Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) (23 page)

S
ame time
, same place
, same sun-filled room.

Dr Triantafillou says, “Do you think maybe you like the idea of him more than you like him?”

Melissa shakes her head. “That’s not it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Thanasi is so cute. Like, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”

“So why did kissing him feel like it didn’t fit?”

“I don’t know. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Dr Triantafillou says. “Cute doesn’t mean compatible. Chemistry is more than a face you like. Are you going to see him again?”

“Olivia is dating his best friend, so yeah.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Melissa shrugs. “Good for them, I guess. Vassili is a pretty cool guy.”

T
hat “pretty cool
guy” is outside the hospital waiting for a ride when Melissa spots him.

He waves first.

She swallows the lump in her throat and manages to say, “Hi.” It’s not an attraction thing. It’s an “Oh shit, what if he tells Olivia and Thanasi” thing.

“You need a ride?” he asks.

He’s tall.

Built lean. Good for soccer (football, Mel. Duh!), she’s found out.

Very David Beckham, except not old.

He’s looking at Melissa like he’s happy to see her; like it’s not weird she’s there.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not really,” she says.

“Don’t worry, I won’t ask. I won’t tell, either.”

“Why not?”

Vassili shrugs. “You looked afraid when you saw me. And Olivia is not always a kind person.”

Half of her is offended on Olivia’s behalf, but the rest of her gets it.

“So why are you with her?”

He says, “You never said if you need a ride or not.”

A horn beeps. Mom.

“Got to go,” she says. “See you.”

T
he VW does
a slow crawl along the beachfront road. A mile of cars behind them. Mom’s a cautious driver, but this is nuts.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re totally holding up traffic.”

Mom glances in the rearview mirror. “Huh.”

“Are you going to speed up?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Can we stop for ice cream?”

“Sure.”

Wherever Mom is, she’s not behind the steering wheel.

“Pizza?”

“Okay.”

“We should get matching tattoos.”

“Sounds great, Honey.”

And she’s the one seeing a shrink?

W
hat a bastard
.

Max has been thinking that a lot, lately.

Two women in his pocket and he can’t have both. But let’s be real, both isn’t what he wants.

Vivi’s mouth stays with him all day. Every time his mind drifts – and it drifts a lot – she’s there with that sweet mouth.

Goddamn, she’s delicious.

And she’s a good woman, too. Kind, funny, smart as hell. The type of woman a man wants to keep for a lifetime, not just a night or two.

But, Anastasia’s going to be his wife.

Yeah, he’s a bastard.

A
t noon
he rides the elevator all the way up. The meeting is in about ten minutes, with the Chief of Pediatrics.

He’s the first one there and what does he do?

Close his eyes and replay that kiss.

“Holy Mother, Andreou, you look like shit.” Philipous, also a pediatrician, drops down next to him, a cup of what smells like coffee in one hand. “You keep forgetting you're not an intern anymore. You've earned the privilege of sleep. Try it. You might like it. Here.” He shoves the cup at Max. “Looks like you need this more than I do.”

Max pushes it back. “Any more coffee and my teeth are going to shake loose. Five cups, so far.”

Philipous whistles. “Impressive. So is she hot?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were with last night. A man doesn't look that tired unless . . .” He makes an O with one hand, pokes a finger through it.

“There was no woman. Just one of those nights.”

“I hear you're getting married.” Dr Maria Ioanni takes the third seat. She’s the reason for this meeting, for the dead child. His face stays neutral. The poor woman looks miserable – he’s not going to add to the shit storm rolling her way. “The nurses were talking about it. They're all weeping now that you're off the market,” she continues.

“Nurses, they talk too much.” Philipous winks at Max. “You can tell me later.”

Tell him what?

That he keeps popping a boner over another woman? That he wants to fuck her and cuddle her for the rest of his life? Or that he’s breaking a date with his fiancée to attend a party at the other woman’s house?

Maybe he should. Enough people tell him he’s an asshole, maybe it’ll sink into his thick skull.

This morning Anastasia threw a tantrum. He doesn’t blame her. They’re supposed to go to her cousin’s wedding this weekend, but he made up some excuse about work. If he goes it will be hell. Endless questions about when they’re getting married. Inevitable, bold inquiries about how many children they’re planning, when they’ll start. Sly glances at Anastasia’s belly, while they try to guess if she’s already knocked up or not.

She’s not. Thank God.

But now he’s trapped for no good reason. Children, at least, would have soothed the rope burn around his neck.

