Chapter 23 #4
I’m grinning so wide my face hurts. “Future daughter-in-law, huh?”
“I didn’t—that’s not—I’m just saying what they’d think. My parents. Not me. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to win an argument.”
“I am about to win an argument.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Yes. Hypothetically, in some distant future scenario, I would want you to come to Greece. As my girlfriend. Not my nanny. Happy?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
A sudden clapping cuts through the conversation. Irene is standing in the archway to the dining room, a dish towel in her hands. “Paidia! Everyone! The food is ready. Come, come!”
The house erupts into a happy migration. Irene directs traffic, pointing to the long table in the formal dining room for the adults and a smaller, card-table setup in the living room, already swarmed by cousins, for the kids.
We follow the crowd into the dining room, and my breath catches.
The food.
Oh my god, the food.
The dining table has been completely transformed. It’s covered—and I mean covered—in dishes. There’s barely an inch of tablecloth visible.
A massive roasted turkey, golden brown and glistening, sits in the center.
Next to it is a leg of lamb, studded with garlic and herbs, the meat so tender it’s almost falling off the bone.
There are roasted potatoes—golden and crispy—tossed with lemon and oregano.
A huge Greek salad with chunks of feta and fat kalamata olives.
Stuffing that smells like butter and sage.
Green beans. Spanakopita. A casserole I don’t recognize. Another casserole. Bread—so much bread.
And the smells. Garlic and lemon and roasted meat and butter and herbs and something sweet and cinnamon-y coming from the kitchen.
My mouth is literally watering.
Michalis’s voice booms over the chatter. “Listen! Parakaló! Women and children first! Then men! That is the rule.”
There’s some grumbling from the men, but they step back.
I grab a plate and suddenly I’m swept into a line of women—Irene, the aunts, some cousins I haven’t met yet—and they’re all talking at once, pushing me forward.
“No, no, Annie goes first!”
“She is guest!”
“Take the lamb, Annie, the lamb is the best!”
“Don’t listen to her, take the turkey!”
“You must try the gemista, I made them myself—”
They’re literally pushing me toward the front of the line, piling food onto my plate before I can even process what’s happening.
I’m gently ushered into a line of aunts and cousins.
Almost immediately, an older woman with Irene’s eyes—her sister, maybe—takes my elbow.
“You are Annie, yes? Leo’s Annie. Here, you must try this.
” She steers me past the turkey toward one of the casseroles.
“The pastitsio. Is the best. Irene makes the bechamel like our mother.”
“Oh, I don’t want to take too much—”
“Pah! You take! Leo likes a woman who eats.” She winks and ladles a generous portion onto my plate.
Despina adds lamb. “This too. You need protein, you are too thin.”
Another woman, younger, with a kind smile, points to the reddish stuffing. “Yiaprakia,” she says. “Grape leaves, rice, meat. Very good. Just one, try.”
I am passed down the line like a cherished, slightly confused baton. “Some potatoes, koukla, they are crispy.” “A little of the greens, for health!” “You like dark meat or white? Here, some dark, it is more juicy.”
My plate becomes a mountain, a delicious, steaming landscape of flavors I don’t know the names for.
I catch Leo’s eye from across the room where the men are clustered, waiting their turn.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, and he’s trying not to laugh.
It’s a look of profound contentment, of seeing something he hoped for slot perfectly into place.
His gaze is warm and steady on me, and it feels like a hand on the small of my back.
I turn back to the food, my plate now dangerously overloaded, and I realize something.
I’m nervous.
Not about the food or the noise or even the overwhelming chaos of this family. I’m nervous because I want them to like me.
I’ve never cared about making a good impression with anyone’s family before.
With Daniel’s parents, I just showed up and smiled and said the right things because that’s what was expected of me.
It didn’t matter if they actually liked me—they liked my last name, my father, the idea of me, and that was good enough.
But this is different. These people don’t care about my last name. They don’t know who Graham Collier is and they wouldn’t care if they did. They care about Leo. And Emma. And whether or not I’m good enough for them.
And I want to be good enough. I want Michalis to keep showing me photo albums and telling me stories. I want Irene to teach me how to make Greek food. I want the aunts to stop calling me too thin and start calling me family.
I want to belong here.
“Annie!” Tasia is waving a serving spoon at me. “You are not paying attention! You need the moussaka!”
“Sorry, yes—moussaka! Please.”
She plops a huge square of it onto my plate, which is now in serious danger of collapsing under the weight.
