Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The woman could command a warship with just one eyebrow.
Rafael’s yiayia stood in the stone doorway like she owned the house—and the entire hillside it rested on. He folded her into his arms, careful not to crush her. She kissed both cheeks, cupped his face as if committing him to memory, and spoke words that sounded at once fond and chiding.
Bea didn’t need a translation to understand: he was her favorite.
No pressure.
Yiayia’s dress was black, floral, and valiantly buttoned across a formidable bust. Her white-blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, stabbed through with a pencil and knitting needle.
Her gaze swept over Bea like she was assessing a melon for ripeness. Not unkind, just unconvinced. Bea gave her most polite smile. Yiayia clucked her tongue, muttered something brisk in Greek, and turned back into the house, gesturing for them to follow.
Bea looked up at Rafael, nerves crawling like ants down her back. “Did I fail already?”
He slipped an arm around her and kissed her temple as they strode inside. “She said you can stay.”
“That’s it?”
“She also said you’re dainty.” A pause. “Like a fairy.”
She’d been warned by Selene that Yiayia thought Western girls made pretty wives, but were meant more for decoration than for the hard work of a life.
“I’m five foot five,” she protested, side-eyeing him like he was solely responsible for the height gap that made her come off as vertically challenged.
“She means you’re pretty,” he murmured.
They were in Kini, a coastal village on Syros where Rafael’s mother had grown up.
The house was whitewashed and sun-warm, pink bougainvillea curling along every ledge.
Rafael’s uncle and Selene’s older brother, Theios Kostas, had picked them up from the port, and they’d passed winding roads and glittering water until they reached sleepy streets and signs scrawled by hand.
Yiayia hadn’t attended the wedding—a mix of heart flutters, a stubborn knee, and zero interest in airplanes—but she’d insisted on hosting them for at least two nights, preferably five, ideally the whole month.
Rafael had agreed to the two.
They sat on a stiff sofa in Yiayia’s front room, the kind meant to be kept tidy rather than truly used. On the walls hung heavy frames of children and grandchildren, and above a small vigil lamp, a saint in gold.
Yiayia returned bearing a silver tray, and put it down on the low wooden coffee table. Loukoumádes glistened, dripping in honey and lemon zest, the scent deep-fried and sweet.
“She made loukoumádes for you,” Rafael said. “I may have mentioned your dessert habits.”
Yiayia pushed the tray closer to Bea and watched.
This was a test. One she would have no trouble passing.
Bea took one eagerly and bit in. The shell crackled between her teeth. The inside was soft, hot, absurdly light.
“These are incredible,” she said, catching a streak of honey with the back of her hand.
Yiayia squinted, then said something rapid.
“How many can you eat?” Rafael asked.
Bea didn’t hesitate. She grabbed another. “As many as she’ll let me have.”
Yiayia snorted and disappeared again.
Theios Kostas appeared from the back garden, his clothes stained from where he’d been gutting fish outside. “Koukla, eat six more or she’ll think you’re weak.”
Bea kept chewing, calculating sugar-to-worthiness ratios. “How many to secure approval?”
Not because she needed it. Because she wanted to be worthy of the boy that grandmother adored.
Kostas tilted his head. “Rafa is the baby boy so…you’ll need to do more than eat.”
They followed the smell of oil and herbs into the back courtyard. A wide stone table was set up under a fig tree, covered in vegetables, olive jars, lemons, and fresh herbs in old yogurt containers. Yiayia sat at the center like a spider in her web, a mountain of cucumbers in front of her.
“Are we feeding the entire island?” Bea whispered.
“Just the family,” Rafael said, deadpan. “They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Ask her what I can do.” She tugged at his shirt. “Whatever she needs. I’ll do it.”
“You really want to spend your honeymoon chopping produce?” He watched her for a second. “They’d forgive us if we went sightseeing.”
“Ask her,” Bea insisted.
Rafael and Yiayia volleyed back and forth in Greek. He wasn’t fluent, even her untrained ears could hear his accent, but he understood her just fine.
“She said to sit and relax.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
“That was a lot of words for just that,” Bea said suspiciously. “What else did she say?”
He scratched the stubble growing along his jaw. “That was the studio cut.”
“Give me the director’s cut.”
“She said you don’t look like someone who’s ever worked with your hands.”
Bea’s jaw dropped. “I used to slice napa by the kilo. Tell her I can take a cucumber.”
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said. “Not to her. Not to anyone.”
“I’m not doing it for her,” Bea said. “I’m doing it for me.”
And for you. The last thing she wanted was Rafael’s grandmother thinking he’d married an ornamental girl.
Rafael translated, amusement tugging at his mouth.