Condoms only from now on. Anastasia won’t catch him off guard again.

But anyway, Anastasia had her tantrum and he weathered her storm. The next one will be along before long; Anastasia is hurricane season, all year long.

At Vivi’s party there will be family, but they don’t have expectations. He is a friend to her, nothing more. He won’t have to smile, perform, pretend to be the successful doctor with huge monetary ambitions. There will be time to sit with Vivi and talk. And when he smiles it will be real.

They won’t kiss again. He’s sure of that.

The Chief of Pediatrics walks in, takes her rightful seat at the head of the table as god-in-residence.

Judgment is nigh.

Doesn’t raise the dead, does it?

Untitled

A
head rolls
, but it isn’t his. He’s in the clear.

T
oday is the day
. Max will be here and they’re going to talk. Vivi’s going to make sure of that.

They can’t be friends – there is no way. Vivi wants too much, covets too hard. Not thy neighbor’s house, but close enough. Stay on this path and her heart will be in pieces.

Again.

Theo
Apostoli arrives at dawn with a dozen male relatives, a large barrel sliced in two (each half with legs welded to the curved underbelly), and something massive and dead, wrapped in butcher's paper. They sweat a lot, but they don’t stop until each half-barrel is stuffed with a nest of glowing coals.

Some of the cousins bounce up the road in a pickup truck, dozens of chairs stacked in the bed. Another isn’t far behind, hauling long tables nested four deep.

Bottles of lemonade,
retsina
, and beer wait inside crates of ice, ready to be popped open when the heat makes death threats.

Vivi’s kitchen is the women’s new home. They’ve brought Tupperware.

Taramasalata
(a pink dip made from roe), tiny spicy meatballs, feta pie,
spanakopita
(spinach and cheese pie), potato salad tossed with lemon juice, salt, and onions (not a hint of mayo in sight),
dolmades
(grapevine leaves stuffed with rice). And every Greek dessert ever.

Vivi wonders how big this party is going to get.

She doesn’t ask. Better she doesn’t know.

Popping the lids off a dozen beers, she prepares to hydrate the masses.

“
Thea
Dora tells me you renovated your bathroom all by yourself,” her cousin Nikki says, tearing aluminum foil off the
baklava
.

“It is true! And she fixed mine too – it is a paradise now! I go there just to knit sometimes.”
Thea
Dora has come up behind them, toting a bucket of so-red-they’re-purple cherries. “Come, we will go see. Come, come see what Vivi did!” Twenty women surge toward the small bathroom.

Vivi leaves them to their fun, takes the beer out. The dead animal is up on the spit, performing a slow pirouette over the hot coals. Lamb, the whole lamb, and nothing but the lamb.

It still has eyes, and it’s watching her.

No eye contact – no way.

The second spit is mystery meat. All she knows is that it’s dead and tightly wrapped around the metal rod, the whole lot secured with string.

The men take the beer, wade back into the amateur political arena. They’re performing the Greek custom of drowning out the other guy. Who’s right, who’s wrong, doesn’t matter. Be big, be loud, be deaf to other arguments.

Too much noise for her. She goes out front hoping for some peace and quiet, and finds Biff making eyes at Max, while Melissa talks the doctor’s hind leg off.

The world drops away and it’s like they’re in the movies. Nothing but him and her and (oh, God!) the tension.

Get a grip, Vivi. That’s for other people – not you.

The countdown starts to their friendship’s demise.

“Hello,” she says lightly. “You came.”

“I can't stay long, but I wanted to see you both. And Biff, of course. That’s still a stupid name.”

“My dog, remember?” Vivi looks at Melissa. “Did you invite Olivia to the party?”

“No, should I?”

“She's your friend. She might be hurt if you leave her out of a good time. Go on over and ask. Don't be too long though.”

“Okay. Bye, Dr Andreou.” She peddles off down the road, the woman-child.

Vivi watches her go, and then it’s back to Max.

“You look like you need a stiff drink and a month on a desert island. Is everything okay at the hospital?”

“The hospital is fine. It keeps me busy – too busy sometimes for my friends.”

“You're a doctor,” she tells him. “Just be grateful you have time to breathe.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Always say the right words.” His eyes say there’s a storm headed her way.

So, it’s going to be like that. He’s here to dump her, dump their friendship, dump the everything (and the nothing) between them.

Good for him. It’s the right thing to do. The best thing.

For both of them.

Now there’s no plug for her to pull. That’s something – right?

“It’s a first,” she says. “Do you at least want to eat something?”