“Thank you,” I say to the aunt, and I mean it for so much more than the food. “It all looks incredible.”
The front door blows open a few minutes later, letting in a gust of cold air and two familiar, laughing figures bundled in coats. Cori’s hair is in a perfect French braid, her cheeks pink, and Marcus is in a gray beanie, rubbing his hands together.
“Sorry to just barge in!” Marcus calls out, spotting me. “There was a lady on the stoop smoking a cigarette who just waved us through.’”
I don’t know who he’s talking about, but it tracks. Before I can even wave them over, Irene and a phalanx of aunts materialize around them, a whirlwind of kisses and exclamations.
“Kalosorisate! Welcome, welcome!” Irene greets, grabbing Cori’s hands and kissing both cheeks, then doing the same to a bewildered but grinning Marcus. I catch Cori’s eye; she looks exactly how I felt a little bit ago—baffled, slightly overwhelmed, and completely charmed.
“Give me the coats, mou,” Irene says, already reaching for them. “So happy you come! Any friend of Annie is family. Go, go to the table. We have enough to feed an army.”
As Cori slides out of her heavy winter coat, the effect is instantaneous. Under her oversized cream knit sweater, her baby bump is now a perfectly defined, unmistakable round curve.
It’s like someone pulled the pin on a joy-grenade.
“Opa! Look at this!”
“Mikros! Oh, the little one!”
“Ti omorfo paidaki! What a beautiful baby!”
Suddenly, Cori is surrounded. Four different pairs of hands—warm, smelling of flour and lemon—are reaching out to gently touch the curve of her belly.
Cori freezes for a split second, then her face breaks into a wide, slightly helpless grin as the women start cooing in a mixture of Greek and English.
Tasia, who was just force-feeding me moussaka, bustles over. “A baby! Is boy? Is girl?”
“It’s a surprise,” Cori says, laughing as she looks at me for backup. “I’m waiting to find out.”
Tasia clicks her tongue, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. She turns and yells toward the hallway, “Elena! Ela do! Come here!”
An older woman I haven’t met yet—Elena—wanders over. She has a magnificent cloud of steel-gray hair, a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette dangling precariously from the other, looking like the undisputed matriarch of the East Village.
“Look at this,” Tasia says, gesturing to Cori. “She does not know the gender yet. Tell her.”
Elena doesn’t say a word. She hands her wine glass to Tasia with the practiced air of a surgeon handing off a scalpel. She takes a long, thoughtful drag of her cigarette, then steps close, her weathered hands moving over the slope of Cori’s bump with a terrifying amount of focus.
Cori locks eyes with me over Elena’s head, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. I press my lips together, trying desperately not to let a snort of laughter escape.
Elena stands back, retrieves her wine glass, and takes one final puff before speaking. Her voice is deep, raspy, and certain.
“Boy,” she declares, nodding once. “Is boy.”
Cori raises an eyebrow, her voice tilting upward in amusement. “How can you tell? The shape?”
Elena winks, a slow, knowing crinkle of her eye. “I know. He is sitting low, and he is a big boy. A big, healthy baby. He will have his father’s shoulders.”
Tasia sighs with dreamy satisfaction. “I love a chunky baby. All the rolls! Like a little bougatsa. More to squeeze.”
Violetta nods in agreement. “Like bread dough.”
“There is no way,” Marcus interjects. He crosses his arms, looking down at Cori’s bump like he’s defending its honor. “First of all, she is definitely a girl. And my niece does not have ‘man shoulders.’ She’s going to be delicate. Like a fairy.”
I poke him in the ribs, grinning. “I told you.”
“How do we know she’s right, anyway?” Marcus says, jabbing a thumb in Elena’s direction. Then he adds, “No offense, ma’am.”
Despina lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, her gold bracelets clinking as she waves her cigarette. “Panagia mou, this woman was a midwife in the village for thirty years. She has caught half the babies in Crete! She is never wrong about gender. Never.”
Elena cackles, a low, smoke-roughened sound. “Besides, I have eleven children myself. You learn a thing or two.”
The three of us—Cori, Marcus, and I—freeze in perfect, synchronized shock.
“Eleven?” Cori squeaks, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Eleven?” Marcus echoes, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Like, one-one? Is there a wing of a hospital named after you?”
Elena nods proudly, taking a sip of her wine. “Two sets of twins. The rest, single. Very efficient.”
“Jesus,” Marcus mutters, then quickly adds, “No offense. Again.”
Elena just laughs harder, patting his cheek. “None taken, agori mou.”