Finally, Yiayia passed over a blade and bowl. Bea took them reverently.
“She says to slice the cucumbers. Thin but not flimsy. They need to hold up in the oil and vinegar.” Rafael sat beside her, rolling up his sleeves.
Yiayia sat back, arms folded. The moment the knife hit the board, a blitzkrieg of Greek fired across the table. Bea turned to Rafael, keeping her face composed.
“She says it’s not sashimi.”
Bea adjusted. Tried again, this time thicker. Yiayia watched, gave a single nod, and turned to her herbs. A single breath of relief left her.
They worked in silence after that, Rafael rinsing before passing them over to her. She got no further praise. Nor was she relieved of her knife.
Bea had made her share of strange decisions. Cooking lessons at dawn, over the hidden cove Rafael had tried to entice her to explore, might break the top five.
Yiayia knocked once. Then came straight in.
The sun had barely peeked over the hill. Rafael had left earlier than usual for his morning run, allegedly so he could be back before Yiayia came for her. Bea yanked her hair into a ponytail, splashed cold water on her face, and realized she was going in solo.
No lifelines.
But because yesterday she’d practically begged for this lesson like a lunatic, she couldn’t shirk now and bring dishonor to her ancestors.
Also, it was their last full day on Syros. She needed to be promoted from dainty fairy to something more durable before they left. A huntress, maybe. One who could be counted on to feed her man.
Yiayia thrust an apron at her.
There were no instructions, just action.
Yiayia moved like a general on the front lines.
The kitchen was her command center. She motioned for Bea to sift flour.
Dipped her fingers into a bowl of water—warm, not hot, not cool, just so.
She raised one eyebrow when Bea dropped eggshells into the bowl. Another when the whisking got spirited.
By the time Rafael returned from his run, Bea had flour on her nose, her elbow, and the back of her knee. Her braid had started fraying like an old rope.
The first attempt he witnessed browned too fast, then deflated like a popped balloon. Yiayia crossed herself. By cadence alone she could tell the words were deeply disappointed.
Bea sighed. “Translate?”
“Better not, baby.” Rafael grinned. “Do you need rescuing? We can escape to the town.”
“And have her think her golden grandson married an infidel?”
“If she didn’t like you, you’d have found a goat in our bed by now. Yiayia is not subtle.”
“Go,” she shooed him. “I’m in too deep to back out now.”
He kissed her hair and vanished.
The next batch looked promising, right before they sagged. Defeat in dough form. Worse than the first.
Bea stared at them. Then at Yiayia.
“Ksana,” she said softly. Again.
Yiayia passed her a clean bowl.
Bea adjusted the flour. Slowed her stir. Whispered a prayer to Aphrodite, Hestia, and anyone who cared about carbs.
Batch three rose like it had something to prove.
“I did it!” She danced like no Greek grandmother was watching.
Yiayia poked it with a fork. Nodded once. Then pointed at the honey. Bea poured gleefully—until the spoon tapped her wrist.
“Only that much,” Rafael said, coming back into the room, freshly showered. He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Bea tilted her head back. “Even if they suck, you’re eating all of them.”
He skimmed her face, then the flour-dusted counter, then back again. Something flickered—pride, maybe. Appreciation. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear with a care that made her chest ache. “Every single one.”
They sat at the table together. Yiayia took the first bite. Chewed, expression unreadable. The room, suddenly, was very quiet. Bea held her breath. It felt like Rafael was, too.
She was a St. Ives graduate. A Senior Analyst at Monaghan & Stowe. It didn’t matter if she could fry dough properly. And yet it mattered more than her degrees.
Bea waited, her entire identity compressed into that single moment of judgment.
Yiayia nodded slowly, and spoke in slow Greek.
“She says they’re acceptable.”
Joy flushed up Bea’s throat. “I’ll take acceptable.”
Yiayia patted her hand and muttered something that made Rafael smile.
“Good woman for my grandson.”
Rafael reached out and adjusted his grandmother’s collar, murmuring a response in Greek.
“What did you say?” Bea asked.
“I said, ‘only woman for me.’”
Bea picked up a loukoumáde and fed it to him.
The front door slammed open. Two dozen voices crashed in at once. Greetings, scoldings, and something that sounded a lot like an argument about ferry times. Feet thundered toward the kitchen, then skidded to a halt. Everyone blinked at the sight of Rafael and Bea flanking Yiayia.
One second passed. Maybe two.
Then—like a wave surging in—“Beatriz!”
“No baby? Still no baby? What are you two doing all day?”
“Do you need supplements?”
“My cousin has twins. She used bee pollen.”
“It’s the phone. Too much phone!”