“I can't. I can't keep coming to see you at night. It’s . . .” He looks at the ground, looks at that tree over there, looks at Biff. “I have to marry Anastasia. It's expected. If I keep seeing you, eventually I’ll be unfaithful, and I’m not that man. When I kissed you last night . . .” He kicks the ground like it’s the problem. “Shit . . .”

(Conversations like this are always cobbled together with ellipses.)

He’s not an asshole. It’s not like he’s hurting her to be cruel. But it sure as hell feels like he’s knifing her in the gut.

Worst rerun ever.

“Jesus, Max, I would never be your mistress. Do I look like a whore?”

The words have steel capped kick. Her regret is instantaneous – John is the oath breaker, not Max.

Grim eyes, grim mouth. “Vivi, there are more ways to be unfaithful than sex.”

Her bottom lip is getting that wobble. It’s unresponsive to her bite.

“We’re just friends. I’m not even divorced yet. I don’t want a relationship.”

Liar, liar. Pants on –

“But I do.” He reaches down to scratch a languid Biff. “My heart is here with you – as your friend, but I have a duty to my family to marry and have children.”

“Enjoy your mother’s cage.”

“That's cruel.”

“It's true.”

They’re silent for a moment. He uses the conversation’s gap wisely – leans forward, kisses her cheeks. To an onlooker it’s a simple farewell. To Vivi it’s goodbye.

Funny how neither of them says it.

He leaves her there in a dust cloud, cement boots on her feet. She stays because she can’t move; this is the place she didn’t say goodbye to Max.

O
livia never says
“No”
to a party, is how Olivia puts it. Anyway, no food in the house. Her parents are AWOL and she’s s-t-a-r-v-i-n-g. A party sounds like the best thing ever.

Melissa asks where they are and wins a shrug.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

Must be nice.

Must be awful.

T
he food doesn’t quit
coming
. Vivi stuffs a bit of everything in her mouth, hoping it will tamp down the pain.

Doesn’t work like that. Now she’s miserable
and
bloated.

Melissa returns with Olivia just in time to eat. They get busy building a mini Mt Olympus on each plate.

“You’ll need ropes and a pick to dig into that,” Vivi tells Olivia. “Have you got some
kokoretsi
? It’s amazing.

Olivia makes a horrified face. “I don't eat guts and gross stuff.”

Vivi looks at her plate, loaded with round two. “Guts?”

“Yeah. I've seen them cutting up the hearts, lungs, livers, tying it to the spit with stringy intestines. Do you know how long those guts – ?”

Vivi holds up one hand. “I don't want to know. What about the lamb, it's just lamb, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Olivia says. “Baa baa, dead sheep.”

Vivi doesn’t do offal, but she makes an exception for heaven in her mouth. She plonks herself on the couch, stares at the food. Wonders if these guts can divine the future.

The screen door goes wild. Someone’s trying to bash its mesh face in.

Vivi wants it to be Max, but it’s a woman. Older, with a lived-in face. No cosmetics, total stranger to tweezers. A “walking dead” way about her – soul long gone, body animated through the will of Hades. A shade.

A metaphorical bell rings.

“I'm looking for Elias, is he here?” Husky voice, seen too many years of tobacco and
retsina
. Her teeth confirm Vivi’s suspicion.

“No . . .”

“Your mother is here, yes? I thought they would be together.”

What does she want with Vivi’s father?

“She's here, but he’s not,” Vivi says. “Can I help you?”

The bell quits ringing, because now Vivi remembers. The woman from Fingernails’ shop. The one
Thea
Dora said was nobody.

And look, nobody is here on Vivi’s doorstep.

Vivi’s curiosity explodes. “Who are you?”

“May I see her . . . please? You are her daughter, you can make her speak to me.”

“Ha-ha,” Vivi says. “Obviously you’re not an old friend or you would know: nobody makes my mother do anything. Can I help?”

Nothing.

Vivi doesn’t budge.

“Go and get her. I’ll wait by the tree.” She says the words slowly, precisely, issuing a challenge.

“You do that,” Vivi mutters.

“Vivi, my love, are you talking to yourself?”
Thea
Dora asks.

Her mother and aunt are back inside – with knives. They get straight to work, chopping a pile of tomatoes, onions and cucumbers.

“She does that,” Eleni tells her sister. “This is what happens when you go crazy.”

“You talk to yourself,”
Thea
Dora says.

“Vivi and Christos make me crazy. The spirits tell me my children should listen to their mama more often.”

She wishes.

