Chapter 23 #2
That had been part of what calmed my nerves today—knowing Cori and Marcus would be here eventually.
They’d been thrilled when Leo’s parents invited them.
Cori’s parents were taking a trip to Napa just the two of them, and Marcus was spending the afternoon at Brett’s place before coming here.
Mostly they were excited because it meant they didn’t have to cook Thanksgiving dinner themselves, and I can’t blame them.
“Good,” Irene says, tucking the cookies onto a crowded sideboard. “The more the merrier! Anyone who needs a proper Thanksgiving is welcome in this house. We have enough food to feed the whole village.”
Leo’s father, Michalis, moves in then, kissing both my cheeks with a scratchy, bearded grin. “He is a good boy, my Leoni,” Michalis tells me, winking. “But he is very lucky you have no taste in men, eh? Come, sit! You are too thin, we fix this now.”
Michalis’s hand is warm and large on my back as he steers me through the kitchen, parting the sea of women like a gentle, smiling ship.
The air is a humid, heavenly fog of roasting garlic, lemon, oregano, and baking dough.
Voices overlap in a melodic mix of Greek and English, punctuated by the clatter of pans and bright bursts of laughter.
We emerge into the dining room, where the noise is a lower, contented hum.
More people are clustered around the long table, some talking, some sipping wine.
Two older women in the corner click knitting needles with practiced speed.
Maria spots us and stands up, her face lighting with a genuine warmth that immediately eases something in my chest.
“Annie, kalispera,” she says, taking my hands and kissing my cheeks. “So glad you could come.” She turns to Leo, who’s followed us in, and gives him a look. “And I guess I’m glad you came, too. Someone has to carry the pies.”
Leo rolls his eyes, but the affection in them is plain. “You’re hilarious, Maria.”
From the corner, one of the knitting women looks up, her eyes crinkling. “Leoni!” she calls. She says something rapid and scolding in Greek, gesturing at him with a needle.
Leo’s face softens completely. He crosses the room, leans down, and kisses her on both cheeks. “Yiayia,” he says gently. “This is Annie.”
I move closer. Up close, his grandmother is tiny but formidable, with sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I say.
She pats my hand. “Nice, nice, dear,” she says, her accent thick. Then she points a needle toward where Leo’s dad is now arranging more wine glasses. “Leoni is good boy. Poli kalo paidi,” she insists, then jabs the needle again. “He gets it from my son, you know.”
I laugh, charmed.
“Please, eat! Sit!” Michalis booms, gesturing grandly. “You can’t just look at food, it does not jump into your mouth!”
“It all looks amazing,” I say, honestly overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to start.”
Leo appears beside me with a small plate. “Start with this,” he says, placing a sticky, diamond-shaped piece of pastry on it. “Karidopita. Walnut cake soaked in syrup.”
It looks…incredibly wet. But I trust him and take a bite. The texture is dense and nutty, saturated with a spiced honey syrup that explodes on my tongue. My eyes go wide. “Oh my god,” I mumble through the mouthful. “That’s…that’s incredible.”
Leo grins, looking smug. “Told you.”
I settle into a chair between him and his father. Michalis turns to me, a twinkle in his eye. “You remember, I said I have Greek stories for you next time I see you.”
“Of course I remember,” I say, smiling.
He nods, gets up, and goes to a tall bookcase, returning with a large, leather-bound album that looks well-loved.
He opens it on the table between us. The first photo is black and white, slightly faded at the edges.
It shows a boy who is unmistakably a young Michalis, maybe ten years old, grinning with a gap-toothed smile.
He’s standing next to a girl with two thick, dark braids and a serious, curious expression, who I know to be Irene.
They’re on a dusty street, whitewashed buildings in the background, holding what look like school slates.
The next photo is their wedding. It’s in color, the tones warm and slightly muted.
Irene is breathtaking. Her dress is simple and elegant, not a poufy American gown, but something sleek that drapes her figure.
She holds a small bouquet of colorful wildflowers, and her smile is shy but radiant.
Michalis, looking impossibly young and handsome in a sharp suit, has his arm around her, beaming at the camera as if he’s holding the universe.
Behind them is a stunning vista of rocky hills meeting a sparkling, impossibly blue sea.
“Michalis, this is stunning,” I breathe, tracing the edge of the photo lightly. “Where was this?”
“In Crete,” he says, his voice softening. “In our village, where we grew up.”
