotaged your files on me?”
My cheeks were growing cold. And so was my face. “We’ll discuss that later. Let’s just go.” I stalked around him, heading to his beat up truck like a man on a mission. Which I was. A mission to get warm, get to the Melios home, and have a dab of the good stuff.
He followed. His gaze filled with questions that I refused to answer. For the moment. The drive to his parents’ house was stilted. Some hokey old Christmas carol from some hokey old boy band from the eighties bled into another hokey old song from a country singer about snowmen with magical hats. Who cared? This holiday was terrible. Every holiday was terrible. I hated mistletoe, Santa, elves, and fruitcake. Bah and frigging humbug. Humbug to all and to all a good humbug! I scowled through the windshield at the humble Melios home. Oh man, it was all lit up with lights. A big inflatable snowman sat in the snowy yard. Dang it. This place was going to really make my Scrooge impersonation hard to maintain. But maintain it, I would!
That sentiment lasted for about five minutes. Once I was in the small but warm house that Zina and Yiorgos had bought oh those many years ago, my humbuggery—that sounded naughty—began to wane. It was hard to keep your curmudgeonly levels high when you were surrounded by loving people filled with true holiday joy. The house was all on one level, modestly decorated, but neat as a pin. Family photos were everywhere, smiling, happy people who enjoyed spending time together. Cassie and Acosta were beautiful children. Mrs. Melios was a stunner in her youth, and Mr. Melios looked like my grandfather Dimitrus when he’d been wooing my grandma Lydia. The living room was well-loved, the kitchen obviously heavily used, and the dining room filled with one oval table and two massive cherry China cupboards crammed with candy dishes that Mrs. Melios proudly showed off.
What began to take its place was a deep and profound sadness. The more I watched the loving trio from my vantage point in the corner of the heavenly smelling kitchen, the more I slid into a funk. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that first little sip of Mr. Melios’ ouzo, as I was feeling so blue. It had been an impulse, something that, I hoped, would link me to Grandma Lydia, who loved—with a capital L—her two fingers of ouzo every evening. By the time the meal was served around three, I was feeling much better. The blues had waned, and the giggles had arrived.
“This would be called tea in my house,” I offered—was I slurring?—as we sat down to eat. The aromas from all the food made my mouth water. There was a beautiful Greek meze platter overflowing with black olives, cucumbers, peppers, artichoke hearts, pepperoncini, slabs of cheese, and four crocks of dips. A huge salad sat in front of me, the bowl piled high with greens, feta cheese, cucumber wedges, more big black olives, and tomato chunks all coated with what I was sure was an olive oil, salt, and Greek oregano dressing. The main meal was a bubbling dish of vegetarian moussaka. There was wine, ice water, and of course the ever present bottle of 12. Was that the first or second bottle? I couldn’t remember. I belched anise and snickered softly. “But here in this house, which is much smaller than mine but nicer, we shall call this meal linner!”
Acosta gave me the oddest look and then spooned some of the main dish onto a plate and shoved it at me.
“You should eat. You’re drunk,” he said with more than a little rancor. Geez, was there nothing that I could do to win this man over? And also I was not drunk. My ass was firmly planted in my chair and not on the floor. I was not sobbing over lost loves or stuffing my face with stuffed grape leaves. Oh dear, stuff and stuff in the same sentence. My old writing professor would have a conniption. That’s a fun word. Conniption.
“Isn’t conniption a fun word?! Oh yes, thank you, Mr. Melios, I would love another dram.” I held out my empty apéritif glass. Mrs. Melios shot a look at her husband. He lowered the bottle back to the table. “Oh no. Is it empty? Surely you can find another, no? My grandmother Lydia always had several in her medicine chest. She called it her cure for what ailed her. Not that she was sickly. She lived to the ripe old age of ninety-seven and still had all her teeth! You have very nice teeth, Acosta.” I waved my still unused fork at the handsome man staring at me. “They’re straight. And white. Are they caps? No, I doubt that. Mine are veneers. Cost me a fortune, but so worth it. Of course my father hated them instantly. Said I wasted money on the most foolish things which, if you translate his comments, means that anything that I wanted was a waste because it was gay. As if straight people didn’t get veneers! I wager—oh, this smells divine!” I sniffed the moussaka, sat back, and then wiped some sauce from the tip of my nose. “Oops! Got my nose into it again! I do that a lot. Stick my nose into things. Not food much, obviously, as my mother would have had a conniption if one of her sons—oh! There’s that word again! Conniption. Say it with me!”
The Melios trio glanced at each other. “You should eat, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Melios begged, filled a bowl with salad, and placed it beside my steaming moussaka.
“Mom will be offended if you don’t eat,” Acosta warned, his stormy eyes now at hurricane status. Oh dear. Had I said too much?
“Sorry if I’m rambling. That happens when I have a few nips. I cannot hold my liquor well at all. Frank Jr. says that’s because I’m a little poof.” The elder Melios’s gaped. “That means queer. Actually…” I forked up some of the moussaka, chewed, and moaned in rapture. It was so good. Holy Hera! I could taste bay, cinnamon, vinegar, garlic, and onion as the mixture of mushrooms, potatoes, eggplant, lentils, and richly seasoned tomato paste caressed my taste buds. “Oh my stars, this is divine!” I took another bite and then washed it down with some of the hearty red wine in my glass. “A perfect pairing. My mother loves wine. She sips all day long. Well, no, that’s not right.” I burped, giggled, and reached for a slice of warm sourdough bread in a lined basket. Mr. Melios had to help me catch the wily bread slice. “Thank you! You’re such a good host. What were we talking about?”
“Your mother and her wine intake,” Acosta answered. His mother glowered at him. He shrugged.