“I'm not that crazy yet.” Vivi gets another paper plate. Time to feed the sadness again, see if she can squash that bastard. “There’s a woman looking for you, Mom.”

“A gypsy,” her aunt says with conviction.

Vivi looks out the window. The woman’s still out there, resting against the tree. “She’s not Romani.”

“A Jehovah’s Witness! Is she carrying those booklets? They make good fire.”

Vivi peers again. “No. She knows the family.”

“Well, why didn't you say so? Probably she is a cousin.”

“No, it’s that woman. The one you said was nobody.”

Thea
Dora nudges Vivi aside with one overabundant hip. “My Holy Mother of Jesus, what is that woman doing here?”

Some bull she is – doesn’t even bother snorting, stamping. Goes right into CHARGE.

“Who is it?” Eleni asks. Without dropping the knife, or wiping her hands, she trots out the door after her sister.

Well, Vivi’s not going to let them go alone, is she? Her curiosity is spiking into the red zone – proof that she’s Greek enough.

Her aunt is just one person, but she’s surrounding the woman.

“What are you doing here? You have no place here!”
Thea
Dora is saying.

The woman looks unafraid, unperturbed. No expression but the one she’ll wear when she meets God. “I want to see Elias,” she says, repeating her earlier request.

“Sofia, your business with this family is long over. You cannot be here!”
Thea
Dora says.

“But I have to see him. She is the one who should not be here!” A finger stab at Eleni, who is stiff cardboard, knife in hand.

“Would someone please tell me what is going on here seeing as this is my house and my tree?” Vivi says, to no one in particular.

They ignore her.

There’s nothing for her to do except stand on the porch and watch the play unfold. If a minor skirmish breaks out, at least she’s got this handy paper plate.

Eleni is mobile again. “I could kill you where you stand, feed you to wild dogs, and no one would care that you are gone.”

“Do it!” Sofia roars. “All you would do is prove that my Elias is too good for your black heart.”

“
Skasmos
!”

(Translation: Shut up.)

Thea
Dora grabs the woman's arm, pulls her to the gate. Pitting a sumo wrestler against a rag doll.

Sofia breaks away.

Pointless, really.

Except she performs a mean windmill, arms spinning, wheeling toward Eleni. It’s a toddler’s pro move.

But Vivi’s mother is smart – the woman survived two toddlers. She feints, lets the woman kiss dirt.

The victory doesn’t last. Sofia snakes around, grabbing Eleni’s ankles, and Eleni teeters.
Thea
Dora bustles past her, into the house.

Vivi can’t help herself. She’s angry as hell at Max and needs something to smash. She’s all over the woman, slapping with the paper plate, dumping leftovers in her face.

Paper cuts. Lots of little paper cuts.

Vivi straddles her chest, lets her have it.

Eleni rallies. “You are my daughter, no question!” She sounds proud. So they’re – what? – bonding over a bitch fight?

Stranger things have happened.

It gets stranger when Eleni rips off Sofia’s shoes, tickles the woman’s feet until she’s squealing like a pig.

Vivi stops. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because she is a mad woman!”

Good enough. Sofia’s a decent surrogate for Max, John, John’s boyfriend, and . . .

Everyone, really.

It lasts until the hand of God (
Thea
Dora, it seems, is omnipresent), drags her away. With her free hand, her aunt dumps a pitcher of water over Sofia’s head.

Vivi falls back, panting.

Fighting is better than:

Zumba, yoga, Pilates, calisthenics, running, jogging, and spending an hour on the elliptical, loping to nowhere.

It’s not over.

The uncles are suddenly there, dividing the women into four spitting piles.

Sofia’s not going quietly. This is her time. Her reckoning.

“I curse you,” she screams. “I curse you and the children you brought into this world. May the devil take your souls and wash them in blood and fire for all eternity!”

Very dramatic. Very Greek.

The uncles load Sofia into the pickup truck and drive away.

The three women stand there panting for a bit.

“Well,” Eleni says. “Whatever she is selling, we certainly don't want any.”

Vivi laughs, because the whole thing is a fucked up kind of hilarious. She looks at her mother. “So who is she? You kind of owe me – ”

“As your mother I don't owe you anything except life. And I've already given you that.” Pretty much beheading Vivi’s snappy retort.

Her mother stomps off.
Thea
Dora follows, pitcher swinging in her hand, and Vivi stands there wondering if the gods have painted a huge target on her ass.

Apparently, yes. Because the next person out the front door is one of her cousins.

“Vivi?” she says. “I think your toilet is broken.”