“How long have you known each other?” I ask.
“Since we were this high,” he says, holding his hand at knee-level.
“In school.” He leans in, dropping his voice with a grin.
“I used to ask her every day—‘Irene, can I take your books home for you?’ From the time I was nine, maybe ten. She would wave her hand at me.” He demonstrates a dismissive, queenly flick of the wrist. “‘Fyge! Go away, Michalis, you are annoying!’”
I laugh, picturing it perfectly.
“Finally,” he continues, his eyes misty with the memory, “when she was twelve, she said yes. Just once. I carried those books like they were the crown jewels. The rest…” He shrugs, a simple, profound gesture. “Istoria. History.”
“So your strategy was cheerful persistence?” I say, grinning. “And it only took, what, three years of daily rejection to wear her down?”
Michalis throws his head back and laughs, a rich, booming sound that draws smiles from around the table.
“Exactly! You see, Leoni?” he says, nudging his son.
“This is how it is done. You find the good one, and you do not give up. Even when she tells you to get lost.” He winks at me. “It is the Greek way.”
“I would love to see Greece,” I say, my gaze lingering on the photo of the turquoise sea. “It looks like a dream.”
“Ah, it is,” Michalis says, his voice taking on a wistful, storytelling quality.
“The village, it is built on the side of the hill like…like stairs for a giant. All white houses with blue doors. The air smells like thyme and salt. In the morning, you hear the goats, the bells around their necks. Clonk, clonk.” He smiles.
“And the water…so clear you can see the fish laughing at you.”
Leo snorts softly beside me, taking a sip of his wine. “The fish were definitely laughing at you, Baba. You were the worst fisherman in the Aegean.”
Michalis waves a dismissive hand. “Pah! The fish were jealous of my good looks. But yes, it was beautiful. We did not take women on ‘dates’ like here. We would walk around for hours. To the next village, just to buy one lemon. Or we would sit by the old Venetian fountain in the square with our friends. That was the entertainment. Talking.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
“It was simple. Good. But…” He shrugs, a heavier motion this time.
“Simple does not always mean easy. My father, he worked the land. Olive trees. It is a hard life. Beautiful, but your back is broken by forty. Irene, she was so smart. Smarter than me.” He grins.
“Do not tell her I said this. She wanted to be a teacher. But in the village then…what was there for us? For us, maybe it was okay. But for our children?” He looks at Leo, his expression softening with a mixture of pride and old memory.
“Leoni was five. Maria, three. We looked at them, and we looked at the world…and the world was getting bigger. America was this…idea. A place where you could be more than your father’s plot of land.
Where Irene could teach or sew or clean, where I could learn a trade that did not break my spine.
Where the children could have choices we never dreamed of. ”
He leans back, tapping the photo album. “It was 1967. We sold my father’s second field to pay for the tickets.
One suitcase each. We came here with nothing but the clothes we were wearing and a jar of Irene’s mother’s olive oil.
” He laughs, a light-hearted, cheerful sound.
“The customs man, he looked at that jar like it was a bomb. I had to drink a spoonful to prove it was just oil!”
“Why New York?” I ask.
“Because my cousin Anastasios was here at the time,” he says simply.
“He said he could get me a job in a restaurant kitchen, and he was right. I washed dishes for years at nighttime while working construction in the daytime. Then I learned to cook. Then I saved, and then I bought the diner.” He spreads his hands, as if the trajectory was obvious.
“That’s incredibly brave,” I say, my throat feeling tight.
“It was not brave,” Michalis corrects gently.
“It was what you do. You are a parent. You dig a tunnel with your bare hands if it means your children walk into the light.” He nudges Leo’s shoulder.
“Even if the child grows up to be a professor who argues with you about…what was it last week? The philosophy of soufflés?”
“It was about the necessity of resting batter, Baba,” Leo says, but he’s smiling, his arm resting casually on the back of my chair. “And you compared my research to over-beating eggs. It was a profound culinary misunderstanding.”
“See?” Michalis says to me, throwing his hands up. “Choices. He got choices. And he uses them to tell me I do not know my own kitchen. This is the thanks I get for my broken back!”
The laughter around the table is warm and knowing.
I look from Michalis’s proud, weathered face to Leo’s amused, affectionate one, and I understand the shape of this family in a new way.
It’s not just history in an album. It’s a living, breathing bridge they built between two worlds, stone by stone.